“Problems? What kind of problems?” I asked.
“Oh, the usual: storms, pirates, attacks by enemy fleets. Sea monsters have been known to slow us down occasionally,” he said.
Pirates? Storms? Sea monsters? No one had spoken of these things before we left. Why had no one told me this?
Sir Thomas chuckled when he saw the look that crossed my face. “Rest easy, lad. We’ll be fine,” he said.
But I wasn’t listening, as I was still considering pirates and sea monsters.
“Here it is, Tristan. Watch.”
By then our ship had hoisted sail and cleared the harbor. Looking where Sir Thomas pointed, I could see the white cliffs of Dover behind us. I’d never before viewed anything so beautiful in my life. The chalk-white cliffs were bathed in the soft light of the sun. Rising up out of the ocean with no warning, it was as if God had reached down from heaven to pull the cleanest and purest part of the earth out of the ground for all to see. They towered over the city like a heavenly fortress, and I soon forgot all about pirates while I drank in the sight.
I watched the cliffs retreat from us as we turned south in the channel. Here the water was rougher, but the wind was stronger, and we picked up speed.
Shortly after daybreak we reached Portsmouth. There we were greeted by the King’s fleet. The Lionheart’s flagship sailed out of the harbor, leading a line of twenty vessels. His banner with the three golden lions on a crimson background was attached to the main mast, flapping proudly in the breeze.
At least that is what I was told. I saw none of it, for I lay in my hammock belowdecks, thrashing, vomiting and clutching my stomach, wishing that I were dead.
I’ve always been healthy and seldom caught the sicknesses or fevers that would strike the monks at the abbey. On that day, however, I believed that I was making up for it all. I had never felt so ill. Each movement of the ship sent my stomach reeling and rolled my eyes back in my head. I lay in the swinging hammock promising to do anything God asked if he would just make the ship stop moving up and down and side to side.
It was Quincy who told me of the rendezvous and the impressive array of ships that now sailed toward Outremer. The motion of the ship didn’t seem to bother him at all. He visited me often in the hold, where I could scarcely lift my head, keeping me apprised of events as they happened on the ship.
Finally, on the third day, my stomach settled somewhat and I made my way to the deck, squinting in the sun like a mole. As the deck heaved to and fro, I thought I would be sick again. I held fast to the deck railing until the wave of nausea passed. It felt good to breathe in the fresh air. The life of a sailor was definitely not for me.
Sir Thomas found me on the deck, desperately clutching the railing.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“I’ll be happy to never sail again,” I said.
“Ha. Be glad we’re not taking the land route. It takes months. Riding along, choking in the dust, burning in the sun, freezing in the rain. Saddle sores. Believe me, this is much better,” he said.
“If you say so, sire,” I answered, still feeling miserable. Sir Thomas chuckled again at my discomfort and moved off.
Most of the time on the ship I was bored beyond belief. We were often out of sight of land, with nothing to look at but water. And more water. There was little to do except sleep and pace about the deck. Some days I even took a turn at the oars just to have something to do.
Once in the Mediterranean the wind was stronger and the ship moved over the water at a quicker pace. Passing through the Strait of Gibraltar I saw the mighty rock that had guarded the passage since time began. A few days past the rock, we sailed around the Isle of Cyprus, not stopping, for the King wished to reach Acre as soon as possible.
Three weeks to the day after leaving Dover, the ships made landfall a day’s ride to the west of Acre, at a spot where the coast leveled out to form a natural harbor. We had to swim the horses to shore, and it took two full days to move all of the cargo and supplies off the ships. My legs felt as if they were made of stone columns when I first stepped on land after nearly three weeks at sea. I wanted to kiss the ground, but merely rejoiced that it didn’t move as I walked upon it.
I wasn’t sure what I had expected of Outremer, but the land surprised me. Having heard the knights speak of the arid desert, I was surprised to find the coastal area, although rocky, to be full of green trees and shrubs. The climate was warmer than England to be sure, but in many ways it reminded me of Dover, except here the cliffs were made of rock, not chalk.
