by K. M. Grant
It was due to de Scabious’s efforts that much of the work was now complete. Only the servants’ lodgings remained unfinished. Sir Thomas was particularly proud of his plumbing arrangements. Through skillful use of well, reservoir, and pipe, water was available to all three stories of the family’s new living quarters.
William and Ellie were just now making use of one of these barrels of water right outside the great hall. They were the last of Sir Thomas’s abundant household to arrive at supper that evening, and they were in luck. Grace was over. The visiting knights, their retinues, and Sir Thomas’s own household already sat at trestles laid out across the room on which plentiful dishes of meat and fish had been placed. The fireplace was empty of logs today, since it was too warm for a blaze. The noise was deafening, augmented by the growls and scufflings of countless dogs drooling in anticipation of the feast. Gryffed, William’s deerhound, had taken up residence in the huge hearth with a stolen leg of lamb and shook his great brindled head at anybody who came near him.
On the wooden dais at the far end of the hall, Sir Thomas sat with Gavin at his left hand and nobody at his right. Since Lady de Granville had died, at first out of deference to Sir Thomas’s evident grief and then just out of habit, the chair had been left empty. The servants soon busied themselves investing the empty chair with some spiritual and ghostly significance. Their storytelling had succeeded so well that now nobody would sit in it even if invited. Sir Thomas, who had no time for this kind of nonsense, had once given the order for the chair to be removed. But the fearful servants bade him politely but firmly to move it himself. Somehow, when it came to the point, Sir Thomas never quite managed it. “I’m too busy,” he said. The empty chair remained.
Gavin was relieved. Always nervous of a young stepmother producing rival sons to challenge for his father’s estates, the empty chair meant security. As long as the chair was there, Gavin could sleep easy. There were women in the castle, of course. Gavin himself had recently begun to notice that some of them were quite pretty. But apart from Old Nurse—whose proper name both she and they had long forgotten—and Ellie, of course, the women were all servants. Sir Thomas welcomed visitors, but he seemed uninterested in finding a third Lady de Granville. Just for good measure, however, whenever Gavin got the opportunity, he repeated the servants’ stories, ostensibly scoffing at their credulity, but always making sure to end up with an enigmatic, “But I do just wonder.” The strategy seemed to work. Half the country now knew about Lady de Granville’s chair, and women who might have set their cap at Sir Thomas shivered and set their sights elsewhere.
This evening Gavin was completely relaxed. The company at Hartslove was preparing to leave on campaign. At such times the shouting always grew wilder and wilder until on the night before departure it was insupportable. Departure was, however, a week off, so Sir Thomas could still just about hear what his older son was saying. With only a little exaggeration Gavin recounted how William had not liked being told that he looked like a flea on a dragon as he was riding Sir Percy’s great descrier in at the castle gate and that he had leaped off and punched Gavin on the nose.
“I thought he needed cooling down, sir, so I put him in the horse trough; you know, the one next to the mounting block,” Gavin was saying, leaning back and enjoying his father’s reaction. “But he came out hot as a roast on the spit. When he stood on the mounting block with water dripping from his ears, I swear smoke was pouring out of his nostrils.”
Sir Thomas threw back his great gray head and laughed. Then, seeing William and Eleanor making their way over the rushes, bid his younger son welcome.
“Horse trough cold, William?” he asked, and, turning to Ellie, wagged his finger in mock reproof. “Is that you, Eleanor, with a filthy face? What shall we do with you, and who on earth will ever marry you looking like that?”
William’s face darkened again, but Ellie slid into her seat and joined in the fun.
Sir Thomas speared half a duck and looked at his mutinous younger son in a contemplative manner. “Where is your sense of humor, William?” he asked. “Maybe it is time you went off to learn some manners. Perhaps your uncle the bishop would drum some discipline into you. You may make a worthy knight one day, but you will have to learn to control that temper.”
The chaplain, who was sitting nearby, felt it appropriate to join in. “You should ask God’s help to conquer your bad habit,” he echoed sententiously as he wiped the grease from his chin with his sleeve and picked up a goblet full of wine.
“Yes, Father, indeed, Father, quite, Father,” said William, not making it exactly clear which “Father” he was addressing. Then, turning to the chaplain and transforming his face into a picture of innocence, he asked, “Do you yourself find that helps?”
The chaplain stopped chewing and looked at William with disapproval.
“Oh, do send him away, sir,” said Gavin, pretending to cuff William, who was now seated next to him and pulling at a leg of mutton. “We might as well discover if Will really does have it in him to be a knight.”
“If I go away, can I take a Great Horse with me?” asked William, ignoring both Gavin and the fact that his mouth was full. This was too good an opportunity to miss.
Sir Thomas was not a sentimental man. But he stopped chewing and, looking at his younger son—his mouth full of mutton, his eyes full of pleading, his head full of complaints, and his heart full of longings—was suddenly reminded of himself at William’s age. Why, in all heaven, shouldn’t the boy have a Great Horse? William could ride and ride well. All the grooms said so. Indeed, Keeper John was very complimentary. And the little courser he was so fond of—Sacramenta, was that her name?—anyway, she was nice enough and had taught him a great deal, but William could probably manage something bigger and bolder. Sir Thomas made a decision.
