Michael Spradlin - Keeper of the Grail

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 concentration 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.

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.