Keeper of the Grail

by Michael P. Spradlin

  “Not since you were still the Prince of Normandy, your highness. We gave the French King more than he could handle at Bourneau. And then some.”

  “I remember. I remember it well,” the King said. “Mostly, I have memories of a young knight who rallied the lines, leading the charge that turned the day.”

  Sir Thomas bowed his head again, looking uncomfortable. “You are far too generous in your praise, your highness,” he said.

  “He was talking about me!” Sir Basil said loudly.

  At that, everyone, the King included, roared with laughter.

  “And I can see this scoundrel has not changed a bit,” the King said as he shook Sir Basil’s hand. “Sir Basil, good to see you, my friend. How are you?”

  “Growing smaller by the day, your highness,” Sir Basil said.

  This brought another laugh, as Sir Basil was nearly a head taller and several stone heavier than the King. When the laughter died down, I noticed that the King had not yet acknowledged Sir Hugh at all. He couldn’t have been happy about that.

  Then, as easily as it had come, the friendly expression disappeared from the King’s face.

  “And now, as knights who served my father with such distinction, you have taken vows as brothers of the Temple? Turning your back on many years of service to the crown to pledge allegiance only to the Pope?” The King looked squarely at Sir Thomas. The room instantly went quiet again.

  The expression on Sir Thomas’ face never altered. But Sir Hugh’s did. It changed from jealousy to intense curiosity. He leaned away from Sir Thomas, as if he wished to avoid any association with the knight who now found himself cornered by the monarch.

  Sir Thomas stared squarely at the King. Then in a strong voice he spoke. “I would like to think that we serve God first,” he said. “That is the vow that all brothers take when they join the Order. We fight for all Christians. Regardless of whom their King may be.”

  The room was so quiet that if a mouse had sneezed in the kitchen, I was certain I would have heard it.

  The cloud left the King’s face. He studied Sir Thomas for a moment, and then he smiled.

  “Well said, old friend. Forgive my impertinence. I have fought beside you. I know you have the heart of a warrior. These are dangerous times. There is much to do. The King’s court, as always, is full of rumor and intrigue, and I must be certain of those who say they will join me in this Holy Crusade.”

  “Then let our service in this Crusade be the least of your worries, your highness. We are brothers of the Temple, sworn to protect and defend Outremer, and that is what we will do,” Sir Thomas said. At his words the other knights gave a rousing cheer, with the exception of Sir Hugh, who clapped unenthusiastically.

  “We will drive the Saladin from the Holy Land, sire, you need not worry about that,” Sir Basil said.

  The tension left the room. The King visibly relaxed, and taking Sir Thomas by the shoulders he said something to him that I could not hear over the buzzing of the voices. But I did watch Sir Hugh. His expression returned to its normal sour tone. He seemed like a spider sitting quietly in his web, watching and waiting before deciding to strike.

  “Have you ever seen the King before?” I asked Quincy.

  “Not King Richard, but I saw his father, Henry, at a jousting match in Ulster once when I was just a lad. The people there loved him.”

  “Tristan!”

  From across the room, I saw Sir Thomas looking in my direction. He gestured for me to join him.

  I was instantly nervous. Sir Thomas kept waving his arm, motioning me toward him. What was he thinking? Why did he need to speak to me now when he stood so near the King of England? Couldn’t it wait? Yesterday I was pulling weeds in a vegetable garden. Now I stood not a stone’s throw from his majesty the King. It was all too much. Still, I could not disobey. I walked haltingly to where he stood.

  “Sire?” I said.

  Taking me by the arm we turned to face the King. “Your majesty,” he said.

  The King stopped mid-conversation with another knight and turned to look at Sir Thomas. He paid me no attention.

  “Yes, Sir Thomas?”

  “My squire, your highness. I would like to introduce you to my squire, Tristan. He has recently joined me from St. Alban’s Abbey. He’s a fine young man. Capable and brave. I’m sure he’ll be Master of the Order one day,” Sir Thomas said.

