A Blood Red Horse (7 page)

William, his anguish etched all over his face, tried to accept his father's decision as he knew a knight should, for he knew his father was right. He watched hopelessly as Hosanna's condition did not materially improve.

Thus it was that when the primroses appeared in the wood, with Eleanor riding Sacramenta and leading Dargent, William walked with Hosanna to the abbey. Every step of the journey was agony. William tried to choose the easiest route, the one which would cause Hosanna's legs the least effort, but every time the horse stumbled, the boy's heart seemed to crack. At the gatehouse he said a long and anguished farewell, during which, although he tried to curb them, bitter tears were shed. Then, as Hosanna blew gently down his neck William made himself pass the reins of his precious horse over to the monks and watched him walk stiffly away. Ellie did not interfere. She had said her farewell earlier. This was William's time. As Hosanna was led toward the newly finished gatehouse she touched William on the shoulder. He mounted Dargent, and they turned to leave. As William looked back one last time, his voice suddenly rang out.

“His name, Abbot Hugh, I never told you his name.” The abbot stopped. “No, my son, you did not,” he replied. “What is it?”

“My horse.” It was almost a whisper and the abbot had to strain to catch it. “My horse … ,” William said, his voice fighting to be steady, “My horse is called Hosanna.”

Abbot Hugh waited until William was out of sight before summoning one of the lay grooms to take Hosanna to the stables. He could not afford to give his monks yet another excuse for inattention during prayers by being absent any longer.

The abbot was a kindly man, but he had more on his mind than a sick horse. The abbey, supposedly a place of retreat from the world, was becoming so popular that sometimes the abbot felt that it was as busy and noisy as the castle. Last week, the singing of the divine office had been shockingly ragged, and Brother Ranulf had stared into space for almost the whole of Mass. Hosanna would simply add to the distractions. Nevertheless, the sight of William saying farewell would have moved a heart harder than the abbot's.

“Take care of this horse,” he said to the groom. “He comes from Hartslove. Sir Thomas may cease being quite so generous and protective of us if the horse comes to harm. And anyway, the animal has been ill-used and deserves good treatment.” After that he forgot all about him, at any rate for the moment.

The groom took Hosanna toward the stables and found
him a place among the motley collection of horses the abbey had already accumulated. Hosanna walked slowly and with obvious discomfort. When he reached the barn door, he stopped and neighed, just once.

“That's right. Say farewell to your friends,” said the groom kindly enough. “Come on now, let's be having you inside.” He twitched the rope. Obediently, Hosanna lowered his head and allowed himself to be led into the dark.

It was weeks later that Brother Ranulf, while meditating in the cloister, saw Hosanna for the first time. The horse was carrying fresh rushes for the refectory floor in panniers. A small boy with a sharp stick was in charge. Hosanna's mane and tail were long and unkempt, his coat greasy and his eyes dull. Nevertheless, he caught Brother Ranulf's eye.

The monk looked round quickly to see if anybody was watching, then left the cloister and approached the boy.

“I haven't seen this horse before,” he said conversationally.

“No, Brother,” replied the boy. “He's a broken-down warhorse. Not much good now, but maybe a great knight rode him once. He's a bit small, though. Perhaps it was a small knight. Perhaps he went on crusade. I dunno myself. But he came from the castle, so he must have seen the king, mustn't he?”

Ranulf smiled. “Very likely,” he said, and stroked Hosanna's neck. The horse sighed, and Ranulf busied himself pulling knots from the tangled mane so that the boy should not see how agitated the word “crusade” had made him.

It was universally known that Ranulf was having doubts about his vocation. He had been just fifteen when Hugh had passed through the village in which Ranulf was
born. Hugh had been traveling around, searching for a site on which to found a new monastery. Ranulf had been inspired by Hugh's sincerity in seeking to follow the teachings of Christ and had told his parents that he felt called by God to join him. Ranulf's parents were delighted. Having a monk in the family was excellent insurance for the afterlife. So, filled with enthusiasm and with his parents' blessing ringing in his ears, Ranulf had left his home, joined Hugh as he wandered from place to place, and then, once they had the support of Sir Thomas de Granville, had thrown his back into the building of a new house of prayer at Hartslove.

