by K. M. Grant
Will shook his head. “I could never part with him,” he said. “It would be like parting with myself.”
Petronilla was amused but she seemed to understand. “Warhorses are more valuable than money, aren’t they,” she said a little wistfully, and under her veil, her rather precise features softened. “My father told me that when I was a little girl.” Then she shook herself and her eye fell on Marissa. “Now,” she said kindly but firmly as she disciplined her face back into its usual contours, “our little runaway nun, it’s nearly time for Vespers. Shall we go?”
Three small words. But they hung in the air as Marissa hesitated and Petronilla waited for her answer. The atmosphere was suddenly tense again. For Marissa, this was the biggest moment of her life, bigger and more decisive even than the moment she had cut her hair and walked, without a backward glance, into the cloister at Arnhem. Since not even an hour ago she had proven her worth so well that Will could deny her nothing, this was the moment when she and she alone got to choose. Marissa would dictate how Marissa’s life would be. And whatever she decided, nobody would dare to question it. She could go where she wanted, live where she wanted, have what she wanted—except, of course, the one thing she really did want. Even at this moment, she could never have that. Will was as out of reach now as he had ever been. And yet, it was so hard.
She moved forward to rub Hosanna’s star. The horse was smooth to her touch and the smell of his coat mingled with the smell of the poultice. She heard Shihab shift in her stall and though she could not see Ellie, she knew she was listening. Hosanna’s whiskers tickled her ear as he rested his head on her shoulder. She could feel the exhaustion of the world in its weight. His head was as heavy as her heart.
Slowly she drew away from Hosanna and took a deep breath. Looking deep into his wise eyes, she saw her own reflection. Nobody hurried her and in the silence that neither threatened nor forced, she felt a sudden surge of strength. “Yes,” she said to Petronilla, slightly surprising herself. Then she looked at Will. She did not have to seek his admiration. It was there and it was all for her. “Yes. We should go.” Her voice did not waver although it was far from natural, and she only hoped that now she had made her decision she could sustain it, and that Will, if he could not love her as she wanted, would at least, in the end, be proud of her. And Petronilla, with her kind practicality and quiet authority, was proof that life in the cloister need not suffocate. As she drew herself to her full height, Marissa felt a sense of liberation it took her years fully to understand.
But she would do one last thing, have one last worldly satisfaction. She would make sure that Will would take back to Hartslove a memory that would flash into his mind whenever life with Ellie palled. When they were dull together, or irritable, she wanted Will to wonder what might have been. So she tailored her last look at him with exceptional care. It proclaimed her love and then withdrew it, not as if she was accepting defeat, but rather to remind him that she was choosing her own terms of victory. “I shall return to St. Martin’s,” she said. “Good-bye, Will.” He moved to hug her, but she moved away. “You can hug me when I am abbess,” she said with the ghost of a smile, which Will, his heart aching for her, could not return.
Before Marissa finally left, she went to Ellie. “When I took Amal’s book,” she said, “I also took this. I think you should have it,” and she handed over Kamil’s little bone comb. Ellie too wanted to hug her but Marissa kept her distance. “Give my love to Marie,” was all she said before, with a sigh only Hosanna heard, she took her place at Petronilla’s side and obeyed the summons of the bell.
Ellie did not wait. Slipping the comb into her belt, she left Shihab and went straight to Will. He was standing, motionless, with Hosanna. Ellie held out both arms. “Come on, Will,” she said, enfolding him and holding him very tight, “it’s time to go home.”
