Blaze of Silver

by K. M. Grant

  Hal returned to the stands and Marie hurried to his side. “Is he hurt?” she asked. Marie always expected the worst.

  “Of course he’s not hurt,” Marissa said scornfully, and Hal wondered, not for the first time, how twins could be so different. Marie would never use such a tone of voice. Perhaps it was because of Marissa’s limp that she always sounded so bitter. Hal thought it had made her character limp, too. He ignored Marissa, plucked up his courage, and took Marie’s arm.

  “It’s his pride that’s hurt more than anything, I expect.” Will’s deep voice boomed out above those of the other knights standing about in groups. Hal jumped. Will sounded so like his dead father, whose voice had often boomed across this field in those carefree days before the crusade and before the terrible events earlier in the year that had resulted in the death of Will’s brother, Gavin.

  “That’s right, sir, just his pride.” Hal nodded.

  “He’s really very good when you think how little practice he’s had.” Ellie had left Kamil, who stood slightly apart, and joined the group around Will.

  Will was glad to have Ellie by his side. He smiled at her and when she smiled back, his heart sang. “We should get the joiner to make him a lighter lance, though, don’t you think, Ellie? Elric’s still so skinny. The lance is heavier than he is.” He handed Ellie a spare weapon and grinned when she rocked and nearly dropped it.

  “Well, he’s got to learn,” said Marissa tartly, resenting that the smiles and jokes passing between Will and Ellie were not including her. The only time she was truly happy now was when Will was teaching her to ride. Then, she had his undivided attention, and his praise made her glow as much as the ruby brooch she always wore.

  Ellie felt Marissa’s resentment and forced herself to look away from the brooch. It had once been hers, given to her by Will on hers and Gavin’s ill-fated wedding day, and she knew that Marissa wore it to annoy her. With difficulty, she stopped herself from scowling and reminded herself that, at eighteen, she had an unfair advantage. Marissa was still only fifteen and had been at Hartslove for just nine months. Old Nurse, who was the wisest woman in the castle, was always telling Ellie that she should not allow Marissa to irritate her, and Ellie tried, she really did. But Marissa drove her mad, particularly when she clung to Will’s side like a leech and even accentuated her limp, just to get Will’s sympathy. Ellie began to walk quickly back to the castle before she said something she would later regret. As was her habit, she stopped under the chestnut tree to tidy up Gavin’s grave and as she knelt to brush some early-falling leaves from the headstone, her sharp words faded. Gavin’s presence was still so strong. It was hard for her to think of him folded into the earth beneath and she could not imagine the day when she would be able to tend his grave without her heart feeling squeezed like an apple in a cider press. Her tears fell onto the stone and trickled down among the flowers.

  Gradually she became aware that Will was behind her. She said nothing at first, just dried her tears and tried to show how welcome he was. She knew that he still found his brother’s grave a difficult place to be. It upset Ellie dreadfully that Gavin and Will’s final parting had been so bitter. Often, from afar, Ellie would see Will here, sitting without moving for hours, with Hosanna grazing beside him. Sometimes the horse would rub his nose on the headstone as he relaxed in the shade, peacefully swishing the flies from his smooth coat. Then some of the lines on Will’s face would soften as he murmured to the red horse, leaning on him and touching the star between his eyes before caressing again and again Hosanna’s two crusading scars.

  That squeezed Ellie’s heart, too. She often thought how much Gavin would have liked to see his brother and Hosanna, peaceful and thoughtful in the sunshine. But she never said as much to Will, for part of Ellie’s terrible sadness was that it was she who had been at the center of the brothers’ last, most disastrous quarrel and it had set up an awkwardness between herself and Will, which she seemed powerless to dispel. She traced the letters on the stone with her finger:

  Gavin de Granville, Count of Hartslove

  and crusader

  died most bravely

  21st March 1193

  It was Will who broke the silence. “I’ve had a message from Prince John about King Richard’s ransom,” he said, watching Ellie’s finger but not kneeling down. “At least one hundred thousand silver marks will have been collected by the end of the year but Richard thinks it would be folly to risk the whole ransom in one baggage train. He suggests that Queen Eleanor, for all her great age, should take the bulk of it and I’m to take three wagons’ worth on a different route to Speyer. If there is a disaster at least one of us should get through.” Ellie got up. Will’s face was troubled. “I’m nervous, Ellie, because it seems that the German emperor’s going to make us responsible for the safety of the ransom until it gets to his border.” He put both hands on the headstone. “Every greedy prince in Christendom will know that there is a fortune on the move, yet the imperial guards only take it over when the danger is lowest.” His brow furrowed. “I wish there was a less risky way to get the silver to Speyer but if there is I can’t think of it.”

