A Blood Red Horse (3 page)

“Bad, Thomas, both bad,” replied Sir Percy, stretching his legs. “They say that King Henry is reconciled to Richard, but only through his mother. Sons and fathers! Honestly. And wives and husbands are no better. Queen Eleanor is not exactly loyal, if I dare say so. She likes nothing better than to foment rebellion against Henry. I expect this is why the king has summoned us to Normandy. There must be something brewing. As for the East, I hear rumors of some new Muslim chap—Salad, I think they call him. Something like that, anyway. I tell you, Thomas, there's crusading talk in the air.”

Sir Thomas pushed his plate away. “Come here next to me, Percy, and tell me all.”

Gavin obediently slid away from Sir Thomas, and he, Eleanor, and William formed a little group at the end of the table.

“So,” said Gavin. “A Great Horse for a small boy.”

“Shut up, Gavin,” said Ellie.

Gavin glanced at her. She need not worry. He did not
want to continue squabbling. With more campaigning coming up, he wanted to part on good terms with his only brother. You never knew when your sins might catch up with you. “Keeper John has been away bringing some young horses back from pasturing the other side of the river,” he said conversationally. “Shall I come and help pick one out?”

William was not to be wooed so easily. “No thanks. I'll manage.”

“There is a full brother to Montlouis among them, I think.”

“No thanks.”

“Fine.” Gavin gave up. “I'll look forward to knocking you off in the jousting lists, then. Father mentioned our uncle the bishop. Perhaps you are really to become a priest.”

With that, Gavin got up to leave. William hardly noticed. Already, in his mind's eye he was choosing a big bay stallion with a star and white stockings. The bay would carry him to victory in everything they undertook. It would be the best Great Horse in the world.

Eleanor watched him. She was glad for William about the horse. She knew how much he had looked forward to the day he would be released from the clutches of Old Nurse and sent off to begin his adult life. But when she tried to say so, she found it suddenly necessary to go over to the hearth and remove ticks from Gryffed's ears as if her life depended on it.

Dawn had broken and the daylight was bright as William left the safety of the castle walls, and accompanied by Hal, a young groom with an open, freckled face, and Sir Walter de Strop, the old knight allocated to look after both of Sir Thomas's sons when they rode in the forest, he set off for the stud where his father's horses were kept and managed by Keeper John. William and Hal were the same age, and there was no young groom William trusted more. Sir Walter was an old grouch, but William was not going to complain this morning. Already he was going over in his mind exactly what he would say to Keeper John.

A great household like the de Granvilles' needed all kinds of different horses: sumpter horses for carrying packs, palfreys for ladies and clerics, baggage horses, cart and plough horses, and speedy horses for hunting. But the destriers, or Great Horses, were the pinnacle of equine perfection, used only for war and tournaments. Keeper John was in charge of a huge horse empire both over at the de Granville stud and back in the stables at Hartslove. He was, in many ways, Sir Thomas's most useful and important retainer.

William had spent many hours with Keeper John, as had
Eleanor. After the death of Lady de Granville, it had been mainly to Keeper John that he and Ellie looked for consolation. The children had soon learned to outwit Old Nurse and vanish when her back was turned. She had never been too concerned. Sir Thomas had told her to “bring them up, you know, in the appropriate manner,” but the “appropriate manner” had never been clearly defined. So although Old Nurse suspected that she was supposed to teach the children to read, when the children told her their father preferred them to ride, she felt this might well be true. It did not seem wise to ask, and anyway, she knew that Keeper John would look after them well enough. If the truth be told, Old Nurse was not really much of a reader herself. She was happiest supervising the kitchens and the laundry, not only because this gave ample excuse for frequent trips to the wine cellar but also because it showed she was high up in the castle pecking order. Even Constable de Scabious was frightened of her, and she liked to keep it that way.

William himself cared nothing for reading and writing. Today, the morning was perfect. Once the sounds of the castle were left behind, he could hear only the gentle chattering of Hal and Sir Walter amid the creaking of leather and the jangling of steel. Occasionally a lark sang its sweet song overhead, and William felt like singing, too. He settled himself deeper into the saddle. They would pass by the new monastery, and William decided that he would ask for prayers to be offered up that he would choose his new horse wisely. The opportunity to tell the monks what he was going to do and make the young ones envious was too tempting to miss.

At the edge of the forest, a broad track opened out in front of him. The middle was pitted with ruts where horses
had pulled heavy carts in the wet, but three weeks of dry weather had made the turf at the edges springy and inviting. William's chestnut courser, Sacramenta, took the opportunity to snatch the reins, shy at nothing at all, and break into a canter. William laughed for the sheer joy of being alive and urged the mare on.