Before long, Hugh, now elected abbot, began to think of Ranulf as a possible successor. He might be young, but the other monks looked up to him. Whenever there was hardship, Ranulf embraced it. He was first in the abbey church in the morning and last to leave at night. In his enthusiasm, not only had Ranulf made his vows as a monk but had also become a priest, able to say Mass and hear confessions. He was, Abbot Hugh often mused, almost too perfect.

But ten years after leaving home, lying in the dormitory waiting for the duty monk to come and touch his feet to wake him for matins, Ranulf had been seized by doubts. Each day prayers were said for the protection of the holy places in Palestine, the places particularly associated with Christ's suffering and death, and each day these prayers unsettled him more. Jerusalem, in Christian hands since its capture by the first crusaders, was by no means safe. Prayer was all very well. But surely, as a strong young man, he should be holding a sword not a candle? Christ's enemies would not succumb through prayer alone. Whenever knights or squires rode past the monastery, Brother Ranulf could not resist speaking to them.

Shortly after William had passed through on his way to choose Hosanna, Ranulf's feelings grew so strong that he went to Hugh and begged to be allowed to be relieved of his vows and go to seek a position as a squire. Hugh refused. “I see a great spiritual future for you, my son,” he said. “This crusading talk is just the devil testing you.”

Prior Peter, the abbot's second in command, a dark man with a sharp tongue, had been less flattering. “Don't be so arrogant and worldly,” he sniffed at Ranulf. Peter knew only too well how one monk leaving could provoke a torrent and that the abbey would suffer as a result. But it was no good. Ranulf soon became so consumed with the desire to leave and ride to the Holy Land that his attention during devotions continually wandered. Peter, who now made it his business to observe Ranulf very carefully, found fresh cause for complaint with each passing day.

After Ranulf met Hosanna, he became even more unsettled. As the abbey bell tolled endlessly through the hot summer he shuffled ungraciously through the round of prayers, silent work, and reading, his mind increasingly filled only with thoughts of the horse:
Had Hosanna really been to the Holy Land as the boy suggested? What must it be like, to fight in Christ's service riding the sort of horse Hosanna must once have been?

Despite several warnings from the abbot, Ranulf took to visiting the stables just before bed. He petted Hosanna. Sometimes, standing in the straw, he even sang parts of the psalter to him. The stallion seemed to like this and pricked up his ears. Ranulf watched him doing his work in the fields or at the mill. The horse was docile, but with the docility born of pain.

Eventually, Ranulf began to slip out of the abbey church early or not turn up at all to perform the great round of
communal prayer that was the primary duty of every Benedictine monk. He always had an excuse—a manuscript from the library was missing, the cresset lamps had run out of oil, he had to visit the
necessarium
unexpectedly, on account of eating rotten vegetables—and didn't want to disturb everybody by coming in late. But his excuses always sounded lame, even to him, and eventually Peter lost his temper. He wanted Hugh to punish this deliberate flouting of authority, not just because Ranulf appeared to put talking to a horse before praising the Lord but also because the monk told such flagrant lies.

“Patience, patience,” said the abbot, although privately he thought the prior had a point.

Matters came to a head through the sins of Brother Andrew, the almoner. He was a large, greedy man, and to punish him for his excesses, Hugh had put him in charge of handing out food, drink, and medicines to the poor. Ranulf had once laughed when Andrew's misericord (the wooden blocks against which the monks leaned in church) had snapped off, leaving Andrew sprawling on the floor. Ever since then Brother Andrew had been looking to do Ranulf a disservice.

Since he had been given the job, as far as the abbot knew, Andrew had turned into a good almoner. There were few complaints. What the abbot did not know, however, was that Andrew was running a small racket. The poor who sought alms certainly received them. But they were also promised “untold eternal rewards” if they gave some of the alms back to Andrew in order, as he told them, to secure “a better chance of seeing Christ face-to-face.” The returned food, wine, and medicines he kept in a locked box under a sack and either used them himself or, increasingly, sold them to passing traders.

