Michael Spradlin - Keeper of the Grail

“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.

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.”

I stepped a few feet away from Little John, brandishing the sword through the air in a crossing pattern. I knew nothing of swords, but it seemed a fine weapon. Not too heavy, but it had some heft to it.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

Little John reached out and took the sword carefully in his hand.

“Take the grip deeper in your fist, like this,” he said. “Make sure that your hand fits snugly under the guards for protection. Here, let me show you.”

So Little John gave me my first brief lesson in swordplay, teaching me to use the weapon correctly so that I didn’t accidentally injure myself.

After just a few minutes of these exercises, my arm had begun to ache, and I told Little John that I must return with Dauntless to the Commandery. To my surprise he took a scabbard from the workbench, sheathed the sword, then handed it back to me.