Keeper of the Grail Page 9

“You have a good heart, Tristan. I could tell it bothered you. It should. It was horrible,” he said.

  “So why do we fight, then, if it is such a terrible thing?” I asked.

  “That’s a good question, Tristan. A warrior, a true warrior, must always ask if his cause is just. The taking of another’s life is not a trifle. You fight because you must. There can be no other option,” he said.

  “But sire, why do we fight here?” I asked. “What is wrong with talking and sorting out our differences?”

  “The fighting usually starts when the talking ends. It lasts until men grow weary of the fighting and seek to talk again. Then the fighting stops…for a while. But in the end there is always more fighting. It is what men do. It has always been this way. So if we fight, we must choose why we fight. Then we fight with honor. It is the only way. It will take time, and I’m afraid you may see many more horrible things before you do, but you will understand eventually,” he said.

  I was still confused, but as I worked things out in my mind, I kept seeing certain images over and over. It was the sight of Sir Thomas after the battle giving water to a fallen enemy. I thought of Sir Basil carrying a wounded man from the field. I remembered the Templar physicians treating both sick Christian and Muslim children in the city. If I was going to fight, I would fight nobly and with honor, like Sir Thomas and his comrades.

  For weeks, we worked long, hard hours, rising before the sun came up and falling dead tired into our beds at night. One morning there was word that King Richard and his guards would be leaving the next day. He would ride east to inspect his forces in Tyre, another coastal city. The King desperately wanted to take the Crusaders who were waiting in Tyre and press toward Jerusalem in the south, not be cooped up in Acre if the Saladin’s armies returned and surrounded the city.

  I was working in the stable when word came that Sir Thomas wished to see me. I found him in the main room of the Knights’ Hall, seated at one of the long tables with Sir Basil.

  “Ah, Tristan, there you are,” he said.

  “Yes, sire. You wished to see me?”

  “Yes, I did. You have no doubt heard that King Richard will be departing shortly?” he asked.

  “Yes, sire,” I said.

  Reaching into his tunic he removed a letter and handed it to me. It was thick and felt as if it had something inside it other than just sheets of parchment. It was sealed with Sir Thomas’ mark in wax.

  “I need you to take this letter to one of the King’s Guards. He will be somewhere in the Crusaders’ Palace. His name is Gaston. A rather burly fellow. Brown hair. Give the letter to him, and only him. It is for the Master of the Order in London, and Gaston will see that it gets to him safely. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sire. Gaston of the King’s Guards,” I repeated.

  “Excellent. Now off with you,” he said.

  I left the Knights’ Hall and in a few minutes reached the Crusaders’ Palace. Asking around, I was told that Gaston might be found in the stables below the palace. Finding my way there, I walked toward a large open doorway that led inside. The stables were quiet and nearly deserted, save for a solitary guard who sat on a barrel in front of one of the stalls, sharpening a small dagger with a stone. At my approach he stood, sheathing the dagger, and rested his forearm on the hilt of his sword.

  His casual stance jogged something in my memory.

  It was possible I had seen him here in Acre, passing by the barracks or perhaps on duty outside the King’s quarters. But he seemed more familiar than that. As I drew closer, it came to me. I had seen him before. Not here in Acre, but before that, in the streets of Dover.

  On the day I had been followed as I led Dauntless to Little John’s smithy, this man was the guard who entered the tavern and, I was willing to wager, sent the two drunks after me. What’s more, I saw in his face that he recognized me as well, though he tried not to show it.

  “Do I know you?” I asked.

  The guard shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. State your business.”

  “I’m looking for someone. I was told he’d be here,” I said.

  He shrugged. Then he stared off over my shoulder.

  “Have you ever been to Dover?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. But he fidgeted nervously.

  “You followed me a few months ago. You stood outside the Whistling Pig Tavern and watched while two drunks tried to beat me and steal my knight’s horse,” I said.

