by Kevin Ashman
‘But why now?’ asked Garyn, ‘what made you succumb to temptation.’
‘It was not temptation for earthly riches,’ said the Monk, ‘but a need for spiritual salvation. I am getting old Garyn and the chill in my bones will soon demand the comforting wrap of a shroud. In my weakness I thought the return of the cross would grant absolution from my sins.’
‘But you are a Monk.’
‘I have done bad things in my time, Garyn and I feel that the few years I have spent in God’s service fall way short of guaranteeing me a place in heaven.’
‘Yet you returned.’
‘I did,’ said Brother Martin.
‘Why?’
‘I knew what I did was wrong, Garyn, yet I was overburdened with the responsibility for such a holy relic. I prayed to God, pleading that a burden as great as this cross is more than any man should bear.’
‘And did he answer?’
‘He did. I was asking for God’s guidance and the answer came to me. Our Lord, Jesus Christ carried this same piece of wood on the way to Calvary, not a mere sliver as lays in our hands but the whole cross. Yet he did not seek guidance or succour, he shouldered the burden and died so we may live. Who am I to question this spiritual burden when the Lord Christ has already led the way?’
Garyn stayed quiet for a moment, watching as the Monk stared quietly over the side of the gently rocking boat.
‘So what now?’ he asked eventually.
‘Now we return to this man’s village and buy a horse. With fortune we can be back within sight of Acre within days.’
‘And after that?’
‘There is no worth in planning beyond,’ said the Monk. ‘The options get smaller all the time. Get some sleep, Garyn, The village will take half a day to reach.’
The sailor threw Garyn a sheepskin cape and Garyn pulled it around him. Though he thought he would stay awake all night, within minutes he fell deep into an exhausted sleep.
----
‘Garyn, wake up.’
Garyn opened his eyes and saw the Monk standing above him.
‘We are at the village,’ said Brother Martin. ‘Our friend has gone ashore to buy a horse and we must make ready.’
An hour later both men were walking through the village to the high ground beyond. Finally they crested the ridge and the Monk turned to Garyn.
‘Mount up,’ he said, ‘the beast must carry us both.’
‘He is but skin and bones,’ said Garyn.
‘These animals are tougher than they seem and used to a life of toil, besides, it was all I could afford. We will ride hard but rest regularly.’
Within ten minutes they were riding across country but always heading south. For a day they made good ground but halfway through the second, it became obvious the horse wasn’t up to the strain and it collapsed through exhaustion. They cut away the saddle and encouraged it to stand before leading it to a nearby stream.
‘Its day is done, Garyn,’ said the Monk cutting the horse free of its harness. ‘From here we walk. With good fortune, tomorrow we will see the walls of Acre,’
‘And not a moment too soon,’ said Garyn.
The Monk looked at him, realising the boy’s skin was drawn tight over his flesh. His hair was a tangled mess and his face was gaunt through hunger and exposure to the sun.
‘No point in waiting further,’ said the Monk, ‘we should go.’
Again they started on their march, the rocky road playing havoc with their feet and soon their pace slowed as the rigours of the past few weeks caught up with them once more. They cut branches from a tree to use as sticks but the pain was almost unbearable.
‘I can’t go on,’ gasped Garyn collapsing onto a grassy bank. ‘I have nothing left to give.’
‘It’s not far, Garyn, just over that next hill.’
‘You have said that since yesterday,’ said Garyn. ‘I am serious, Brother Martin, I am spent.’
‘My words were meant as encouragement,’ said the Monk, ‘but I truly recognise the hill before us. The town is no more than a half day’s march.’
‘A half day that I cannot do,’ said Garyn.
The Monk started to speak again but fell silent as movement caught his eye. He raised his hand to block out the sun and his face fell as he recognised the sight on the trail behind them.
‘Garyn, get up,’ he said.
‘You are not listening to me,’ started Garyn.
‘Get up,’ shouted the Monk and grabbed the collar of the boy’s jerkin.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Garyn.
‘Look,’ said the Monk and pointed back the way they had come.
