Blaze of Silver (3 page)

Elric tugged at Will's jerkin. “Can I go with you tomorrow?” he begged. “I may not be good with a lance yet but I can ride and you'll need somebody to tend the horses whilst you count the money.”

Will raised his eyebrows. “It's too far, Elric,” he said. “I'm not sure you are quite ready.”

“But if Hal's going with you, he could carry on
teaching me on the way.” Elric could be relied upon to argue. “Think how much improvement I could make.”

“Well, yes,” Will agreed, almost unable to resist Elric's pleading face because it reminded him so much of himself. “I'll think about it over supper.”

Elric knew he had won and threw a triumphant glance at Hal, who winked at him as they all began to move toward the great hall. Then Elric found Marissa beside him. “Don't think you are so great,” she said, her mouth curled with jealousy. She hated the castle when Will was not at home, and the night before he left she was always at her worst. “It's only because I am a girl that I can't go.”

The boy grinned naughtily. “I suppose when you can canter without clinging on to a neckstrap,” he said, his voice angelically sympathetic, “the earl might take you over to the abbey. They make honey there, you know, which can sweeten even the sourest temper.” He dodged her smack with ease and ran off.

Will sighed. Elric was naughty but why on earth couldn't Marissa be nicer? Her obvious adoration of him was very gratifying but it was also a nuisance since it made her so poisonous. He thought of saying something to her—again—but decided not to. He would never change her and anyway, he had more important things to think about. He had just turned to summon Constable Shortspur, who would be in charge of the garrison in his absence, when an archer practicing his craft from the battlements called down. “Sir,” he shouted, “Earl William! There's somebody coming up the road.”

Silence fell and the knights stiffened, poised to rush for armor and swords. The porter began to wind up the
drawbridge. But the archer, leaning right over, seemed unperturbed. “It's just one person,” he called, then after a moment, “and a horse. Yes, sir. One person and a silver-colored horse. The man is leading it and he looks tired.”

Will signaled for the drawbridge to be lowered again and with Hal and Ellie right behind him and Marissa pushing forward, he strode out. In the courtyard, Hosanna ignored Elric's proffered apple, stamped one front hoof so hard it drew sparks, and then stood perfectly still.

Amal was more aware of the archer than the group at the end of the drawbridge. He had heard about English archers, so he stooped a little lower and shuffled a little more, his cloak, shabby and frayed, dragging its tatters in the dirt. The silver horse beside him was unconcerned. Recovered from the long sea journey and shining with the sheen only English grass can produce, the horse's walk was light and brisk and, every three paces or so, Amal was forced to abandon his shuffle and skip to keep up. Occasionally the horse snatched impatiently at the restraining rein and Amal's arm would jerk. The two looked very ill suited.

Will screwed up his eyes. Something about the horse was vaguely familiar. That color, the kind of silver that can die or sparkle depending on the light, was unusual, as was the concave set of the face, the darker mane and tail and the wide nostrils. The horse was not big—hardly bigger than Hosanna, who himself was small for a warhorse—but it stood tall, its neck rising proud as a swan's and its bearing regal.

In a moment Kamil was in front of Will. “It's an
Arab horse,” he said, and his low voice rose until he sounded like the boy he had been not so many years before. A horse from home! “And the man is a Saracen,” he added rather unnecessarily since Will could now see for himself the grubby Turkish hat. But despite his excitement, Kamil held back. Friendliness was weakness. Let the man come to them.

Eventually Amal stopped looking at the archer and looked at the group of people barring his way. Ah! There was Kamil. Amal secretly relaxed. At least the journey was not wasted. He saw Will and immediately began to bow and bob until Will thought he must be quite dizzy. Amal halted and the horse stood slightly apart from him as if it found its carer useful but distasteful.

“You are Gavin de Granville, Count of Hartslove?” Amal knew just what to say.

“Who asks?” enquired Will, knowing, without looking, that Hal would be poised, ready for anything, for no man ever had a better or more reliable squire.

“A friend,” said Amal, pretending to stumble hard over the language, “who wishes, er, gift, er, er, from king.”

Will's face cleared at once. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “I do know this horse! Richard took it in Cyprus on the way to Palestine and wanted Gavin to have it. Do you remember, Ellie? Richard said so in the letter you read to us when we got home.”

