by K. M. Grant
He called to Marissa, but she shook her head. “I don’t recognize this place,” she said. “Not that that means anything. Marie—that’s my sister—and I never went over the Hartslove drawbridge again after we arrived.”
Hosanna, however, was insistent. He stepped eagerly down a goat track leading around a fold in the hill, aiming for the glistening river below. Kamil allowed the horse a free rein. Finally, from a spit of rock, a small fortress was visible just under the skyline. Squinting against the sun, Kamil could make out the jousting field and the road down which, three years before, the crusaders had left with so many, then limped home with so few.
Marissa brought Dargent up beside him. She shaded her eyes with her hand. “Yes, that’s Hartslove,” she said.
They rode on and could soon make out scaffolding up which men were climbing like ants, pitching a roof back on the keep. The drawbridge was firmly closed. Suddenly Hosanna stopped and his flanks fluttered as he whinnied long and hard. In a moment the orange-streaked sky was filled with answering greetings as the Hartslove horses welcomed him home.
It was not until they were almost at the ford in the river that Kamil was aware that a number of mounted men were approaching fast out of the woods to the left. Those mercenaries again. Angry at being made fools of, they had been searching for Kamil and Marissa, and now they had found them. With drawn swords they were spreading out, intent on separating the two horses.
Kamil’s jaw tensed, and Marissa’s eyes were wide and startled. Sticking close together, Hosanna and Dargent increased their pace, speeding through the ford, then galloping up into the water meadows, their wet tails slapping their legs.
The mercenaries followed. Kamil glanced right and left, but there was no escape except into the castle. He tried to think quickly as Hosanna’s mane lashed his face and Marissa’s hair flew loose. Berating himself for not being more careful, he, nevertheless, reveled in Hosanna’s floating gallop, but as the ground rose, Dargent began to labor.
Marissa had none of Kamil’s confidence. She sat almost paralyzed as the horse struggled, his ears flattened against his skull. All she could see was the water in the moat glinting black. Kamil crouched down. “Gather yourself up and ride that horse,” he shouted as Dargent’s breath came in great gasps. “Don’t just sit there. He can go faster. He must go faster or we are lost.” Marissa could barely hear his words, but she knew what he was saying.
An arrow whistled past her head. “Help me, Hosanna,” she wailed, keeping her eyes glued to the red tail in front of her. Then she gathered the reins, braced her body, and rode for her life.
From his chamber in the keep, Gavin was conscious of Hosanna’s great whinny as it echoed across the valley, and of the answering ripple. At first he wondered if he were still delirious and hearing sounds from years gone by, but he knew this was unlikely, since under Marie’s firm ministrations, his body was recovering. Already that day he had held a council of war, and although he was still riven with uncertainty about Richard and almost prostrate with grief, guilt, and worry about Ellie and Will, he could stand and hold his sword again. Before Hosanna’s whinny had died away, he was halfway across the courtyard.
Somebody hollered from the top of the battlements. “Sir, your brother’s two horses are fleeing toward us, but although it’s definitely that de Neville girl on Dargent, the man on Hosanna is not the Earl of Ravensgarth.”
Gavin ran to the gatehouse. The porter huffed and puffed beside him. “Alan Shortspur thinks this is a trap. The man on Hosanna clearly wants us to lower the drawbridge, but if we do that, we’ll be overrun because the ruffians pursuing them are too close. We have not even got our armor on, so we are hardly equipped for battle. We must keep the drawbridge up, sir.”
Gavin climbed up inside the wall and peered out. He exclaimed loudly when he saw the horses almost finished and their pursuers almost on them. Hosanna was stretched right out, his white star pulsing.
“Christ help us,” muttered Gavin. “But I can’t let him down, whoever his rider is.” He ran down the steps. “When I say ‘now,’” he bellowed to both the porter and the soldiers rushing about in a frenzy, “let down the drawbridge, but not all the way. Keep it about four feet from the ground and hold it steady. Get every man you can to help with the winch. Do you understand?”
The porter began to remonstrate. “The enemy will overrun us.”