“I'm stocktaking,” he would shout if anybody called for him while he was eating soft bread or putting on the tip of his tongue a tiny drop of expensive and unusual oil that a passing earl had brought back from the Holy Land. “I suppose I am stocktaking in a sort of way,” he said gleefully to himself as he smoothed his red face with some of the balm he had got into the habit of stealing from the infirmary. “And anyway, at least I always say the office, unlike some others.”

It was when Brother Luke, the infirmarian, asked Andrew if he knew who might be stealing his jars of ointment that Andrew saw his chance. It was common knowledge that Ranulf was potty about some sick horse. “Very likely,” Andrew said to Luke, shaking his head with mock sorrow, “very likely Ranulf is stealing from the infirmary to take to the stables.” Luke went at once to the prior, who went straight to the abbot.

“Brother Ranulf and that horse are a menace,” Peter said. “I know the de Granvilles are our benefactors, but ever since that broken-down nag arrived, Brother Ranulf's behavior has been even more contrary than usual. Now it seems Ranulf is taking medicine from the infirmary in an effort to turn the horse back into a great stallion on which, I suppose, he reckons to ride away and kill the infidel. In my view, we should get rid of the animal. It is useless, anyway, for anything requiring a quicker pace than a walk. Have you seen it carrying the laundry? It has difficulty even doing that. And if the horse goes, maybe Ranulf will get over his ridiculous obsession with crusading.”

“You mean we should destroy the horse? Kill it?” asked the abbot, frowning.

“Well, yes,” said Peter, shifting a little uncomfortably.
“I mean it is distracting Ranulf, and it's not going to get any better,” he finished rather defensively.

The abbot sighed.

“The de Granvilles would be very upset. Before we do anything, I had better talk to Ranulf and see the horse for myself.” The prior could hardly disagree.

Hugh made his way to the stables but did not find Hosanna in good spirits. The horse was lying as if his legs were too weary to carry him. His great dark eyes were misty, and he had not touched the sweet hay that lay well within reach.

The abbot stooped to stroke his neck. Hosanna moved his head slightly. The abbot knelt down and looked at him properly. Although the horse was clearly tired and dispirited, it still felt wrong to take his life just because a monk was using him as an excuse to behave dishonestly. Hugh looked at Hosanna for several minutes. “We'll wait a week,” he said at last to nobody in particular. “We'll wait a week.” Then he found Ranulf and asked about the missing medicines. Ranulf denied all knowledge, but after the monk's recent open disobedience, Hugh could not be sure that he was not lying. He did not tell Ranulf that Hosanna's days, in all probability, were numbered.

Over the next week the atmosphere in the abbey was tense. Word got around about the irregularities in the infirmary and the almonery. Monks were found whispering in corners. Fingers were pointed. The lay servants gossiped in the village. All the while, Hosanna lay or stood, eating little, unaware that his fate hung in the balance.

When seven days were past, Hugh made his decision. The stealing continued. The horse would have to go. Feeling despondent, he nevertheless sent word that the village
butcher should come the following morning and take Hosanna away for slaughter. Hugh made the announcement at the daily meeting in the chapter house. As he expected, Ranulf went white, absented himself from prayers all afternoon, and even went without dinner. Eventually, just before the singing of the last office of the day, the abbot made his way to the stables.

Ranulf was sitting with the horse's head in his lap.

“My son,” said Hugh, picking his way carefully over the drainage ditch that ran down the middle of the stalls. “My son, what I have decided is best for all. The horse will never regain his proper strength, and you can see from the way he holds himself that he is in almost continuous pain. If he is relieved of his suffering, you will no longer be tempted to lie and steal. Your mind will once more return to God, where it belongs. Pray for strength, my son. Pray for strength.”

Ranulf carefully laid Hosanna's head on the straw, then leaped up, breaking the stable's afternoon stillness.

“Strength!” he cried. “I have plenty of strength. Look at me, Father Abbot. I am as strong as an ox. Too strong for this monkish life. This horse has brought me a message, I am sure of it. The message is that I am to go to the Holy Land and fight to protect Christ's tomb and the other holy places from the Saracen infidels. I feel it, Father Abbot, I feel it as strongly as you feel your vocation is here.”