  Ellie observed him carefully. “If you are trying to put me off coming with you,” she said, “you won’t succeed. In fact, I don’t see how you can manage without me. People are bound to fall sick on the way—perhaps even you—and I’ve been studying about herbs and medicines so hard that I think I can deal with even more illnesses than Old Nurse.”

  “I know, Ellie. I know we need you.” Will found that he did not know what tone to use. Sometimes everything he said seemed to be wrong. He wanted Ellie to come to Speyer, not just because of her growing knowledge of doctoring but because he did not like to be without her. Yet the awkwardness that they both recognized got in the way of his ever telling her this. Will could hardly understand what had happened. How could Gavin now appear to be more of an obstacle than he had ever been when he was alive? Where once Will would have been confident of Ellie’s feelings toward him, now he was unsure. Perhaps when Ellie slipped her arm through his, it was not because she loved him but because he was the only de Granville left. The thought that he would never, now, be sure, tortured Will. What was more, sometimes he saw Kamil looking at Ellie in a way that made his scalp prickle. Was it Kamil who filled Ellie’s dreams? He did not dare to ask.

  When they got back to the castle, Hosanna was standing in the courtyard loosely tied to an iron ring. With patient good humor, he allowed Elric to wash his mane, then, when he thought things had taken long enough, delicately undid the rope and took a small piece of the boy’s jerkin between his teeth. Elric stretched his hand backward to tickle Hosanna’s lips until he let go. Will went at once to his horse’s head. “Ho there, Hosanna,” he said softly before looking over the chestnut withers at Kamil leaning against the wall. “We’ll leave for Whitby at dawn,” he told Kamil, trying not to betray any of his thoughts in his voice. “We need to count the ransom silver already there and collect more from towns farther north. Germany before Christmas! Are you ready?”

  Kamil immediately went to Sacramenta, Hosanna’s mother, who was also tied up outside, and bent over to dig some mud out of her feet using the little triangular blade that he had had the smith fashion and that he always wore at his belt. “I’m ready,” he said. Both young men were the same age but Kamil looked older than Will for his face was darker and leaner, and although he had been in England for a number of months, he retained the aloofness of a stranger. If Elric thought this was snooty, Kamil could not help it. It was just how he was, and recently he knew his aloofness had got worse.

  For all the Hartslove hospitality, Kamil could not belong and some days he missed his homeland acutely, not just the dry smell of the desert or the warm explosion of fresh figs on his tongue but the chatter of the market and the sense of being wordlessly understood. Sometimes he hated the tolling of the great abbey bell across the Hartslove valley, not because he disliked the sound, but because it reminded
him how much he longed to hear the pulsating call of the muezzin. Every day, he felt his Saracen blood running a little thinner. Yet he stayed, partly because, with Saladin dead, it was too dangerous for him to return home, partly for love of Will and Hosanna, and partly because of Ellie. She was the only person to whom he had ever opened his soul. It had happened just once. But he wondered—no, he hoped—there might be another time. Although Ellie gave him no encouragement, he could not shake off this hope and when he stood in the stable with Hosanna beside him and Ellie in front, he could sometimes believe he was happy.

  Elric tugged at Will’s jerkin. “Can I go with you tomorrow?” he begged. “I may not be good with a lance yet but I can ride and you’ll need somebody to tend the horses whilst you count the money.”

  Will raised his eyebrows. “It’s too far, Elric,” he said. “I’m not sure you are quite ready.”

  “But if Hal’s going with you, he could carry on teaching me on the way.” Elric could be relied upon to argue. “Think how much improvement I could make.”

