The Book of Horses and Unicorns

by Jackie French

  ‘It’s alright, Sui. No-one died in the wall. Even little Dalan — he’s weak, but he’s alive.’

  ‘Goa …?’ she choked.

  ‘The goats? The billy goat is dead, and one of the kids. But you still have enough to breed from. The pigs survived and most of the hens. The seed is safe and everything else.’

  It was impossible. It was too much to believe. She had to see, she had to look at them to be sure …

  ‘Sit up …’ she whispered.

  Timur lifted her, so she rested against his knee. She looked around.

  Mama, leaning against the wall … she sensed Sui’s gaze and smiled faintly at her, then closed her eyes again. There were the small shapes of the children, their bonds still on the ground around them. Timur had covered them with blankets. There were the aunts, the uncles … Sui blinked, and looked again. ‘Auntie Fai! Where is Auntie Fai? And Great Uncle?’

  ‘Sui.’

  ‘Where are they! You said no-one died!’

  Timur hesitated. ‘No-one died in the wall. Your Auntie Fai and Great Uncle, they chose to stay outside.’

  ‘But … but why?’

  ‘To close the wall up, to make sure nothing could be seen outside. I said … I offered to do that instead, so they could hide as well, but Great Uncle said no. He said ride, ride and escape and then come back. He said there must be someone here when the soldiers come, someone to tell the soldiers everyone had fled down south into the city. Someone for them to kill.’

  The scream, thought Sui. Which one of them screamed?

  She blinked again in the fresh harsh light. The world was clearer now. The rooves were off the huts. The soldiers must have burnt the thatch in their fires, but rooves could be built again. The apricot trees had been chopped down, but the roots would sprout. There was no grass on the plain, no millet or tall green wheat. Instead there was endless churned up dust and horse droppings and …

  ‘What’s that?’ she breathed.

  Timur turned. ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there!’

  ‘It’s just a horse, lying down. No, no, don’t worry, it’s not South Wind, he’s behind the wall. It must be injured …’ His voice broke off.

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ insisted Sui. ‘Look! Timur, look!’

  It wasn’t one horse. It was two. One large brown horse who staggered to her feet, another tiny one that staggered on legs too thin and frail to ever hold it upright, and yet they did, splayed apart and trembling.

  Timur ran over and grabbed the mother’s bridle. She tossed her head and snorted, then seemed to accept him; relieved, perhaps, to have a human take charge again in a world suddenly empty of all the men and horses she had known before.

  Sui pushed herself to her feet. The pain almost made her faint again, but she forced herself to take a step and then another … Timur caught her again as she staggered.

  ‘Careful!’

  Sui reached out to stroke the horse’s sweaty neck. The big teeth snapped at her and she drew back.

  ‘Better not get too close till she’s used to you,’ said Timur. ‘She’s only known men before. I’m surprised she let me so close with her foal. But the army trains its horses well.’ He bent, and slipped a rope around the mare’s front legs.

  ‘A hobble,’ he explained. ‘That means she can’t go far and the foal won’t go any distance from its mother.’ He smiled suddenly. It was the deepest smile, Sui realised, that she had ever seen him give.

  ‘You know what this foal means?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Milk. Milk for the children as well as the foal. Look! There are clouds on the horizon too — real clouds, not dust and armies. It will rain soon. The grass will grow and we can plant more millet, more than you have ever grown before! We’ll harness the horses to the plough. We’ll breed more horses too.’

  ‘But … but none of us knows how to make a horse plough the ground. Or how to breed horses, or …’

  ‘I do,’ said Timur. ‘And I’m staying here. Look, you sit down again. I need to help the others drink some more, and make a fire to keep us warm before night comes. It should be safe to light a fire inside the walls. No-one will see its light from there.’

  ‘But … but you said you had to warn people that the army was coming …’

  ‘I warned the city,’ said Timur. ‘And they had horses too. Other riders can take my place. Sit here, I’ll be back soon.’

  Sui watched him stride off towards the others. She looked at the plain — dirt-coloured instead of green — the mud walls streaked black from soldiers’ fires, her huddled family and her horses.

