Trail of Fate

by Michael P. Spradlin

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  THE SOUTHERN COAST OF FRANCE - OCTOBER 1191

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  IN THE SOUTHERN PYRENEES

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  MONTSÉGUR - LATE OCTOBER 1191

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  CALAIS, FRANCE - DECEMBER 1191

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  THE QUEST CONTINUES. . . .

  The soldier closest to me caught me looking behind him and looked back to find Maryam leading the family away. He cursed and his companion immediately took off toward them.

  “Maryam! Look out!” I shouted.

  She looked back to see the soldier closing fast.

  As the soldier approached, she ululated in her horrible Hashshashin war cry and drew her daggers, waiting for his charge as he came at her, sword high.

  The other soldier raised his sword and charged me. I quickly darted between the buildings and raced around the far corner, with him fast behind me. I wanted him to chase me, for I was afraid if I stood and fought, he could easily defeat me before the woman and her children could hide. I ran quickly around the building and tried to circle back on him.

  I waited. Then a shadow fell across the ground, coming slowly toward the corner. When it was close enough, I jumped out, swinging with all my might.

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  The Youngest Templar: Keeper of the Grail Michael P. Spradlin

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2009

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2010

  Copyright © Michael Spradlin, 2009 Map illustration © Mike Reagan, 2008 All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Spradlin, Michael P.

  Trail of fate / by Michael P. Spradlin ; [map illustration by Mike Reagan].

  p. cm.—(The youngest Templar ; bk. 2)

  Summary: In the Middle Ages, young squire Tristan of the Knights Templar, King’s Archer Robard, and Muslim assassin Maryam work together to protect the Holy Grail as they travel across France toward England, a journey that takes them to the Cathar fortress of Montségur.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-49487-5

  [ 1. Knights and knighthood—Fiction. 2. Grail—Fiction. 3. Albigenses—Fiction. 4. Middle Ages—Fiction. 5. France—History—Philip II Augustus, 1180-1223—Fiction.]

  I. Title

  PZ7.S7645Tr 2009

  [Fic]—dc22 2008052888

  Text set in Centaur MT.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is for the boys, Tyler Quinn, Kevin Quinn, Christian Mackey, Alex Mackey, Brent Marin, Scott Marin, and Nathan Mackey. They are gifts to us all.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, I find myself overwhelmed by the support, hard work and dedication so many people have given to this book. It truly is a collaborative effort, and I’m very lucky to have such a tremendous number of resources to draw from.

  Thanks to my agent, Steven Chudney, for always keeping me on track. Thanks to my editor Timothy Travaglini and the rest of the brilliant Penguin team: Nancy Paulsen, Erin Dempsey, Lisa DeGroff, Courtney Wood, Jillian Laks, Scottie Bowditch, RasShahn Johnson-Baker, Kim Lauber, Shauna Fay and Jessica Kaufman. And I definitely can’t forget my sales guys: Mary-Margaret Callahan, Allan Winebarger, Holly Ruck, Jackie Engel, Ev Taylor, John Dennany, Biff Donovan, Sheila Hennesey, Doni Kay, Todd Jones, Nicole White, Alex Genis, Colleen Conway, Jill Bailey, Steve Kent, Nicole Davies, Annie Hurwitz, Mary Raymond, Donna Peterson and Jana Fruh. I, more than anyone, know how important you all are to the success of any book. I’m a lucky author to have mine in your hands.

  Thanks again to Christopher Moore and Meg Cabot for being unbelievably kind. My appreciation also goes to Stephen Dafoe for his support and encouragement. My colleagues Elise Howard, Lisa Gallagher, Liate Stehlik, Carrie Kania, Mike Brennan, Josh Marwell, Brian Murray and Carla Parker, I couldn’t do it without you, and I wouldn’t want to try.

  Thanks to my wife, Kelly, for doing everything. All the time. Without fail. My son, Mick, of whom I couldn’t be prouder, and my daughter, Rachel, who is an inspiration to everyone who meets her for even five seconds. Thanks to my mom, Vi Spradlin, for mom-type support, and my sisters, Regina and Connie, for sister-type encouragement. I love you all so much.

  PROLOGUE

  The room was full of bright light with a glare so intense that I closed my eyes. A long table draped in a pure white linen cloth sat in the middle of the room. In the center of the table sat the Grail. It was out of my reach, and having it so far away made me nervous.

  Sir Thomas sat quietly at the far end of the table, dressed in his familiar white tunic with a bright red cross across his chest. Smiling, he bade me to sit in a chair next to me. I sat.