We made camp right on the sand. Within a day, the beach became a city of campaign tents, each one flying a regimento or battle flag. Large cook fires were built, and as we sat around them at night, I loved watching the embers rise high into the sky. It was as if each one carried a message to heaven. The Templars conducted mass by firelight and passed the hours in song and storytelling while we waited for orders to march.
The King’s headquarters tent was not more than a few yards away from where I slept. Now and then I would see him outside his tent, at a table holding maps and other documents. He spent hours in consultation with his military advisers. Plans were being made and battle orders drawn. Word passed through the camp that Saracens were near.
We spent the next week organizing, resting and preparing to move toward Acre. When the horses had rested and regained their land legs, the call came to move out. Quincy and I went with the other squires to retrieve our knights’ horses from where they were hobbled on the shore. Quincy seemed calm, whistling quietly to himself as we gathered up the saddles and halters.
“Aren’t you nervous?” I asked.
“What? Nervous? Why? Oh yes. This is your first time in enemy territory. You get used to it,” he said.
“Really?” I couldn’t imagine that.
“Oh sure. You’ll see. The knights are well trained. They know what they’re doing all right. It’ll be fine,” he said, smiling. But his confidence was not contagious. I still felt on edge.
I had Dauntless saddled and prepared to go when Sir Thomas found me. His chain mail had been polished to a high sheen, and there in the sun I helped dress him. When he was properly outfitted, he mounted the horse. He took the battle sword from me and buckled it securely around his waist. I handed him his iron-tipped lance, hoping he wouldn’t notice my shaking hands. He settled himself into the saddle, stood up and down in the stirrups a few times to find a comfortable spot, then sat still.
“Are you ready?” he asked me.
No! I wasn’t ready for anything other than perhaps getting on board the ship and sailing back to England.
“Yes, sire,” I said.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
In truth I was terrified. My hands quivered as I attended to my duties, and my breath came in small gasps. It felt as if I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs. My vision began to close in. I was in no way prepared for this. Everything that had come before-the training, the practice, the days in the Commandery-was as faint as a dream. However, I could not, must not, let Sir Thomas feel that he had made a choice unworthy of him.
“A little,” I answered.
“That’s good, Tristan. If you had told me you were not afraid, I wouldn’t have believed you. The important thing is to stay alert at all times. Here in Outremer, battles tend to happen quickly and with little warning. Keep your eyes open. If a fight starts, stay focused on your duties. We’ve practiced and discussed it many times. The most common thing is that I’ll lose my lance or it will break. Stay near the quartermaster, and if you see me riding back, ride forward with a replacement. You’ll do fine. We may not even engage the enemy. Our scouts have seen Saracen patrols, but have not yet encountered a large force. We might march to Acre unopposed,” he said.
For some reason, I very much doubted that. Something told me I would see my first action very soon. Death was coming. The air had changed. We were in an alien land, marching forward as intruders, and everything felt upside
down and out of place.
An order was shouted to march. The knights and men-at-arms moved out four abreast. They left the beach encampment, moving inland toward the higher ground rising east along the shore. The sergeantos and squires came behind the knights. I rode a sorrel mare and Quincy rode along beside me. A leather holster was attached to my saddle, and in it I placed an extra lance for Sir Thomas.
“Are you still nervous?” Quincy asked.
“Not at all. At St. Alban’s we had to fight off invading monasteries quite frequently. Compared with hordes of marauding Benedictines, this is nothing.”
Quincy stared at me, his brows knitted.
“It’s a joke. Knowing I may be marching toward my death tends to make me nervous,” I said.
Quincy chuckled at my discomfort. “I can tell you that most of the time nothing happens. We spend more time riding than fighting. And we don’t see much from back here.”