Choosing her path with delicate agility, Sacramenta sprang forward and was soon racing like an orange streak through the dappled shadows and out again into the open. Sir Walter and Hal were left far behind, and all William could hear was the hiss of the wind and the muffled thud of Sacramenta's hooves. She stretched out and William leaned forward to take his weight off her back, enjoying the lashing his face got from her mane. As they pulled up to ford the river William patted her neck. She twitched her ears as she acknowledged his caress. William ran his hand down her flank. It was only then that his conscience was smitten. From today Sacramenta would take second place to his Great Horse. He looked round to make sure Hal and Sir Walter were nowhere within sight, then lay quickly down on her neck and whispered, “Dear Sacramenta, I'll always love you, you know.” Guiding her into the water, he let her drink while the the others caught up.

The monks had just finished chanting as the party of riders approached. The foundations of the monastery were taking shape, but there was as yet no roof. As the haunting strains of their prayer died away, the abbot, a thin man with a lined face, looked at his visitors with anxiety. When he saw the party comprised a boy, a groom, and an old man, he visibly relaxed.

“Greetings, my friends,” he said, raising his hands in welcome.

“Greetings, Father,” said William, trying not to sound as excited as he felt. “Pray for me. I am off to choose a Great Horse. Maybe in time we will go together to the Holy Land. Who knows.”

The abbot smiled at William's lofty tone. “Indeed, my son.”

“Are you really going on crusade?” Another monk approached, wiping his hands on his white habit. The abbot frowned in disapproval. It was not done for junior monks to break the monastic silence. The young monk stroked Sacramenta's nose, and she gently took hold of his wide sleeve with her teeth.

“Brother Ranulf,” said the abbot, “silence.”

Brother Ranulf bit his lip and moved away, gently extricating his habit from Sacramenta's mouth. A small green stain was added to the multitude of others.

“I am to be sent away to learn the codes of chivalry first,” said William, nodding at Brother Ranulf despite the abbot clicking his tongue. “And I am to take a Great Horse with me. It will be my first.”

“And it will be very fine, I'm sure,” said the abbot, pushing Ranulf in the direction of the makeshift altar on which Mass was about to be celebrated. He turned back to William. “Now, young sir, you go about your business and we will go about ours. God bless you and your choice.”

After another hour's riding, during which William listened politely to Sir Walter telling him exactly what to look for in his new mount, they arrived at the extensive wooden buildings and fields of the de Granville stud.

About two hundred horses were separated into paddocks. Blacks, bays, iron grays, and roans, the de Granville horses came in all colors, shapes, and sizes. Mares with foals at foot stood contentedly in the sunshine, idly swishing
away the flies with their tails. They showed no interest in the approaching cavalcade. Not so their foals, who took the opportunity to hightail round their enclosure, bucking and squealing in their excitement. Grooms scurried about their duties, carrying water, cleaning or mending saddlery, and stacking sacks of grain. Cowhides were hanging in a lean-to shed, waiting to be turned into harness. The clang of the farrier's hammer ricocheted back from the hills, and sparks flew from his anvil.

Keeper John waited for his visitors at the door of a huge barn. He was not surprised to see William, whose plaintive longings for a Great Horse were well known. As he watched William's easy way with Sacramenta, how they understood each other's slightest movement, he thought, as he had many times before, that if William was not destined for knighthood, he would make an excellent horse-breaker. That mare had not been easy to train. She was nervous and flighty. A bad foaling had made her no good for future breeding and only useful as a courser, a nifty horse for riding. There were plenty who thought she should be destroyed. But William had managed to make something of her. Sacramenta was now as good a mare as you could find. Even out hunting, she would stand and wait when required. Couldn't get much better than that.

“Well, Master William. What brings you out here so early in the day?” Keeper John called cheerfully. “Don't tell me Sir Thomas has relented, and you are come for your Great Horse at last?”

William swung himself out of the saddle, and Sacramenta rubbed her head on his arm to get rid of an itch.

“You will never believe it, but that's about it, Keeper John,” said William, trying to look nonchalant, but not succeeding. “I am to go as a squire to my uncle the bishop,
and I am to take a Great Horse with me. My father sent me to choose, knowing that with your help and, of course, with Sir Walter's advice, I'd choose well.”

Keeper John whistled. “Right, then. You'll not be wanting to wait. Give Sacramenta to young Hal, and let's see what we can do. Actually, you're in luck. I have brought all the new warhorses inside today. They'll go out again at evening, but they get too fat out on that pasture.”

In the cool, sweet-smelling barn, twenty large horses were tethered. Each was being curried by a groom, and the scrape of the brush was interspersed with sneezes. It was the most comfortable and comforting sight in the world.

William sighed with pleasure.

“Keeper John, I think I want a bay horse,” he said. “With good, strong bones and a wise head. Perhaps one broken to saddle last year, which has had some experience already. I need one that I can rely on, and I want to be sensible.”

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.