by K. M. Grant
At sunrise John left, and shortly afterward de Scabious was standing in the courtyard rocking, as usual, on his toes. He was also ready to go, waiting only for Hosanna. If he had to organize Richard’s murder, it would be sweet to organize it from the back of William of Ravensgarth’s horse. Gethin appeared. “Hosanna is ready, sir. Shall I bring him out?”
“Take him over to the cellar,” de Scabious ordered. “I’ll mount over there.” Gethin walked Hosanna over, and really, the animal was a picture. The constable shook himself with delight when he thought of how he would look on the wonder horse of the crusade.
Will was sitting in the dark, with his head in his hands, when he heard de Scabious call out Hosanna’s name. Instantly he jumped up and grabbed the grille, trying to haul himself high enough to see, but it was impossible. Dropping down, he set up a ceaseless thumping on the door.
The grooms laughed and joked. “Care for your horse more than girls? We know your sort.”
Will hardly heard them. De Scabious on Hosanna. It was an abomination. He ran around his cell crying out like a man possessed. Where was Ellie? If she was not being prevented, she would surely come to see him now. What had de Scabious done to her?
But Ellie did not dare to go near Will. She had heard John depart, and now she was watching the constable’s preparations from above. When she saw Gethin bring Hosanna out and take off his hobbles, she came down to the courtyard, her heart sinking.
The horse himself, however, seemed unconcerned. Standing patiently in the sun, his coat shone like copper, and his elegant ears were pricked and alert as the breeze rippled his mane. He took no notice of de Scabious, just nudged Gethin’s arm occasionally with his nose. Gethin patted him. While polishing Hosanna’s coat, he had noticed the horse’s two healed crusading wounds and wondered about them. He didn’t like the jokes at Will’s expense and busied himself running his hands over the dents once again. Catching Ellie looking at him, he gave her a small nod.
De Scabious kept everybody waiting another twenty minutes before he eventually called for his knights to mount. He had needed some liquid courage to soothe his nerves. By the time he reemerged, his nose was glowing and his step somewhat unsteady. He glared at Gethin and inspected Hosanna from all angles, making sure that Will could hear his disparaging comments. Rejecting the soft, supple bridle that Hal kept in such good order, he ordered it to be replaced with a stiff, highly ornate affair complete with barbed decorations; a spiked, ridged bit; and an ill-fitting headpiece.
Gethin was unhappy. “I don’t think …,” he said as Hosanna shifted and winced.
“You are not obliged to think,” de Scabious barked, before grabbing the reins. Hosanna fidgeted. “This horse’s manners will have to be seen to, Gethin. Fetch me a switch.”
The boy looked shocked but did as he was told. It was immediately snatched from his hands by Ellie, who ran over and broke it sharply over her knee. “You leave that horse alone.” She could hardly get the words out. “Do you hear me, Constable de Scabious? You lift a finger against that horse and I’ll kill you.” Hosanna blew softly into her hair.
The constable gave a precious laugh. “My dear,” he said, “horses must have manners.” He gestured to the sergeant to take Ellie back into the tower and shouted to Will to be quiet.
But Will would not be silenced, calling his horse’s name again and again. “Hosanna! Hosanna!”
De Scabious, clicking irritably, sent Gethin for another switch. “If the prisoner makes any more noise,” he said loudly, aiming his remarks through the cellar grille, “there may be an accident. Horses do have accidents, you know.”
Will bit his fingers and ground his heels into the dirt, but he fell silent.
Hosanna braced his legs as the constable heaved himself on. “Don’t try anything, horse,” de Scabious muttered. To balance himself, Hosanna moved forward one pace. Immediately his reins were jerked while a pair of spurs dug into his side. Turning his head to avoid the bristling bit, the horse’s flanks quivered, but he remained still. “That’s better.” De Scabious’s voice was as high as his hands were heavy. “Now keep doing as you are told.” He took the second switch from Gethin and gave it a little twirl. From the stalls Sacramenta whinnied. Hosanna answered and got a crack across the withers. He swished his tail but walked on without further protest.
