Prologue

Hartslove, June 1193

There was no summer chill in the air but Hosanna was restless. The red horse, veteran of campaigns and crusades, raised his head, then shook it as if to ward off an invisible cloud carrying something he did not like. He sneezed and put down his head again to graze on the lush June grass, but though the grass was fresh and sweet, he could not settle. He turned, nipped a fly from his flank and began to move, rustling up all the other warhorses who had been grazing peacefully as they basked in the sun that jeweled the fields between Hartslove Castle and the river. Some objected, grumpily reluctant to abandon their green feast, but Dargent, the big bay who was Hosanna’s constant friend, obediently took his usual place behind the red horse’s tail. This was where he was happiest and although long blades of grass hung untidily from his mouth and his lips were stained and frothy, he began, like Hosanna, to trot. Soon, all the horses were trotting for they were fit, and although some were tired because it was the middle of the campaigning season and many had journeyed great distances before being turned out for a rest, their spirits were high. Then they were cantering, making a huge circle around the chestnut tree that sheltered the napping soldiers who had been sent to guard them. One soldier woke, seized his own horse, and shouted. But Hosanna, his tail feathering like an opening fan, just pushed the loose horses faster and faster until, all lethargy abandoned, they were galloping, thundering around the tree as if the hounds of hell were after them.

However, before the soldiers could gather themselves together, Hosanna stopped so suddenly that Dargent bumped his nose and left a dribble of green spittle on the muscled chestnut haunches in front of him. The red tail swung low and the flies, thinking to settle again, were rudely swatted away. When the other horses realized that the game was over, they too drizzled to a halt, some of the older stallions stamping their feet at Hosanna in halfhearted complaint at the pointless interruption. Minutes later, although the soldiers were too rattled to go back to sleep, all the horses were grazing again.

All except Hosanna. The spontaneous gallop had not dispelled his discomfort. In the throbbing of his two crusading wounds he could feel something coming toward Hartslove. To feel this was not unusual, but this time was different for he did not smell the sharp, sour stench of battles to come or sense his master, Will Ravensgarth, calling to him. These things the horse was used to. What he felt now was not so familiar, although he had felt it once before, out in the Holy Land at the height of the crusade. It was a stirring dread, a kind of horror that was quite out of place in this peaceful landscape and on this lovely day.

The red horse walked slowly down to the river but did not drink. The soldiers watched him curiously, his mood infecting them a little. Until it was time to return to his stall inside Hartslove’s curtain wall, Hosanna took only snatches of grass and, after carefully looking around in every direction, settled his gaze on the road that ran from the castle gate down the hill and away into the dusty distance.