by K. M. Grant
“He’s in the loose box,” said Hal from the doorway. William rushed to the horse and fell to his knees. “How did this happen?”
“Master Gavin took him hunting yesterday.”
“What?”
“Master Gavin took him hunting yesterday. He sent Mark for him, and I thought you had agreed.”
William never took his eyes off Hosanna. “What were my last words to you before I left for the stud?”
“You said you were giving Hosanna a rest day.”
William knelt in silent agony. He stroked Hosanna’s neck. “Take Sacramenta. Get Keeper John. He may know some old remedies that could help.”
“Yes, sir.” Hal was glad to have something active to do. He had sat all night massaging the horse’s legs, changing the cold cloths, whispering and weeping into Hosanna’s ears. The horse had never moved, only groaned occasionally as small drops of blood still emerged from his nose. Hal would never have got through the night if Ellie had not sat with him. They had huddled together, the difference in rank forgotten in their misery.
She appeared now and knelt beside William in silence. Eventually, she got up, stoked the fire, and began to change the cloths herself. The blood seemed to have ceased flowing, and it seemed to Ellie that Hosanna’s breathing did not rattle quite so much. Whether this was a good or a bad sign, Ellie did not know.
For the next few days Hosanna was motionless. The three people who loved him most took turns nursing him, but everybody tiptoed about with anxious looks on their faces. Keeper John provided a funnel down which they tried to push a thin mash of linseed and ale, together with concoctions made by Old Nurse consisting of bread, water, and white wine. Most ended up on the straw. Old Nurse knelt down and tried with a small bone spoon. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, the horse remained so gravely ill that Sir Thomas and Sir Walter talked privately about when the end should be called.
Gavin slunk about, eventually preparing to leave on the pretext of being needed in the north. Christmas was a subdued affair, and as soon as it was over, Gavin set off. As he stood waiting to mount Montlouis, Ellie came by dragging a sackful of hay to see if Hosanna could be tempted by the smell. She stopped when she saw Gavin, but was unable to think of anything to say. Gavin stared at her, seemed about to speak, but was put off by Adam Landless and two other young knights who came down the stone steps and into the courtyard. They were leaving with Gavin and were laughing and joshing among themselves, relieved to be getting away from what they thought was a ridiculous fuss over a horse. Looking round to make sure Sir Thomas was not within earshot, they began to tease Ellie.
“Have you not had enough breakfast, Miss Eleanor? Or are you turning into a horse?” they joked in a good-natured enough way. Ellie found herself surrounded.
“Go away,” she cried. “Go away and leave us in peace.”
“Well really,” said Adam. “I only ask because you’ve got straw in your hair. Hey, Gavin. You know your father is always asking who will marry this grubby girl? Isn’t it supposed to be you? By the Virgin, you will have your hands full. When you have children, they’ll probably be foals!”
Ellie tried to pass, but Adam prevented her. “What’s the hurry?” he asked. “Gavin, aren’t you going to say farewell to your intended, even if she is more worried about that red horse than she will ever be about you?”
The three young men thought it a great jape to pretend to be Hosanna, galloping round and round Ellie, then crashing at her feet as if dying from exhaustion. As they ran, they kicked the sack, and Hosanna’s hay went everywhere.
Ellie stood helplessly, praying for Gavin to intervene. But he did nothing, just turned away and fiddled with Montlouis’s girth, muttering that Ellie was asking for trouble if she went around dragging sacks as if she were a servant. At last his friends got tired of their sport and, with a few parting ribald remarks, went to find their own horses. As soon as they were round the corner, Ellie plunged her hands into her pockets and eventually found what she was looking for.
“Here,” she said to Gavin, her voice shaking with fury and shame. “Here. I don’t want this dog anymore. I hate you.”
Gavin stared at her. “For goodness’ sake, Ellie,” he said. “Hosanna is just an animal. William can always get another.”
“You know nothing.” Ellie tried to keep her voice from sounding shrill and silly. “And if you really do think that about Hosanna, I have even more reason for wanting nothing to do with you. If you won’t take this dog, I’ll just throw it into the gutter.”
