A Blood Red Horse Page 3

  They walked together through the barn, past a dozen tails and rumps. Keeper John came to a halt behind an imposing iron gray stallion. He said something to the groom, who moved to allow William and Keeper John to approach the horse’s head.

  “Now,” Keeper John said, “this young destrier is not the color you want, and he is no beauty. But look at his sensible eyes and deep chest. He is five years old and a decent, courageous horse. We bought him last year from Spain, along with three others. I’ve ridden him myself out hunting. He’s a little slow, perhaps, but that is not necessarily a bad thing.”

  William inspected the horse, but his face all the while said no.

  They moved on.

  “Now here’s a bay. That’s the color you want, and he might suit you better,” said John.

  Two intelligent ears pricked as the horse turned and shifted in his stall. As large as Gavin’s Montlouis, he was a magnificent animal, his summer coat glowing with health. A groom was just finishing brushing out his tail. With four white socks and a white stripe, he was the horse William had been dreaming about.

  “Oh, John,” William said. “What’s his name?”

  “We call him Dargent,” said the keeper. “He came in the same lot as the gray. He is three and was quite a handful when he arrived. But he’s better now, eh, Peter?” he asked of the groom.

  “Yes, sir. He is the best horse we’ve got.”

  “Perhaps he is,” laughed Keeper John. “Anyway, I have had him out with the hounds and the hawks. I am not saying he was perfect. He’s strong and willful. But his heart is in the right place, even though he has nearly had me off once or twice.”

  William’s eyes shone. “Can I try him?”

  “Get him ready, Peter,” commanded Keeper John. “If Master William likes him, he may take him to the castle today.”

  It was as William turned to leave the barn that he caught sight of the tops of two ears in the stall at the end. They looked so like Sacramenta’s ears that for a moment he thought that Hal must have led her inside to give her some shade.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “Oh,” said Keeper John, “a fine little courser. Three years old. Actually, he is your Sacramenta’s last foal. He had a bad beginning, poor fellow, and is proving difficult to train. Pity he is so small. He was bred to be a Great Horse, but can’t quite make the size.”

  The bay horse was being backed out of his stall, but something made William hesitate. He patted it, then, more out of curiosity than anything else, walked quickly back to see Sacramenta’s foal.

  The stallion was liver chestnut, almost red, the unusual color unbroken except for a small white star between his eyes. His mane and tail being exactly the same color as his coat seemed to flow out from his body, and his slender legs reminded William of a fallow deer. The horse’s eyes were luminous and reflective, his muzzle slightly darker than the rest of him. Larger than Sacramenta but considerably smaller than the bay now waiting for William to mount, he looked at the boy without blinking.

  “Hello, horse,” said William, and, putting out his hand to touch the silken neck, was suddenly lost for words.

  4

  “Master William, the chestnut is a fine animal, but this is silly,” said Keeper John. “You came for a Great Horse, and you told me you wanted to be sensible. If I send you back with a courser, your father will think that you are a fool and that I have gone mad.”

  It was afternoon. Hal and Sir Walter had resigned themselves to a long wait. Sir Walter had given up arguing: William really was an impossible boy.

  He had ridden the bay, which had performed splendidly. Out in open country he had tried some mock battle tactics, held a lance, galloped with an unsheathed sword, and even jumped a stream or two. The bay did all that was asked and more, even though William did look—what was the phrase Gavin had used?—a bit like a flea on a dragon. But never mind that. The boy would grow into him. Then just as all seemed settled, William took a notion to ride Sacramenta’s foal.

  The elegant chestnut horse was brought out. He was clearly far too small for a destrier, but William insisted. The boy mounted, even though Keeper John had warned him that the horse was far from safe. And so it proved. Within moments William was on the floor. Then, of course, he had to remount. And there they had all been for an hour or more while William battled to stay on this red stallion, who seemed intent on breaking all the boy’s bones. Keeper John and Sir Walter advised remaining in the paddock. But William, puce in the face, was having none of that. So opening the gate, he had remounted for a fifth or sixth time and set the horse’s face toward the horizon.

