A Blood Red Horse

by K. M. Grant

  “I’m stocktaking,” he would shout if anybody called for him while he was eating soft bread or putting on the tip of his tongue a tiny drop of expensive and unusual oil that a passing earl had brought back from the Holy Land. “I suppose I am stocktaking in a sort of way,” he said gleefully to himself as he smoothed his red face with some of the balm he had got into the habit of stealing from the infirmary. “And anyway, at least I always say the office, unlike some others.”

  It was when Brother Luke, the infirmarian, asked Andrew if he knew who might be stealing his jars of ointment that Andrew saw his chance. It was common knowledge that Ranulf was potty about some sick horse. “Very likely,” Andrew said to Luke, shaking his head with mock sorrow, “very likely Ranulf is stealing from the infirmary to take to the stables.” Luke went at once to the prior, who went straight to the abbot.

  “Brother Ranulf and that horse are a menace,” Peter said. “I know the de Granvilles are our benefactors, but ever since that broken-down nag arrived, Brother Ranulf’s behavior has been even more contrary than usual. Now it seems Ranulf is taking medicine from the infirmary in an effort to turn the horse back into a great stallion on which, I suppose, he reckons to ride away and kill the infidel. In my view, we should get rid of the animal. It is useless, anyway, for anything requiring a quicker pace than a walk. Have you seen it carrying the laundry? It has difficulty even doing that. And if the horse goes, maybe Ranulf will get over his ridiculous obsession with crusading.”

  “You mean we should destroy the horse? Kill it?” asked the abbot, frowning.

  “Well, yes,” said Peter, shifting a little uncomfortably. “I mean it is distracting Ranulf, and it’s not going to get any better,” he finished rather defensively.

  The abbot sighed.

  “The de Granvilles would be very upset. Before we do anything, I had better talk to Ranulf and see the horse for myself.” The prior could hardly disagree.

  Hugh made his way to the stables but did not find Hosanna in good spirits. The horse was lying as if his legs were too weary to carry him. His great dark eyes were misty, and he had not touched the sweet hay that lay well within reach.

  The abbot stooped to stroke his neck. Hosanna moved his head slightly. The abbot knelt down and looked at him properly. Although the horse was clearly tired and dispirited, it still felt wrong to take his life just because a monk was using him as an excuse to behave dishonestly. Hugh looked at Hosanna for several minutes. “We’ll wait a week,” he said at last to nobody in particular. “We’ll wait a week.” Then he found Ranulf and asked about the missing medicines. Ranulf denied all knowledge, but after the monk’s recent open disobedience, Hugh could not be sure that he was not lying. He did not tell Ranulf that Hosanna’s days, in all probability, were numbered.

  Over the next week the atmosphere in the abbey was tense. Word got around about the irregularities in the infirmary and the almonery. Monks were found whispering in corners. Fingers were pointed. The lay servants gossiped in the village. All the while, Hosanna lay or stood, eating little, unaware that his fate hung in the balance.

  When seven days were past, Hugh made his decision. The stealing continued. The horse would have to go. Feeling despondent, he nevertheless sent word that the village butcher should come the following morning and take Hosanna away for slaughter. Hugh made the announcement at the daily meeting in the chapter house. As he expected, Ranulf went white, absented himself from prayers all afternoon, and even went without dinner. Eventually, just before the singing of the last office of the day, the abbot made his way to the stables.

  Ranulf was sitting with the horse’s head in his lap.

  “My son,” said Hugh, picking his way carefully over the drainage ditch that ran down the middle of the stalls. “My son, what I have decided is best for all. The horse will never regain his proper strength, and you can see from the way he holds himself that he is in almost continuous pain. If he is relieved of his suffering, you will no longer be tempted to lie and steal. Your mind will once more return to God, where it belongs. Pray for strength, my son. Pray for strength.”

  Ranulf carefully laid Hosanna’s head on the straw, then leaped up, breaking the stable’s afternoon stillness.