  Horses had taken Great Uncle and Auntie Fai and the last of her childhood, but they were giving her a future too.

  ‘Sleep well, Great Uncle, Auntie Fai,’ she whispered. ‘The family is safe now. Timur and I will take care of them. I promise.’

  Behind her the tiny foal nuzzled at its mother and began to drink.

  Sir Grey Nose

  Two knights on two great chargers faced each other across the forest clearing. Through the trees a lake shimmered and next to that a castle’s turrets rose against the sky, their black banners flying in the wind. Green leaf shadows fluttered on the shields and on the silks that their great horses wore.

  One horse was brown, with a darker mane. The silk it wore was black; no coat of arms lightened its drabness. Its knight’s shield was made of black wood and the knight’s leathers and helmet feathers were black too.

  The other horse was grey. Its silks were royal blue, with a gold border and white swans. This knight’s helmet feather was white and the cloak over his chain mail was royal blue.

  The grey horse’s rider lifted the iron visor of his combat helmet. His eyes were young, and green as the forest. ‘Do you yield, Sir Knight?’ he cried.

  The black knight laughed. He lifted his lance in answer and slowly, deliberately, scraped off the coronel that covered its razor-sharp tip on the grass.

  This would be no courtesy match where the winner took only the horse, arms and saddle of the loser. This would be a joust to the death.

  The white knight’s face was expressionless as he lowered his helmet and removed the coronel from his lance too, though it was possible that the sadness in the green eyes deepened just a little. He lifted the lance, so that it balanced along his arm and hefted the shield and reins that he held in his other hand higher.

  ‘Easy, Grey Nose, old man,’ he whispered.

  There was no need to say anything — a good war horse like this one was trained for years; his rider knew that the movements of his body — the shifts in the saddle, the press of the spurs, the tug on the bit — would tell the horse what to do more effectively than spoken orders. But sometimes humans need to hear words.

  The grey horse bent his head. The thick neck arched above the blue silk. The grey horse charged. The hooves thundered across the soft grass. Now the brown horse was charging too. The ground vibrated in the clearing.

  Closer … closer … The power behind a knight’s lance depends on the speed of his horse, and how accurately the knight places the point of his spear on the shield of the knight before him, as the great horses pound the ground beneath. It took years of training to learn to meet the target, not to slide the lance too high or low, or to one side, and allow your enemy’s lance to thump into your shield instead and send you spinning from your horse.

  Once unhorsed you lost the joust. You usually survived, perhaps with a broken collar-bone, or bruised and dazed, but you would live to fight again. But if a sharp lance with its coronel removed pierced your shield and chain mail or helmet, with the power of a charging horse behind it, you would die.

  Nearer … nearer … The white knight made a small adjustment to his lance, his eyes fixed on the exact spot it had to hit on his opponent. Nearer … nearer …

  Then suddenly the black knight swerved. His lance shot down. Instead of aiming for his opponent’s shield he now aimed at the heart of the grey horse.

&
nbsp; The lances struck.

  The black knight’s lance hit first, biting deep into the horse. The grey horse screamed. But unbelievably he held his stride for two more paces till he fell, the lance still thrust into his flesh. Enough time for the white knight’s lance to strike its victim, though most of its power was lost.

  The black knight tumbled backwards, while his horse cantered onwards, slowly stopping at the edge of the clearing. It stood there, shaking its head.

  The grey horse lay upon the grass. Blood stained the blue silk and dyed the white swans red. He screamed, once, twice, then appeared to go into shock. He shuddered and lay silent.

  The white knight struggled to his feet. Even in his agony the great grey horse had fallen so that his rider wasn’t trapped beneath him. The white knight was dazed, that’s all.

  The black knight stood too. He drew his sword, long and grey and massive. The white knight drew his sword as well. It was a slimmer, longer sword than the black knight’s. Its pommel and haft were all of precious stones, blue and white like the white knight’s silks, and red like the blood of his horse. On one side of the blade was written ‘Take me’ and on the other ‘Throw me away’.