  What happened next, Sir Walter could not quite say. But when William had urged the horse on, instead of plunging about, he had suddenly begun to move forward. William asked for a canter. The horse hesitated, then, suddenly, lowered his head and obeyed. For the next twenty minutes or so, William and the horse were as one. Seldom had so graceful a sight been seen at the de Granville stud. At the gallop the horse seemed to float. When William jumped the paddock rails, all the grooms in the place stopped work to look. By the time he pulled the horse up, both Sir Walter and Keeper John, their hearts sinking, could see what had happened. The boy had fallen for a stallion that was, in every way, completely unsuitable.

  So here they were, arguing. Both the bay and the chestnut were back in their stalls, and William was standing, immovable, in the barn doorway.

  “Keeper John, I know. But I’ll explain to my father. He’ll understand. Have you ridden that horse? You should have felt what I felt. I know I can’t explain very clearly why I want it. But I do want it. Please, Keeper John. Have you never felt like this?”

  The man sighed. The day should have been an easy one. He cursed the fact that he had brought the chestnut stallion down with the others. If only he had left it out of sight beyond the river, it would have been sold before William ever set eyes on it. Now the day had turned sour. William should know better than anyone that you cannot make a Great Horse out of a courser. What had got into the boy? He had been pestering his father for at least two years for a “proper destrier like Montlouis,” and now he had the opportunity to take one, he would have nothing but Sacramenta’s foal.

  He looked at William again. “It won’t do, Master William.”

  William looked mutinous.

  Keeper John tried a different line. “The likelihood is that he will break down under the great weight of armor and equipment that you will have to carry.”

  William shrugged, but his eyes looked disbelieving. Keeper John pursed his lips. “You won’t change your mind?”

  “No.”

  “The horse will never be like Montlouis.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Very well, then.” Keeper John suddenly gave up. “Hal, go and tell Peter to unsaddle the bay and saddle up the chestnut. Master William will be taking him home.” He exchanged looks with Sir Walter.

  “Tell your father I am not responsible for your choice,” Keeper John said, as much to Sir Walter as to William. Then, suddenly softening, he added, “Just remember, Master William, the bay will be here for another week or two if you should change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  Keeper John raised his eyebrows but said nothing more.

  In the late afternoon sun the chestnut glowed like fire as William remounted for the homeward journey. The horse flicked his ears back for a moment, then blew out from his nose. Hal, leading Sacramenta, who seemed singularly uninterested in her offspring, caught his breath. Whatever else, the horse really was beautiful.

  Sir Walter, complaining, got onto his gray.

  “Well,” he said. “Let’s be off.”

  William turned to take a last look at his friend. “Keeper John,” he called. “Thank you. I’m sorry to cause you trouble, but there is just one more thing.”

  John looked up.

  “Does this horse have a name?”

  “Yes,” the man answered. “We call that
horse Hosanna.”

  5

  It was late in the evening by the time the small party returned to Hartslove, with Hal leading Sacramenta and William, looking rather battered, astride his new mount. Both William and Hosanna were sweating profusely. Sir Walter, aching with gout, was now seriously worried. On the way back, Hosanna had occasionally behaved perfectly well and occasionally indulged in antics more befitting an unbroken yearling than a three-year-old with pretensions to being a warhorse. William had come off four times, which made about ten within twelve hours when you counted the falls he had taken earlier in the day. Thankfully, and rather surprisingly, the horse had not run off as William hit the forest floor, but waited to be remounted. Sir Walter had watched, shaking his head. Hal also watched with increasing dismay, his normally smooth forehead creased with doubt. It would be his job to look after this horse. If Hosanna managed to throw William, an experienced rider, what chance did Hal have?