  “Strength!” he cried. “I have plenty of strength. Look at me, Father Abbot. I am as strong as an ox. Too strong for this monkish life. This horse has brought me a message, I am sure of it. The message is that I am to go to the Holy Land and fight to protect Christ’s tomb and the other holy places from the Saracen infidels. I feel it, Father Abbot, I feel it as strongly as you feel your vocation is here.”

  “My son, you are in error,” said the abbot gently. “I have watched you from the moment you felt called to do the work of the Lord through prayer. Nothing has changed since we last spoke about this matter. This horse has no message. You are deluding yourself. Your vocation is here. Your voice raised in prayer is an inspiration to your brothers. God sends few like you. You must believe me when I say that here is where you are needed. The healthy spiritual life of a monastery depends on men of passion and strength. I watched you as you helped to build this monastery. I have seen you struggle with the demons that beset all those who renounce the world. It is these demons, not God, who are now trying to trick you into seeking personal acclaim in the field of war. Our great Father Benedict tells us that the way to heaven lies in abandoning any such quests for individual glory and merging with the collective glory of a community dedicated to prayer. Ranulf, my dear son, your crusade is here. There are souls to be won at home, even within this monastery. The Lord needs you to remain with me.”

  “I don’t see it.” Ranulf shook his head, not wanting to hear the abbot’s words. “I don’t see it. I beg you. You may destroy this horse, but you cannot destroy my wish to leave.”

  Hugh glanced at the horse, then looked again at the despairing monk.

  “Do you remember your promise of obedience?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go now,” said Hugh, “and pray for this horse and yourself. If you believe He can, God will send an answer.”

  “Will Hosanna still be here when I get back?”

  “Yes.”

  Ranulf abruptly left the stables, his head throbbing. He scarcely noticed where he put his feet but found himself in front of the crucifix in the abbey church. His fellow monks were filing in for compline, and the sun was just beginning to set. As Ranulf took his place and the plainchant began, he prayed furiously. “Please Lord, if you have any mercy at all, save the horse Hosanna.”

  The monks’ voices began reciting the psalm, the verse and response rising first from one side, then the other, until they filled the high vaulted chapel. “Benedicamus Domino. Deo gratias.” The familiarity soothed Ranulf. He shut his eyes and gave himself up to the music. “Lord,” he found himself praying, although not sure where the words were coming from, “Lord, if You save Hosanna and give him back his strength, I will remain true to You here. I will follow the abbot’s instructions. If You can really cure the suffering of this horse, I promise not to use him as a means of escape. I even promise that if it seems appropriate, I will give Hosanna back into Your service through returning him to Hartslove and to the boy who brought him here.”

  “In te, Domine, speravi.”

  “I ask this through your own suffering. Amen.”

  Hugh did not attend compline. He remained leaning on the wooden partition, looking at Hosanna but not really seeing him. Out of habit, however, the words of the divine office came almost unbidden to his lips, and he found himself praying over the horse. The stables were completely still, as still, the abbot found himself thinking, as the stable at Bethlehem. He prayed on, closing his eyes. As his prayer drew to an end and he opened his eyes again, the luminous rays of the setting sun were pouring through a crack in the stable wall. Though the rest of the animals were shrouded in shadow, Hosanna, still lying down, was lit up, a beam of extraordinary intensity catching the top of his head in such a way as to pr
oduce the effect of a halo. Hugh caught his breath. He felt he was seeing a vision. Without thinking, he dropped to his knees.

  He was not the only one. Hidden behind the grain sacks was Brother Andrew. Hours earlier he had crept into the stable out of curiosity to take a look at the horse that so obsessed Ranulf and whose destruction, he believed, was now imminent. He had been on the point of creeping out when Ranulf had appeared. Andrew hid himself to wait until the coast was clear and then was trapped again by the abbot. Now he was paralyzed with fear. This great shaft of light seemed to have deliberately picked out this horse whose fate Andrew’s dishonesty was helping to seal. It was uncanny and disturbing. Andrew assured himself that he was not superstitious. But a voice in his head told him some things were obvious. To have produced such an effect, this horse must have magical powers. The light was unearthly. And surely only God could produce a halo? Unknown to the abbot, in his dark corner Andrew also fell on his knees and began to pray.