  The knights approached each other, circling round and round the glade, each trying to tempt the other to attack with the afternoon sun in his eyes. Suddenly the black knight leapt, his sword in both hands. The sword plunged down just as the white knight raised his shield and took the blow.

  Now the white knight struck. The two swords met. Iron struck iron, and sparks flashed into the clearing’s shadows.

  The white knight lunged again. This time his sword met the black knight’s shield, but with such strength that the shield was rent in two.

  The black knight struck wildly now. He had one chance before the white knight struck him undefended. But the white knight’s sword met his and cast it off.

  Now the white knight struck. The first blow hit the black knight’s sword arm. The bone cracked and the sword fell to the ground. The white knight’s sword struck again. This time it crashed through the black knight’s helmet and through the skull as well, splitting it in two. The black knight fell.

  The white knight stood there panting, his sword by his side. He pushed his visor up and gazed at the black knight. ‘If you had been a knight of honour, I would have begged thee yield,’ he said. ‘But no honourable knight strikes at a horse.’

  Suddenly there was a commotion at the edge of the clearing, cheering and applause. The white knight looked up. Unnoticed, his retinue had followed him during the fight. One man ran forward, and knelt before him. ‘Pardon, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘You outpaced us!’

  ‘No matter,’ said the king wearily. ‘Where is Sir Kay?’

  ‘He is coming directly,’ said the man. ‘A damsel wished to have words with him.’

  King Arthur almost smiled. Damsels were always wishing a word with Sir Kay. The man saw the almost smile, and shook his head. ‘Nay, Sire,’ he said. ‘This is a very young damsel. She saw the joust and said it was most urgent …’

  The king shrugged. ‘It always is,’ he said. His gaze was on his horse, lying still and silent now in the clearing, no longer on the man-at-arms. ‘Perhaps she needs saving from a dragon,’ he added, though the look in his eyes didn’t match the lightness of his tone.

  ‘Stand back, good man, if you will. I must do this alone.’

  King Arthur stepped across the clearing and knelt before his horse. His eyes were open, but not in the unseeing stare of death. Blood still pulsed from the wound on to the flattened grass. The grey horse was still alive.

  Arthur took his knife from his belt and slit the bloody silk, exposing the wound. The lance had pierced right through the shoulder, and out the other side. The edges gaped raw and bleeding around the metal.

  The king laid his hand on his horse’s neck. ‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you for many years.’ He laid a cloth over the horse’s eyes, so he wouldn’t see the final blow, and raised his knife over the horse’s throat.

  ‘Arthur! No!’

  The king halted. Only one man in England called him Arthur, and that was his foster brother.

  ‘Sir Kay?’

  Sir Kay ran across the clearing, his blue cloak flapping against his chain mail. A girl ran after him.

  ‘This child …’ panted Sir Kay.

  ‘I’m not a child,’ stated the girl firmly. ‘I’m simply small for my age.’ Suddenly she remembered, and dipped a deep curtsy. ‘I mean, Your Majesty.’

  The king stared at her. She spoke as a gentlewoman, and her green linen dress and surcoat were good, if worn, but her hands were red and callused, not fine and white as a lady’s should be. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded briefly, with more weariness than rudeness.

  ‘Sire … your horse. Can I have a look at him?’

  ‘He’s dying,’ said the king bluntly. ‘Let him die in peace.’

  ‘No,’ said the girl stubbornly then, as Sir Kay cleared his throat, ‘I mean, no, Sire. Perhaps he doesn’t have to die.’

  ‘Child, I have seen many wounded horses,’ said King Arthur. ‘And too many wounded men as well. I know when they will die.’

  The girl lifted her chin. ‘I have seen wounded men too,’ she insisted. ‘And horses. My mother was a healer, as well as daughter to a farrier. My father was my late lord’s hearth brother, before the black knight killed them. My father knew horses as well, Sire. He was seneschal of the castle, but he had charge of my lord’s horses too. Perhaps … perhaps I can heal your horse, Sire, but I won’t know unless I look at him.’