  After crossing Hartslove’s drawbridge, William was tight-lipped and silent. Hal took Hosanna from him and led the three horses toward their suppers. Hosanna looked about him with interest but followed obediently, occasionally pushing Hal gently forward with his nose. Sacramenta swished her tail. Sir Walter, shouting for his own groom, declared that he was exhausted and asked William to get Old Nurse to organize some food to be sent to one of the smaller chambers. He could not face the great hall tonight. William nodded, then felt he should try to make amends.

  “It will be all right,” he said to the old man. “I know it will.”

  Sir Walter sighed. “Well, William,” he said, “I am not going to pretend that I don’t think you have made a mistake. I just hope you will not be too proud to go back for the bay if I turn out to be right. Remember, pride and an unwillingness to admit being wrong are the ruin of many a young knight. Anyway, we shall see, eh? Right now, I must get these boots off and lie down.”

  “Thanks, sir, for coming with me.”

  “I think you are a young fool. But go on, get your dinner.”

  William turned away and went up the steps to where he could hear the noise of a meal in full swing. Splashing his face with water from the barrel, he hoped to escape detailed questioning this evening. By the following morning Hal would have burnished Hosanna until he gleamed, and maybe the horse would behave. If only he would float and jump, as he had eventually done at the stud, William thought his father would understand why William had to have him.

  Fortunately for the boy, as he took his place at the top table Sir Thomas was deep in conversation with Gavin and his friend Adam Landless, an impoverished young knight whom William knew only slightly. Ellie was sitting next to his mother’s empty seat and Sir Percy next to her. Percy was telling Ellie some story to which she was only half listening. When she saw William, she at once tried to extricate herself, but William shook his head and Ellie obediently remained where she was. Sir Thomas waved his tankard at his younger son. He looked grave.

  “Your brother is off tomorrow,” he said. “The king has asked him to escort Queen Eleanor to Normandy. It seems that despite having lost one son, King Henry is still squabbling with the others. Really, I do wish fathers and sons could manage to get along better. Anyway, never mind that for the moment. How did you do? Where is Sir Walter? Did Keeper John have something suitable?”

  “Sir Walter has gone to lie down, sir,” replied William. “I did come home with a horse. I hope you will like him, Father.”

  “I am sure I will. We will see him in the morning before Gavin goes and when Sir Walter is back on his feet. Poor Walter. Getting old, I suppose—like all of us.” With that Sir Thomas dismissed William with a kindly nod. William wolfed down his supper and vanished to his bed, leaving Ellie, rather puzzled and not a little hurt, to go to hers.

  Amid the bustle of the departing knights, Hal brought Hosanna out into the castle courtyard for inspection the following morning. Compared to all the other warhorses stamping their feet and arching their necks in mock male fury, the new stallion did look very small and slight, even to William. Sir Thomas was most surprised but said nothing. Gavin, despite his best intentions, was much less reticent. Standing on one leg as his squire, a dumpy man called Humphrey, buckled on his spurs, he laughed out loud.

  “Look, Humphrey!” he chortled. “Lucky for you that you aren’t William’s squire. Look what you might have to ride!”

  Hal had been up since dawn, currying off the sweat marks and washing Hosanna’s mane and tail. The horse had stood patiently, even when Hal tipped water over his rump. The boy visibly winced at Gavin’s scorn. He was glad when William came to stand beside him.

  “I thought it was a destrier you were after, Will,” Gavin hooted at his brother. “This horse is a midget.”

  “Size isn’t everything,” said William coldly.

  “Well, it was you who said it was,” Gavin rejoined. “It was you who said that Sacramenta was too small. What happened? Were the big horses too much for you, or has Keeper John gone blind? I mean to say, Father, this horse is, well, it’s a lady’s horse, don’t you think?”

  Sir Thomas was watching William closely.

  “Well, sir?” William waited for his father to say something.

  Sir Thomas cleared his throat, searching for the right words. “Let’s see how he goes. He is on the small side, it’s true. But he is certainly a fine-looking beast. And good work, young Hal,” he said, turning to the groom. “The horse is a picture. Go and saddle him up.”

