Keeper of the Grail

by Michael P. Spradlin

  Arrows fell out of the sky, landing all around, and I saw one of the men-at-arms struck down right in front of me. I still had my short sword strapped to my belt, but with shaking hands I grasped the pike, the long iron spear he’d dropped when hit by the arrow. I held it firmly, testing its weight, when I saw the tops of several scaling ladders clear the parapets and realized that the Saracens had arrived.

  Sir Thomas stood atop one of the battlements shouting, “Forward! To the ladders!” Our men surged forth, pushing the ladders backward with their pikes, swords and bare hands. A few Saracens had nearly reached the top, and their screams added to the racket as they fell backward into the swirling mass of their comrades below.

  I found an open spot along the parapet. The top of an enemy ladder appeared in front of me and I pushed at it with the pike, trying to topple it backward. But I couldn’t manage, and to my shock I saw a Saracen appear. I stood frozen in place as he climbed over the ladder, his face sweating with the effort. Coming to my senses, I grasped the pike in both hands, backed up a few steps and charged at him, shouting, “Beauseant!” at the top of my lungs.

  He easily parried my thrust with his scimitar, and I nearly lost my grip on the spear. I jabbed at him again, and he pushed the pike aside again, this time stepping sideways and pulling it from my hands. He came rushing at me, and I fumbled at the short sword at my belt, certain that I was about to die.

  With a loud scream he raised the sword above his head with both hands, when a look of shock appeared on his face and he crumpled to the ground. There behind him stood Quincy, holding a pike of his own that he had used to dispatch the Saracen. Quincy stared at me a moment, then nodded and ran along the parapet, finding another spot to defend.

  It was this man about to kill me who brought me to my senses. It became clear in that moment that even though I was scared beyond reason, I could not let the fear overtake me or I would surely die.

  More ladders came at the walls, and those we pushed back were righted and climbed again. For more than an hour that morning, the Saracens tried vainly to breach the walls. Finally, when the Saladin saw he could not get enough men through without taking heavy casualties, the attack ended. We hurried about, tending to our injured and repairing and replacing weapons, for we knew the Saladin would keep coming, never stopping until he found a way to regain the city.

  So the siege began. For days, then weeks, we sat inside our fortress, and I was reminded of a turtle huddled inside its shell. They would poke and prod at us and we would snap back, driving them off after a furious battle. Then days would go by with no activity at all. The attacks seemed to happen most often in the morning, after the Saracens had prayed themselves into a fighting frenzy, and then the arrows flew and the siege engines fired and on they came. Yet try as they might, they could not break us.

  Weeks became months, with no break in this pattern. One morning, a second large force of Saracens joined the Saladin’s army, another five thousand men by Sir Basil’s count. So many tents dotted the plains below us that it was nearly impossible to see a bare spot of ground. When this new group arrived, the enemy lines were strangely silent, and about the only time there appeared to be any activity at all was during their daily prayers.

  Each day the tension grew. The anticipation kept us all on edge and gnawed at the men inside the walls. Arguments became more frequent, fights broke out, and I heard the mumbles and whispers of men who felt cornered. They often talked of sneaking away before being caught or killed. Such thoughts never entered my mind, for despite the tension, I’d come to believe that somehow we would prevail. Sir Thomas reminded everyone that the Saladin could not sustain this siege forever, not with the Lionheart to the east, by now threatening Jerusalem. We spent hours discussing strategy, and debating whether the King would send aid or push on toward the interior. Some believed the King would return at any moment, but one night, after mass, I overhead Sir Thomas tell Sir Basil that no aid was likely to come. The Lionheart would gladly sacrifice Acre if he could fulfill his dream of returning the Holy City to Christian control.

  One evening, as twilight approached, I walked up the stone steps leading to the eastern parapet. I had scarcely found an open spot where I could see the plains below me when the now familiar chanting began, the trumpets sounded, and the Saladin’s siege engines and archers filled the sky. This time however, I watched in horrid fascination as a giant siege engine, one of the largest I’d ever seen, was pulled forward through the Saracen lines. It began hurling large boulders at the city gates. Every few minutes, it fired and the walls shook with the force of the impact. Our archers took aim and shot at it repeatedly, but the Saracens had covered the vulnerable parts of the machine with wooden shielding and the arrows could not penetrate it. Even our ballistae aimed directly at it had no effect. Would the Saladin finally force his way into Acre?

  On and on it went, as the machine blasted rock after rock at the gates. With each shot the Saracens cheered, and then when it looked as if the engine was impervious to any retaliation we could bring to bear on it, the Saladin’s army seemed to rise up as one. And if that weren’t bad enough, a group of black-robed men took up their positions all along the plain that ran in front of the main city gate. I had never seen warriors dressed like this.

  Sir Thomas stood a few feet away, huddling with a small group of knights.

  “Sire, look! A new group of warriors has joined the fight!” He came to my side. I looked at Sir Thomas, and for the first time I saw something I could only call fear flash across his face. It was there only for the briefest of moments, but I saw it, and it unnerved me.

  “Al Hashshashin,” he muttered, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him.

  “Sire?”