In the distance they could see a column of fully armoured Knights riding under the banner of Acre. Even as they watched, the column broke into a canter having obviously seen their quarry.
‘We are seen,’ shouted the Monk, ‘come on we must run.’
‘Where?’ shouted Garyn, ‘there is nowhere to go.’
‘Into the scrub,’ answered Brother Martin and dragged Garyn off the track. For several minutes they limped as fast as they could but finally realised there was nowhere else to go. Capture was inevitable.
The column bore down on them and the Monk’s heart fell when he saw the armour. The tabards were varied with each bearing a different coat of arms and while the flag bore the emblem of Acre, there was no standard bearing the cross of England.
‘Mercenaries,’ said the Monk, ‘no doubt in the pay of Sir John.’
‘Then it is over,’ said Garyn. ‘It has all been in vain.’
The Monk didn’t answer, just stared at the approaching column. Two of the Knights galloped forward and lowered their lances parallel to the ground. Brother Martin’s heart sank as he realised there would be no quarter These men had been tasked with their deaths and meant to carry it out with ruthless efficiency.
‘Make peace with God, Garyn,’ he said, ‘I fear our time is done.’
The horses galloped toward them but without warning, pulled up in a cloud of dust less than a hundred paces distant The men raised their lances once more, trying to control their mounts as the excited beasts strained to restart their charge.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Garyn, ‘why have they stopped?’
Before the Monk could answer, a dozen horses galloped past them from behind and spread out to face the mercenaries. A second wave came through, supporting the first and placed a fully armoured line between the Mercenaries and the two bedraggled fugitives. Both sides faced each other as Garyn and the Monk stared in disbelief.
‘Who are they?’ asked Garyn.
The Monk looked at the Surcoats of the newly arrived Knights and the matching flag attached to one of the lances.
‘A white cross on a black field,’ he said. ‘They are the Knights of St John of Jerusalem, the order of Hospitallers.’
‘But what are they doing?’
‘Open your eyes, Garyn, they are saving us from certain death.’
One of the Hospitallers pushed his horse forward and lifting the visor on his helmet, addressed the opposing line.
‘Who commands here?’ he demanded.
A Knight clad in full armour and red Surcoat rode forward to face him, his visor already lifted.
‘That honour is mine,’ he said, ‘Sir Bennett of Nottingham and I demand you clear our path Sire, this is no business of yours.’
‘What master do you ride for, Sir Bennett?’ asked the Hospitaller.
‘We are paid men of Sir John of Cambridge, Castellan of Acre and act on his authority.’
‘And is the killing of humble pilgrims now a task he embraces?’
‘These are no pilgrims, Sire but common thieves and they have in their possession something that belongs to my master.’
‘And how do you know this to be true?’
‘It is from the word of Sir John himself.’
‘If it is indeed true,’ said the Hospitaller, ‘since when are men summarily executed without trial. These peop
le are innocent until proven guilty by the laws of your own King Henry. If you are worthy of the title of Knight then you know this. Surely your code demands justice, not murder.’
‘I am no murderer Sire,’ said Sir Bennett, ‘I follow the commands of my betters. Your order has no jurisdiction here so I say again, get out of my way.’
‘On the contrary,’ Sir Bennett, ‘our order are sworn to protect the pilgrims and in my eyes these travellers are simply that. However, I will ask you this. What man holds chivalry so low that he will kill a weary man of God, of any faith?’
A murmur spread around the mercenaries as the message hit home. Killing a holy man was always bad luck, especially a Christian one.
‘Your point is well made, Sir Knight,’ said Sir Bennett, ‘and we will relinquish the custody of the older man to you. The boy however is a traitor and will feel our summary justice.’
‘Look at him,’ said the Hospitaller, ‘he is already half dead yet you, a fully trained Knight intend to run him through like a deer. Where is the honour in this?’
Silence fell again as the words sunk in and another mercenary rode forward to whisper in the ear of Sir Bennett.
‘There is a solution,’ said Sir Bennett a moment later. ‘You will keep the old man but the boy will fight for his name.’
‘To face a Knight is no fair contest,’ said the Hospitaller.