  “Well, yes,” Will agreed, almost unable to resist Elric’s pleading face because it reminded him so much of himself. “I’ll think about it over supper.”

  Elric knew he had won and threw a triumphant glance at Hal, who winked at him as they all began to move toward the great hall. Then Elric found Marissa beside him. “Don’t think you are so great,” she said, her mouth curled with jealousy. She hated the castle when Will was not at home, and the night before he left she was always at her worst. “It’s only because I am a girl that I can’t go.”

  The boy grinned naughtily. “I suppose when you can canter without clinging on to a neckstrap,” he said, his voice angelically sympathetic, “the earl might take you over to the abbey. They make honey there, you know, which can sweeten even the sourest temper.” He dodged her smack with ease and ran off.

  Will sighed. Elric was naughty but why on earth couldn’t Marissa be nicer? Her obvious adoration of him was very gratifying but it was also a nuisance since it made her so poisonous. He thought of saying something to her—again—but decided not to. He would never change her and anyway, he had more important things to think about. He had just turned to summon Constable Shortspur, who would be in charge of the garrison in his absence, when an archer practicing his craft from the battlements called down. “Sir,” he shouted, “Earl William! There’s somebody coming up the road.”

  Silence fell and the knights stiffened, poised to rush for armor and swords. The porter began to wind up the drawbridge. But the archer, leaning right over, seemed unperturbed. “It’s just one person,” he called, then after a moment, “and a horse. Yes, sir. One person and a silver-colored horse. The man is leading it and he looks tired.”

  Will signaled for the drawbridge to be lowered again and with Hal and Ellie right behind him and Marissa pushing forward, he strode out. In the courtyard, Hosanna ignored Elric’s proffered apple, stamped one front hoof so hard it drew sparks, and then stood perfectly still.

  3

  Amal was more aware of the archer than the group at the end of the drawbridge. He had heard about English archers, so he stooped a little lower and shuffled a little more, his cloak, shabby and frayed, dragging its tatters in the dirt. The silver horse beside him was unconcerned. Recovered from the long sea journey and shining with the sheen only English grass can produce, the horse’s walk was light and brisk and, every three paces or so, Amal was forced to abandon his shuffle and skip to keep up. Occasionally the horse snatched impatiently at the restraining rein and Amal’s arm would jerk. The two looked very ill suited.

  Will screwed up his eyes. Something about the horse was vaguely familiar. That color, the kind of silver that can die or sparkle depending on the light, was unusual, as was the concave set of the face, the darker mane and tail and the wide nostrils. The horse was not big—hardly bigger than Hosanna, who himself was small for a warhorse—but it stood tall, its neck rising proud as a swan’s and its bearing regal.

  In a moment Kamil was in front of Will. “It’s an Arab horse,” he said, and his low voice rose until he sounded like the boy he had been not so many years before. A horse from home! “And the man is a Saracen,” he added rather unnecessarily since Will could now see for himself the grubby Turkish hat. But despite his excitement, Kamil held back. Friendliness was weakness. Let the man come to them.

  Eventually Amal stopped looking at the archer and looked at the group of people barring his way. Ah! There was Kamil. Amal secretly relaxed. At least the journey was not wasted. He saw Will and immediately began to bow and bob until Will thought he must be quite dizzy. Amal halted and the horse stood slightly apart from him as if it found its carer useful but distasteful.

  “You are Gavin de Granville, Count of Hartslove?” Amal knew just what to say.

  “Who asks?” enquired Will, knowing, without looking, that Hal would be poised, ready for anything, for no man ever had a better or more reliable squire.

  “A friend,” said Amal, pretending to stumble hard over the language, “who wishes, er, gift, er, er, from king.”

  Will’s face cleared at once. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “I do know this horse! Richard took it in Cyprus on the way to Palestine and wanted Gavin to have it. Do you remember, Ellie? Richard said so in the letter you read to us when we got home.”

  “You—not Gavin?” Amal drew back.

  “No,” said Will. “I am Gavin’s brother. He died a hero’s death in the spring.” Amal seemed to retreat but Will moved smartly forward to take the reins. The silver horse ignored him.