  King Arthur hesitated. But the horse was in shock; another few minutes would mean nothing to him. And the girl — well, she’d seen trouble enough. It would do no harm to grant her this.

  ‘You may look,’ he said.

  The girl knelt beside the horse. Her hands moved the silk gently away from the great wound. She studied it for a moment, then dipped her finger in the blood.

  ‘What …’ began the king.

  The girl looked up at him briefly. ‘I am seeing how thick the blood is,’ she explained. ‘That way I can tell how deep the wound is.’

  ‘Well?’ asked the king.

  The girl didn’t reply. She put her hand on the horse’s neck, as though feeling for the beat of his veins. She opened the horse’s mouth and sniffed.

  ‘Well?’ demanded the king again. He was tired, and the world about him was beginning to spin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the girl honestly. ‘But there is a chance, my lord, I mean, Sire.’

  ‘A chance for me to ride him again? I think not,’ said the king.

  ‘No. But a chance for him to live,’ said the girl.

  The king hesitated. To him the wound looked hopeless. To agree to the girl’s wishes would mean more pain for the horse, and time wasted for him. He could not in honour leave his horse while he lived, and the defeat of the black knight had been just one task that a weary king needed to perform in this corner of his country.

  ‘Please,’ said the girl quietly. ‘He deserves a chance.’

  The king shut his eyes. It was a long moment before he opened them again and said, ‘Yes, he deserves a chance. More than you know, perhaps. What do you need?’

  The girl stood, wiping her bloody hands on her skirt. ‘A fire, two kettles, clean cloths, two bunches of dried rosemary and two of lavender; you’ll find such things in the lower kitchen of the castle yonder. Mouldy bread — there is a basket of it kept under a napkin in the stillroom — and leather bandages, they are in the still room too. Oh, and a handful of boiled wool, too, and the dried herbs next to the bread basket — comfrey root and camomile — and brandy, a pot of honey, and good wine and fresh bread to sop it in.’

  ‘You intend to feed my horse sops in wine?’ asked the king, almost amused.

  ‘No, Sire. They’re for you. Sit down before you fall down. I mean, Sire, if you would be pleased to sit.’

  The king did smile this
time. He nodded to Sir Kay. ‘Have all she asked for fetched.’

  ‘I will need a shelter too,’ said the girl slowly. ‘Four poles, and a covering. We need to keep him warm; a fire won’t be enough, and the dew will fall soon. And blankets and a brazier, no, two braziers and coal to burn in them.’

  ‘Do it,’ said the king.

  ‘Arthur, are you sure …?’ began Sir Kay.

  ‘No,’ said the king. ‘But what does it matter? We can go no further tonight as it is. If the horse is no better by tomorrow, then … well, then there’ll be an ending. Establish order in the castle, will you? I will need three guards here tonight, no more.’

  ‘I will return,’ said Sir Kay.

  ‘No,’ said the king. ‘You are more use at the castle. Besides …’ he shrugged, ‘I will be better by myself.’

  ‘You need not remain here,’ began the girl, ‘I will stay with the horse.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ said King Arthur.

  He lifted the helmet from his head and laid it on the ground, and removed his hauberk as well. He looked younger than he had with his helmet on. The king pulled off the chain mail from his upper body, leaving just his quilted leather undergarment. He drew his cloak around him and sat down beside the horse.

  The girl pulled a small silver knife from the pouch at her belt and began to cut at the bloody silk around the wound.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked the king suddenly.

  ‘Suzanne, Sire,’ she said.

  ‘Well, my lady Suzanne …’

  ‘Not my lady. Just Suzanne.’

  The king raised an eyebrow. ‘It is usually not done,’ he said, ‘to contradict a king.’

  The girl didn’t look up. ‘I’m sorry, Sire. I have never met a king before.’

  ‘So I gather,’ said King Arthur.

  There was a commotion behind them. Two men-at-arms laid firewood on the ground and began to prepare the fire.

  The horse gasped suddenly and began to breathe in short, ragged gasps.

  ‘He’s dying,’ said the king gently.

  ‘No, Sire. He’s in shock. He may still live if we can keep him warm.’