  Once the light vanished, Hugh, treating the horse with new deference, got up and left. It now became possible for Andrew to climb out of his hiding place and approach Hosanna directly. He tentatively touched the horse’s ears. They were warm. Andrew drew a small piece of apple out of his pocket. Hosanna took it and licked Andrew’s hand, which the sweat of fear had made as salty as Old Nurse’s. Suddenly Andrew found himself again on his knees.

  “Lord,” he said, “I think You have sent me a sign. Help me to give up my dishonest ways. Sin led to Your death on the cross. I see this clearly. Now this animal is also to die for my sins. What can I do to make amends?”

  It did not take Andrew long to figure out the answer. From another of his voluminous pockets he brought out the flagon of oil brought from the Holy Land and rubbed the horse’s legs with it. Then finding a bowl, he made a small mash out of the peas and bread that were ready for the horses’ suppers. He knelt down again. Hosanna sniffed carefully at the mash, pushed it about with his top lip, then began to eat. He ate until there was none left and, as Andrew slipped quietly back to the almonery, shook himself and got to his feet.

  The following day, despite Peter raising his eyes to heaven with exasperation, Hugh sent the butcher away empty-handed. He never saw the evening vision repeated, but over the next few weeks he observed a remarkable change in the horse’s condition.

  “It’s a miracle,” he told Ranulf.

  “It’s my prayers,” said Ranulf.

  Andrew said nothing at all. For only he knew the truth: that he too had taken to visiting Hosanna each day and not only was using his ill-gotten gains to try to restore the horse’s strength but also, deep into the night, was looking up every reference to animal healing in the abbey library. Over the next two months Hosanna found himself treated with all the oils, herbs, medicines, and pastes Andrew had accumulated in his treasure chest. The monk spent hours making special mashes and rubbing the horse’s ruined legs as tenderly as if they had been those of a baby.

  The results of these ministrations were startling. By harvesttime Hosanna’s coat began to shine again. Ranulf combed out his mane and tail until one day when he came out of the stable, far from being a horse a child could hold, one of the younger grooms found he had his hands full. At the time of the first frost, even Ranulf had to lead Hosanna out not in a rope halter but a bridle. He walked with the horse hour after hour to build up his strength. Eventually walking was not enough, and despite Prior Peter’s disapproval, Ranulf got on and rode him. Hosanna was quiet at first. But as his spirits rose, he became a warhorse once more, and one afternoon, to Ranulf’s surprise, on hearing a hunting horn, Hosanna suddenly tossed his head and broke into his floating gallop. As Ranulf clung to the saddle, unable to stop and enjoying an unaccustomed sensation of fear, he knew that the horse could no longer be kept at the abbey. It was time for him to return to his proper life at Hartslove. He rubbed Hosanna down and covered him in a blanket to keep out the autumn chill, then steeled himself to tell Hugh that the horse was no longer suitable for the monks to use. The abbot, who had taken as close an interest in Ranulf’s state of mind as Hosanna’s physical health, put his hand on the monk’s shoulder and nodded.

  “Can you take him yourself?” he asked. “Think hard, my son, before you answer.”

  Ranulf looked Hugh straight in the eye. “I have made promises to God about my life and this horse,” he said. “And I believe that now, with your support and God’s help, I can keep them both. I would like to go to the Holy Land. But maybe my time will come in a different way. I am prepared to wait and pray.”

  Hugh nodded. The following morning, as he blessed Hosanna in preparation for his journey home he told Ranulf to enjoy the ride and to take his time walking back. Then he went into the abbey church to give thanks for the mysterious ways that are God’s.

  Ranulf arrived at Hartslove without incident. To put off the moment when he had to hand Hosanna over, he rode past the castle and found himself on the jousting field. William, who had dealt with the pain of parting from Hosanna by physically tiring himself into oblivion every day, was exercising Dargent. Both he and the bay were exhausted. William’s face was thinner and harder than it had been in the spring, and while he praised his horse, it was obvious that his heart was not in it.

