by K. T. Tomb
They left the cave by the exit, a hole in the ice, revealed to them by the light. He saw in their faces that they disagreed about the decision to leave the Grail there, and he also saw that they did not understand why they would do such a thing. Only Saladin agreed and supported his decision to leave the Grail where they had found it and just as they had found it.
Saladin and Richard were the last ones to leave the cave, just to ensure that the Grail stayed there.
Three days’ ride from the Mountain of Pain had proven if not interesting, at least profitable for both King Richard and Saladin. And certainly for Richard, he felt joy in the redemption of his soul. Perhaps his obedience had made a difference to God. Perhaps a King would humble himself more often to God.
Saladin, now healthy and sitting erect on his own mount, was still weak, but his strength seemed to be growing daily. For Richard, it was a true miracle to witness the King of Islam’s sudden, almost immediate recovery. For his warriors and Saladin’s warriors, it had been a miracle as well, but for them, it was just another amazing incident upon a holy quest. In Richard’s case, it was the capstone on an extraordinary personal journey of faith and redemption. Several times on the way back down the mountain, Richard fell on his knees to pray and Saladin and his men did the same thing, especially Andre, who could now speak again and would not be silenced, once they were out of the range of avalanches. No one doubted what they had experienced.
At the base of the mountain, they bid farewell to the small village that had given them the comforts of home during their brief stay before the ascension to…spiritual knowledge.
* * *
One day’s ride later, upon the desert, they were attacked by a band of common thieves. The thieves, perhaps feeling they outnumbered Richard and Saladin’s twenty or so men, attacked with confidence. Little did they realize they were attacking Europe’s best fighting men and a very large valet, and Saladin’s best warriors. Little did they know how strong the men were, as all had sipped from the Savior’s cup from the Last Supper.
Richard and even Saladin, who was by then feeling quite well, joined the battle against the thieves, and soon, they triumphed over all the thieves. Not one life was lost among their Grail quest group, though they did slay the attackers.
But it was the bounty that the thieves had had with them, no doubt gold and jewelry taken from other such raids. Richard and Saladin met with each other in a small tent, as they had been doing now since coming down from the mountain, and they decided to disperse the gold and jewelry evenly among their men, for they had fought bravely and had not complained too much during the trip to Mount Ararat. And so, each of the twenty men were given a sizable amount of gold and jewels.
But one of them wanted still more.
Chapter Fifteen
Pierre de Mandeville was a brave and chivalrous knight, having gained in status from his bravery at defending Tyre against Saladin and the Muslim king’s vast armies. Now a high-ranking Templar, de Mandeville had sat in on some of the Knights’ most secret of meetings. However, de Mandeville secretly wanted to rise still further in the Order of the Templars—his goal was ultimately to sit at its head, as Master of the Knights Templar. To do this, he figured that he needed to influence many people. He knew that to influence anyone properly, he needed great wealth, wealth which he did not have. It had not escaped his notice or envy that de Sable, after only one year in the Knights Templar, had been elected Master. And that was why when King Richard provided them each with their share of the gold bounty, de Mandeville couldn’t have been happier. It would get him closer to his goal. The Lionheart had been generous, but secretly, de Mandeville was already working out plans for still more money. He had learned of Richard’s possible plan to sell Cyprus to de Sable “for the Templars” but de Mandeville wanted his own fiefdom, as well. There were only two ways to get it: money and the King’s favor. And of course, de Sable had to go…
Pierre de Mandeville was not sure if he totally believed Richard’s story about God visiting him in a dream and revealing the way to the Holy Grail. And then there was that nonsense about Noah’s Ark, and how they were all part of a human Trinity. It was heresy, at best!
Anyway, perhaps it had happened, and perhaps not. True, de Mandeville himself had seen the Holy Grail with his own eyes—and had even drunk from the cup of invisible wine, his enemy’s hands serving him—but Richard could have known the way beforehand. Why had Richard journeyed all the way to Ararat with his dying enemy, Saladin? Pierre did not know, and did not really care, though it was truly amazing to see the old man rise from the stretcher after having been so deathly ill.
