Keeper of the Grail

by Michael P. Spradlin

  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 he 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.

  I spotted a Templar banner clutched in the hands of a sergeanto, who lay dead on the ground. Not stopping to think, I grabbed it from his hands and raised it high over my head. Waving it back and forth I hollered, “Beauseant! Beauseant!” as loudly as I could.

  At first, my shouts had no effect. Then I heard a few men nearby begin to join in, yelling at the top of their lungs. Soon a few more took up the cheer. All along the ridge where our men-at-arms had been falling back, they stopped and looked down at us on the floor of the small valley. I yelled louder, so loudly I thought my throat might catch fire. Slowly the men who had been running away stopped. With a mighty roar they came charging back into the fight.

  Seconds later a river of men rushed past me, many of them cut, bleeding or limping from various wounds, but run they did. They crashed back into the Saracen lines, screaming and yelling and shrieking for their lives.

  I found myself inside a swirling tide of butchery. I heard shrieks of agony as bodies slammed into one another. I learned firsthand the sound a bone makes when it is broken by a sword. I came to recognize the horrible ripping sound that flesh makes when it is pierced by a lance.

  All around me, men fought like desperate, cornered animals. Some had no swords or shields at all and merely grappled in the dirt, digging at each other’s eyes, biting fingers and pulling hair. I saw a sergeanto with no weapon save his helmet, which he had removed from his head, swinging it wildly back and forth, knocking several men unconscious until he himself was overcome by three Saracens.

  I held fast to the banner, brandishing it before me, yelling encouragement to the men until my throat was raw. My arms began to throb from holding the flag and swinging my sword. After a while, perhaps from fatigue, it felt as if time had slowed and the noise and confusion of the battle around me took on a curious stillness. It was as if I saw everything in slow motion. I felt dizzy and light-headed but knew instinctively that I must keep the banner held high and my sword in my hand if I was to remain alive.

  Finally, the enemy lines were broken. Soon our men were chasing them across the field in the other direction. In a few more minutes it was over. The Saracens were completely routed, sounding a retreat and running east. The knights and men-at-arms gave a mighty shout. Slowly the dust settled and the horses quieted. All that was left was the carnage around me.

  The ground was littered with bodies. From where I stood I could barely tell who was friend and who was foe. In truth it did not really matter, for all of them were dead, dying or severely wounded. The sounds of battle were quickly replaced with cries for mercy and prayers to both God and Allah to end their suffering. The sight of it made me weak, and it took all my concentr
ation not to keel over in the dirt. I looked everywhere for Sir Thomas and soon found him, kneeling beside an injured Saracen, offering him water. Sir Basil was also helping tend the wounded. A great sense of relief came over me that they were both still alive.

  I felt sick from the carnage and bloodshed around me. Wounded men, now missing limbs, screamed in misery. Some crawled on their hands and knees, pushing themselves through the dirt, pleading for someone to help them. I closed my eyes to the horror.

  Looking up the ridge I could see King Richard, now remounted on his warhorse, his banner flapping strongly in the breeze. He surveyed the field and raised his sword in triumph. I looked again at the field scattered with bodies and dying men. My sword was somehow still in my hand, and I was shocked to see bloodstains upon it. I had no memory of how they had gotten there.

  A few moments later Quincy rode up and dismounted, his voice full of excitement.

  “Tristan! I saw what you did for the King. All the squires are talking about it! You’re a hero! Wasn’t our victory glorious?” he asked excitedly.

  It didn’t feel glorious. It didn’t feel glorious at all.

  THE CITY OF ACRE, OUTREMER JUNE 1191

  14

  We spent that night camped right on the battlefield. I was exhausted, but the aftermath of our victory meant only more work. Everyone, even the knights, pitched in to carry casualties from the field. The physicians worked like demons long into the night, treating the injured. Burial details were formed and prayers were said over the simple graves of our fallen comrades.

  The battle had been won, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the cost had been too great. We had lost nearly one hundred men, and almost double that had been wounded in some manner.

  When I finally had a moment to catch my breath, I dropped to the ground near a cook fire, but found I had no appetite. A pot of stew simmered on the coals, but the very thought of food made me ill. I sat staring off at nothing.

  Sensing movement, I looked up to see Sir Thomas standing beside me. I should have stood, but I was too tired.

  “I’ve just come from a conference with the King,” he said.

  “Yes, sire?” Uh-oh.

  “He tells me a certain squire rode to his rescue at a critical point in the fight this afternoon.”

  From his tone I couldn’t tell if he was angry or proud.

  “He did?”

  “Yes. Apparently this squire gave up his horse so the King could return to safety.”

  I shrugged, staring at the fire.

  “Tristan, what you did was incredibly brave. And also dangerous. I believe I left you with orders to stay at your post unless I required your assistance during the fighting.”

  I looked up at Sir Thomas and saw the concerned smile on his face. He wasn’t mad exactly.

  “Forgive me, sire, I don’t know what came over me. When I saw the King there with the Saracens about to overtake him, I…well…I just reacted,” I stammered.

  “I understand. And you’ve become quite the hero to the entire army. You saved a comrade without thinking of yourself, and the King, no less. That is one of the marks of greatness in a warrior, Tristan. But please. No more such acts of bravery. England can always get a new King. Good squires are not easy for me to find,” he said.