“Hmmm. You want a Great Horse? I agree. A Great Horse it is. But”—and Sir Thomas was suddenly not sentimental at all—“Great Horses are expensive. Pick your groom carefully. A good groom makes a good horse. And you’ll only have one Great Horse until you are at least sixteen. If anything happens to it, you will be back with coursers, even for tournaments. Can’t be fairer than that. Now, Percy,” he dismissed William and called to his most loyal friend, the man whose horse had been the unwitting cause of the earlier fracas, “what’s the news from Normandy, and any news from the East?”
“Bad, Thomas, both bad,” replied Sir Percy, stretching his legs. “They say that King Henry is reconciled to Richard, but only through his mother. Sons and fathers! Honestly. And wives and husbands are no better. Queen Eleanor is not exactly loyal, if I dare say so. She likes nothing better than to foment rebellion against Henry. I expect this is why the king has summoned us to Normandy. There must be something brewing. As for the East, I hear rumors of some new Muslim chap—Salad, I think they call him. Something like that, anyway. I tell you, Thomas, there’s crusading talk in the air.”
Sir Thomas pushed his plate away. “Come here next to me, Percy, and tell me all.”
Gavin obediently slid away from Sir Thomas, and he, Eleanor, and William formed a little group at the end of the table.
“So,” said Gavin. “A Great Horse for a small boy.”
“Shut up, Gavin,” said Ellie.
Gavin glanced at her. She need not worry. He did not want to continue squabbling. With more campaigning coming up, he wanted to part on good terms with his only brother. You never knew when your sins might catch up with you. “Keeper John has been away bringing some young horses back from pasturing the other side of the river,” he said conversationally. “Shall I come and help pick one out?”
William was not to be wooed so easily. “No thanks. I’ll manage.”
“There is a full brother to Montlouis among them, I think.”
“No thanks.”
“Fine.” Gavin gave up. “I’ll look forward to knocking you off in the jousting lists, then. Father mentioned our uncle the bishop. Perhaps you are really to become a priest.”
With that, Gavin got up to leave. William hardly noticed. Already, in his mind’s eye he was choosing a big bay stallion with a star and white stockings. The bay would carry him to victory in everything they undertook. It would be the best Great Horse in the world.
Eleanor watched him. She was glad for William about the horse. She knew how much he had looked forward to the day he would be released from the clutches of Old Nurse and sent off to begin his adult life. But when she tried to say so, she found it suddenly necessary to go over to the hearth and remove ticks from Gryffed’s ears as if her life depended on it.
3
Dawn had broken and the daylight was bright as William left the safety of the castle walls, and accompanied by Hal, a young groom with an open, freckled face, and Sir Walter de Strop, the old knight allocated to look after both of Sir Thomas’s sons when they rode in the forest, he set off for the stud where his father’s horses were kept and managed by Keeper John. William and Hal were the same age, and there was no young groom William trusted more. Sir Walter was an old grouch, but William was not going to complain this morning. Already he was going over in his mind exactly what he would say to Keeper John.
A great household like the de Granvilles’ needed all kinds of different horses: sumpter horses for carrying packs, palfreys for ladies and clerics, baggage horses, cart and plough horses, and speedy horses for hunting. But the destriers, or Great Horses, were the pinnacle of equine perfection, used only for war and tournaments. Keeper John was in charge of a huge horse empire both over at the de Granville stud and back in the stables at Hartslove. He was, in many ways, Sir Thomas’s most useful and important retainer.
William had spent many hours with Keeper John, as had Eleanor. After the death of Lady de Granville, it had been mainly to Keeper John that he and Ellie looked for consolation. The children had soon learned to outwit Old Nurse and vanish when her back was turned. She had never been too concerned. Sir Thomas had told her to “bring them up, you know, in the appropriate manner,” but the “appropriate manner” had never been clearly defined. So although Old Nurse suspected that she was supposed to teach the children to read, when the children told her their father preferred them to ride, she felt this might well be true. It did not seem wise to ask, and anyway, she knew that Keeper John would look after them well enough. If the truth be told, Old Nurse was not really much of a reader herself. She was happiest supervising the kitchens and the laundry, not only because this gave ample excuse for frequent trips to the wine cellar but also because it showed she was high up in the castle pecking order. Even Constable de Scabious was frightened of her, and she liked to keep it that way.
William himself cared nothing for reading and writing. Today, the morning was perfect. Once the sounds of the castle were left behind, he could hear only the gentle chattering of Hal and Sir Walter amid the creaking of leather and the jangling of steel. Occasionally a lark sang its sweet song overhead, and William felt like singing, too. He settled himself deeper into the saddle. They would pass by the new monastery, and William decided that he would ask for prayers to be offered up that he would choose his new horse wisely. The opportunity to tell the monks what he was going to do and make the young ones envious was too tempting to miss.
At the edge of the forest, a broad track opened out in front of him. The middle was pitted with ruts where horses had pulled heavy carts in the wet, but three weeks of dry weather had made the turf at the edges springy and inviting. William’s chestnut courser, Sacramenta, took the opportunity to snatch the reins, shy at nothing at all, and break into a canter. William laughed for the sheer joy of being alive and urged the mare on.
