A Blood Red Horse (29 page)

“Better than that,” said William, “why don't you travel to England and escort Brother Ranulf back yourself?”

A muscle in Kamil's face twitched, and he inclined his head. “I would like that,” he said softly. “Maybe it will be possible. We have much to tell each other, I think, about the horse you call Hosanna.”

The sultan rose. He was pleased and uncomfortable at the same time. You should not shed your enemy's blood unnecessarily, but becoming too friendly was dangerous. This conversation between these two young men, which he could not understand and which the interpreter was ignoring, must come to an end. “We will see how these Masses you want are to be arranged,” he said shortly, addressing the bishop. “Now it is time for you to go. The relic known as the True Cross will be brought out for you to look at.”

The bishop stood up, muttering thanks. Saladin curtly acknowledged them. As Kamil passed William he hesitated, unsure, but when Saladin had left the room, he put out his hand. William grasped it. “Honor, love, God, and Hosanna.” He smiled.

Kamil nodded. “We will meet again,” he said, and touched the hank of Hosanna's hair now braided and hanging from his belt. He looked for a second as if he wanted to say more. But he dared not trust his voice. In the end he just turned and vanished.

Moments later two servants carried in a large plain box, roughly the size of a tall man's coffin, and unceremoniously dumped it on the floor. The bishop was trembling as they prized it open to display two pieces of wood, one about two yards, the other about one yard long, lying one on top of the other. The spaces in which Christ's followers had placed jewels were empty. All the Christians in the room immediately knelt. This was the cross on which Jesus had died. To an outsider it might seem a shoddy thing. But nobody who saw it that day ever forgot it, and on their
deathbeds it was on these plain pieces of wood, damaged by looters and dented by swords, that they focused their final thoughts.

William hurried back to Jaffa, full of his experiences. He told Gavin about his conversation with Kamil. Gavin looked disbelieving. “Kamil will never come to Harts-love,” he said. “Not unless we capture him and bring him in chains.”

“Maybe it is possible that we could be friends.”

“No, Will,” said Gavin. “We can appreciate what he did for Hosanna without being real friends. War does strange things to us all. Things that seem possible out here are quite impossible at home. Forget it.”

William did not mention it again. He put Kamil out of his mind and concentrated only on preparations for the journey.

He, Gavin, and Hal traveled to Acre with Hosanna. They took a week, walking slowly with the horse and stopping every time he seemed tired. The country was pleasant and the journey uneventful. Staying near to the coast, they were lulled to sleep by the waves at night, and during the day, moving slightly inland, they found plenty of fresh water and fruit. At Acre, which William had not seen since leaving after the slaughter of the Muslim prisoners, the loading of supplies had already begun. This was an easy task. There were only tiny numbers of people and very few horses to care for. There were no siege engines or wagons to be taken apart and loaded, and the remains of the armor and equipment, rusty and almost beyond repair, made a pitifully small heap in the hold.

There were two worries. One was Phoebus, who William thought would not manage the journey. After
much heart-searching, they decided to leave him behind with the Christians garrisoning Acre.

The other, and rather more major worry, was Richard, who had fallen ill. Hal, hopping with anxiety, could have kissed the king for declaring that his most trustworthy knights should leave him and return to England without delay. Richard declared that once recovered he would himself go straight to France and try to regain control of his territory there. Gavin and William should not, therefore, travel in his ship, but go without him. From his sickbed Richard asked them to send news of England when they arrived. Gavin felt reluctant to leave the king, but Richard, to Hal's relief, insisted.

“Let's get you home,” William said to Hosanna, touching his star before leading him into the hold. Hosanna, stepping eagerly up the ramp, seemed to agree.

From the appearance of the quayside, the enormous scale of Christian losses was only too apparent. Once back in the belly of a ship designed for twenty horses, Hosanna found himself with room to lie down or even walk about. His companions comprised Dargent and only one other horse, an Arab one knight was bringing home to breed from. Hal carefully supplemented the esparto grass with reed matting and carpets for the horses' comfort. In between Dargent and Hosanna he also made a bed for himself.