To calm myself, I tried passing the time by counting the size of our force. Though it was hard to get an accurate count with everyone stretched out in the column, I counted twelve Templar flags. With each regimento about seventy knights strong, plus men-at-arms, sergeantos and squires, I made our numbers to be nearly two thousand men. This of course included the non-Templar forces of the King’s Guards. If we ran into opposition, I hoped it was enough. I knew that Templars never left the field of battle unless outnumbered by more than three to one. The thought of facing a force of six thousand Saracens terrified me.
We rode along for hours, stopping now and then to rest and water the horses. In the afternoon as we crested a small ridge, the order came to halt. There was confusion at the front of the column, orders were shouted and trumpets called. In the noise and disarray I made out one word that sent my heart leaping to my throat.
Saracens!
OUTREMER, THE HOLY LAND
13
I quickly learned that war is mostly organized chaos and that as Sir Thomas said, it often happens without warning.
In the valley below us there stood a large advance force of Saracens. Seeing them for the first time did nothing to quell the fear within me. They looked formidable and ready to fight. At first glance, their lines appeared to stretch out for miles. I struggled to take it all in. They began waving their brightly colored battle flags back and forth. Unlike our traditional flags, they held banners that hung vertically from tall poles raised high by a mounted carrier. I quickly counted them and estimated their numbers were nearly equal to our own. It was as if they appeared by magic. Surely our scouts and mounted patrols must have noticed them ahead of us. But from where I rode, I got the feeling that we had stumbled across them unexpectedly.
As they spread out across the valley floor I saw a sea of turbans, mostly white, but here and there I noticed some were striped with different colors; greens and blacks.
“Why do those Saracens have striped turbans?” I asked Quincy over the gathering noise of our deployment.
“Those are their commanders. They direct the fighting and give orders to the individual squads,” he answered. Somewhere from their lines a trumpet sounded and their cavalry began moving into position.
Their horses were magnificent; tall, stately mounts that were draped from head to flanks in brightly colored blankets, some of which completely covered the horse’s head with holes cut out for the eyes. Many of the coverings were decorated with stars and other designs.
“Why do they cover their horses so?”
“Sir Basil says it’s to protect the horses from the sun when they ride through the desert. They are quite beautiful though, aren’t they?” Quincy asked.
Their horsemen carried shields and scimitars, not lances. I wondered at this, since it seemed that the longer lance would give our knights an advantage, but perhaps the shields countered their effectiveness.
Turning from the mounted warriors I studied their foot soldiers more closely. They were dressed in simple tunics, most of them white or light brown. All of them carried scimitars. Their scabbards were looped around the neck and shoulders, not carried at the belt, probably because the weapons were so heavy. Here and there I saw that a few men wore iron guards to protect their arms but I did not see any mail or armor among them.
Despite this surprise our forces moved rapidly to form a line along the ridge. The King and his guards took the center. I saw Sir Thomas move to the King’s left with about thirty mounted Templars. Sir Basil took the right with about the same number. Other regimentos followed until they had fully deployed along the rise. The men-at-arms dismounted, leaving their horses with the sergeantos in the rear. They were trained to fight on foot and would charge forward in an attempt to break the enemy lines. Taking their place in front of the King, they lined up three deep with swords drawn and shields at the ready. To me it looked like everyone was running about in confusion, but before I knew it all the forces had deployed along the ridge and were ready to attack.
Down below, the Saracens scurried about, moving their men and horses into position. Buglers at the rear of their columns raised extremely long, straight horns, roughly the length of a man, and sounded their call to arms. They began to deploy in nearly the same fashion as we did, perhaps four or five hundred yards away. As they made ready to attack, they began to shout “Allah Akbar” over and over again.
“Quincy! What is that chanting?” I shouted.
“It’s their battle cry. It means ‘God is great!’”
As if to answer the chants of the Saracens, the knights began singing from the Psalm of David: “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but to your name give glory!”
“Watch!” Quincy shouted over the din. “After they sing the Psalm, they’ll order a charge!”