Gavin laughed uncertainly. “Do what you like,” he said, and turned back to his horse so that Ellie could not see his face.
Ellie hesitated only for a second, then she let the wooden dog fall from her hand into the ruined hay. Without another word, she turned on her heel and ran toward Hosanna’s loose box.
Gavin continued to fiddle with his saddle. Then he called loudly for Humphrey and Mark, shouting that he, for one, was off. Mark came running to help Gavin mount, leaving another groom to bring out the packhorses.
“Hurry up!” barked Gavin. Mark held his stirrup. Gavin put one foot in, hesitated, and looked quickly at the ground. The wooden dog was lying where Ellie had dropped it. Swearing under his breath, Gavin bent down, picked it up, and put it in the pouch that hung from his belt. Then he glared at Mark, mounted Montlouis, and, leaving everybody else to catch him up, galloped over the drawbridge and down the hill on to the north road.
On the fifth day after Gavin left, Hosanna opened his eyes and began to shift himself. Ellie, who had been asleep leaning on his flank, woke to find herself sliding into the straw. By the time she realized what had happened, Hosanna had hauled himself into a sitting position, his nose resting on his knees. The cloths had fallen off, revealing legs made fat with swellings. Nevertheless, the horse was nibbling at the straw.
“William,” whispered Ellie, then jumped up and ran out. “Get Master William,” she ordered a passing groom. “Quick.” Hal was asleep in the corner, and she kicked him until he woke up.
By the time William, who was snatching a few hours’ sleep on the rushes in the great hall, arrived, Hosanna was chewing on a handful of peas. His eyes were dull and his coat matted, but he was halfway up. By evening he was standing, and by the following week he was well enough to walk slowly and stiffly to the river. He stood for hours as the cold running water did its healing work, his head resting on William’s shoulder. Little by little his appetite returned. But all was not well. The horse remained very lame. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months William was obliged to fetch Dargent, the big bay he had rejected from Keeper John’s and accept that his beloved Hosanna was finished as a warhorse before he had even begun. After Hosanna had first stood up, William, Ellie, and Hal had got into the habit of starting most sentences with, “When Hosanna is better,” but after a while this began to sound increasingly hollow, even to them. Summer came, and Hosanna was turned out among the buttercups. Every day his legs were massaged and he followed William about. But although he was no longer in acute pain, his once lustrous eyes were sad and his proud demeanor had vanished. It seemed impossible that he would ever again be ridden out of a walk.
Sir Thomas followed the horse’s progress carefully and sympathetically. He knew as well as anybody how long a horse’s wind and legs could take to heal. But as the leaves began to turn, he was also obliged to think long and hard. Serious political matters were now afoot. The previous year there had been a terrible defeat for the Christian armies at Hattin in the Holy Land. The Christian king of Jerusalem had been taken prisoner and the prized relic of the True Cross stolen and defaced by the Muslims. Even Jerusalem, which the Christians had taken nearly a hundred years before, was back in Saracen hands. News was patchy. Nevertheless, Sir Thomas could see which way the wind was blowing. King Henry, who talked a good deal about a crusade, but was reluctant to go, could not last forever. Richard was his heir, and it was said that he thought of nothing but a holy war. Wil
liam was already fifteen. He was not a child anymore. If the call to crusade came, it would come for him, too. A decision about Hosanna must be made now. If the horse was never going to be up to the rigors of travel and battle, William’s bond with him must be broken. The horse must go elsewhere, and William must not be allowed to visit him or hanker after him. Sir Thomas sighed as he reluctantly made up his mind. It was time to call a halt.
To help soften the blow, Sir Thomas told Ellie before he told William that if Hosanna was not improved by the following spring, he must be taken to the monks. The monks needed horses, too, and their lives were gentle and slow. Abbot Hugh was a good man. Hosanna would be well looked after. William cried out briefly when his father issued instructions, and the stricken boy allowed Eleanor to take his arm as Sir Thomas warned against going to see the horse ever again once he had been left in his new home. “It could only upset both you and Hosanna,” he said.