Gavin and William grinned at each other when they saw “Hosanna's bedroom,” as they nicknamed it. “Fit for a king's horse,” said William as he lay down to test for comfort. He got up and, as had become his habit, ran his hands down Hosanna's neck. The eyes that looked into his own were luminous in the dark. In his own habitual style the horse put his velvet nose into William's hand. As
the great ramp swung shut, cutting off the warmth of the sun, William shivered and his hand automatically sought out the white star. Soon afterward, his fellow travelers and all the sailors were visiting the hold, doing exactly the same thing.

On almost the last day of September, the sails were hoisted, the oars set, and the ships slid out of the harbor.

“Home,” said William to Hal as they got their sealegs once again.

“Home,” echoed Hal, “God willing.”

The journey back was helped by a friendly wind but was just as frightening as the outward journey had been. The ship's captain clung to the coast as much as he could, but in one huge storm, as the ships slid round the toe of Italy, eight sailors and two knights lost their lives.

“It is inevitable,” Gavin shouted through the racket as William and Hal clung together, grappling with ropes and trying to secure the horses with slings. “But we must remain strong. At least we are being pushed homeward rather than backward.”

After the storm the ship found itself alone on a tossing sea. Gavin was very sick, but the ship held her own against the weather and the horses survived. They stood with their noses almost in their bedding, but although the Arab occasionally groaned aloud, they all remained upright.

Gavin suffered from acute anxiety and fearful nightmares, as well as sickness. The damp, muggy air below deck was suffocating. He woke each morning drained and sweating, the stump of his arm throbbing with pain. On nights when the sea was choppy and he was tossed about, he heard himself calling out the names of the dead: Mark, Humphrey, Adam Landless, his father, both his warhorses.
William could do little to help him. Eventually he left Gavin alone and crept down to sleep alongside Hal and Hosanna.

“We will get back to Hartslove soon,” he kept repeating in Hosanna's ear. “I know we will get back to Hartslove soon.”

In the second week of December, twenty of the returning crusaders, including Gavin, William, and Hal, disembarked at Marseilles. Wearing their crusading crosses on their back to show that they were returning from the Holy Land, they managed to pick up more horses and crossed France, grateful for the hospitality offered to men who had fought for Christ. The weather was dreary, and desperation to get home increased. They rode quickly, not stopping to celebrate Christmas, pushing the horses as hard as they dared. Hal had looked after Hosanna so well on the journey that the horse was almost back to his old strength, and by the middle of January they reached La Rochelle. There, they hired a vessel for the last push up the French coast and across the English Channel.

Gavin called together the fifteen men returning to Hartslove. They were all that remained of the four hundred who had set out. “Nobody can say we have not endured martyrdom,” he told them soberly when, after an interminable week during which the wind always seemed against them, the white cliffs of England eventually came into view. As the ship sped up the east coast to a port from which the journey to Hartslove would not be so far, William was silent, gripping the rails. When, at last, the top of the abbey at Whitby was spotted by a sailor, all the men stood on deck, some in silence, some whooping with delight.

William turned to Gavin, trying not to allow his voice
to crack. “Home,” he said, “we've made it home. Oh thank God.”

The weather was kind, and it was a perfect English winter's day as men and horses clattered joyfully onto dry land. This was not the time to think of those who had perished at sea or how news of lost fathers, brothers, and sons was going to be received. The men shouted to each other as they busied themselves finding transport home. Occasionally, one or two would be found rooted to the spot, trying to take in the almost unbelievable fact that they were once more on English soil and that the whole hideous ordeal was over. Some wept openly.

The de Granvilles needed only one wagon and a few more horses for the last leg of the journey home. William purchased a carthorse by the quayside, and eight riding horses. They would return with eleven horses, having left with nearer eleven hundred. From other sailors they tried to get news of Richard, thinking that he might have made for England despite everything. But no one knew anything. No matter. Gavin and William pushed thoughts of Richard away—the important thing now was to get back to Hartslove.