As the gates swung open, Ellie’s voice rang out. “Constable de Scabious.”
The constable squinted.
“Constable de Scabious,” Ellie repeated, hoping her voice was carrying over to Will. “Don’t you forget. If you hurt that horse, I will kill you myself. I hope you understand that quite clearly.”
She was given, as a response, a proprietorial wave before her husband-to-be flourished his heels, and Hosanna, bending his neck to a new and painful yoke, cantered out onto the track.
8
Hal reached the port of Whitby without mishap. But all along the way, in the taverns and even among groups of pilgrims, he heard, just as he had when traveling with Will, men muttering about Richard, some now openly mocking him as a crusader who failed to take Jerusalem and a king who couldn’t even keep even his own lands intact while he was away.
“Haven’t you heard? Richard died of despair in a German prison,” they told each other. “Soon John will be crowned.”
But while their voices were loud, their eyes were furtive. Most knew that what they said was at best speculation, but the town was full of armed men who constantly referred to Prince John as king, and it seemed safer to show no reluctance to do the same.
As Hal made for the quayside and began to search for a galley even the sailors were whispering tales they had picked up in the Levant: Richard had become a Muslim; Richard had drowned; Richard had been killed by a thief in the night. If anybody pressed too hard, they ran their fingers over their throats in theatrical mock executions and disappeared below deck.
Hal tried to take no notice, but it was difficult, particularly as it took him two frustrating days to find a shipmaster who could offer him a passage. Then to his misery and fury, the black horse, terrified by the choppy waters, refused to step onto the gangplank for loading.
A crowd gathered to watch the spectacle as Hal and six sailors first tried gentle persuasion, then a thorny cane, then brute force. But the horse plunged and reared, kicked and bucketed until eventually the captain stepped in. Even if they could get the horse inside, he would not take him. He could not risk a fracas in the hold. Hal, alternately crimson with humiliation and white with frustration, led the horse away.
“If only I had Hosanna,” he cried inwardly, for even Dargent often relied on the courage of the red horse to reinforce his own. “If only I had Hosanna.”
But there was no miracle. Hosanna did not appear. Instead, Hal took the black horse to the marketplace farther down the waterfront to exchange for something braver. There were no takers, and the squire had to spend yet another night on dry land. After it grew dark, he found a cheap hostelry and sat brooding over a tankard of ale. So much depended on him, and he was making such poor progress.
The fire drew other travelers, and Hal found himself squashed in among men whose leathered faces, lewd manners, and coarse conversation revealed them as mercenaries: swordsmen for hire. They tossed their money about carelessly, demanding more food and drink, much of which they vomited onto the floor. The innkeeper said nothing, just nervously scurried about doing their bidding. He wanted no trouble. Talk about Richard’s fate was inevitable, but it grew heated when the men could not agree whether Richard or John was most worthy of the throne. Hal’s blood began to boil as they denigrated Richard’s achievements and even called him a coward. He tried to slip out, but he found his way blocked, and soon he, like everybody else, sat silent as the mercenaries claimed the floor.
One member of the group, a small, wiry man with two fingers missing, seeing they had an audience, nudged his friends’ ribs, telling them it would be great sport to take a straw poll. “King Richard or King
John!” he cried. “Bolt the door, Innkeeper. We’ll ask your customers who they prefer. After all, the people of England must have opinions.”
The atmosphere was tense as the mercenaries took lanterns and candles to shine in people’s faces. “King Richard or King John?” they demanded. The innkeeper was asked first. “King J-J-Jo-John,” he stammered. The men cheered.
“I don’t know,” ventured a beardless clerk, who had come in only to get some wine for his ailing wife. He tried to smile. “I think we must wait and see.”
“Wrong answer!” roared his tormentors, and one, drawing a dagger, asked him to think again.
Spilling his wine, the clerk begged their pardon.
“Richard or John?”
He gazed wildly about, then he had a brainstorm. “We must wait until John is crowned. Then we can be sure.”