  The man looked down at the ground, then up at the ceiling—everywhere but at my face.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been posted in Dover in years. You shouldn’t be making such rash accusations, boy,” he said, finally looking at me. His tone had changed, full of menace now. “I would learn to keep my mouth shut if I were you, squire. Now, run along.”

  “I want to know why you—” But I couldn’t get the words out, because before I knew it he had pushed me roughly to the ground. I sprawled in the dirt, stunned, and watched his hand move back to the hilt of his sword.

  “I have no time for this, boy. Leave. Before I teach you a lesson in manners you’ll not soon forget.” He glared down at me. I stood up, never taking my eyes off him.

  “You’ll answer for this,” I said. “Sir Thomas and the Templars will—”

  He moved to pull the sword, but not quickly, believing that he could easily frighten me. I was faster. I grabbed his arm and held on to it with all my strength. I pushed him back against the door to the stall, pinning him in place.

  “You fool!” he said as he struggled. “Attacking a King’s Guard? You’ll be hanged!”

  “Perhaps, but not before you give me some answers. Why did you follow me that day? Why did you send those men after me?!”

  The man said nothing, only attempted to free his arm from my grip. Just as he was about to break loose, someone spoke from behind us.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Before I could turn, I saw the guard’s eyes widen in fear. Though I had heard it up close only a few times, I recognized the voice. I released my grip on the guard and spun around. The Lionheart stood before me. He had a small squad of guards with him, two of whom had drawn their swords and now pointed them at me. He was dressed to ride, wearing his red tunic with the golden lions emblazoned on his chest, leather riding pants and knee-high boots. A large sword hung at his belt, and he held a helmet under his arm.

  I was in trouble if I did not act carefully.

  “Your highness,” I said, bowing.

  King Richard stared at me and a slow look of recognition came over his face.

  “You are that boy, Thomas Leux’s squire?” he asked.

  “Yes, your majesty,” I said.

  “You came to my aid on the battlefield,” he said. It was not a question, more a statement of fact.

  I shrugged.

  “Why are you assaulting one of my guards?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid it was a misunderstanding. I was looking for someone. Sir Thomas sent me with a message for one of your men. This man and I got into an argument—”

  The King waved his hand and his two guards sheathed their weapons.

  “I take offense at those who would attack my men,” he said. “I could have you hanged.”

  Something told me to be bold. For some reason, being in my presence made the King uneasy. Still, he was the monarch. He could end my life with a word. But I felt he would respect me more if I showed no fear.

  “You could, sire,” I said. “My apologies.” I bowed again slightly, but held his gaze.

  He eyes bored into me again, much as they had that night in the castle at Dover. I tried not to act nervous or afraid, but I was in over my head, and his stare began to make me uncomfortable. It was almost like he was trying to decide: Should I kill this boy? Or knight him?

  “I owe a great debt to Sir Thomas, and since you intervened on my behalf in battle, I will overlook this offense. Do not let it happen again. Never threaten one of my men. Underst
ood?”

  “Yes, your majesty,” I said, bowing again.

  “Who is it you seek?” he asked.

  I told him that I had a message for a guard named Gaston. King Richard barked a command and one of the guards stepped forward. The King brushed past me into the stables, and the rest of his squad followed as they readied their mounts to depart.

  I stared after the man I’d just tussled with, but he ignored me as he went to the stall where his horse was quartered and began adjusting the saddle.

  Gaston stood before me, a dour-looking fellow, but he matched the description Sir Thomas had given me.

  “Sir Thomas asked me to give this to you,” I said, handing him the letter. “It is for the Master of the Order. Can you see it safely to London?”

  “Of course. I know Sir Thomas well. After I ride with the King to Tyre, I’ll be posted back to England. I’ll make sure the letter reaches the Master,” Gaston replied.

  I thought it best to get away from the King as soon as possible so I quickly left the palace grounds. I walked across the city square, climbing up on the parapets over the main gate. A few moments later the King and his guards departed the city to the east. I watched as the Lionheart rode out surrounded by his men, back astride his pure white warhorse. I kept my eyes on them until they disappeared from sight on the eastern horizon.