William, his anguish etched all over his face, tried to accept his father’s decision as he knew a knight should, for he knew his father was right. He watched hopelessly as Hosanna’s condition did not materially improve.
Thus it was that when the primroses appeared in the wood, with Eleanor riding Sacramenta and leading Dargent, William walked with Hosanna to the abbey. Every step of the journey was agony. William tried to choose the easiest route, the one which would cause Hosanna’s legs the least effort, but every time the horse stumbled, the boy’s heart seemed to crack. At the gatehouse he said a long and anguished farewell, during which, although he tried to curb them, bitter tears were shed. Then, as Hosanna blew gently down his neck William made himself pass the reins of his precious horse over to the monks and watched him walk stiffly away. Ellie did not interfere. She had said her farewell earlier. This was William’s time. As Hosanna was led toward the newly finished gatehouse she touched William on the shoulder. He mounted Dargent, and they turned to leave. As William looked back one last time, his voice suddenly rang out.
“His name, Abbot Hugh, I never told you his name.” The abbot stopped. “No, my son, you did not,” he replied. “What is it?”
“My horse.” It was almost a whisper and the abbot had to strain to catch it. “My horse … ,” William said, his voice fighting to be steady, “My horse is called Hosanna.”
7
The abbey, spring 1189
Abbot Hugh waited until William was out of sight before summoning one of the lay grooms to take Hosanna to the stables. He could not afford to give his monks yet another excuse for inattention during prayers by being absent any longer.
The abbot was a kindly man, but he had more on his mind than a sick horse. The abbey, supposedly a place of retreat from the world, was becoming so popular that sometimes the abbot felt that it was as busy and noisy as the castle. Last week, the singing of the divine office had been shockingly ragged, and Brother Ranulf had stared into space for almost the whole of Mass. Hosanna would simply add to the distractions. Nevertheless, the sight of William saying farewell would have moved a heart harder than the abbot’s.
“Take care of this horse,” he said to the groom. “He comes from Hartslove. Sir Thomas may cease being quite so generous and protective of us if the horse comes to harm. And anyway, the animal has been ill-used and deserves good treatment.” After that he forgot all about him, at any rate for the moment.
The groom took Hosanna toward the stables and found him a place among the motley collection of horses the abbey had already accumulated. Hosanna walked slowly and with obvious discomfort. When he reached the barn door, he stopped and neighed, just once.
“That’s right. Say farewell to your friends,” said the groom kindly enough. “Come on now, let’s be having you inside.” He twitched the rope. Obediently, Hosanna lowered his head and allowed himself to be led into the dark.
It was weeks later that Brother Ranulf, while meditating in the cloister, saw Hosanna for the first time. The horse was carrying fresh rushes for the refectory floor in panniers. A small boy with a sharp stick was in charge. Hosanna’s mane and tail were long and unkempt, his coat greasy and his eyes dull. Nevertheless, he caught Brother Ranulf’s eye.
The monk looked round quickly to see if anybody was watching, then left the cloister and approached the boy.
“I haven’t seen this horse before,” he said conversationally.
“No, Brother,” replied the boy. “He’s a broken-down warhorse. Not much good now, but maybe a great knight rode him once. He’s a bit small, though. Perhaps it was a small knight. Perhaps he went on crusade. I dunno myself. But he came from the castle, so he must have seen the king, mustn’t he?”
Ranulf smiled. “Very likely,” he said, and stroked Hosanna’s neck. The horse sighed, and Ranulf busied himself pulling knots from the tangled mane so that the boy should not see how agitated the word “crusade” had made him.
It was universally known that Ranulf was having doubts about his vocation. He had been just fifteen when Hugh had passed through the village in which Ranulf was born. Hugh had been traveling around, searching for a site on which to found a new monastery. Ranulf had been inspired by Hugh’s sincerity in seeking to follow the teachings of Christ and had told his parents that he felt called by God to join him. Ranulf’s parents were delighted. Having a monk in the family was excellent insurance for the afterlife. So, filled with enthusiasm and with his parents’ blessing ringing in his ears, Ranulf had left his home, joined Hugh as he wandered from place to place, and then, once they had the support of Sir Thomas de Granville, had thrown his back into the building of a new house of prayer at Hartslove.
