Keeper of the Grail

by Michael P. Spradlin

  Robard and I kept quiet, slowly circling in the hushed clearing, waiting for another attack. Silence. For several seconds there was very little sound. Then the noises of the night began to return. The chirp of insects. The call of birds.

  “I think they are gone,” I said.

  Robard still held his bow at the ready. He was tense, arm held in front of him, the muscles coiled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Al Hashshashin do not run. They fight to the death.”

  “Yes. Strange,” I agreed.

  We circled again, but there was nothing more to see or hear.

  “We need to leave,” Robard said.

  “Agreed.”

  Robard lowered but did not completely relax his bow, and we cautiously made our way back to the boulders. I held a sword in each hand and we kept a sharp eye, but the woods around us felt empty.

  We quickly gathered up our blankets. Our plan was to move as far away from there as quickly as possible. I rolled our blankets together, slinging them over my shoulder. I would carry Robard’s blanket tonight, giving him quicker access to his bow and wallet.

  We had turned toward the freedom of the woods when I heard a small gasping sound coming from the Assassin who lay on the ground inside the circle of boulders. Robard’s arrow had hit him high up in the right shoulder, and as I looked, I could see him moving. Not to attack, but not dead yet either.

  “Wait,” I said. “He’s not dead.”

  Robard stopped and I approached the Assassin, kicking the daggers out of reach. Another groan, and then his eyes flew open; two black ovals stared up at me in both alarm and hate.

  “Careful, he may still be armed,” Robard said.

  I looked at the wound where the arrow had entered his shoulder. I didn’t see much blood, but he wore a black robe and it was hard to tell. When I touched the shaft of the arrow, the Assassin cried out in pain and his eyes shut.

  “What do we do now?” I asked, not looking at Robard as I spoke. “He’s not dead. If we leave, and if he lives, he may be able to find his companions. We don’t need them following us.”

  Robard had remained quiet while I checked the Assassin’s wounds. And as I turned to look at him, awaiting his answer, the blood drained from my face.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” he said.

  I felt as if I were falling into quicksand. With my back turned, Robard had pulled an arrow from his wallet, nocked it on his bowstring and pulled it taut. It was now pointed directly at the heart of the wounded Assassin. I struggled to stand, but it felt as if my legs weren’t working properly.

  Robard drew the bowstring to his cheek, and I could see his fingers twitch as they were about to let it go.

  “Robard! No!” I shouted, launching myself toward him. To my horror I saw his fingers release the arrow, and I could only gasp as it flew through the air headed directly for my chest.

  21

  Time stood still. I felt I could see and hear everything that happened in exact detail. I had leapt from my crouch and thrown myself in front of the helpless Assassin. I watched Robard’s fingers twitch as they released the arrow. It left the bow, and in this state of heightened sensation, I heard the twang of the string and saw the shaft move slowly past the sight rest. I could hear Robard’s sharp intake of breath and the word NO! leave his mouth in a stunned gasp. But it was too late.

  The arrow moved with frightening speed. Robard stood but a few paces away. He had no chance of missing at this distance. I thought of many things in the instant before I died. I remembered Sir Thomas, the brothers and even Sir Hugh and his hatred of me. I thought of the musky smell of the stable at the abbey and the quiet shuffle of the monks’ sandals as they filed into the chapel for prayer. I heard the sound of the songbirds that called to me each day when I worked in the abbey garden.

  I also thought this was a silly way to die—in defense of a man who would undoubtedly have slain me if the situation were reversed. I remembered Sir Thomas, and how he had tried to teach me honor and humility and his lessons that a warrior is humble and compassionate in victory. Then, not quite dead yet, I hoped he would be proud.

  I closed my eyes. I heard it pierce my flesh before I felt it. I fell spinning in the air and landed upon my back, feeling the air rush out of my lungs. My eyes opened briefly to see the arrow sticking straight up, and I waited for the flash of burning pain that would be the last thing I experienced on this earth.

  Except the pain didn’t come.