  My duty done, I left the parapet intending to return to the Knights’ Hall, where I still had unfinished work. As I made my way through the busy streets, I could suddenly hear them far off in the distance. The sound of Saracen trumpets.

  The Saladin was coming.

  15

  The Saladin returned to Acre with a vengeance. The trumpets first sounded that morning, and his forces had encircled the city by nightfall. Atop the walls we watched his army deploy in wave after wave. I couldn’t even begin to count the number of battle flags and had no idea how many men he had brought to bear on Acre, but it easily numbered in the thousands.

  When we had taken Acre, the port had been reopened and supply ships from Cyprus and other points east had arrived almost daily. We had been able to build up all the stores and had dug numerous new wells. Now we were garrisoned in a fortress city, well supplied with food and water, but I felt a mild sense of panic as I watched the Saracens surround us. How would we defeat such a large force, cooped up as we were with no room to maneuver or counterattack?

  Sir Thomas pointed to a large tent that was pitched on a rise to the east several hundred yards away, out of range of our ballistae and siege engines.

  “That is the Saladin’s command tent. He’ll be directing the siege himself,” Sir Thomas said. I kept watch on the tent whenever there was a spare moment but could not tell if one of the tiny figures I saw moving about was the Saladin.

  “Sire, surrounded like this, locked in, what will we do?” I asked, unable to keep the nervousness and fear from creeping into my voice.

  “We fight. We never stop fighting, Tristan. Rest easy, lad. We’re well dug in here. Acre will not be an easy plum for the Saladin to pick,” Sir Thomas said.

  “Yes, sire,” I said. Sir Thomas smiled and left the parapet, no doubt needing to confer with the other knights to begin planning the defense of the city. I continued watching as the forces below us filed forward, pitching their campaign tents and beginning their preparations for battle. Though I desperately wanted to believe Sir Thomas, I found it hard to share his confidence.

  The first attack did not come until three days later. The Saladin began with a flurry of flaming arrows shot over the city walls in an attempt to set fire to the buildings inside. Because most of the structures were made of stone, this had little effect. A few wagons hit by stray arrows caught fire, but there was minimal damage. We returned fire with our own siege engines, hurling boulders and pots of flaming pitch at their lines. A few tents caught fire, but I don’t believe any Saracens were seriously injured.

  For the next two weeks, it became a game of feint, thrust and retreat between our fighters inside the city and the Saracens outside the walls. They probed and prodded our defenses, searching for a weakness. I was grateful Sir Thomas had been so diligent in preparing the city for the Saladin’s return. He tried to keep things normal, insisting that we squires continue our training with the sword and making sure that we kept all the knights’ equipment in fighting shape.

  Some knights thought that perhaps the Saladin intended to try to starve us out. That he was content to wait until our garrison had run out of supplies. But other knights disagreed, believing that the Saladin was waiting for even more reinforcements to arrive. Then he would throw his men against the walls until we were overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers. Though we were hard to get at inside the city, the Saladin’s army was now more than three times the size of the fighting force inside Acre.

  As the days passed, Sir Thomas never let up in his furious level of activity. He walked among the battlements atop the wall, encouraging the men who stood guard. From immediately after morning mass to well after evening prayers Sir Thomas could be found inspecting the parapets or drilling the archers and men-at-arms. He never stopped moving, thinking or planning.

  Sir Hugh, on the other hand, was hardly seen at all once the Saladin had arrived. After days of waiting for something significant to happen, Quincy and I stood one morning atop the eastern wall of the city watching the activity of the forces on the plains below, discussing where Sir Hugh might have disappeared to.

  “He’s slithered away like the worm he is,” Quincy said. And he suddenly dropped to the ground, flopping about.

  “Sir Hugh is the regimental worm!” he said, laughing. “He’s found himself a pile of dung to dig through and…”

  I began to laugh as well, but was startled by a hand upon my shoulder and turned to see Sir Thomas standing behind me. Quincy heard my gasp and jumped to his feet, embarrassed to be caught fooling around. He nervously brushed the dust from his tunic.