  Sir Hugh cut in. “Sir Thomas, really, I’m sure the King has much more pressing duties than meeting your squire.” He spat out the word as if he had swallowed a ball of chicken feathers.

  The King looked confused, glancing from Sir Hugh to Sir Thomas, but then his gaze fell on me. He studied me as any royal might view one of his subjects. In the same way that one might scrutinize a horse or cow before purchasing it. But then his eyes narrowed.

  “Tristan, you say?” he asked.

  “Yes, your majesty,” I answered. I was dumbstruck, not knowing exactly what I should do or say, but had at least remembered that. I felt Sir Thomas’ hand gently push my back, and I bowed.

  “You look familiar. Have we met before?” the King asked.

  “Met, your highness? Oh no. No, sire, this is my first trip to a city…I—”

  “I could swear I have seen you somewhere before,” he interrupted.

  “Well, your majesty, I was in the street this afternoon when you rode through. Perhaps—”

  “No, but there’s something familiar…” He let the words hang in the air.

  I stood there speechless, not knowing what to say or do. The King held my gaze and I returned it in kind, but the room felt warmer now, and sweat began to form on my forehead.

  “I just met Tristan yesterday myself,” Sir Thomas explained. “He’s been living at a monastery. We stopped for the night, and I saw enough of his good works to ask him to become my squire.”

  “Fascinating,” said the King, still staring at me.

  “Your majesty, please forgive my second in command for his ill manners. It is time for us to take our leave. There is much preparation to be made before we depart for Outremer,” Sir Hugh said.

  Sir Thomas did not reply but only smiled at the King, raising his eyebrows as he did so, as if only he were privy to some joke.

  “What? Yes, of course,” said the King. His gaze left me, and he turned to look at Sir Thomas again. “It’s good to see you again, old friend. I will see you next in the Holy Land. When we take the field from the Saladin?”

  “If God wills it, your highness,” Sir Thomas said, and he bowed. He pulled gently on my arm, and we left the King with the small circle of knights who surrounded him. I could hear them saying their good-byes.

  As we walked across the room, Sir Thomas leaned close, speaking in a low voice.

  “An interesting evening, wouldn’t you say?” he asked.

  I had no answer. Only questions. Why did Sir Thomas see fit to introduce me to the King? And why, when King Richard the Lionheart looked at me, did I see fear in his eyes?

  9

  The morning after meeting King Richard was my first full day of life inside the Order. After we’d returned from the castle, I felt I had scarcely laid my head upon my mattress before Quincy was shaking me awake at sunrise. After morning mass and prayer, Sir Thomas summoned me to the stables, where I found him examining the front hoof of the bay stallion he had ridden the previous day.

  “Good morning, Tristan,” he said.

  “Good morning, sire,” I replied, trying to hide a yawn behind my hand.

  “I hope we’re not keeping you awake?” he asked.

  “No, sire,” I said.

  “Excellent. Your first duty this morning will be taking my horse to John the blacksmith. His shoes have loosened on the journey. You will find the shop across from the Whistling Pig Tavern, on the west end of the marketplace.” He handed me a small pouch and I heard the jingle of coins inside it. “To pay the smith,” he said.

  Sir Thomas patted his horse on the nose. “His name is D
auntless.”

  “Very well, sire.”

  “Step lively, lad,” Sir Thomas called out. “There is much to do in the days before we leave for Outremer.”

  Retracing the steps that had taken me to St. Bartholomew’s, I soon reached the marketplace and turned west at the main intersection as Sir Thomas had said. I noticed several King’s Guards in full uniform standing about. I wondered if the King was visiting the marketplace but saw no evidence that he was anywhere near.

  As the shops and stalls began to peter out, I found myself on a quieter but still busy thoroughfare. Up ahead to my right, I spotted a stone building with a sign cut in the shape of a pig hanging above the door. Sure enough, across the street was a small blacksmith shop. It was a three-sided building, open to the front, and I could see the fire, forge and anvil.