  Robard rushed to my side, dropping to his knees. “My God! Tristan, please, please forgive me! I had no…I never thought…Please. I did not mean…” His eyes were wild and full of fear. He looked at the arrow, protruding as it did from my chest, and tears fell down his cheeks.

  I sat up.

  Robard gasped. “How? What?” He stared at me in wonderment.

  I looked down at my chest and saw a miracle. Strong words, I know, and the brothers would take me to task for assigning such heavenly status to my own mere survival. But to me, it was a miracle, for I knew I should be dead, or at least gravely injured, and I was neither.

  Then I saw the source of my miracle and almost wished I were dead instead. There could be only one explanation.

  As I had leapt toward Robard from where I crouched beside the Assassin, the satchel that hung around my shoulder had swung upward with my forward momentum. As it did, it had moved to a spot in front of my chest, and Robard’s arrow had found not flesh, but the tough leather of the case. I was glad to be alive, but that feeling changed as soon as I noticed that the arrow had punctured the satchel where the Grail lay hidden in the false bottom.

  When Robard realized I was alive and unharmed, he began to laugh hysterically, pounding me on the shoulders.

  “Oh dear God,” he said. Nervous at the thought of what he had nearly done, his questions came rapidly. “Are you all right? Lucky for you that satchel stayed my arrow. Why did you do that? What were you thinking? Are you sure you are not hurt?”

  “I’m fine, really. No harm.” In truth, I felt sick and wished very much to crawl into the bushes and empty my stomach of my last meal. But I sat there trying to steady my breathing and quiet the rushing sound in my ears.

  “Then, Tristan, why? What were you thinking?” he asked.

  I faced Robard, seeing a look of genuine curiosity on his face mixed with concern and anguish at what he had nearly done.

  “Templars do not kill a defenseless enemy. Such an act is forbidden by our laws. I realize you are not bound by them, but I can’t allow you to harm the Assassin while he is injured. It isn’t right.”

  Robard said nothing. He looked away for a moment, then stood and paced a few steps away. “I don’t believe in ‘rules of warfare,’” he said. “Nothing but foolishness. There are no rules except kill or be killed. Do you forget that he came to murder us in our sleep? To slit our throats while we lay dreaming?”

  I finally felt steady enough to rise to my feet. “I don’t forget that at all, Robard. And in battle, I would strike him down and not think twice. As to murder, well, you have a point. But they did not murder us. We fought them hand to hand. Therefore, once the fight is over and he is helpless, then his life belongs to us. There is no honor in killing a defenseless man.”

  “Honor! You sound like the Lionheart,” he said. And as always whenever he mentioned the King, he spat in the dirt for emphasis.

  I did not know what to do. We really had no time for this. “We can discuss this later. But now we should see to this man’s wounds, then be on our way. Before the Assassins return.”

  Robard paced back and forth several times within the circle of the rocks. Throwing up his hands he stalked off to the opening of the boulders to check over his bow and wallet.

  I could not be angry with Robard. In many ways he was right. Anyway, I was glad to have a moment to myself. As much as I did not want to, I needed to look inside the hidden compartment of the satchel. I feared the worst. Robard’s arrow might have shattered the most sa
cred relic in all of Christendom. But to check on it I needed Robard to be gone temporarily. I couldn’t risk him seeing what I carried and asking questions.

  I knelt by the Assassin. Apparently he had passed out again, but it appeared the bleeding had slowed. The arrow needed to be removed and that would not be pleasant. From what I could see of his face, the Assassin looked young, perhaps my age or even younger. That might have explained why our attackers broke and ran. Perhaps they were initiates and not full-fledged members of the cult. It could also explain why the two of us could drive them off. Otherwise we’d most certainly be dead.

  “Robard, a favor if you please? I’m going to need to remove this arrow. Would you mind filling the water skin at the spring we used yonder? And if you could, find a small piece of wood, maybe the size of a finger in diameter. He’s going to need something to bite on when I pull it out.”