  Sir Thomas frowned at Gavin. Gavin looked unabashed and, still grinning broadly, turned to talk to his friends. Humphrey, copying his master, began to make jokes with the other squires.

  As Hal led Hosanna away, Ellie, who had been hanging back, appeared from under Sir Thomas’s arm.

  “Why,” she exclaimed, “the horse looks just like Sacramenta.”

  “He’s Sacramenta’s foal, miss,” said Hal.

  “He’s beautiful.”

  “I know.” Suddenly William was by her side, beaming. “I knew you would think so, too.”

  “You could have shown me last night,” said Eleanor plaintively.

  “Sorry. I just wanted to get to bed. I thought it could wait until the morning.”

  Eleanor smiled, but swallowed hard. The separation was beginning. Soon William would no longer automatically include her in his schemes. “Of course,” she said, and then to cover her disappointment, she smiled and asked, “What’s his name?”

  “Hosanna,” said William, looking at the horse with nervous pride.

  “Hosanna,” repeated Eleanor. “It’s a good name.” She patted the horse, who, turning his head, fixed her with his great dark eyes. “Hosanna,” repeated Ellie again, this time addressing the horse. “Yes, it suits you.”

  Gavin’s voice suddenly filled the air. “Fancy him yourself, Ellie?” he shouted as he swung himself onto Montlouis. “Don’t you think that he’s nothing but a pony? Now this is what I call a proper horse.” Gavin dug his spurs into Montlouis’s side, making him leap forward. Then he looked for William. “See you in the jousting field, little brother,” he called. “We’ll have a quick display before we leave. Assuming the horse is up to carrying your weight,” he added, delighted with the laughter his comments provoked from the other knights. Adam Landless winked at William.

  “See you out there,” William said sullenly. He ignored Adam. Landless by name and landless by birth, he said to himself. This morning he refused to lose his temper, contenting himself with kicking a loose stone into the gutter as he followed Hal and Hosanna back to the stables.

  In front of Hartslove Castle was a long, flat plain with a view falling away into the valley. The grass was kept short by grazing sheep who had, this morning, been herded into a pen and were making a terrific noise. There was no fencing, but some rough stands constructed for an audience formed barriers on either side. Running down the middle of the jousting ground was a single removable pole running lengthways. The knights used this for practice sessions,
to see if their horses were galloping straight. In rough jousting, when more than one knight was involved, it was removed and the sport was a free-for-all. Sir Thomas tried to discourage this, since so many good horses and knights were injured as a result.

  Nevertheless, at Hartslove, tournaments were a common occurrence. Sir Thomas, although no longer taking part himself, was keen enough, provided order was maintained. Gavin was something of an expert, and it pleased Sir Thomas that William looked set to shine in his turn. Riding his own horse out into the field, having swept Ellie up and put her in front of him just as he used to when she was tiny, Sir Thomas was curious rather than alarmed by William’s choice of horse. Later, he would summon Keeper John and hear the whole story, but now it was time for William to show just what had made him pick this little stallion above all the others he might have had.

  The knights, led by Gavin, were nervous and excited on this, the morning of their departure. Their squires and grooms had packed up huge quantities of armor and equipment, and the great baggage train had already left Hartslove on its way to the coast. Squinting in the sun, Gavin could see it wending its way down the road. The shouts of the baggage masters rose above the baaing of the sheep as they bellowed for the packhorses to pick their feet up and keep moving. His own groom, a willing enough boy named Mark, had gone with the baggage train. Humphrey, who knew all about teasing since his last name was Smallbone, was holding Montlouis. Some of the knights, the adrenalin pumping through their veins, began to conduct a mock tournament with an invisible lance. There was laughter, strong and loud. William rode in among them, almost unnoticed. He was willing Hosanna to be good but sat easily in the saddle, knowing that the horse would explode at any hint of tension.

  Hosanna looked the color of sunset, the silver trappings that Hal had put on him sparkling against the deep red of his coat. William cantered the length of the field and came to a halt in front of his father.