Missing Fingers pushed right up close. “You are too lily-livered to be a true subject to any king.” He hawked and spat.
The clerk’s smile froze on his face. It was not until the mercenary moved away that the young man put his wine jar carefully down on a table, looked a little puzzled, then fell backward, quite dead, a neat red stain in the middle of his stomach.
After that there was no more doubting. The inn echoed to cries of “King John! King John!”
Hal wedged himself into a corner. He would rather die than renounce King Richard, but to die here at the hands of these barbarians when so much at Hartslove depended on him seemed more stupid then heroic. Maybe he could remain unnoticed.
But the mercenaries were thorough, and when they saw Hal half concealed, they pulled him forward. “Now, my boy,” Missing Fingers said. “Stand up here and tell us what you think. Richard or John?”
Hal was silent.
“Come now,” Missing Fingers rocked the table. “Make your mind up. I believe you are the last.” He rocked the table again and sucked in his cheeks, the clerk’s blood still wet on his knife.
“Not quite the last.” In a corner behind the table farthest from the fire, a dark figure swathed in a hooded cloak sat crumbling bread with long fingers. “I have something to say on the matter.” The man’s voice was muffled, and the mercenaries swung their lanterns toward his face. Hal held himself tight. “Come,” said the stranger. “Come here and let me give you my opinion.”
The mercenaries lurched toward him. When only the trestle separated them, the stranger leaned forward as if to speak. Then he spat, hard and true, into Missing Fingers’s eye and at the same time heaved the table up and overturned it. The lanterns and candles flew into the air, and steel flashed as the mercenaries bellowed and cursed.
Relief and jubilation gave Hal wings. He leaped lightly over the mercenaries’ heads and, drawing his sword, fought side by side with the stranger. Together they edged their way toward the door, which the innkeeper found the courage to throw open. The body of the clerk was trampled underfoot in the stampede to get out.
Hal and the stranger protected each other as best they could, fighting back to back to give them the best chance against superior numbers. Eventually spotting a narrow ditch, they broke free and dashed away, losing their pursuers in the maze of dingy backstreets. When they judged it safe, they stopped to catch their breath.
Hal bent double, easing a stitch, then when he could he stood up and leaned against a wall. “Who are you?” he asked. “Because I owe you both my honor and my life.” He wiped his mouth and looked up, then stood in amazement, momentarily speechless again as the stranger pulled back his hood and revealed his face in the moonlight.
“Do you not recognize me?” Kamil asked. “Are you not the squire who looks after the red horse?”
Hal tried to find his tongue. “Yes, I know you,” he said. “How could I forget you? You are the man who helped to save Hosanna after the Battle of Jaffa. Of course I know you. You are Kamil. But I hardly expected to see you here. I don’t understand.”
Kamil gave a short laugh. “It is I who don’t understand,” he said. “What sort of a place is it when a brother tries to take the place of his living king?”
“Living?” Hal grabbed Kamil’s cloak. “What do you mean, living? Do you know for certain that Richard is still alive?”
“I have seen him,” said Kamil, unpeeling Hal’s hands. “I have a letter from him to give to the count of Hartslove. Yes, he is alive, or he was, and in good health when we talked a month or so ago.”
Hal almost sank to the ground. “Oh, thank God,” he said. Then he was all business. “There’s no time to waste, Kamil,” he said. “You must take the letter at once to the count, and I must go to the tower.” Kamil raised his eyebrows. “My master is held prisoner,” explained Hal, his words tumbling over themselves, “and Miss Ellie—well, it’s too complicated to explain, but I must get word to them both that Richard is alive. So much depends on this. Have you a horse?”
“I do not,” said Kamil. Then he asked, almost casually, “The red horse, Hosanna. Where is he?”
“Hosanna is with my master,” said Hal. “I just pray Constable de Scabious—he’s the man who is keeping them prisoner—has grooms who will look after him properly.”
“This constable must be a bad man if he does not treat the red horse as an honored guest.”