‘I agree,’ said Sir Bennett, ‘so he will fight an untrained man of similar age.’ He turned to face the main body of men at his back. ‘Bring him forward,’ he said. A few moments later a smaller horse appeared, ridden by a much younger man.
‘Strip to your breeches,’ ordered the Knight. ‘You have an opportunity to gain honour before those you aspire to be.’
The young man dismounted and faced away as he removed his chainmail and undershirt. Finally stripped to the waist, he turned around and faced the Hospitallers. Garyn looked at him and his mouth fell open in shock. It was Squire Dafydd.
‘I understand these boys travelled together from England,’ said Sir Bennett. ‘They trained as comrades and found equal skills. You asked where is the honour, so I say this. Fair contest between two equals is honourable and the outcome just.’
‘But our man is exhausted?’ shouted Brother Martin.
‘That is not my problem,’ roared Sir Bennett.’ He chose to be a brigand and will now bear the consequences. It is a fair fight.’
Garyn stepped forward and faced his friend in silence.
‘Why did you do it, Garyn?’ asked Dafydd. ‘Why have you turned your back on Cadwallader after all that he did for you?’
‘I only ever asked for passage, Dafydd. My quest was always the release of my brother. I made no secret of that.’
‘But he fed and trained you on the journey.’
‘And in return he had my sword arm if it was called on. There is no debt.’ He paused before continuing. ‘And what of you, Dafydd, How do you ride with mercenaries instead of under Cadwallader’s banner?’
‘Cadwallader was summoned to support Longshanks while I had a fever so left me behind. I was left in Acre, nothing more than a Page so begged Sir John for service. When news came that two wanted men were in the area he relented and appointed me Squire to Sir Bennett. I had no idea it was you we sought.’
‘And now we are to fight?’ said Garyn.
‘It would seem so.’
Two Knives fell in the dirt before them, thrown by one of the mercenaries. For a second they stared at the blades at their feet.
‘I will not fight you, Dafydd,’ said Garyn.
‘You have to,’ said Dafydd, ‘there is no other choice.’
‘I can just refuse.’
‘You can, but you will then be hung as a thief. At least this way you have a chance.’
‘I am weak, Dafydd. Even when strong I struggled against you. What chance do I have?’
‘Perhaps none,’ said Dafydd, ‘but I will do it quickly. Better to die on a blade than on the end of a rope.’
Garyn paused before bending forward to pick up the knives.
‘Then let it be done,’ he said and handed one knife to Dafydd.
----
‘Let there be fair contest,’ shouted Sir Bennett,’ a fight to the death with no quarter shown and no intervention.’
Both young men backed away, each holding their knives lightly in their hands as they had done countless times in training.
‘Begin,’ shouted the Knight and they both stepped forward, each staring into his opponent’s eyes, hoping to see evidence of any sudden move.
Dafydd lunged forward but his arm was swatted away by Garyn before responding with a lunge of his own. Warily they circled each other until Garyn took the initiative and ran forward swinging his knife wildly. Dafydd stepped back, easily avoiding the blade without effort. Again Garyn attacked and this time Dafydd tripped him up to sprawl in the dust.
‘Stand up,’ said Dafydd, ‘and be the man I trained with.’
Garyn struggled to his feet. The wound had reopened on his head and blood ran down his face.
Over and over again Garyn stepped into the attack, each time being easily eluded by his opponent. Dafydd’s eyes narrowed in concern as he realised the depths of his friend’s exhaustion and wasted little energy in avoiding Garyn’s attacks.
‘Get on with it,’ shouted Sir Bennett, frustrated at the poor quality of the fight.
Garyn stumbled forward again but once more Dafydd stepped aside avoiding the clumsy lunge and Garyn fell once more.
‘Finish him,’ said Sir Bennett.
‘Sire,’ answered Dafydd, ‘he is exhausted and proves no contest.’
‘I said finish him,’ ordered the Knight and threw a lance at Dafydd’s feet.
The squire picked up the lance and rested the point against his friend’s throat.
Garyn looked up at him.