  This afternoon, he was particularly despondent. The year had been an eventful one. King Henry was dead and Richard crowned. The call for crusade was now loud and insistent. It could not be long before, along with his father, he would be leaving for the Holy Land. He was tussling with his conscience, for despite his father’s orders, he wanted desperately to go to the monastery to see Hosanna, or at least hear news of him, before leaving. He sighed, patted Dargent, and turned for home. As he did so, something caught his eye. At first William thought the light was playing tricks. He shut his eyes and opened them again. He stopped breathing. This could not be a trick. There, at the edge of the field, a monk and a gleaming red horse were watching him. Willliam sat stock-still in the saddle for a moment, then he threw himself off Dargent and began to run.

  “Hosanna?” he hardly dared believe it. “Hosanna?”

  Hosanna whinnied and, stretching out his head, broke into a trot. He did not stop until he had his nose once more in William’s hands. Ranulf found it difficult to speak at first. He dismounted and could only smile and nod as William, scanning Hosanna’s legs and neck and exclaiming all the while, asked him a million questions about the horse. Half listening to Ranulf and half shouting for anyone passing to fetch Ellie, fetch Hal, fetch everybody at Hartslove, William was almost beside himself.

  Eventually Ranulf found the right words. “There’s been a miracle,” he said simply. “Hosanna has been cured by a miracle.”

  “I don’t know what to say to you,” cried William.

  “Say nothing. Just thank the Lord,” said Ranulf. “Now I must go. But if you go to the Holy Land with Hosanna, please remember that a small part of me goes with you.” He paused to pat Hosanna’s neck, then turned away.

  “I must give you something.” William didn’t know where to look, at his horse or at the monk, nor how he would stop himself exploding with joy. He would happily have given Ranulf the whole castle.

  “Hosanna has already given me something,” said Ranulf, turning back for a moment and stretching out his hand. Hosanna lowered his head so that Ranulf could touch the star between the horse’s eyes. Ranulf smiled. “If you know Hosanna, I think you will know what I mean.”

  William looked steadily at the monk. “Yes,” he said solemnly. Then his whole face softened, and he began to look more like the boy Ranulf had seen riding to choose his first warhorse four years earlier. “I know exactly.”

  The two of them briefly clasped hands before Ranulf began his long walk back to the abbey. The monk’s new strength and resolve were strong, but he did not want to test them to the extreme by watching William vault onto Hosanna and, yelling with excitement, ride him back over the castle drawbridge.

  Miracles certainly come in un
expected forms, Ranulf thought to himself as he followed the path through the wood, the leaves crunching beneath his feet. When he reached the river, he sat on the bank enjoying his temporary freedom from abbey routine. Then hearing the bell toll in the distance, he got up and, with only the smallest hint of reluctance, went obediently to answer its call.

  8

  Holy Land, late summer 1187

  Far away in the Holy Land, the muezzin’s call bidding Muslims to prayer was being answered by a dark man and a boy, both richly dressed and mounted on high-stepping Arab horses. They were far from alone, traveling in the middle of a huge army raising a tempest of sand as it made its way through the scrubby grass and hills toward Jerusalem. In front and to either side, a tight-knit formation of fierce Saracen lords, known as emirs, formed a shield round the pair. Great columns of cavalry followed, and behind them archers, infantry, and assorted foot soldiers plodded wearily, some wearing cloths covering their faces to try and keep the dust out of their eyes. Bare-chested mechanics were helping to push along heavily laden wagons, while camels spat and mules groaned, occasionally kicking in temper against their traces.

  The great cavalcade stretched as far as the eye could see, the clouds surrounding them so thick that occasionally the whole column disappeared into a dirty yellow mist. But nothing could dull the noise of small boys yelling abuse at pack animals reluctant to move forward in the heat of the day, men roaring ribald jokes or warnings of potholes ready to catch out the unwary, horses snorting, and fifty or so carts creaking under the weight of pieces of siege machinery carefully dismantled for the journey. Occasionally flashes of blue or red silk were visible or a spiked helmet glinted through the haze. But everything was soon swallowed up again. At intervals during the day, however, the chaotic clattering and yelling were reduced to a more orderly murmur as the cry “Allah akbar” stopped the great caravan and everybody prepared themselves for prayer.