Or could it have been, as Pierre privately suspected, some scheme between the English king and the Muslim king, to somehow influence their faithfulness to their respective beliefs, to God and Allah? As to the nature of the scheme, Pierre could not fathom the motive, but it was highly suspicious that these two men would meet so secretly. Perhaps Saladin was never even sick and had feigned it all. But Pierre could not really deduce why the old Muslim would do such a thing and why Richard would go along with it. One thing he did know: something was going on or had gone on, and somehow, Pierre de Mandeville had played a role in it.
Now they don’t want us to talk about the Grail, thought Mandeville, as they made camp for the night, on the fifth evening after having left the great mountain. And they’re using the fear of God to try and keep us quiet. As far as I know, Richard is behaving like a traitor, and if I were given half a chance, I’d slit that Muslim barbarian’s throat. Look at the two of them, sitting next to the fire, talking amongst each other in French like two old friends. Unbelievable. What would Robert de Sable have to say about that? The Master of the Templars would probably report Richard the Lionheart to the Pope. And, if I were the Master of the Order? Well, I would think Richard was planning something, or negotiating something that may not be in the Order’s best interest. I would probably have him poisoned. Obviously, he is a dangerous and reckless king. It would probably do more harm than good. Indeed, we have plenty of our own assassins who could poison the king, and nobody would be the wiser.
Sitting at the huge fire, Muslims and Christians mingled now, many of whom laughed together in great camaraderie. Pierre laughed, too, chewing his tough meat. Was it horsemeat? He hoped not. Perhaps it was donkey meat. Inside, though, he loathed being so close to these Muslim devils. However, he did not want it to show, as Pierre was nothing if not one to put on a mask—anything to forward his cause. And if that meant socializing with his enemies, so be it. No one could break into his thoughts. Therefore, he plotted without worry.
Yes, King Richard, I would have you killed. You are a traitor. I don’t need to know your secret plans to know that in some way you are selling out the Holy Lands and Europe, in general. But I will not let your scheme, and especially trying to ignite the fear of God in us, get in the way of my own personal ambitions.
After eating his evening meal, with perhaps five more days ride back to Jerusalem, Pierre de Mandeville stopped by Richard’s empty tent before he retired to his own tent. Still in celebration mood at finding the Grail, no guards had been posted on Richard’s fine tent. A goatskin, filled with ripening kefir, hung from Richard’s tent. That was all the opportunity that de Mandeville needed; it seemed simple enough to drop some dried hemlock into the fermenting goat’s milk in the bag and then make himself scarce. He and most of the Templars were well-versed in botanical identification and alchemy. They would all be suspects, but no one would suspect him.
Without any regret, he proceeded to his own tent, which was a small affair: a stretch of skins over a few poles. Small as it was, it was effective in eliminating the bite of the harsh desert winds. But more importantly, it gave him the privacy he needed to further carry out his simple plan to build wealth.
He crawled into the tiny space of his tent, the stink of his own body sharp in his nostrils, a stink that told the story of hard travel and even held the coppery smell of blood
of the earlier battle. Pierre hated the smell of an enemy’s blood on himself. He would welcome a dip in the nearest lake or sea, cold though it might be.
He ran over the events in great detail in his mind…
Earlier that day, in great ceremony, King Richard had presented each knight and Muslim warrior who had accompanied him with their own portion of the bounty. The previous night, Pierre had been eyeing the gold after the battle and the booty had been collected, secretly wondering how he could get his hands on at least some of it, but not foolish enough to try to simply steal it all.
Indeed, Pierre was not a foolish man: if the risk was too great, he abandoned the idea. And then the king had given—actually given—them each a sizable portion of the gold; more gold than he had ever owned in all his life put together. Part of his own allotment had been a golden scabbard, long enough to sheath his own broadsword. The scabbard was actually ribboned with gold. Between the ribbons of gold were tiny emeralds. It was the thing of kings. Pierre had grown up among commoner’s stock. Growing up as a poor boy in the French countryside, the scabbard alone would have fed his large family for a year.