  I looked at Sir Thomas and he winked at me.

  “Get some rest,” he said. “We ride out in the morning.”

  It felt good to receive his praise, but in truth Sir Thomas’ words did little to resolve the conflicting emotions that poured through me. I struggled to understand what I had seen that day, and more important why any of it had happened in the first place. Finally, exhaustion overcame me, and I slept right there by the fire.

  The next afternoon our forces rode onto the plains surrounding the city of Acre and relieved a large force of Crusaders that had besieged it some months earlier. It was a beautiful spot, sitting right on the seacoast. From our position I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below, and the sound was almost comforting somehow. The city itself sat on a promontory that jutted out into the sea. Out in the harbor, several Crusader ships bobbed in the waves as they blockaded the port. Beyond the stone walls, I could see the tiled rooftops of the buildings inside and as we moved into position the Saracens began to yell and jeer at us from the battlements, but they soon lost interest and fell silent.

  “It’s a pretty spot,” I said to Quincy as we surveyed the countryside.

  “Yes, it is. Sir Basil was here years ago. He says it was quite a wild place then. There are caves below the city, and I guess many pirates and marauders used them as a base. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to explore them someday,” he said.

  I would rather have left the caves to the pirates. I much preferred the open air. And who knew? There could still be pirates hiding in them. I’d never met any, but I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to like pirates, just on principle.

  The garrison of Saracens inside Acre had been holding out for months, desperate for the Saladin to send reinforcements, which he had yet to do. Upon his arrival, King Richard met with the Saracen leaders under a flag of truce and immediately demanded they cede the city to his command. They refused.

  For six weeks we camped outside the city, fighting sporadically but mainly waiting for them to just give up. Exhausted and running low on food, they were overwhelmed with sick and wounded and could barely mount a defense. The King preferred to wait them out, not wanting to needlessly sacrifice men in an assault when it seemed likely they would capitulate before long.

  Their surrender finally came on the eleventh of July and Acre was ours. We marched inside the gates, and I watched the Saracens, now prisoners of war, being led away.

  The Christian citizens of Acre were overjoyed to have the city under the Crusaders’ control once again. They had been well treated during the Saladin’s occupation. He had issued proclamations allowing them to worship as they pleased and to keep their homes and businesses. But when the siege began, not only was the city surrounded, but the Crusaders had closed off the port as well, and no supplies at all could get in or out. With no medicines and very little food the people had grown sick and hungry.

  The King immediately sent word to Cyprus and points east, and in a few days’ time ships began arriving with food and medicines. The Templar physicians enlisted the aid of us squires to help them treat the sick, and we shared our food with some who were near starvation. In these days the true character of men like Sir Thomas, Sir Basil and Quincy and the other Templars was revealed to me. They were not just there to fight for fighting’s sake. Their purpose was the liberation of their fellow Christians.

  The first days of our reoccupation, when I wasn’t attending to my duties, I took what time I could to explore the city. As in Dover, a marketplace took up the center of the city with stone paved streets leading in and out of it in all four directions. Every building was constructed of stone with brightly colored awnings covering the doorways and windows. It was a marked contrast as all of Dover’s buildings were built of timber and though it had been a noisy, lively place, Acre felt more subdued and quieter. Perhaps the long siege had taken some of the spirit out of the people.

  Being inside Acre confirmed what I’d felt as we had ridden out from the beach upon first landing here; that I was in an alien place. Everything from the spicy smells of the cooking fires to the elegant archways of the buildings and temples was new and unusual. It was going to take some getting used to.

  Sir Thomas and I moved our belongings into rooms in the Knights’ Hall. Unlike Dover, where the squires had slept in separate quarters, knights and squires shared rooms. Our days quickly assumed a routine similar to life at the Dover Commandery. We attended to our horses and equipment, and worked on preparing the city’s defenses. Though we had broken and beaten a Saracen force on our way into the city, no one expected the Saladin to give up easily.

  “This defeat won’t sit well with the Saladin,” Sir Thomas said as we walked along
a parapet above the east wall. “He’ll be back soon, and we’ll likely be on the other end of a siege.”

  Sir Thomas was possessed of an uncommon energy in those days. He was everywhere at once. I was amazed at the depth and array of his knowledge of battle tactics. I learned much just by watching him. No detail was too small. He would climb high in the towers and along the battlements that lined the city walls, looking for weaknesses. He constantly checked the sight lines of the archers and made sure that each siege engine or ballistae—the large mechanical crossbows that threw giant arrows at the enemy—was placed in the most strategic position. He was fanatical about making sure our positions were as well defended as possible.

  Each day, thoughts of what I had seen on the battlefield paraded through my mind. I wondered how Sir Thomas was able to dedicate himself to a life like this. How could a man accept such horror and carnage and not be affected by what he saw?

  One morning as we finished our inspection of the northern battlements, I couldn’t keep my questions to myself any longer.

  “Sire, forgive me, but I am troubled by something,” I said.

  “I could tell. You haven’t been yourself the past few days. Tell me what it is,” he said.

  “It is the battle, sire, what I saw, what we did…” I couldn’t find the words.