‘Do as he says, Dafydd,’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘You are honour bound as a Squire to obey any Knight.’
Dafydd adjusted his grip but still hesitated.
‘Squire Dafydd,’ said Sir Bennett loudly. ‘Your hesitation is admirable for the man is unarmed. However, you won in fair contest and he is but a brigand. Honour is served and his life is yours. Be the man you want to be and make the kill. Do this and I will petition Sir John to advance your journey to Knighthood.’
Dafydd swallowed hard as the Knight’s words sunk in. One thrust and at the very least, he would be one step closer to gaining his spurs. Again he altered his grip and Garyn closed his eyes as the lance point cut into his skin.
‘Do it,’ shouted Sir Bennett but instead of piercing Garyn’s throat, Dafydd lifted the lance and turned to face the Knight.
‘No Sire,’ he said, ‘I will not. He is wounded and in need of aid. Yes I crave Knighthood but will not seek it out with the murder of innocents.’
‘You will do as I order,’ shouted the Knight, ‘or spend the rest of your days in the Accursed Tower along with this boy’s traitor brother.’
‘I will not do it, Sire,’ said Dafydd, ‘and trust God to deliver whatever justice he sees fit.’ He stepped forward and handed the lance back to the Knight
Sir Bennett stared in hatred at the young man and without warning, swung the lance to smash the haft across Dafydd’s unprotected face, sending him sprawling in the dirt. The Hospitallers rode forward a few paces in a defensive manoeuvre but again Sir Bennett cried out.
‘Remove your men, Sir Knight,’ he said, ‘for again I say this. You have no jurisdiction here and I will have my quarry even if it costs the blood of Christian Knights.’
‘Not one step backward, Brothers,’ shouted the Hospitaller to his men.
Brother Martin thought furiously, realising the seriousness of the situation. There was only one way to stop the bloodshed that was seconds away.
‘Garyn,’ he shouted, ‘claim sanctuary.’
The boy looked at him in confusion.
‘I don’t understand,’ he sai
d.
‘Curb your tongue, Monk,’ said Bennett, 'your calling may allow such trickery but the boy is no priest and is subject to the law of the King.’
‘Garyn,’ said the Monk, ignoring Bennett, ‘listen to me. If there is proven religious cause to claim sanctuary, every Knight is honour bound to grant the plea. He threw Garyn’s leather bag over to land before him. Do what you need to do.’
Garyn looked at the bag and realisation dawned. Within the bag was the relic and the possessor would surely granted the sanctity of religious protection. For a second he hesitated for he knew once the cross became public knowledge, then the one lever he had to free his brother would be lost.
‘But my brother…’ he started.
‘If you die then he has no chance at all,’ said the Monk. ‘At least this way you will live and we will all have a chance.’
‘What chance?’ cried Garyn, ‘I am a commoner in a strange land. What voice do I have?’
‘We can petition Cadwallader,’ said the Monk, ‘or even Longshanks himself. We will do everything we can but you have to live. If you die here in this place, then it is over and your brother will die with you. For his sake, do what you have to do.’
Garyn looked back at the bag at his feet. He was tired and in pain. All he wanted was for all this to end but he knew in similar circumstances, his brother would not give up. Slowly his hand crept under the flap of the bag and his fingers clasped the cross.
‘What trickery is this?’ demanded Sir Bennet, ‘we have waited long enough. Men at arms, arrest this boy in the name of the King.’
Garyn withdrew the artefact and slowly held it up, gleaming in the sun.
‘Sanctuary,’ he gasped weakly, ‘in the name of Jesus Christ our lord I seek the sanctuary of the church.’
----
The two opposing forces gasped in astonishment and the horses milled around as confusion reigned
‘Sacrilege,’ shouted Sir Bennet, ‘the order stands. Arrest him.’
Immediately the Hospitallers lines stepped forward again and their lances lowered toward the Mercenaries.
‘It looks like the circumstances have changed, Sir Bennett,’ said the Hospitaller Knight. ‘Our code demands we honour this request. These men now fall under my responsibility and we will defend them to the death.’