  Sir Thomas spoke. “You’ve done well, lad.”

  I snorted.

  “Sire, I have failed. Completely. I did what you asked. I made it safely to Tyre and found a ship, but a storm rose up, and now I have drowned and the Grail is lost with me,” I said, bowing my head, ashamed to have disappointed him.

  “Tristan?”

  I looked up.

  “You’ve not failed me. The Grail is safe, as you can see,” he said.

  Glancing at the chalice on the table, I shook my head, knowing I should not be in this room. I was drowning in the sea, and the Grail woul
d perish with me. How could Sir Thomas say I had not failed? The only thing worse would have been for Sir Hugh to have taken it from me.

  “Sir Thomas, I have no idea how I came to be here, but this is not right. The Grail has sunk to the bottom of the sea, and me with it. I am sorry, sire. Very truly sorry.”

  He smiled and the white light of the room surrounded him. I heard a familiar humming sound, but now, instead of coming from the Grail, the noise surrounded me from all directions.

  “Do not worry, lad,” Sir Thomas said. “You are safe. The Grail is safe.”

  “Sire . . . ,” I replied, but Sir Thomas was no longer there, just the light and the sound.

  My chair was gone and I was standing again, the Grail still in the center of the table. I grasped at it, but it remained out of reach. Sir Thomas now appeared beside me, holding a bucket of water in his hands. He said nothing, but dumped the bucket over my head, causing me to choke and sputter.

  “Sir Thomas . . . what . . . ,” but he was gone again.

  The room shifted and I was thrown to the floor. Sir Thomas stood above me with another bucket of water. This time he threw it directly in my face and I swallowed a great deal of it. It tasted salty. When I looked up again, Sir Thomas was gone.

  What had happened to me? Why didn’t he help me? I needed to reach the Grail and he was interfering. Was this some kind of test? Had I failed again?

  I struggled to my feet, but the room was unsteady, as if some giant had picked it up and delighted in shaking it about. I lurched across the floor and crashed into the table. The Grail wobbled back and forth. Oh no.

  In vain I tried to clamor forward. If I could reach it, I would secure it in my satchel where it would be safe until I figured a way out of this room. Then I would find the giant shaking it and slay it with my sword.

  As suddenly as it started, the room ceased its tossing about. Sir Thomas was back, this time holding the Grail out to me.

  “Good luck, Tristan,” he said. I took the cup in my hands, clutching it to my chest.

  He was gone. The room was gone. Only the bright white light remained.

  What had become of me?

  THE SOUTHERN COAST OF FRANCE

  OCTOBER 1191

  1

  A wall of ocean pushed me beneath the surface. I fought my way up into the air as the water rose and twisted violently, and tried to remember where I was. The tossing of the ship had swept me into the sea. I had no idea how long I’d been in the water but recalled seeing the broken mast come hurtling toward me. But I could remember nothing else. Over the sound of the wind I thought I heard Robard screaming, but it sounded faint and far away. Also, I tasted blood in my mouth.

  The moon was completely obscured by the storm clouds. It was so dark that I couldn’t see anything. As I came to my senses, I was completely disoriented by the sensation of the angry sea rising and falling. I could not tell up from down. I only knew I was wet. And frankly, a little tired of it all.

  Bursting through the water’s surface, I sucked in fresh air and felt for the satchel around my neck and shoulder, relieved to find it still there. The rushing sound of water behind me rose again, and I hollered out a curse. But the water was on me now, and I dipped violently in the trough before the wave threw me into the air. I hit the water on my back with a smack, and the breath was pushed from my lungs.

  Another wave carried me up and then dashed me down again, and I collided with something hard. At first I thought it was a rock, but when the wave subsided, my feet touched the sea bottom. More waves crashed into me, but when they returned to the sea, I could stand. I didn’t know which way to turn in the darkness with the howling wind and rain pelting my face. But then, as if God wanted to give me a fighting chance (or else keep me alive a bit longer to further torment me later), a flash of lightning flickered across the sky, and in a brief instant I saw land ahead of me: a shoreline, with trees and rocks in the distance.

  Shouting in glee, I scrambled in the direction the lightning had shown me, the water growing shallower with each step, and before long it reached only my waist, then knees. With every last ounce of strength I splashed forward until the sand was under me, and I collapsed to the ground.

  I woke to the taste of sand. It was salty and gritty, and light was coming from somewhere. Where were Robard and Maryam and the dog? Why couldn’t I see them? But then I couldn’t really see well at all, as my eyes were full of sand. I blinked to clear them and only partially succeeded.