Gavin silenced him. “Not if we are quick enough. Now do as I say, right now. There is no time for argument. The horses jumped out. They must jump back in. They can do it, so let’s just hope that the others cannot.”
Marie had been grinding herbs in the kitchen when she heard the commotion. She liked it in the kitchen, for the servants respected and even admired her, recognizing that she and she alone had been responsible for saving Gavin’s life. Now she ran to him, and all her newfound self-assurance vanished. “Marissa can’t jump.” She grasped his sleeve. “She can’t do that.”
“She will have to try,” said Gavin, taking her hand. “It’s the only way we can let them in, Marie. We cannot risk an invasion of enemy knights when we are not in a fit state to defend ourselves. Have faith.”
Then there was nothing to do but watch and pray.
In the end it was only Hosanna’s unflinching nerve that kept Kamil heading for the drawbridge. The horse was almost flat on the ground, and Kamil had never ridden at such a speed. It was difficult to see or hear, for there was roaring in his ears and his eyes were windwhipped. Squinting sideways, he could just make out Dargent’s bared teeth and the sweat staining his neck. But it was not over yet. Only twenty strides from the moat, Missing Fingers barely six sword lengths away, and the drawbridge still firmly shut, Kamil’s heart was hammering. There was no hope now. He closed his eyes, waiting for the sting of enemy steel. But when he opened them again, a miracle had happened. The drawbridge was being cranked down, and as Hosanna and Dargent summoned their last ounces of strength, it hung, suspended in the air.
It was clear at once what was required. Kamil slowed a fraction so that he and Marissa were knee to knee. “When I say go,” he shouted, “kick Dargent as hard as you can.”
Marissa did not blink. Kamil could not know if she had understood, so he pulled Hosanna back, and leaning over, he hit Dargent as hard as he could. The horse took off. Marissa, every sinew dissolving into liquid fear, urged him forward with her voice, her heels, and her hands. But while Dargent made it onto the drawbridge, he had leaped too far to the left to leave space for Hosanna alongside. As the great ramp swung up, causing him and Marissa to tumble into the courtyard, Kamil and Hosanna saw daylight for one brief second before they jumped straight into the moat and darkness closed over their heads.
Marissa pushed Marie aside as she got up and staggered as best she could to where Dargent lay, completely winded, on the cobbles. She flung herself down beside him, calling his name and looking around for Hosanna. It was only then that she realized she had made the leap alone.
On the edge of the moat, the mercenaries spread out and emptied their quivers into the water, furious at once again being denied their prey. Occasionally they got a glimpse of a red head and redoubled their efforts. Gavin frantically ordered his archers to return arrow for arrow, but it was only when Missing Fingers and five of his cronies were lying dead on the ground that the rest wheeled away, gesticulating and shouting abuse, but beaten—for the moment, at any rate.
When they were clearly retreating, the drawbridge was lowered and Marissa was the first on it, limping inelegantly as fast as she could, peering down for signs of life. There was nothing. The girl stood hunched above the water. Then before anybody could stop her, she stripped to her shift, revealing her damaged leg and scarred arm to the world. Marie tried to hold her back, but Marissa gave an odd smile, shook her off, filled her lungs, and dived.
The soldiers gaped, openmouthed. In the air Marissa was transformed into an arc of grace. Her lame leg no longer dragged, but rested neatly against its counterpart. The
scars on her arms looked not like teeth marks but like small stones of red jasper. She created barely a ripple as she broke through the discouraging surface, then propelled herself down, down into the cold and began systematically to feel for bodies. She found nothing for what seemed like a lifetime. She heard the soldiers groan as she came up for air, then down she went again. It was impossible to see much in the murk. Silken tendrils of watery plants caressed her legs. Occasionally, she felt the bones of long-dead animals bump against her skin. The water was heaving with the detritus of a hundred years of castle history, and Marissa had to fight through it all.
Then just as she thought her lungs would explode, she felt something that was neither plant nor bone. Her hands were entangled in a skein of something spread out like a feathered fan. A horse’s tail. She kicked forward.