21
Hartslove, five years later
Voices rang out from the river below Hartslove. It was a boiling June day, and Will and Ellie were standing barelegged in the water while Old Nurse, sitting magisterially in a chair on the bank, was supposed to be minding two small children and a baby. In fact, Old Nurse had fallen asleep and Will was just climbing out to rescue his elder son, who was running in a determined fashion away from his parents and toward the warhorses relaxing under the chestnut tree not far away. Ellie was watching him, reluctant to leave the water that was so cool on her skin. She saw Hosanna raise his head and separate out from the others as little Gavin approached. The horse blew at him just as Will caught up, swept his son into his arms, and plonked him on Hosanna’s back. Laughing, the child wrapped his fingers around the long strands of Hosanna’s mane and shrieked as the red horse moved slowly forward, indulgent of his small burden. Hosanna’s gait was stiffer now but his coat still shone and he still carried himself with pride although his flanks were more sunken and his muzzle was speckled with gray. He nibbled the edge of Will’s shirt and, when little Gavin drummed his heels into his ribs, snorted and tossed his head in quite his old fashion. Will softly scolded the little boy and told him to treat Hosanna with respect. They began to walk back to Ellie but were brought up short by somebody shouting Will’s name. Will raised his hand in acknowledgment before walking more quickly. “Everything’s ready.”
Ellie climbed out, shook down her skirts, kissed the top of Old Nurse’s head, and checked on the baby dozing in a basket. She picked up her daughter, tidied Hosanna’s forelock, and touched his star, smiling up at her son. He looked so comfortable. Will balanced the little girl on his shoulders as Ellie slipped her arm through his, loving the sound of Hosanna swishing the flies from his flank with his heavy tail as he wandered off, making his own way up the field. Neither Will nor Ellie made a move to stop him. Little Gavin had long since learned that nobody would catch him if he let go and his parents had learned that their son was safer with Hosanna than with Old Nurse. The other horses raised their heads as Will greeted them. He still missed Sacramenta, who had died shortly after their return from Germany and whose memorial stone shimmered in the heat. Shihab was standing apart from the others, as she preferred, ready as ever to take offense even as she dozed. Hosanna made his way past them all and as he did so, faithful Dargent took his usual place behind him. Will watched them. Nobody had horses like the Hartslove horses. He glanced at Ellie and knew she was thinking the same. They did not hurry.
Outside the castle walls, at the top of the road, a little group had gathered. In the center was a young man, clearly foreign. He was holding a colt, unbroken and skittish, shining red in the sun. Ellie’s grip on Will’s arm tightened. “Do you really think we can trust him?”
“I think so,” he said gently. “After what he brought you.”
Ellie felt at the pouch in her belt. Once, a similar pouch had held her green jasper necklace but she wore her necklace now. This pouch held a small, beautifully carved bone comb. Three weeks before, the young man now holding the colt had turned up. He spoke no English himself but had produced a small package addressed to Ellie. When she had opened it, both she and Will had become very still. Inside had been a comb, an exact match of the little comb that Marissa had stolen from Kamil all those years before. Surely only one person could have made a comb like that but it was only when Ellie had brought out the original comb and laid out the two together that she had dared to breathe, “Kamil.”
After Richard was freed and they had left Germany, both the king and Will had sent messengers far and wide to try and find news of Kamil, but none had been successful. The men had brought other news, however. Although Ellie had been glad to hear of the Old Man’s death, she could not give praise for the storms that had sunk his ship. Though the English silver the Old Man had coveted now rested with the fish and he himself had last been seen a bloated corpse, Ellie’s plait wrapped around his neck and empty-handed after the waves had prized Marissa’s ruby brooch from his fingers, Ellie would rather he had made it back to his mountain hideout if it meant that Kamil too was s
omewhere alive and happy. But there was no news. None at all.
For some months, Ellie had believed that Kamil would turn up for her wedding to Will and had almost persuaded Will to believe it too. However, though they had looked for him amongst the revelers all their wedding day, longing for him to share their happiness, he had never appeared.