Carrying a sheep’s tallow candle, de Mandeville placed it on a wooden block at the rear of the canopy tent. Here, from the booty that was neatly piled by his headrest (and on which he had kept a wary eye while he had eaten his evening meal at the main fire), he lifted the golden and emerald scabbard. It was heavy in his hands and set his heart pounding. Its weight and beauty brought a smile to his rugged and slightly scarred face. With delicate fingers, Pierre de Mandeville reached into the scabbard and withdrew a rolled parchment. Under the flickering light of the candle, and with the wind rocking his small shelter, he unrolled the parchment. His smile widened.
Before him was a map of Ararat, drawn from his best memory. The map traced their route from the west side of the mountain, at the base where the little village was located, then up the huge mountain, angling from the west to north and past what the Muslims had called Jacob’s Well. From there, their path had gone over to the north side below the glacier line. This main part of the map, which showed the mountain from above, was off to the left side of the parchment. Now, he was just finishing off a second part of the map, drawn to the right of the parchment. Quill in hand, he had drawn the huge cliff, and the boulder, where the actual cave entrance was located. He had drawn the shape of the oval boulder that had concealed the entrance, the one they had rolled away with a lever made of swords. This boulder was placed slightly to the left of the cliff, exactly where it had been left. Also, he drew the distinguishing landmark in the area: a bent and gnarled tree that had no business being that high up on the mountain. This, he placed near the entrance to the cave, in the exact spot, as best as he could remember its location. With that done, he was satisfied that he would be able to retrace his steps back up to the cave if he had to. And this, he knew, smiling in the glow of the candle, was a very real possibility. The Grail was sitting there, waiting to be taken. Perhaps it was meant to be his. If not, it would buy wealth for his own fiefdom.
Alas, the map was still not complete. With painstaking care, using all the writing skills he had ever learned, and they were not considerable, Pierre detailed exactly how to work one’s way through the catacomb of tunnels within Ararat. By the time he was done, the candle had dwindled significantly, and Pierre could hardly keep his eyes open. But he was indeed finished drawing the map, and as far as he was concerned, he possessed a true treasure map. People would pay a fortune to journey with him to see where the Holy Grail had been discovered, and where it still lay, waiting for a worthier man than Richard or Saladin to claim it. And with that fortune within his knowledge and grasp, Pierre knew that he could become a major contender for the position of Master of the Order of the Knights Templar. Of course, there was still de Sable to get out of his way. That time would come.
Pierre de Mandeville rolled the parchment carefully and tightly and slipped it once again into the gold and emerald scabbard. When he had stretched out fully within his narrow tent, locking his heavily muscled arms behind his head, he had never felt more confident that, at last, things were finally going his way.
He believed his map would seal his destiny, the one he so richly deserved.
Chapter Sixteen
In the middle of the night, a ghost-like swarm of men silently descended upon the small group of soldiers and kings, taking even the posted sentries by surprise. In a sudden violence of metal on flesh, they were everywhere, brandishing flashing scimitars and attacking more fiercely than Richard had ever seen anyone fight.
Caught completely off-guard, Richard was only barely able to reach for his own sword before three men burst into his tent and kicked it away. The King of England could only blink at the sharp blades pointed at his face. The men were silent, their faces covered in black paint. Had it not been for the shooting pain in his wrist where they had kicked him, Richard would have thought this a dream.
“Do you know who I am?” he thundered, hoping they would ransom him instead of kill him.
He got a boot in his jaw for his question and was momentarily stunned.
Others were in a similar position, unable to react in time to defend themselves. The guards, who were given the most time to draw their swords, were quickly killed, set upon by many fierce men with one goal in mind: Slaughter.