  “They are called Al Hashshashin. It translates to ‘the Assassins.’ Some call them fanatics. They are some of the most ferocious warriors you will ever find. If the Saladin has persuaded Al Hashshashin to fight here with him, then he means to take the city or die,” Sir Thomas said.

  As if they could hear us talking about them, the Assassins began to wail, and the sound of their cries unnerved me. It was the moaning of a demon, high pitched and terrifying, and I felt a wave of fear wash over me. Soon they were joined by the Saracens, who shouted out war cries of their own.

  In wave after wave they began charging toward us.

  And something told me that this time we would not turn them back so easily.

  16

  Boulder after boulder came thundering at the gates. The wave of Saracens hit Acre like a hammer on an anvil. They sent their entire force toward every side of the city, and the scaling ladders sprouted up like weeds among the battlements and parapets.

  The giant siege engine disoriented everyone, and for the first few minutes of the onslaught there was nothing but confusion and fear within our ranks. Over the roaring noise, I heard Sir Thomas shouting not far from where I stood.

  “To the walls! Forward! Fight!” Finally his words were drowned out by the commotion. He swung his sword back and forth like a demon, striking down man after man. I worked my way through the morass of bodies until I reached his side.

  “Tristan! Come with me! To the Knights’ Hall! Hurry!” he shouted. He turned me toward the steps leading down from the battlements, pushing me forward. I didn’t understand at first. Fighting was going on all around us, and Sir Thomas was headed in the other direction.

  At the bottom of the steps he took the lead and raced through the streets. The roar of the fighting receded, and the center of the city seemed eerily calm as we ran. In a few moments we burst through the door of our room in the Knights’ Hall.

  Sir Thomas’ tunic was caked in dust and blood. A vicious cut on his left arm still bled. Without a word, I tore a piece of cloth from my own shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound.

  He strode quickly to the table and began writing on a piece of parchment.

  “Tristan, we’re about to be overrun. There is time for only one last lesson in tactic
s. What would you, as a soldier, do in this situation?”

  I hesitated for a moment, wondering how Sir Thomas could remain so calm amid the chaos that surrounded us. Even though we had been fighting steadily for weeks now, he was, like always, calm, cool and completely in control of his emotions.

  “Sire, I’m not sure what you’re asking…I…”

  “Quickly, think! You are a Templar; you fight to the last man. Surrender is not an option. So what do you do?”

  I tried to change the subject.

  “Sire, we must see to your injuries,” I said.

  “No time for that now,” he said. “You can’t surrender, you can’t escape. What is your plan?”

  “I would look for a place to make a last stand,” I said.

  “Excellent! But where? Here we are, inside a walled city, about to be overrun. Where would you fight? What ground would you choose?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “The Crusaders’ Palace, sire,” I said. “The palace is the place I’d pick. It is well built, the thick sandstone walls can withstand fire, and it will cost the Saladin many soldiers to overrun it.”

  “Well done!” Sir Thomas said. “It would appear that I have trained you well. To the palace we shall go. But tell me, lad. If you had something that could not, must not, fall into enemy hands, how would you attempt escape from this place?”

  I thought for a moment. Part of me wanted to just open the door, grab Sir Thomas and find a horse and ride out. We would take our chances trying to make our way through enemy lines rather than be overrun by Saracens, trapped inside the city as we were.

  “Quickly. Think!”

  “The caves! Most of the Saladin’s men are deployed against the city walls. I would try to reach the caves below us, then attempt to sneak past whatever forces hold them, make my way along the shore, and when clear of the enemy lines, climb up the cliff side and follow the coastline until I reached safety.”

  “Ah, but how would you get to the caves, lad? The city is surrounded. There is no way in or out,” he said.

  Try as I might, I had no answer. “I don’t know, sire,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” I shrugged, disappointed that I could not come up with an answer.

  “Don’t worry, Tristan, you’ve done well. You’ve done quite well.”

  Finishing whatever it was he had written, Sir Thomas walked to the fireplace. He grasped a small dagger lying on the mantel and used it to pry a rock loose from the hearth. When the rock was removed, I could see an empty space behind it. Sir Thomas reached into the hole with his good arm and pulled out a leather satchel.

  “You have but one last duty for me,” he said, hanging the leather satchel on my shoulder.

  “We Templars have guarded what you now hold since our earliest days. In time, it has become almost the very reason for our existence. I’ve told you the story of our founding. We are the Warrior Monks sent by the King of Jerusalem to protect pilgrims traveling on the roads to and from the Holy Land. As our numbers and influence have grown, we’ve become guardians of many of the relics of our faith: the Ark of the Covenant, the One True Cross and this, the Holy Grail. Christendom’s most sacred objects are safeguarded and protected by Templar Knights. And they must be kept safe at all costs. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sire,” I said.

  I felt my heart sink. Sir Thomas had just handed me the most venerable and mysterious relic in the history of mankind.

  I knew the story of the Holy Grail. Or at least some of the stories, I should say. Many did not believe it even existed. Some said the Templars kept the Grail safe. I’d had no idea that it was true.