  Robard glared at me with disdain, spitting on the ground and looking ready to launch into another round of arguments, but to my relief he took the water skin and left the boulders. He would be gone a few moments at least.

  As I removed the satchel from my shoulder, it felt much heavier than I remembered. My nerves were so jangled, it felt for a moment as if I could barely lift it. I pulled the arrow free of the coarse leather and, setting it on the ground, undid the leather tie holding it closed to look inside.

  Dumping all of my personal items from the bag, I thought to myself how I would explain this to Father William if I ever reached Rosslyn. “Hello, Father. Sir Thomas Leux sent me with the Grail. So sorry for the damage. Here it is. Well, good-bye then.” “The broken Grail, Father? Well now, there’s a tale. You see, my friend shot at me with an arrow, and rather than let it pierce my chest, I thought it wise instead to hide behind the cup of the Savior.” I would need to come up with a better story.

  Lifting up the hidden bottom of the satchel, I held my breath. Robard’s arrow had pierced the leather and driven into the linen wrap. This was bad. This was horribly, horribly bad.

  I was more nervous than I’d ever been. Here I was, a simple squire, about to lay eyes on something that had been the object of obsession for more than a thousand years. What would it look like? Would it change me? Taking a deep breath I grasped the cloth covering it.

  It was a simple chalice made of fired clay, unremarkable, really, for all that had been written and told and made of it. I held history in my hands. Had this cup once held the blood of our Savior? Was this what men had fought and died over? An arrow shot from a longbow with enough force can easily pierce armor and mail. By all rights, Robard’s arrow should have turned it into holy shards. Instead, I found the Grail as it had been placed there by Sir Thomas. No scratches or cracks or defects of any kind.

  The Holy Grail had not a mark on it.

  22

  Holding the Grail in my hands, I could scarcely believe my luck. Pulling it close to my eyes, I turned it slowly, but could find no imperfection of any kind. No scratch or indentation at all. I went limp with relief and quickly rewrapped the Grail in the linen cloth, restoring it to the secret compartment within the satchel. With my fingers, I pushed back on the leather around the space where the arrow had pierced the satchel and found that the hole closed up well and was not very noticeable. At the very least the white cloth would not show through the satchel wall and would hide the Grail well enough until I could find some way to repair the hole.

  Pulling the satchel back over my shoulder, I turned my attention to the wounded Assassin on the ground. With my knife I carefully cut into the cloth of his garment around where the arrow had punctured his shoulder. The bleeding had stopped, but the arrow was buried deep in the flesh.

  I had seen how Templar physicians removed arrows when injured knights returned from the battlefield. However, I had never performed this technique before on any living person. The most efficient way was to push the arrow all the way through, then cut off the arrowhead and pull the shaft back out. This was often not as easy as it sounded, for the arrowhead can encounter bone and muscle, causing more damage. But it was usually better than the damage caused by pulling the arrowhead out the way it went in.

  Then there was the pain involved. And the shouts of agony.

  I knew, though, that the arrow must come out. To leave it there was not an option. Blood poisoning would set in and then…well. There was only certain death after that.

  I pulled away the cloth around the shaft of the arrow and examined the wound. As the Assassin had leapt through the air, Robard had indeed made a very good shot. A few inches to the right and the arrow would have missed entirely, but the shaft had found the Assassin’s shoulder up high and close to the arm. This was good news, as it meant I might be able to push the arrow through the soft tissue without hitting bone or the shoulder blade. At least in theory.

  A few minutes later, Robard returned with the full water skin and the small, sturdy stick I had asked for. He handed them to me without comment. Removing the stopper from the skin I poured fresh water over the wound. The Assassin did not stir.

  I couldn’t hold up the Assassin and push the arrow through at the same time. I needed Robard’s assistance.

  “Robard, could you help me here, please?” I asked.

  Robard stood to the side of the boulders, scanning the forest. He looked at me and his eyes narrowed.