  Amal shrugged. “If one brother is dead, I suppose the other should take the prize,” he said deliberately in Arabic. Kamil could not help but betray how good it was to hear his own language spoken again. Amal pretended not to notice.

  Now everybody crowded around the horse.

  “He’s like something out of one of Old Nurse’s fantastical stories,” breathed Ellie, amazed at the extraordinary reflections she could see. Close up, the silver turned to gray as if the animal were cast from metal. Ellie touched the swan-neck and jumped at the warmth on her palm for the color looked so cold. She moved to the front and tidied the long forelock to one side. The white strands among the dark shimmered like quicksilver and Ellie was dazzled. Then she jumped again. “Oh!” she cried. “This horse has blue eyes!”

  Amal shuffled forward and, with more bows, seemed to search for words. He began to speak. Ellie smiled and shook her head before turning to Kamil. “You must translate,” she said. Amal began again.

  “The man says this horse has a wall-eye,” Kamil told her, delighted, “and he is right. It happens sometimes. Look. This eye shows blue and white but the other one is dark, as you would expect.”

  “And it’s not a he, but a she!” exclaimed Will, laughing.

  Amal bowed. “Ah, she, yes, she.” He reverted back to Arabic with a sidelong glance at Kamil. “We Arabs are happy with our mares. It is only you Christians who prefer the stallion. She is very fine.”

  Ellie was entranced. “A silver mare. How beautiful and how unusual!” She nodded at Amal to show her approval and became aware, as she saw him droop, that he had not been offered so much as a cup of water. “Kamil, tell the man he is very welcome,” she said, looking to Will for his agreement. “He must be hungry and tired after his journey. He needs to wash and be given fresh clothes. Old Nurse will launder his dirty ones and if she makes her usual rude remarks about foreigners, at least our visitor won’t understand.”

  Amal kept an inquiring look on his face, but when Kamil gestured, he glanced nervously up once more at the archer. It was only after Will shouted for the archer to stand down that he seemed happy to cross the drawbridge and follow Kamil into the heart of the castle.

  From his place by the wall, Hosanna watched, and when Amal disappeared into the keep, he blinked, and all the nerves shivered down his flanks.

  At supper that evening, Amal sat at the top table. The fresh clothes hung from
his fleshless bones and with his pale coloring, as unusual as the horse’s, he would have looked sinister except that the expression on his face was one of permanent apology, even at rest. Kamil spoke to him, sinking back into his own language as somebody sinks into a familiar bed, unable to prevent questions bubbling out. What was the news from Palestine and Arabia? Like a parched flower, he couldn’t get enough and Amal responded with apparent enthusiasm, expanding his answers until Kamil was satisfied. It was some time before Kamil asked Amal about himself. The man was a horsetrader, he learned, and not a very successful one. He wondered about a reward. This brought Kamil up short and his habitual stiffness returned. Then, as Amal prattled on, he grew suspicious. “Why is it, old man,” he asked, “that you ask no questions about me? Do they say back home that it is usual to find a Saracen in the household of an English earl?”

  Amal was ready for this. “No, indeed, Excellency,” he replied quickly. “It is just that I do not like to pry. A Muslim living among Christians must have his own reasons. If you wish to tell me, I wish to hear. If you do not, I will happily remain in ignorance.”

  The answer amused Kamil. He was certain that Amal did know who he was, for the whole of the Arab world had known Saladin, and Kamil, as Saladin’s ward, had been as famous as his master. Nevertheless, he admired a man who could use his wits. However, there was little opportunity for further conversation. Determined to make her mark, Marissa began to bombard Amal with questions of her own, insisting that Kamil translate, and when Marie pressed her arm to stop her, redoubled her efforts. What did Marie know about anything? She would, in time, marry Hal and vanish from Hartslove, leaving Marissa to lonely spinsterhood. If spinsterhood was her fate, why should she not enjoy herself now? “Where have you come from? How did you know the horse had been given to Gavin? Where did you find her? Who told you the way to Hartslove?” She allowed nobody else to speak.