  “Only the Master of the Order and a handful of carefully chosen brothers know the truth and the locations of these relics. The Grail is never kept in one place for long in case someone outside our circle should learn of its whereabouts. We were not able to move it before the Saladin surrounded us. With the city lost, we cannot chance it being found. So I entrust it to you. You must tell no one that you have it, not even another Templar.

  “The satchel has a false bottom,” he said, taking the bag back. He opened it and showed me how the layer of leather that lay across the bottom of the satchel covered a secret compartment. When he pushed down on the edge of the satchel’s bottom, I saw that a small tab of leather popped out of the lining. Pulling up on the tab, he lifted the leather covering, and there, wrapped in several layers of white linen cloth, lay the Grail.

  Sir Thomas replaced the false bottom, closed the bag and handed it to me. I placed it on my shoulder, with the strap around my neck. I had no wish to look upon the Grail, no desire to unwrap it from its linen covering and gaze upon its wonders. At that moment I only wished I’d never heard of it. I knew that Sir Thomas was about to order me away from him, and it was an order I had no desire to follow.

  “You will carry this satchel to Tyre and find passage to England. You must take what I have given you to Scotland, to the Church of the Holy Redeemer near Rosslyn. Father William is the priest there. He will know what to do. Give it to no one but him. Do you understand? I will stay and hold the palace with the other knights as long as possible. I trust no one but you. And you know that what you carry can never leave your side. If the Saladin were to capture it…” Sir Thomas shuddered.

  “But, sire!”

  “No. It is done.” Gathering his strength, Sir Thomas rose to his feet. He fumbled at a small cloth bag hanging from his belt, placing it inside the satchel.

  “There are coins in the bag. Enough to get you to England, and a letter from me should you need to explain yourself to anyone,” he said.

  “Sire, please, if we leave now, we can escape. As you said, there are Templar regimentos in Tyre. I have heard the men-at-arms say that this attack cannot be sustained. The Saladin’s forces may take the city, but if we retreat…”

  “Ah, Tristan. This is the first time I have given you an order and you have questioned it. No. I cannot leave. I will die here defending the palace or we shall prevail and drive the Saladin from this place. But you must go—now. What you carry is the rarest thing left in this world, and men will kill for it without thinking twice. Trust no one. Not even another Templar. I have seen what possession of this thing can do to men. It has turned even my brothers of the Temple into glory-crazed hounds. It must not ever leave your side until you reach Rosslyn. Are we clear?”

  I slumped. I couldn’t leave him! Since I’d left my home at St. Alban’s, he had been like a father to me. How could I take my leave while he stayed behind? I knew what fate awaited him if he remained here.

  Sir Thomas walked slowly across the room and laid his sword upon the wooden table. He picked up his helmet, placing it on his head.

  “You have been a joy to me, Tristan. Lancelot himself had no more faithful squire,” he said.

  I knew that nothing I could do or say would sway him. Sir Thomas was not an overly stubborn man, just sworn to duty. And duty came above all else.

  He was about to speak again when a call to arms came from the courtyard outside the room. And beyond the shouts and sounds of running feet, we could hear the war cry of the Saladin’s soldiers in the streets outside. They had finally breached the walls!

  “Come, lad, we must get you to the palace. You were right in your assessment. The way out of Acre is through the caves. In the temple at the palace there is a hidden passage. With luck you can safely make your way to Tyre and find a ship to England. Until you leave Outremer, travel only at night and rest by day. Keep a sharp eye. You should be able to make it there in two weeks, maybe less.”

  Sir Thomas did not wait for my answer but turned toward the door as the cries of the warriors in the courtyard grew to a fever pitch. Before I knew what was happening, the door to the room exploded off its hinges and a Saracen burst into the room. He wore a green and white striped turban and looked terrifying. With a vicious yell, a sound so frightening it froze me in place, he raised his gleaming scimitar and came thundering acros
s the room directly at Sir Thomas.

  17

  I watched in horror as the Saracen’s blade whistled through the air toward Sir Thomas’ head. My hand went to the hilt of my sword, but before I could move from the spot, Sir Thomas blocked the downward swing of the scimitar, spun on one heel and brought his sword around in a mighty stroke, striking the man down.

  “Hurry, boy! Now!” he shouted. He jumped over the body of the man who lay bleeding on the floor, through the door and into the courtyard.

  The main compound of the city was chaos. Men yelled and horses wailed, and the sound of the battle was deafening. Looking along the main street leading from our quarters I saw only a mass of men, knights and men-at-arms in chain mail fighting Saracens in turbans. In these last few months of the siege we had seen skirmish after skirmish and attack after attack as the Saracens had tried to overrun our walls. But nothing like this. How could they have finally fought their way inside the city?

  The sky rained fire. Flaming arrows descended from the heavens, and the thumping sound of siege engines could be heard flinging clay pots of burning oil onto the rooftops of the city. I could hear the whistle of the quarrels fired from the ballistae, like arrows shot from the bow of a giant, and the screams as they found their targets. The brothers would have said that it looked as if the gates of hell itself had opened before us.

  Another knight, his mail coat caked in mud and blood, ran past us on his way toward a small group of approaching Saracens.

  “They broke through the west gate,” he shouted. “We will rally at the Crusaders’ Palace! Hurry!”