Then I heard the sound of our trumpets, and the battle was on.
My horse began to fuss when the noise and shouting started. I reached forward to quiet her with a pat on her neck. We squires strained our eyes to keep track of our knights as they rode forward. I heard the Templars shout “Beauseant!” over the noise. It was a Templar war cry and it meant “Be glorious!” Sir Thomas and the other knights around him lowered their lances, surging forward as one. Their horses charged across the rocky ground, and the noise even from a distance was deafening.
The King and his guard did not charge, holding their position on the ridge, watching as first the knights, then the men-at-arms plowed forth. The Saracens, to their credit, did not give ground easily. Countering the charge, their horsemen rode straight at the knights with scimitars held high. The first wave of Saracens and knights collided with a tremendous clang as steel met steel. Horses reared and men screamed and the dust flew. I lost sight of Sir Thomas in the mass of bodies and swirling clouds of dust that squirmed in the valley below.
As I glanced again at the King astride his white warhorse, I noticed to my disgust Sir Hugh sitting next to him on horseback. He carried no lance, content to watch the conflict from the safety of the ridge. Studying the battle below, I was desperate for a sign of Sir Thomas. For a moment I considered spurring my horse forward, but fear held me in place. My grip tightened on the reins and I felt paralyzed, unable to move or speak.
Without warning the battle began to turn against us. Some of the men-at-arms broke ranks, sprinting back toward our lines at the top of the ridge. I heard the shouts of King Richard and his advisers, exhorting them to return and face the enemy. The King spurred his warhorse down the hill and met the first wave of retreating men. Waving his sword he shouted, but his words were lost in the noise and distance. It did have an effect on the men though. For a moment they stopped running and rallied.
An order was given from somewhere, and the sergeantos, who had been held in reserve, left us behind as they rode down the hill into the fight. The dust was worse than ever and made it almost impossible to see. But I could tell we were losing ground.
King Richard was not yet in the thick of the fighting but close, as he pleaded with his forces to fight on. With no concern for his own safety h
e spurred his horse farther into the mass of teeming bodies.
Just then, the Lionheart’s horse reared up and he was thrown to the ground. He staggered to his feet still holding the reins, but his horse was wild with fright and tore out of the King’s grasp, running toward the ridgetop. King Richard’s rash act had surprised his guard and he had left them behind. Now the men abandoning the fight had obscured their view of the King. For the moment, no one noticed him standing in the dust defenseless. A stream of panicked men ran around him with the Saracens fast behind them.
“Quincy, the King!” I shouted, pointing to where Richard now stood with a line of Saracens not more than a few yards away. The knights were fighting valiantly, but were still losing ground. The King waited with his sword at the ready, picking up a shield that had been dropped by a retreating soldier.
Without thinking, I spurred my horse and pointed it toward the King. I had no plan in mind other than to get between the King and the attacking force.
A few scattered men ran past me, but the fighting had slowed at the base of the ridge. I saw a Saracen run at King Richard with his scimitar held high. King Richard stepped aside, thrusting his sword into the side of the man attacking him.
In a few more seconds I reined my horse up beside the King and jumped from the saddle.
“Your majesty! You are in danger! Take this horse to safety!” I yelled.
The King parried another blow from a Saracen, and I pulled my short sword and took after the man myself, swinging it wildly as hard as I could and screaming at the top of my lungs. The man stopped and stared at me, easily blocking blow after blow. Then for some unexplainable reason he turned and ran.
The King looked at me, but didn’t speak.
“Please, your highness! You must take my horse!” I said.
Grabbing the reins, King Richard quickly mounted up. I watched him weave his way through the mass of men, heading back up the ridge.
All around me was confusion. I heard shouts and grunts and groans of agony. I heard men calling out for God and the shrieks of the dying. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that many of our men-at-arms were again in full retreat up the face of the ridge. If something didn’t break our way soon, we would be driven from the field entirely.
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