Free A Blood Red Horse by K. M. Grant

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 villagebutcher 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.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œStrength!” 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.”
    â€œMy 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 believeme 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œDo you remember your promise of obedience?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen go now,” said Hugh, “and pray for this horse and yourself. If you believe He can, God will send an answer.”
    â€œWill Hosanna still be here when I get back?”
    â€œYes.”
    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