  “Robard, I beg you. I’m aware of your feelings here, but this man is injured and it is our Christian duty to help him. I can’t do it alone. I need your help. Please.” I used some of the Cistercian guilt tactics I had learned from the brothers.

  Robard was unmoved.

  “Robard. Please. God is watching us,” I said. Such a powerful weapon guilt can be. That should sway him. I hoped.

  Robard puffed out his cheeks, letting out a sigh full of indignation and annoyance. But slinging his bow over his shoulder he walked to where I knelt holding the Assassin about the shoulders.

  “If you hold him up, I will see to the arrow,” I said.

  Robard and I switched places. With my fingers I probed the tissue around the wound, and when I took the arrow firmly in my hand and began moving it about, the Assassin’s eyes flew open and he bellowed out in pain. With his good arm he grabbed at my hands, shouting at me in Arabic.

  “Watch out!” shouted Robard. “He…”

  “Hold!” I hissed, grabbing the Assassin’s arm. He stopped yelling momentarily.

  I held up the stick so he could see it. I mimed putting the stick in my mouth and biting down on it. The Assassin looked down at his wound, then at me again, nodding. I held out the stick and he took it between his teeth.

  Trying to still my shaking hand, I clutched the arrow firmly by the shaft. The Assassin took a deep breath and held it. I pushed gently on the arrow at first, hoping to work it through easily, but it was not to be.

  I looked at the Assassin, who nodded again, closing his eyes. I tightened my grip on the arrow, pushing harder.

  The Assassin screamed through his clenched lips, and his body straightened and tensed. I felt the arrow go in farther, but it was still stuck. I shifted my weight, pushing down still harder, and the Assassin shrieked in pain. Slowly the arrow began to move, but the Assassin was thrashing and kicking, and it was difficult to keep my grip.

  “Hold him!” I hissed.

  Robard gripped the Assassin more tightly by the shoulders, and I pushed again. The Assassin’s body was nearly rigid. He bellowed, wiggling and kicking his legs, but at last I felt the arrow exit through the skin on his back with a pop and the arrowhead came free. He threw back his head, letting loose one final cry, then passed out.

  Robard looked up at me, his face a mass of confusion. At first, I didn’t notice because I was busy wiping the sweat from my forehead and trying to pull myself together.

  “Tristan,” Robard whispered. “Look.”

  I followed Robard’s gaze to the face of the Assassin. During all the thrashing and kicking about, the Assassin’s turban had been knocked loos
e and the veil had fallen away. Only it wasn’t his face. It was her face.

  For before us, lying there in Robard’s arms, was not the hardened visage of a determined killer. Instead, there was the almost innocent face, framed by long, flowing and beautiful black hair, of a young girl.

  The Assassin was a she.

  23

  Her hair was the color of obsidian. She looked young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She had fallen unconscious again, and Robard held her stiffly at the shoulders, as if any movement on his part might cause her to break. Clearly he had no idea what to do with her. I was too stunned to move or speak. Perhaps this explained why her companions had run off. If they were all as young as she, they likely were not experienced fighters.

  Finally Robard broke the silence. “Tristan! It’s a girl!” he said, his voice a whisper.

  “I can see it is a girl, Robard.”

  “I’ve never heard of a female Assassin,” he said.

  “Nor have I.”

  We were silent again, our eyes transfixed on the face of the girl before us. The sky was getting darker, but I could see her face was pale and not her natural color. She had sharp cheekbones, but a small rounded nose, and her thick hair smelled of sandalwood.

  “Tristan,” Robard said quietly.

  “Yes,” I answered, not looking up from the face of the girl.

  “Perhaps you should finish with the arrow. She’s still bleeding,” he said.

  Robard’s words snapped me out of my reverie. “Can you hold her up? I need to see her back now.”

  Robard complied, moving to the other side of her prone body. I could see where the arrowhead had come through, slightly beneath her shoulder blade. The arrowhead was attached to the shaft with a length of leather twine. I cut through it with my knife, and the arrowhead popped off onto the ground.