  It was relaxing to lie so peacefully, but I made the mistake of trying to lift my head, and the world spun away from me. I sank into unconsciousness.

  When I came to again, I was no longer moving, but was still very wet.

  Opening my right eye, I wiggled my fingers, delighted to see that they worked. I’m not sure how much more time passed before I tried to move additional body parts. I clenched a fist. No pain.

  Sore everywhere, I drove my fist into the sand, lifting myself up on one arm. It was daytime now, and the sun was high in the sky, so it must have been nearly noon. There was a line of trees about two hundred yards farther inland.

  Pushing myself up to my hands and knees, I winced when pain shot through my left knee. I had a vague recollection of hitting it on something the night before while thrashing about in the waves. My right elbow also throbbed, but didn’t feel broken. When the dizziness passed, I finally stood.

  My back wouldn’t straighten all the way, and I wondered if my ribs were broken. I looked at the now calm sea. There was no indication of the fury it had unleashed on me the previous night.

  Looking up and down the beach, I could see only a league or so in each direction before the shoreline bent out of sight.

  “Robard! Maryam!” I shouted, but no one answered. Only the squawk of a few shorebirds disturbed the quiet.

  “Captain Denby!”

  “Little Dog!” Nothing. No answering bark.

  With every intention of walking along the beach, I stumbled to the ground after a few steps, too tired to go any farther. Dropping on the sand, I quickly fell asleep.

  When I woke, there were six people standing around me. Two of them were young women, four were men. Each held a horse by the reins.

  All of them were pointing swords at me.

  2

  They stood silently, swords in hand, studying me intently. I was unbelievably sore, but tried to make a quick assessment of my situation. Lying on my back, Sir Thomas’ battle sword dug into my spine. Good; I hadn’t lost it. The satchel was still around my shoulder. I could also feel my belt and the weight of my short sword. I had fought Mother Nature and clearly lost, but I was lucky I wasn’t injured more seriously.

  Of course, it wasn’t “lucky” to be surrounded by sword-wielding strangers. I tried to rise, but a stern look from the woman holding her sword against my neck persuaded me to lie back down.

  After a while, the silence became uncomfortable.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Nothing: only more stern looks and sword pointing.

  “Nice day. You wouldn’t happen to know exactly where we are, would you? I’m very lost.”

  The young woman who held her sword closest to my neck said something in a language I recognized. French. Brother Rupert was from France and had taught me to speak it a little. By no means was I fluent, but I should be able to communicate. Then I wondered if I was actually in France, or had washed ashore somewhere else and these French travelers had happened across me.

  The others sheathed their swords, but she kept hers out. Not as close to my neck but still at the ready if needed.

  “Je m’appelle Tristan,” I said. I am called Tristan.

  “I speak English,” she said with just a hint of an accent. “Who are you?”

  “Am I in France?” I asked, ignoring her question, compelled to find out where I was.

  Sword woman nodded.

  “My name is Tristan of St. Alban’s. I was attached to a Templar regimento in Outremer, but I am . .
. was on my way back to England. Our ship was lost in the storm, and I washed up on this shore. You speak French. Am I in France?” I asked again.

  She paused before speaking but nodded. Then she and her companions began an intense conversation that went far too fast for me to understand. I could pick out only a few words here and there, but the tone was heated, and from what I could gather, the others would be happy to kill me or leave me behind and ride on. So I concentrated on the girl with the sword.

  I looked past the weapon to her face and realized she was quite beautiful. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders and was pulled back with a headband. Her eyes were a fierce light blue, and her skin was tanned. She had an air of leadership about her, and there was a determined set to her expression. My immediate fate rested in her hands. She looked about my age, and though the rest of her party was older, she was definitely the one in charge.

  “A Templar regimento, you say?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We have no love for the Templars, servants of their cowardly Pope,” she said. One of her companions, an extremely large and angry-looking man, spat on the ground at the word Templar, reminding me of Robard whenever Richard the Lionheart’s name was mentioned.

  Drat. I silently cursed my big mouth.

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m only a squire, and have never even met the Pope, so I’m not one to judge his level of bravery,” I said.

  For a brief instant a very slight smile flashed across her face. The second young woman spoke quietly to the men, and when she did, they cursed and shook their swords excitedly in my direction.

  “Yes, well, I can assure you of his cowardice,” she said.

  I nodded in agreement. No need to try to debate the angry young Frenchwoman.