A Destrier’s Tale
Balian d’Ibelin’s
Destrier “Centurion” Tells his Story
Part V: The
Ethiopian
I had landed in
the hands of a horse trader. That meant we travelled from market-town to
market-town, always staying at the worst inns and taverns, and anyone who
wanted was allowed to ride me. I didn’t want anyone to ride me. I’d had enough.
So when they tried, I reared and backed up and made a terrible fuss. Of course,
the horse trader beat me for that. At first I fought back, but then he denied
me food and water. I capitulated.
It was summer, and
the heat was terrible during most of the day. The sun burned right through my hair and if we had to travel any distance I was soon drenched in sweat. I had
lost all interest in my surroundings by now and remember nothing of what
happened before he found me except I was standing in the middle of a cobbled market
place with people milling about looking at us as usual. Some stupid boy was
even throwing things and hooting to make me and the other horses shy. One of his missiles hit me on
the haunch and I lashed out with my hind hooves, more in irritation than fear.
I hated all humans!
A voice cut
through the usual mutter of humans and a silence fell. The boy started to dart
away, obviously frightened, and another human caught him by the arm and dragged
him forward, shoving the now reluctant boy at a tall, elegant man with black
skin. There had been men with black skin
among the Horse-Haters, so I tried to back away from him a bit, but he wasn’t
dressed like a Horse-Hater. He wore a long, gently flowing surcoat that ended
mid-calf and a leather belt, but no sash or turban. He also had a large cross made of metal hanging around his throat. After
lecturing to the boy in a stern voice, he turned and approached me.
I tried to back
away warily, but I was tied so when I got to the end of my rope all I could do
was lean back on my haunches with my head raised as high as possible. He
started muttering to me and reached out his hand. I was trembling all over for fear of a blow, but he started stroking me with the palm of
his hand. Just stroking me. He didn’t pinch or poke or pull my lips apart. He
just stroked me gently and talked to me in a low voice.
The horse trader
came over and started to sing my praises. I was a great destrier. I’d been
owned by great knight. Unfortunately, he lied, my knight had been killed at “Montgisard” — wherever that was supposed to be. Yes, yes, I’d lost a
shoe in the battle, he said, and the tear wasn’t completely healed, but I
wasn’t lame any more. To prove this, he took my lead and started trotting me up
and down on the cobbles. The crowd was strangely still and everyone seemed to
be watching.
After a bit, the
black man signaled for him to bring me back, and he started stroking me again.
Everything was fine, until he reached up toward my face. It’s stupid. I really
knew at some level that he didn’t want to hurt me, but I was tied and those
beatings by the Black Knight were still so vivid in my memory. I reacted instinctively,
screaming and throwing my head back so violently that I found myself scrambling
to get my feet back under me. Then one of my hind feet slipped completely out
from under me and I landed on my haunches. By now the horse trader was shouting
at me, and yanking on the lead to try to get me to stand up again. The black
man shook his head and walked away.
That was the
worst moment of my life. Worse than all the humiliations and the pain that had
gone before because I had started to hope that this gentle man would buy me and
take me away the hell I was in. But now, because of my own stupid reaction, he
was disgusted with me and turned his back on me.
The trader saw it
the same way and was furious with me. He hissed insults at me and slapped me a
few times. Then he led me back to the stinking livery stable and shoved me into
the stall, snarling. “No food or water for that behavior!”
I told myself I
didn’t care, but it was so hot and soon I was so thirsty I was desperate. I
whinnied and tried to tell the horse trader I was sorry. I begged him to give
me just a drop to drink. OK, I’d go without food, but I needed the water. I was so distraught after a couple of hours, I
pawing at the filthy straw and rocking back and forth, but, of course, I was
tied in the standing stall so tightly I couldn’t turn my head.
I didn’t know
what was happening until a hand touched my haunches and that lovely, soft voice
was there beside me. I tried to turn my head, rolling my eyes as far back as
possible, but I was tied too short. But it really was him, and he had a bucket
full of cool, clean water. He loosened the tie, and I plunged my head down into
that water and drank the bucket dry. Yet even as I was drinking he stroked my
withers and talked to me in his own tongue.
When I’d finished
drinking, I lifted my head and we looked at one another. He said clearly and
distinctly, “I’m not going to hurt you, but you have to let me find out your
age and injuries.”
I looked at him
skeptically.
“I want to buy
you for my lord, but he will want to know more about you.”
I didn’t like the
sound of that. What if his lord was like the Black Knight? After all, the Black
Knight’s squire hadn’t been so bad. Maybe things could get worse than this?
“Lord Balian is
the best horseman I’ve ever seen. He taught the King to ride, even though he
can’t use his hands. You have no reason to fear Lord Balian.”
I continued to
look at him.
He started
stroking my back, massaging it really. It felt so good I sighed unconsciously
and he smiled at me. He worked his way down my spine, not pinching it like the
horse trader did, just massaging it with his long, strong fingers. Eventually,
he ran his fingers down the back of my legs too, and then he came back and
faced me.
We looked at one
another, and he slipped his hand under his surcoat and brought out a carrot. I
wanted that carrot and I reached out my head a little to show him I wanted it,
but then drew back afraid of him grabbing my head or hitting me. He held out
the carrot to me on the palm of his hand and let me eat it unmolested. Then we
looked at each other again. He brought out a second carrot. After the third one
I let him touch my face and lift my lips to judge my age. He even slipped his
fingers between my back and front teeth and tested now sensitive my jaw nerves
were. But he did it very gently and respectfully.
When he was
finished, he picked up the bucket, patted me on the withers and promised. “I’ll
be back.”
That was the
longest night of my life. The trader brought me no feed or water, but since I’d
had that bucket and it was now cooler, I got through the night. In the morning,
the trader came with water and food. Grumbling at me not to “muck up again,” he led
me out to the market square. I looked everywhere for the black man. But he
wasn’t there. The hours crawled by. The sun rose up the sky, getting hotter and
hotter. The crowds of people came and went. My hope started to die. I let me
head drop more and more.
The trader
started toward me and he was smiling broadly. He had a halter in his hand and
he fastened it around my neck before taking the halter holding me to the
railing off. It was only when he started to lead me away in the new halter that
I saw him. The black man was standing there smiling at me. He took the lead
from the trader and led me away.
Lord Balian and Centurion are characters in my three-part biography of Balian d'Ibelin staring with:
a leper king,
and the struggle for Jerusalem!
Knight of Jerusalem: A Biographical Novel of Balian d'Ibelin, Book I, is a B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree and finalist for the 2014 Chaucer Awards for Historical Fiction.
Buy Now!
A divided kingdom,
a united enemy,
and the struggle for Jerusalem!
Defender of Jerusalem: A Biographical Novel of Balian d'Ibelin
Book II
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or Kindle!
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