Only Saladin managed to run his scimitar of Damascus steel through one of his attackers. Always a light sleeper, the Muslim leader had flipped up his scimitar just as a man lunged in his direction. Saladin, now on his feet, and using one hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes, proceeded to take on the next attacker, parrying the assassin’s vicious overhead jab, and then kicking the man hard in the ribs. Another attacker, standing in the doorway of Saladin’s bigger tent, suddenly gasped and shouted at the top of his lungs that before him was the great Muslim king, Saladin. Like a rebuked puppy, the first attacker backed off and ran from the tent.
However, five or six tents down, another Templar lay dead, an arrow shaft in his heart, blood trickling from his open mouth. He had died instantly, his own sword in hand. In his other hand was the golden scabbard. The attacker had stepped up to the tent opening, seen Pierre de Mandeville lunging with a sword—Pierre had always been a quick and hearty fighter—and stopped the Templar in his tracks with a bolt from a crossbow. Pierre had been hurtled backward by both the force of the arrow, and by his own natural instinct to jump away from the flying shaft. With a final sharp gasp of air, he died.
All in all, three Knights Templar had died in the raid, and one of the attackers had also perished.
Richard’s tent was destroyed. Even the kefir bag that had hung by the tent pole was spilled and slashed. His stools were broken and the meeting table, too. His sleeping cot, the one that had been carried throughout the Holy Land by Andre, had been smashed by the marauders.
King Richard admitted to himself it was a most efficient raid. He was both chagrined by the enemy’s ability to sneak up on them and admiring of it. He was sorely distraught over the deaths of the three Templars, but tried not to show it.
It occurred to him that their attackers seemed more interested in Saladin than in him. Once news traveled through the ranks of the thieves that Saladin was in the camp, a nervous chattering came from the thieves as they held the remaining Templars at bay with sword points and arrow shafts nocked in crossbows.
The Templars and Muslims and kings were all out of their tents, along with those who didn’t have tents—those who slept on the ground with their bedrolls were also at the ready. All were standing in the open night away from their tents and away from their weapons; they had been herded away like sheep.
One of the attackers, who had been studying Richard all along, let it out that he suspected this man was the King of England, and word quickly spread like wildfire among the thieves that not only had they caught Saladin, but the King of England. There was some discussion of ransom plans, but the notion was quickly dismissed by a f
igure who rode up to the prisoners from out of the darkness. He sat high upon the mount. He, too, was covered in black paint. He stopped the horse before Saladin and Richard, who stood together not as enemies, but as comrades in arms, and now, as prisoners with a common enemy.
The man spoke slowly in Arabic.
Saladin interpreted quickly. “He says, ‘My lords, forgive our intrusion. We had no idea that there were two kings in this camp.’”
“Silence!” the man shouted in Arabic. That much Arabic, Richard knew.
Saladin growled something in return, but Richard was unable to understand the reply.
Then the man high up on the mount spoke in his own halting Norman French, a ragged attempt, but French, nonetheless. “I am no one, a thief in the night. I invite the two of you to my tent.”
Unarmed, they didn’t have much of a choice.
After a short ride on swaybacked nags that crossed over a small hill, wine and sweet bread were given to the two respected kings as they sat before the lone figure in a luxurious pavilion. The figure seated before them on a dark cushion was not entirely alone. Fierce warriors flanked the two kings, and more stood guard at the door. The wine was cool and refreshing. Richard didn’t touch the bread, as he was distrustful of their host. At the moment, he was held captive by an unknown enemy; his hunger could wait for the time being. He also did not entirely trust that someone wouldn’t try to poison him. He did see the wine being drunk by their enemies and thought it was safe, though he held out his own small leather cup to be filled—the one that swung from his belt—instead of one of theirs, in case their cup was poisoned. He drank their good wine and listened:
“Let me begin by saying, it is an honor to have such legendary fighting men, men of renowned leadership and rulers of vast empires, as guests with me in my humble tent. Sultan Saladin, I am almost beyond words when I speak of my great admiration for you and what you have done.”