Kamil was underneath Hosanna, his fingers pulling hopelessly at the horse’s saddle. A thick snake of weed had curled itself through the stirrups. Kamil had managed to pull some of the leaves away, but thin, branchlike stems, strong as twisted steel, meant that Hosanna was still trapped. The red horse could no longer even struggle, but was entirely at the mercy of the water. Although Kamil’s hands were still twitching, he too had resigned himself to a watery grave.
Marissa felt for the ruby brooch. She pulled it off her shift and used the pointed end to stab and stab at the fronds until they were perforated enough for her to break. As they snapped and sank away, a dozen more tried to take their place, but Hosanna, freed at last, began to rise to the surface, dragging Kamil with him. Desperate for breath, Marissa prayed. “Please God, help us,” she begged.
Her strength was almost gone when a rope dangled above her. She grabbed it, then saw a shadow and a dipped oar. Somebody had found a makeshift raft. Willing hands reached out, pulling Kamil onto it and securing Hosanna so that he would float to the drawbridge, where two dozen men were waiting to winch him out. Marissa, her shift weighing her down, swam slowly alongside, pummeling the horse’s chest. Water poured from his nose and mouth, but nobody could tell if he was alive or dead. Marissa’s own breath came in great gasps.
When Hosanna was laid out in the courtyard and Kamil carried in on a hurdle, Gavin was completely taken aback. “Kamil,” he kept repeating. “Kamil.”
Kamil opened his eyes and was as sick as a dog. He pushed Gavin away, only wanting to drag himself over to the horse’s body. When the Hartslove knights saw he was a Saracen, however, they began to mutter and some tried to seize him.
Gavin drew his sword. “Keep back,” he ordered. “This is not the time.” The soldiers obeyed.
Kamil’s teeth were chattering as he watched the water flowing from Hosanna’s nose. “We were going to get out,” he choked. “That weed … It just caught …” He spread his hands helplessly.
Marissa concentrated all her efforts on her pummeling, pausing only to attach the ruby brooch back to her shift. She would not allow herself to think what would have happened had she not been wearing it.
Alan Shortspur ordered great wedges of straw to be set up so that Hosanna’s body would be higher than his head to help the draining process. Blankets were brought. Everybody tried their best, but it seemed hopeless.
Eventually Marissa turned to Kamil. “Pray with me,” she ordered. “We must save Hosanna for Will. I don’t know what else we can do.”
“Pray to save Hosanna for Will?” Kamil was too shattered to do anything but repeat her words.
“Yes, for Will,” Marissa said. “Now. Lord, with thy grace anything is possible. Do not take from us this horse, Hosanna. Keep him safe so that he and Will may be reunited forever. In thy mercy. Amen.” Silence. “Say amen, Kamil.”
“I can’t.”
“Say amen. Do you want Hosanna to die?”
“Of course not.”
“Then say amen now. What does it matter if the word is wrong for your god? He will understand, and if he doesn’t, he’s not God.”
But it was not this that was bothering Kamil. He could pray for Hosanna. He had done it before. But he could not pray for him to be reunited with Will.
Marissa stared at him, incredulous, and her voice rose. “Say amen, Kamil. If you don’t and Hosanna does not survive, it will be your fault. Say amen. Say it.” She began to moan, convinced that Hosanna’s life depended on this one small thing. “I’m begging you.”
Kamil looked down. The horse seemed lifeless. “Amen,” he said dully. It did not seem to matter now.
Marissa resumed her pummeling, and Kamil turned away. He did not turn back until the girl’s sobs finally came. They poured out, and she welcomed them. Kamil slid to his knees beside her. “You tried your best,” he said.
Marissa could not speak, but she shook her head and pushed her hair from her streaming eyes. Through her tears a quivering smile was trying to break through. “He’s breathing,” she said, and collapsed.
Relief threatened to overcome Kamil, too, but even as his heart swelled, his amen also rang in his ears. It rang all the harder when he realized that Richard’s letter, his most powerful bargaining instrument, was in soggy tatters. It was unreadable and therefore would be useless. And now he had been trapped by a prayer. Hosanna coughed, then began to struggle slowly to his feet, leaving puddles of weeds and water. His breathing was sticky and gulping, but Kamil held him and stroked him until his panting became more even and the horse could support his head himself.
