A Blood Red Horse

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Authors: K. M. Grant
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Abbot Hugh, I never told you his name.” The abbot stopped. “No, my son, you did not,” he replied. “What is it?”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œTake 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 foundhim 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.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œI haven’t seen this horse before,” he said conversationally.
    â€œNo, 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 wasborn. 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

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