“You—not Gavin?” Amal drew back.

“No,” said Will. “I am Gavin's brother. He died a hero's death in the spring.” Amal seemed to retreat but Will moved smartly forward to take the reins. The silver horse ignored him.

Amal shrugged. “If one brother is dead, I suppose the other should take the prize,” he said deliberately in Arabic. Kamil could not help but betray how good it was to hear his own language spoken again. Amal pretended not to notice.

Now everybody crowded around the horse.

“He's like something out of one of Old Nurse's fantastical stories,” breathed Ellie, amazed at the extraordinary reflections she could see. Close up, the silver turned to gray as if the animal were cast from metal. Ellie touched the swan-neck and jumped at the warmth on her palm for the color looked so cold. She moved to the front and tidied the long forelock to one side. The white strands among the dark shimmered like quicksilver and Ellie was dazzled. Then she jumped again. “Oh!” she cried. “This horse has blue eyes!”

Amal shuffled forward and, with more bows, seemed to search for words. He began to speak. Ellie smiled and shook her head before turning to Kamil. “You must translate,” she said. Amal began again.

“The man says this horse has a wall-eye,” Kamil told her, delighted, “and he is right. It happens sometimes. Look. This eye shows blue and white but the other one is dark, as you would expect.”

“And it's not a he, but a she!” exclaimed Will, laughing.

Amal bowed. “Ah, she, yes, she.” He reverted back to Arabic with a sidelong glance at Kamil. “We Arabs are happy with our mares. It is only you Christians who prefer the stallion. She is very fine.”

Ellie was entranced. “A silver mare. How beautiful and how unusual!” She nodded at Amal to show her
approval and became aware, as she saw him droop, that he had not been offered so much as a cup of water. “Kamil, tell the man he is very welcome,” she said, looking to Will for his agreement. “He must be hungry and tired after his journey. He needs to wash and be given fresh clothes. Old Nurse will launder his dirty ones and if she makes her usual rude remarks about foreigners, at least our visitor won't understand.”

Amal kept an inquiring look on his face, but when Kamil gestured, he glanced nervously up once more at the archer. It was only after Will shouted for the archer to stand down that he seemed happy to cross the drawbridge and follow Kamil into the heart of the castle.

From his place by the wall, Hosanna watched, and when Amal disappeared into the keep, he blinked, and all the nerves shivered down his flanks.

At supper that evening, Amal sat at the top table. The fresh clothes hung from his fleshless bones and with his pale coloring, as unusual as the horse's, he would have looked sinister except that the expression on his face was one of permanent apology, even at rest. Kamil spoke to him, sinking back into his own language as somebody sinks into a familiar bed, unable to prevent questions bubbling out. What was the news from Palestine and Arabia? Like a parched flower, he couldn't get enough and Amal responded with apparent enthusiasm, expanding his answers until Kamil was satisfied. It was some time before Kamil asked Amal about himself. The man was a horsetrader, he learned, and not a very successful one. He wondered about a reward. This brought Kamil up short and his habitual stiffness returned. Then,
as Amal prattled on, he grew suspicious. “Why is it, old man,” he asked, “that you ask no questions about me? Do they say back home that it is usual to find a Saracen in the household of an English earl?”

Amal was ready for this. “No, indeed, Excellency,” he replied quickly. “It is just that I do not like to pry. A Muslim living among Christians must have his own reasons. If you wish to tell me, I wish to hear. If you do not, I will happily remain in ignorance.”

The answer amused Kamil. He was certain that Amal did know who he was, for the whole of the Arab world had known Saladin, and Kamil, as Saladin's ward, had been as famous as his master. Nevertheless, he admired a man who could use his wits. However, there was little opportunity for further conversation. Determined to make her mark, Marissa began to bombard Amal with questions of her own, insisting that Kamil translate, and when Marie pressed her arm to stop her, redoubled her efforts. What did Marie know about anything? She would, in time, marry Hal and vanish from Hartslove, leaving Marissa to lonely spinsterhood. If spinsterhood was her fate, why should she not enjoy herself now? “Where have you come from? How did you know the horse had been given to Gavin? Where did you find her? Who told you the way to Hartslove?” She allowed nobody else to speak.