Just before they set off, a messenger sought them out. He had been hanging about the port for months, sent there by a monk whose name he had forgotten. He had been paid well to find a ship's captain with whom to entrust a roll of sealed parchment addressed to Gavin de Granville in the Holy Land. The messenger had been idle. Now, it seemed, this Gavin had arrived himself. Disappointed at being deprived of his excuse to enjoy port life at somebody else's expense, the messenger, nevertheless, found Gavin and handed over the letter. Gavin's
surprise betrayed the fact that he might be a brave crusader, but he was as illiterate as the messenger himself. The man smiled in a patronizing manner. Gavin ignored him, snatched the parchment, and sent William to find a cleric.

“Hurry, Will,” said Gavin. “We want to leave as soon as possible.”

William returned with a fat priest, who took the letter, slowly smoothed it out, and nearly drove the brothers mad before he ostentatiously cleared his throat.

“Ahem. Now, here we go. Which one of you is Gavin?”

“I am.”

“Yes. Well then.” The priest licked his lips.

“Oh, get on with it,” cried Gavin.

“Of course. But it is a tricky business, this reading.”

“It is a tricky business being a crusader.”

The priest cleared his throat again. “Indeed. But not without rewards unavailable to a poor priest like me.”

Gavin looked at him. “You want money?” he asked, incredulous.

The priest looked sly. “Not for me, you understand. For my, er, my parish.”

Gavin leaned over. “Now look here, you fat parasite,” he said. “I may only have one arm, but I could swipe your head off with one blow. My saddle was once hung about with Saracen heads. A priest's head would make a fine addition to my tally.”

William made a suitably fierce face as the priest, feigning an expression of pained innocence, settled his ample behind on a convenient chair.

“There's no need to be abusive. Right, then. Let me see. This letter is from a Brother Ranulf,” he began.

William and Gavin looked at each other. Brother Ranulf?

“Oh dear,” said the priest, scanning the lines. “I'm afraid—”

“Just get on and read it, will you.” Gavin bent forward, staring at the words as if they would suddenly speak themselves.

“‘Master Gavin de Granville,'” read the priest nervously, following the text with a dirty finger. “‘I am writing this on behalf of Miss Eleanor de Barre. She has sent word to me that …' Hutsliff? Hatsliff?”

“Hartslove!” exploded Gavin.

“Yes, Hartslove, quite right,” said the priest. “Well, ‘Hartslove is under threat from Constable Piers de Scabious.'” The priest stopped. “I wonder if those are the same de Scabiouses who came from the small village of Malad—”

Gavin clenched his fist. “For goodness' sake, man.” The priest flapped his hand. “So sorry, now where was I?”

“Oh yes. ‘He—' that's Constable de Scabious, you understand …”

Gavin put his hand on his sword.

“Yes, yes. Well, anyway, ‘He—' and I am back to the letter here”—The priest was beginning to sweat. “Anyway, ‘He has betrayed the trust of Sir Thomas de Granville, your father, on every count. We hear that Sir Thomas is dead. We hear that you are dead too, in which case, whoever is reading this'—that's me, isn't it?—‘please send us word and return this letter.' Not necessary, which is good news,” the priest smiled ingratiatingly, but William and Gavin stared stony-faced, and he hurriedly continued. “‘But if this letter does reach its intended recipient, I must tell you that things are not as you left them. If you do not return quickly, more than the castle may be lost to you. I have sent for your uncle the bishop, but he
has, so far, done nothing. On your travels wicked men may tell you bad things about life at Hartslove. But whatever you hear about Miss Eleanor, in the name of Hosanna, I swear it is not true. All I urge is that if you are able, you ask God to give you a fair wind and hurry home. Brother Ranulf.'” The priest wiped his mouth.

“Is that all?” asked William.

“That's all,” he said.

“What can Ranulf mean about Ellie?” Gavin exclaimed. “Should we send a message back or what should we do? Constable de Scabious will perhaps think again if he knows that we, at least, are still alive.”

William snatched the parchment from the priest's hands and traced the letters with his finger. Then he looked up.

“There's no point. Let's gather ourselves together quickly and get home. If de Scabious has taken Hartslove, news of our arrival would only give him time to mount a defense. Better to arrive unannounced.”