Hal looked at Kamil. He had forgotten just how foreign he was. A horse, even a horse like Hosanna, an “honored guest”? He thought it sounded a little nonsensical. “You will go to Hartslove with your letter, won’t you?” He was suddenly doubtful. After all, Kamil was a Saracen, and the Saracens were enemies.
“I will do my best if you tell me the direction.” Kamil could sense Hal’s mistrust and did not do anything to allay it. “But I shall have to start tomorrow, after the horse market opens.”
Hal grinned, and his face was suddenly open and friendly. “I hope you choose better than I did. I’ve got an unreliable black animal,” he said. “Not like Hosanna at all. But now I think God was on my side when I chose him. He would not board the ship, you know, and if he had, I would have missed you. Hosanna would never have behaved in such a way.”
Kamil had little idea what Hal was talking about, but listened politely. They began to walk back the way they had come, keeping well in the shadows, for the black horse was stabled near the unfortunate inn. The animals were restive, but nobody had interfered with them. Hal breathed a sigh of relief as Kamil helped him with the saddle.
“You’ll go first thing in the morning? Keep southwest, and find the river Hart. Follow it upstream, and eventually you’ll see the castle. If you get to the abbey, you’ve gone too far, but one of the monks will help you. They are good people. Take care, Kamil. John’s men are everywhere, and the count may have unwelcome visitors. Ask for the river, don’t ask for the castle.” Kamil nodded. Hal clicked at the black horse to wake him up. “And thank you again,” he said. “I’ll not forget you saved my life.”
Kamil gave a half smile, but by the time the black horse’s hoofbeats were absorbed into the multiplicity of night noises, he was already making plans of his own. He hugged Richard’s letter to him. If it was so vital, it must be worth something. It must at least, Kamil thought as he began to make his way back through the streets looking for somewhere safe to sleep, be worth exchanging for a red horse. He was so lost in his dreams that it was only after four mounted men had passed him, galloping fast in the direction Hal had taken, that he registered who they were. He was momentarily perturbed, but as there was nothing he could do, he continued on his way.
Hal heard the four horses too and at first tried to dismiss them. Horsemen could be riding fast for any number of reasons. It was not necessarily the mercenaries. He held his steady pace, trying to save the black’s breath and legs, calculating how to get to Hangem in the shortest possible time. But as the hooves drummed closer his spine tingled, and he urged the horse to go faster. Soon he was cantering, then galloping—an insane pace when he could not see the road in front of him. The black horse stumbled and slid, but Hal urged him o
n. Whoever was behind was gaining on them.
He crouched low as horses appeared at either side, and when Missing Fingers raised his weapon, he made the sign of the cross. But the sword was not for him. Instead, it sliced clean through the black’s jugular vein, and Hal was suddenly soaked in a spray of warm blood. The animal’s legs begin to paddle as it sank to the ground, its throat rattling. Pitched off to the side, Hal was manhandled to his feet, and once hauled up behind Missing Fingers, his hands were tied to the saddle rings. The mercenaries were jubilant. They would take their prize to their camp, and when they had finished with him there, they would bring him before the new king and have him legally hanged for a traitor.
“No man gets the better of us.” Missing Fingers rolled his eyes at Hal. “We may not find your friend, but you, at least, are going to pay.”
Hal said nothing. Silently, he prayed as his horse exhaled its last breath into the mud. But his prayer was not for the horse or for himself. “Please, God,” he pleaded, “get Kamil safely to Hartslove, and save my master and Hosanna.” Then he gritted his teeth and wondered just how much courage he was going to need.
9
Will was praying, too, but he was praying for unconsciousness. After de Scabious left Hangem on Hosanna, all he wanted was to obliterate from his mind the loathsome picture of the constable on his horse. It scalded his thoughts. But when unconsciousness would not come, he padded around and around, scraping his shoulder against the sides of his green-slimed pen. He did this until his body was heavy with exhaustion. As he sank down he tried to console himself by recalling the sound of Hosanna’s deep, confident voice as it had reverberated through the courtyard on the night of his capture. The horse would return safely. He must. Yet as soon as this faint hope took root, Will found himself assailed by other troubles.