Choosing her path with delicate agility, Sacramenta sprang forward and was soon racing like an orange streak through the dappled shadows and out again into the open. Sir Walter and Hal were left far behind, and all William could hear was the hiss of the wind and the muffled thud of Sacramenta’s hooves. She stretched out and William leaned forward to take his weight off her back, enjoying the lashing his face got from her mane. As they pulled up to ford the river William patted her neck. She twitched her ears as she acknowledged his caress. William ran his hand down her flank. It was only then that his conscience was smitten. From today Sacramenta would take second place to his Great Horse. He looked round to make sure Hal and Sir Walter were nowhere within sight, then lay quickly down on her neck and whispered, “Dear Sacramenta, I’ll always love you, you know.” Guiding her into the water, he let her drink while the the others caught up.
The monks had just finished chanting as the party of riders approached. The foundations of the monastery were taking shape, but there was as yet no roof. As the haunting strains of their prayer died away, the abbot, a thin man with a lined face, looked at his visitors with anxiety. When he saw the party comprised a boy, a groom, and an old man, he visibly relaxed.
“Greetings, my friends,” he said, raising his hands in welcome.
“Greetings, Father,” said William, trying not to sound as excited as he felt. “Pray for me. I am off to choose a Great Horse. Maybe in time we will go together to the Holy Land. Who knows.”
The abbot smiled at William’s lofty tone. “Indeed, my son.”
“Are you really going on crusade?” Another monk approached, wiping his hands on his white habit. The abbot frowned in disapproval. It was not done for junior monks to break the monastic silence. The young monk stroked Sacramenta’s nose, and she gently took hold of his wide sleeve with her teeth.
“Brother Ranulf,” said the abbot, “silence.”
Brother Ranulf bit his lip and moved away, gently extricating his habit from Sacramenta’s mouth. A small green stain was added to the multitude of others.
“I am to be sent away to learn the codes of chivalry first,” said William, nodding at Brother Ranulf despite the abbot clicking his tongue. “And I am to take a Great Horse with me. It will be my first.”
“And it will be very fine, I’m sure,” said the abbot, pushing Ranulf in the direction of the makeshift altar on which Mass was about to be celebrated. He turned back to William. “Now, young sir, you go about your business and we will go about ours. God bless you and your choice.”
After another hour’s riding, during which William listened politely to Sir Walter telling him exactly what to look for in his new mount, they arrived at the extensive wooden buildings and fields of the de Granville stud.
About two hundred horses were separated into paddocks. Blacks, bays, iron grays, and roans, the de Granville horses came in all colors, shapes, and sizes. Mares with foals at foot stood contentedly in the sunshine, idly swishing away the flies with their tails. They showed no interest in the approaching cavalcade. Not so their foals, who took the opportunity to hightail round their enclosure, bucking and squealing in their excitement. Grooms scurried about their duties, carrying water, cleaning or mending saddlery, and stacking sacks of grain. Cowhides were hanging in a lean-to shed, waiting to be turned into harness. The clang of the farrier’s hammer ricocheted back from the hills, and sparks flew from his anvil.
Keeper John waited for his visitors at the door of a huge barn. He was not surprised to see William, whose plaintive longings for a Great Horse were well known. As he watched William’s easy way with Sacramenta, how they understood each other’s slightest movement, he thought, as he had many times before, that if William was not destined for knighthood, he would make an excellent horse-breaker. That mare had not been easy to train. She was nervous and flighty. A bad foaling had made her no good for future breeding and only useful as a courser, a nifty horse for riding. There were plenty who thought she should be destroyed. But William had managed to make something of her. Sacramenta was now as good a mare as you could find. Even out hunting, she would stand and wait when required. Couldn’t get much better than that.
“Well, Master William. What brings you out here so early in the day?” Keeper John called cheerfully. “Don’t tell me Sir Thomas has relented, and you are come f
or your Great Horse at last?”
William swung himself out of the saddle, and Sacramenta rubbed her head on his arm to get rid of an itch.
“You will never believe it, but that’s about it, Keeper John,” said William, trying to look nonchalant, but not succeeding. “I am to go as a squire to my uncle the bishop, and I am to take a Great Horse with me. My father sent me to choose, knowing that with your help and, of course, with Sir Walter’s advice, I’d choose well.”
Keeper John whistled. “Right, then. You’ll not be wanting to wait. Give Sacramenta to young Hal, and let’s see what we can do. Actually, you’re in luck. I have brought all the new warhorses inside today. They’ll go out again at evening, but they get too fat out on that pasture.”
In the cool, sweet-smelling barn, twenty large horses were tethered. Each was being curried by a groom, and the scrape of the brush was interspersed with sneezes. It was the most comfortable and comforting sight in the world.
William sighed with pleasure.
“Keeper John, I think I want a bay horse,” he said. “With good, strong bones and a wise head. Perhaps one broken to saddle last year, which has had some experience already. I need one that I can rely on, and I want to be sensible.”