Before long, Hugh, now elected abbot, began to think of Ranulf as a possible successor. He might be young, but the other monks looked up to him. Whenever there was hardship, Ranulf embraced it. He was first in the abbey church in the morning and last to leave at night. In his enthusiasm, not only had Ranulf made his vows as a monk but had also become a priest, able to say Mass and hear confessions. He was, Abbot Hugh often mused, almost too perfect.
But ten years after leaving home, lying in the dormitory waiting for the duty monk to come and touch his feet to wake him for matins, Ranulf had been seized by doubts. Each day prayers were said for the protection of the holy places in Palestine, the places particularly associated with Christ’s suffering and death, and each day these prayers unsettled him more. Jerusalem, in Christian hands since its capture by the first crusaders, was by no means safe. Prayer was all very well. But surely, as a strong young man, he should be holding a sword not a candle? Christ’s enemies would not succumb through prayer alone. Whenever knights or squires rode past the monastery, Brother Ranulf could not resist speaking to them.
Shortly after William had passed through on his way to choose Hosanna, Ranulf’s feelings grew so strong that he went to Hugh and begged to be allowed to be relieved of his vows and go to seek a position as a squire. Hugh refused. “I see a great spiritual future for you, my son,” he said. “This crusading talk is just the devil testing you.”
Prior Peter, the abbot’s second in command, a dark man with a sharp tongue, had been less flattering. “Don’t be so arrogant and worldly,” he sniffed at Ranulf. Peter knew only too well how one monk leaving could provoke a torrent and that the abbey would suffer as a result. But it was no good. Ranulf soon became so consumed with the desire to leave and ride to the Holy Land that his attention during devotions continually wandered. Peter, who now made it his business to observe Ranulf very carefully, found fresh cause for complaint with each passing day.
After Ranulf met Hosanna, he became even more unsettled. As the abbey bell tolled endlessly through the hot summer he shuffled ungraciously through the round of prayers, silent work, and reading, his mind increasingly filled only with thoughts of the horse: Had Hosanna really been to the Holy Land as the boy suggested? What must it be like, to fight in Christ’s service riding the sort of horse Hosanna must once have been?
Despite several warnings from the abbot, Ranulf too
k to visiting the stables just before bed. He petted Hosanna. Sometimes, standing in the straw, he even sang parts of the psalter to him. The stallion seemed to like this and pricked up his ears. Ranulf watched him doing his work in the fields or at the mill. The horse was docile, but with the docility born of pain.
Eventually, Ranulf began to slip out of the abbey church early or not turn up at all to perform the great round of communal prayer that was the primary duty of every Benedictine monk. He always had an excuse—a manuscript from the library was missing, the cresset lamps had run out of oil, he had to visit the necessarium unexpectedly, on account of eating rotten vegetables—and didn’t want to disturb everybody by coming in late. But his excuses always sounded lame, even to him, and eventually Peter lost his temper. He wanted Hugh to punish this deliberate flouting of authority, not just because Ranulf appeared to put talking to a horse before praising the Lord but also because the monk told such flagrant lies.
“Patience, patience,” said the abbot, although privately he thought the prior had a point.
Matters came to a head through the sins of Brother Andrew, the almoner. He was a large, greedy man, and to punish him for his excesses, Hugh had put him in charge of handing out food, drink, and medicines to the poor. Ranulf had once laughed when Andrew’s misericord (the wooden blocks against which the monks leaned in church) had snapped off, leaving Andrew sprawling on the floor. Ever since then Brother Andrew had been looking to do Ranulf a disservice.
Since he had been given the job, as far as the abbot knew, Andrew had turned into a good almoner. There were few complaints. What the abbot did not know, however, was that Andrew was running a small racket. The poor who sought alms certainly received them. But they were also promised “untold eternal rewards” if they gave some of the alms back to Andrew in order, as he told them, to secure “a better chance of seeing Christ face-to-face.” The returned food, wine, and medicines he kept in a locked box under a sack and either used them himself or, increasingly, sold them to passing traders.