  I tied Dauntless’ reins to a hitching ring in front of the building. One of the King’s Guards loitered down the street, trying to appear casual, with his forearm resting on the hilt of his sword. He appeared to be watching me, but when I turned to look at him, he glanced away, pretending to be interested in everything else around him.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  “A moment!” a voice answered from behind the building.

  So I waited. The shop looked neat and well kept. Looking more closely, I realized it was not three sided at all, but that the front “wall” swung upward on hinges and was propped up by two timbers at either end so it could be let down each evening at closing time.

  While I waited, I turned my attention back to the street and noticed the King’s Guard walking in my direction. Without a glance at me he entered the tavern.

  A few minutes later, the door to the tavern opened and two men staggered out, blinking and rubbing their eyes. They began arguing with each other. They were nearly equal in size, but one appeared to be in charge, and he pushed the other one in anger. The man staggered backward, lost his footing and fell into the dusty street. I tried not to, but he had fallen in such a way that I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.

  The one still standing heard me. His head snapped up as he squinted at me. He mumbled something to his partner, who scrambled to his feet. The two of them crossed the street, looking furtively about as they approached me.

  “Where did you get that horse, boy?” the one who seemed to be in charge said.

  He wasn’t big but he wasn’t small either, solidly built and perhaps a little taller than me. Long, dark, greasy hair clung to the side of his face, which was home to a scraggly beard. His eyes were red and his breath stank. His companion looked to be in even worse shape. He had lighter skin but hair so full of dirt and grime it was hard to discern its original color.

  “Why do you ask?” I replied.

  “Where did you get that horse?” he demanded.

  “This horse belongs to my liege, Sir Thomas Leux of the Knights Templar. I don’t know what concern it is—”

  Dark Hair regarded me through one eye, his other closed and his face scrunched up as if his vision wasn’t working correctly.

  “It’s my concern,” he interrupted, “because I think you’re lying. I think I should report you to the constables.”

  “As you wish,” I said.

  The brothers had taught me much about the evil of drink. However, I had never met or seen anyone drunk before, so I had no idea of the effect that liquor had on men.

  I turned, intending to take refuge on the other side of Dauntless, hoping the men would lose interest and move on, or that the blacksmith might show up. But as I did, arms suddenly grabbed me from behind and a foul-smelling mouth hissed in my ear.

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll just take the horse to the constable myself. I’m sure a Templar would pay a handsome reward for the return of his stolen mount.”

  “I didn’t steal…,” I started to say, but the arms squeezed harder and the words died in my throat as the air rushed out of my lungs.

  I tried pulling away, but the grip grew stronger as I wiggled and threw myself back and forth, trying to break free. I was lifted off the ground, my legs kicking uselessly in the air.

  From the corner of my eye I saw the light-haired man reach out to untie Dauntless’ reins. I kicked out with my foot and felt his fingers crunch between my boot and the post.

  The man howled in pain and rage, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground and two sets of legs were kicking at me. I tried to regain my feet, scrambling toward Dauntless. But he was beginning to spook, moving his legs back and forth, whinnying and pawing nervously at the ground. Not wishing to be accidentally kicked in the head by a stallion, all I could think to do was to roll up into a ball, hoping they would tire from their exertion before I was seriously injured.

  With my face nearly buried in the dirt of the street, I saw a third pair of legs approaching the two men from behind. Had they found another man to come and help them in their thievery?

  Instead, I heard both men yelp, and in an instant the kicks stopped. A booming voice exclaimed, “Enough! What kind of men are you? I told you once before that if you molested one of my customers again, you’d lose a finger on my anvil!”

  Neither man replied. I looked up from my spot in the dirt to see them both hanging from the air. Behind them stood a giant, holding the men by their shirt collars, which were twisted up around their necks so tightly their faces were turning blue.