After that, Ellie had tried to put Kamil out of her mind and had succeeded most days, particularly after the children were born. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, their unexpected visitor had arrived. Everybody had been so suspicious of the messenger boy to start with. Constable Shortspur had openly accused him of being another Amal and Elric, now Will’s full squire, had followed him around like a persistent terrier. But the messenger had been patient. In halting English, he said that he was Kamil’s servant and revealed what his master had told him and what Amal had kept to himself—that the old spy, despite his fear of the Old Man, had found himself unable to cut Kamil’s throat. Instead, after Kamil had fallen from Shihab at the river, Amal had pulled the arrows out and covered him with leaves. Nobody had gone to check, particularly when Amal had emerged from the wood covered in Kamil’s blood. To the Old Man’s soldiers, Kamil was Amal’s business. Nevertheless, it had been a long time before Kamil finally felt it was safe to send the messenger with the comb.
When Will and Ellie reached the road, Hosanna was waiting. Little Gavin wanted to get down. Ellie lifted him off and Marie, who was visiting with Hal—or Sir Hal as he had become when he was dubbed to knighthood—took him and his sister to play with their own little sons. Elric, though pretending to be far too grown-up, was joining in their game of tag with huge enthusiasm and had all the children yelling with delight. Hal was standing near the colt’s head. He grinned at Will. “We’ll employ Elric as a nurse if he’s not careful. He’s got a real way with him.”
Will laughed. “You’ll have to fight Ellie for him,” he said. “He’s rescued Gavin from the moat at least three times even though he can’t swim himself. I’m glad we haven’t made him completely sensible. He’s a good squire, Hal. I suppose he should be. He had a good teacher.”
Hal blushed and changed the subject. “Just look at this colt!” he said. “He’s got the best bits of each parent. Hosanna’s bravery and beauty and Shihab’s elegance and speed.” As if glad to be the center of attention once again, the colt lifted four slim legs one after the other, quivering impatiently. “He is a fine present, Will.” Hal stood back as Ellie moved forward.
Will watched her as she stroked the colt’s neck and whispered in its ears. The sight made him forget Hal and Elric as a familiar specter shimmied up to haunt him. Suddenly, he wanted to tempt fate. “Do you want to deliver him yourself?” he asked. “Do you, Ellie? You always wanted to see the desert.”
Ellie stood completely still. In her dreams, she often saw herself walking up a dusty track with Kamil at the end of it holding out his hand. She never knew what happened next because she always woke. Now she considered what Will said very carefully. She looked first toward the river where Old Nurse was snoring beside the baby. Next she looked at Gavin’s grave, then at Sacramenta’s, and then to where her son and daughter were playing so happily. She looked at the horses in the meadow, then at Hartslove, so lovingly built by Sir Thomas de Granville, and finally she looked at Will. “No,” she said, and gave him a look of such certain love that the last of the tiny pricks of fear that had shivered in his heart since he was old enough to love her were finally stilled. Now he really began to believe that Ellie was truly his, not because Gavin was dead or because Kamil was gone, not even because of her wedding vows, but because it was to him that she had chosen to belong. The new clarity of this knowledge made him curiously giddy, and he was glad to feel Hosanna at his back. As the horse rubbed his head on his master’s shoulder, Will felt an overwhelming surge of pure happiness. He gave the foreign boy his final instructions. “Once over the sea, make for St. Martin’s at Arnhem,” he said. “Ask for Marissa. She will make sure you have food and shelter, and give her this.” He handed over a parchment scroll on which Ellie had written, under Will’s dictation, all the Hartslove news. At the bottom, as Marissa had requested in her missive to him, he had attached a lock of each of the children’s hair, marked with their names: Gavin, Mary, and Baby Thomas. Then Will patted the colt and wished him and the boy Godspeed.
Ellie herself dallied a little at the colt’s head, plaiting and unplaiting his forelock. She waited until the last moment, then, as the messenger finally set off, she gave him something of her own. Even then she was not entirely satisfied and followed the colt as he jostled and pranced his way down the road. Only when he settled to a steady jog did she stop and raise her hand in a final farewell. Then she turned and seeing Will and Hosanna watching from the drawbridge, she waved, picked up her skirts and ran all the way back to them.