“The worst is over, I think,” said Marissa, but though her tone was unusually kind, Kamil could barely look at her. For him the worst was just beginning. It now seemed years since he had parted from Saladin, an age since his meeting with Richard. He had been lulled into a false sense of security by little more than a piece of luck and some good English weather. Only now did the truth really strike him, that here he was, in a foreign, hostile country on the brink of civil war, able to see, but apparently never to own, the only living thing he cared for. He briefly touched Hosanna’s two crusading scars and looked into his eyes. An injury, probably from the detritus in the moat, had caused a mark like a feather to appear in the left one. The pain of that, coupled with the agony of emptying his sodden lungs, caused the horse to groan, and Kamil groaned with him. Then they were parted.
Kamil was immediately and not very politely seized by two overzealous soldiers and manhandled into the great hall. With naked swords they pushed him behind a screen, where Marie had ordered hot water and fresh clothes to be laid out. Standing guard as he changed, the tone of the soldiers’ remarks was predicated on their belief that Kamil could understand nothing they said. As he stripped, and the insults about foreigners in general and him in particular degenerated from the unpleasant to the scandalous, an anger black as the moat water possessed him. What did he care for their wars or for Richard? Stuffing the disintegrating and now illegible remnants of the letter into his belt, he hated them all.
When he appeared from behind the screen, Alan Shortspur addressed him. He had only one question: “Where is the Earl of Ravensgarth?”
“Alan, be quiet and get out of the way.” Gavin could still hardly believe it was Kamil in front of him. Surely he should be in the Holy Land with Saladin? Marie hovered anxiously. Gavin was not yet fully recovered, and she did not want all her good work undone. He smiled at her and nodded, then turned back to Kamil. “You must understand,” he said, “that life for us is already full of danger. Now you arrive riding Will’s horse, and with my ward. My brother and my bride are prisoners, and even Will’s squire, Hal, who left for the continent to find King Richard, is rumored to have fallen into the hands of mercenaries. In God’s name, where do you fit into all this?”
Kamil stood stone-faced. He would not be interrogated like a criminal, although the news about Hal disconcerted him.
“Perhaps he doesn’t speak our language,” said Alan.
“He speaks our language perfectly well,” Gavin retorted. The two joking soldiers blushed a little. “I know this man. He is one of Saladin’s emirs.” Alan dre
w his sword. “Oh, put it away,” Gavin ordered. “He is completely unarmed.”
Kamil remained silent. Let the Christians destroy themselves fighting each other, he thought. They were nothing but infidel dogs.
Gavin watched, then ordered everybody to leave.
Alan remonstrated. “If he was to attack you, sir—”
“He will not,” said Gavin curtly. “But even if he does, I expect I can still wield a dagger.”
Alan flinched and withdrew.
Pulling two chairs to the hearth, Gavin motioned to Kamil to take one. “I think we have been through too much, you and I, to play games,” he said. “Now, tell me, how did you come by Hosanna?”
“I bargained for him from a fat man at a port. The man wanted something from me. I took the horse from him.”
“Constable de Scabious!” exclaimed Gavin. “Oh God, poor Will.” Now even he looked at Kamil with suspicion. Perhaps, he thought, Saladin has sent him, at John’s request, to cause even more confusion. Everybody knew that Muslims were devious. He shifted in his chair and fingered the hilt of his sword. But Kamil hardly noticed. He fiddled with the hank of Hosanna’s hair and something fell from his belt onto the floor.
Gavin leaned forward. He looked once, then again, and his face lost the healthy hue that Marie had so carefully restored and became pale as death. “My God,” he whispered. “My God.” He leaned down. “I can’t be mistaken. That is Richard’s seal.” He stared at it as if it were gold. “Where did you get it, Kamil? Where did you get it?” He made to pick it up, but quick as a flash, Kamil got to it first. Gavin stretched out his hand, but Kamil held back, hardly daring to hope. “The seal,” Gavin said hoarsely. “Who gave it to you?”
Kamil looked straight at him. “King Richard, not so much more than a month ago,” he said.