  “Quincy, are you ill?” he asked.

  “No, sire, I feel fine,” Quincy replied.

  “Hmm. With your flopping around like that, I thought perhaps you might have caught some sort of fever,” he said.

  Quincy looked stricken, unable to tell from Sir Thomas’ expression whether or not he was in serious trouble.

  I tried to save him.

  “Um. Sire. Well. Quincy was explaining to me, uh…about a new method of sword fighting…,” I stammered.

  Sir Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Sword fighting? Really? A new technique that requires one to rest on one’s back, squirming in the dirt?”

  “Yes, sire, yes, you see, we saw one of the King’s Guards demonstrating it a few weeks ago. Apparently it originated in Spain. If you stumble or fall during battle, you’re still able to defend yourself from the ground. And Quincy was demonstrating…”

  Sir Thomas interrupted me. “Yes, well, I admire your initiative in studying a new technique,” he said. “However, I think there is perhaps more important work to be done. If you have no duties to attend to, I can perhaps ask the Master Sergeanto to…”

  “No need, sire,” I interrupted. “We were just preparing to leave for the stable to tend the horses. And after that I’ll be polishing your chain mail, sire, polishing it to a high sheen. Yes, sire. We wouldn’t want the ocean air to cause rust.”

  “Very well…”

  Before Sir Thomas could finish, a shout went up from the Saladin’s lines. It was after their morning prayers, and from down below we began to hear chants of “Allah Akhbar.” Sir Thomas stepped quickly to the edge of the parapet, his eyes sweeping the field.

  “Tristan, step quickly to the Knights’ Hall and bring my sword and mail. Quincy, find Sir Basil and have him alert the other knights. Hurry!”

  “Sir Thomas, what is happening?” I asked.

  “They are preparing to attack, Tristan. Any moment now. Be quick and fetch my equipment. Now go!”

  As Quincy and I rushed down the steps, I could hear Sir Thomas shoutin
g commands and instructions to the men-at-arms and sounding the call to arms. The urgency in Sir Thomas’ voice told me that this was something different, unlike the attacks we’d faced so far. My stomach lurched, and I was reminded of how I’d felt riding into that first battle so many weeks ago. I began to feel light-headed as I ran, and it became difficult to raise and lower my feet, as if the ground had turned to mud. I tried to push the nervousness down and focus on my duties, but images of the carnage in the valley flashed through my mind, and I felt myself growing afraid. I tried to pray but found myself unable to.

  In a few moments what had been a relatively quiet morning inside the city became a whirlwind of activity. Quincy left me on the run to locate Sir Basil as I raced through the streets to the Knights’ Hall, where I retrieved Sir Thomas’ gear.

  I retraced my steps and found Sir Thomas on the parapet shouting out orders. Peering over at the Saladin’s army I saw a flurry of activity out on the plains. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, and for a moment I felt that I was outside my body looking down on the city and the field below as the warriors on each side scurried about in their chaotic dance. A shout in the distance brought me back into focus, and I watched a series of large scaling ladders being moved from the rear toward the Saracens’ front lines.

  Sir Thomas took the chain mail and sword from me as the parapet around us became crowded with men and equipment, and before long, the cries of the army below and those of our own forces had created a fearsome din. With a mighty shout, the Saladin’s lines surged forward, the Saracens charging across the ground. At the same time, their archers released a fusillade of thousands of arrows high into the sky, aiming to drop them on top of us. Forcing us to take cover would also let their troops advance unhindered to the base of our walls.

  I dropped to my knees, huddling close to the parapet, trying to make myself as small as possible. The arrows whizzed through the air, one striking the ground not three feet from me. I tried hard to ignore the screams and cries as some found their targets.

  An order was given to return fire, and from all around, our archers stood and fired at the surge of men rushing toward us from below. I looked up to see another raft of arrows coming at us from the Saladin’s rear guard. It became impossible to keep an eye on everything. Down below, the Saracens had nearly reached the base of the wall, although our archers were making them pay with every step they took.