  Without further word he took a few steps up the street in the direction of the marketplace and tossed them to the ground. As they scrambled to their feet, he gave each one a swift, hard kick in their hind parts.

  “If I see either of you on this street again, you’ll wish you had never been born!”

  Running, they disappeared from sight as the giant bellowed a few more warnings after them. He then turned and walked back to where I lay wheezing in the street.

  As he stood above me, his head and shoulders blotted out the morning sun. A huge hand, attached to the largest arm I’d ever seen, reached down and pulled me to my feet. “Since this horse tied here is Dauntless, you must be Sir Thomas’ new squire,” he said.

  As of the previous day, Sir Basil had been the biggest man I’d ever seen, but he could have slept like a babe in the blacksmith’s apron. His hands were the size of geese and his head sat upon his shoulders with no neck that I could see, just a full beard and head of curly, dark hair.

  “I am,” I said, dusting myself off. “My name is Tristan and I now serve as squire to Sir Thomas. You must be John the blacksmith?”

  The giant gave a slight bow. “That I am. My name is John Little. But you should call me Little John. Everyone else does.”

  That, I could not imagine.

  10

  Little John, as he was called, worked quickly as he re-shod Dauntless. For a man so large, his movements were graceful and precise, with little wasted motion. He had an easy way with the horse, talking softly as he moved from side to side, patting him gently on the flanks to keep him from kicking while he reattached the horseshoes. As he worked, he questioned me.

  “Where did Sir Thomas find you, Tristan?”

  “I’ve been living with the monks at St. Alban’s Abbey,” I said.

  “I’ve heard of St. Alban’s. Were you taking vows?”

  “No, sir. I’m an orphan. I was left with the monks as a babe. Sir Thomas and his men came through two days ago. He asked me to join him as his squire.”

  “I see,” said Little John. He didn’t say anything more for a while as he worked. Removing the loose shoe on Dauntless’ foreleg, he took it to the forge, pumping the bellows until the coals glowed bright orange. As the shoe heated, it turned first white and then orange in the fire. Moving it to the anvil, he took a hammer from the bench and pounded on the horseshoe several times until it took a shape that pleased him. He plunged the horseshoe into the tub of water, and the steam rose in the air with a hiss. In a few moments the horseshoe was reattached.

  “Have you known Sir Thomas for a long time?” I asked.


  Little John stood and wiped his hands on his apron. “Aye, for a while. Before Sir Thomas joined the Temple, I was a smith in King Henry’s army, attached to Sir Thomas’ regiment. After I left the army, I came here to Dover. Whenever Sir Thomas passes through, he makes sure to bring his horses by for shoes. I also provide Sir Thomas with his swords. Come, let me show you.”

  Little John went through the back door, and in the rear was another workbench set along the back wall of the shop. On it lay a short sword that appeared to be brand new. He held it out to me with the handle forward. “Take it,” he said.

  I took the sword in my hand, testing its weight. It was about two feet long, and the hilt was wrapped in black leather. I’d never held a sword before, and was surprised at the weight and heft of it.

  “First time holding a sword?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Well, I think you’ll soon become familiar with them. You’ll need to know about swords and weapons where you’re going. This is called the hilt,” he said, pointing to the leather grip enclosed by my hand. “Those metal pieces sticking out from above the hilt are guards. That metal knob on the end of the hilt is the pommel.”

  I looked at the pommel and saw that there was a small illustration engraved in it. It showed two knights riding double on a single horse.

  “That is a symbol of the Templars,” Little John said. “The Knights of the Temple take a vow of poverty, and to share a horse shows that they are willing to do without in service to God.”

  I nodded in understanding, for I had seen this same illustration in paintings and tapestries that hung in the halls of the Commandery.

  “This is a short sword. It is used primarily for self-defense. It is made of fine steel and is very sharp. But it is not meant to stand up to the weight of a battle sword or scimitar: it is for quick thrusts and jabs only, not for fancy swordplay. Go ahead. Give it a try. Swing it back and forth a few times.”