Amal cleared his throat and looked around as if to beg everybody's pardon for being a nuisance. “I am of no interest,” he began in his scratchy voice, “but the silver mare, ah! It is said that her father is the wind and her mother the evening tide. You can believe that if you will.” He clasped his hands together. “I have seen her race
across the desert, a blaze of silver in the sand, and nothing could come near her. She won many prizes. Some say she is Allah's own horse but we know only that after your King Richard stole her, she fell into strange hands and ended up in the bazaar where I found her and was told she belonged here. I had nothing else to do, so I brought her. That's all I can say.” He looked at Kamil for support.

“If the mare's so wonderful, why did you not ride her to Hartslove?” asked Marissa, hoping to have found somebody worse at riding than herself.

“The horse is not easy to ride,” Amal said simply, “and if the fastest horse in the world takes off with you, who knows where you might end up.”

Everybody laughed except Marissa. “She's not the fastest horse in the world,” she said, annoyed. “Hosanna is.”

Will shook his head as Elric's treble piped through. “Hosanna may be the
best
horse in the world, Marissa, but I doubt that he's the fastest.”

Marissa turned on him at once. “Don't be so disloyal,” she said loudly, looking to Will for approval and support. “Hosanna has never been beaten!”

“Don't be silly.” Elric's voice was taunting. “Nobody races Hosanna. He's a warhorse. That's the trouble with girls, they can't tell one type of horse from another.”

Now there was more laughter. Marissa's face flamed at the humiliation.

When supper was over, she cornered the boy. “You think you know everything,” she said, “well, you don't. You upset Will by what you said.”

“I did not,” said Elric, cocky in his small triumph. “Will did not mind me pointing out the truth.”

“It's not the truth—and he's Earl William or ‘sir' to you.”

Elric was unabashed. “Well, anyhow, you're never going to find out who's faster.”

“Why not?” Marissa was trembling with fury now. “Are you too frightened that I'll be proved right?”

“No,” said Elric slowly, as if speaking to an idiot, “but, as I said, warhorses don't race.”

“They could.”

“No, they couldn't. Who would ride them? Neither the earl nor Kamil, because they would know it wasn't right. You can only race with racing horses.” Elric tried to wriggle past.

“You and I could ride them.”

Elric stopped wriggling. “You and I?” His mouth was agape.

“Yes,” said Marissa airily. “Why not?”

“Well, for a start, they are not our horses, and then we're all going off in the morning. All the men that is.” The taunt was deliberate.

Marissa bristled. “We could do it as soon as it's light.”

Now Elric was alarmed. Marissa was serious. “Will—the earl—would be livid. I mean, Hosanna racing? Just before he is needed for important business? We couldn't.”

“Well,” Marissa was at her most supercilious, “if you're too nervous—I didn't mean race very far, obviously, because of the journey, just once around the jousting field, down to the river and back by the chestnut tree. If you don't think you can do it, though, we'll just take it that I'm right.”

Elric hopped from foot to foot. “But you're not right.”

Marissa smiled contemptuously. “Well, we'll never
know, will we?” she said as she began to walk away, a victory swing in her limp.

Moments later, just as she expected, Elric was at her heels. “All right then,” he said. “I'll meet you at dawn in the stables. I'll get the horses ready—I'll have to find a saddle for the silver but I can probably use Dargent's. Only, if Hal finds out, he'll kill me.”

“Why should he find out?” asked Marissa smoothly. “He sleeps in the bakehouse and surely you can find some excuse for keeping Dargent's saddle with you tonight. Something on it must need mending. And by the way, I'll be riding Hosanna of course.”

Elric didn't answer. Suddenly, all his bravado disintegrated and, not wanting Marissa even to suspect any such thing, he fled into the courtyard. Once outside, his courage rose again. Hal said his riding was good. The silver horse was used to racing and they were not going very far. What was there to worry about? Without further ado he went to Hal and, mumbling something, took away Dargent's saddle. Then he visited the stables. The silver horse looked placid enough, picking at her hay. Elric grinned as he saw her. He was sure this animal would not prove too much of a handful. He turned to Hosanna. If anything, Elric thought, it was the red horse who looked the more fearsome. Instead of standing steady in his stall, he was pacing around and around and had kicked his straw into lumps. Elric imagined Marissa on his back and her face when the wind began to burn her ears and all she could feel was the pounding of hooves. He smiled and he was still smiling when he curled up in the loft and went to sleep.