Six months later, in a small settlement near the River Tigris, a solemn-looking little girl was sitting on a hillock watching a boy toiling toward her. She watched until the boy came quite close and then got up and ran to a house set among orange and lemon trees. A man in full Arab dress emerged when he heard her calling. “What is it, Ella?” he asked gravely, for his daughter was a serious child and liked to be addressed in a serious manner. The little girl pointed and Kamil followed her finger.
He was suddenly alert as a hawk. Yet still he waited, long after another man might have run forward. He had learned to be cautious. Nobody could have detected any change in his expression, but his daughter was aware of a slight trembling in his hands. Her father was not expecting what he was seeing.
Since his return to the land of his ancestors, Kamil had worked hard to build a new life for himself. He had never forgotten Amal’s face as the old spy found that he could not deliver the deathblow. Something had passed between them as Kamil lay, utterly helpless, and while Amal covered him with leaves, both men had been praying. After many hours, Kamil had dragged himself back to the river to drink and had been found, in the end, by a peasant come to the river to find fish. The man had, with some reluctance, half carried Kamil to a village and dumped him on a kind woman who had looked after him until he could at least stand unaided. He had left Germany only after hearing of the Old Man’s drowning, begging passage on a boat. Now, surely it would be safe for him to return home. As he had sat, watching the shores of Europe vanish, he had thought a great deal. His trust in Will was absolute. Will would explain to Ellie that he was no follower of the Old Man and that though he had caused the deaths of Hartslove men, he was no traitor. Kamil did not, however, know if Ellie would believe him and he found that this mattered to him, mattered very much.
The boy on the road came closer and salaamed. It was late and he was tired and dirty but he still walked with purpose, keeping up well with the colt, still sprightly at his side. When they reached Kamil, the horse shook himself for his coat was dusty and he regarded his surroundings with interested disdain. Despite the dust, between the colt’s eyes a small star gleamed like a pearl. Kamil could not take his eyes off it. The boy handed over the colt’s lead rope without a word and headed for the servant’s quarters. Then he turned back. “Oh,” he said, “there’s a message.”
“A message?” Kamil did not look, just held out his hand. Into it the boy dropped a silken purse. The feel of the embroidery was familiar. It was the purse in which Kamil had packed the comb he had made. He forced himself to look away from the horse, but then kept looking back as if it might disappear. Only when it licked his hand did Kamil begin to breathe again. He looked at the purse properly now and opened it. In place of the comb he had sent was a plait of red and silver hair and a piece of parchment. Kamil fingered the plait, then took the parchment out and slowly unfolded it. On it, Ellie had written, in tiny but perfect Arabic letters, the names Hosanna and Shihab. He read them again and again.
A tugging at his shirt made him look down. Ella wanted to see. He crouched and they looked at the plait and the parchment together. Then the horse mov
ed and the little girl grew nervous. Kamil slipped the paper back into the purse and picked her up. At once, the horse sniffed her hair and she laughed. More confident now, she put out a hand and began to sweep the dust from his coat. “What color do you call this?” she asked.
Kamil put her down and hung the new plait from his belt, alongside the rope of Hosanna’s hair he was never without. “It’s blood red,” he told her. Then he took the colt’s halter and began to lead it toward the stables. He looked back as he turned the corner. Ella was waiting, expectant. Kamil stopped, full of things that he wanted to say but could not. The colt waited beside him and sighed. He wanted his supper.
And finally Kamil knew that there was only one more message to give. It was a message for his patient wife, the girl who had nursed him back to health and in whose eyes he had found the kind of peace he thought would never be his. He would send her a message that said everything and he knew that she would understand it, not quite as Ellie would, but enough. “Go and tell your mother,” he said as the colt rubbed his head against his new master’s chest, “that at last I have a blood red horse.” And as the little girl repeated the message so that she would not get it wrong, Kamil looked west, toward the setting sun. He touched the plait and felt the parchment, and though he sighed as deeply as the colt at his side, in the quiet of his heart he rejoiced.
Also by K. M. GRANT
THE DE GRANVILLE TRILOGY
BY K. M. GRANT
Blood Red Horse