Michael Spradlin - Keeper of the Grail

“But sire, why do we fight here ?” I asked. “What is wrong with talking and sorting out our differences?”

“The fighting usually starts when the talking ends. It lasts until men grow weary of the fighting and seek to talk again. Then the fighting stops…for a while. But in the end there is always more fighting. It is what men do. It has always been this way. So if we fight, we must choose why we fight. Then we fight with honor. It is the only way. It will take time, and I’m afraid you may see many more horrible things before you do, but you will understand eventually,” he said.

I was still confused, but as I worked things out in my mind, I kept seeing certain images over and over. It was the sight of Sir Thomas after the battle giving water to a fallen enemy. I thought of Sir Basil carrying a wounded man from the field. I remembered the Templar physicians treating both sick Christian and Muslim children in the city. If I was going to fight, I would fight nobly and with honor, like Sir Thomas and his comrades.

For weeks, we worked long, hard hours, rising before the sun came up and falling dead tired into our beds at night. One morning there was word that King Richard and his guards would be leaving the next day. He would ride east to inspect his forces in Tyre, another coastal city. The King desperately wanted to take the Crusaders who were waiting in Tyre and press toward Jerusalem in the south, not be cooped up in Acre if the Saladin’s armies returned and surrounded the city.

I was working in the stable when word came that Sir Thomas wished to see me. I found him in the main room of the Knights’ Hall, seated at one of the long tables with Sir Basil.

“Ah, Tristan, there you are,” he said.

“Yes, sire. You wished to see me?”

“Yes, I did. You have no doubt heard that King Richard will be departing shortly?” he asked.

“Yes, sire,” I said.

Reaching into his tunic he removed a letter and handed it to me. It was thick and felt as if it had something inside it other than just sheets of parchment. It was sealed with Sir Thomas’ mark in wax.

“I need you to take this letter to one of the King’s Guards. He will be somewhere in the Crusaders’ Palace. His name is Gaston. A rather burly fellow. Brown hair. Give the letter to him, and only him. It is for the Master of the Order in London, and Gaston will see that it gets to him safely. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sire. Gaston of the King’s Guards,” I repeated.

“Excellent. Now off with you,” he said.

I left the Knights’ Hall and in a few minutes reached the Crusaders’ Palace. Asking around, I was told that Gaston might be found in the stables below the palace. Finding my way there, I walked toward a large open doorway that led inside. The stables were quiet and nearly deserted, save for a solitary guard who sat on a barrel in front of one of the stalls, sharpening a small dagger with a stone. At my approach he stood, sheathing the dagger, and rested his forearm on the hilt of his sword.

His casual stance jogged something in my memory.

It was possible I had seen him here in Acre, passing by the barracks or perhaps on duty outside the King’s quarters. But he seemed more familiar than that. As I drew closer, it came to me. I had seen him before. Not here in Acre, but before that, in the streets of Dover.

On the day I had been followed as I led Dauntless to Little John’s smithy, this man was the guard who entered the tavern and, I was willing to wager, sent the two drunks after me. What’s more, I saw in his face that he recognized me as well, though he tried not to show it.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

The guard shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. State your business.”

“I’m looking for someone. I was told he’d be here,” I said.

He shrugged. Then he stared off over my shoulder.

“Have you ever been to Dover?” I asked.

“No,” he said. But he fidgeted nervously.

“You followed me a few months ago. You stood outside the Whistling Pig Tavern and watched while two drunks tried to beat me and steal my knight’s horse,” I said.

The man looked down at the ground, then up at the ceiling-everywhere but at my face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been posted in Dover in years. You shouldn’t be making such rash accusations, boy,” he said, finally looking at me. His tone had changed, full of menace now. “I would learn to keep my mouth shut if I were you, squire. Now, run along.”

“I want to know why you-” But I couldn’t get the words out, because before I knew it he had pushed me roughly to the ground. I sprawled in the dirt, stunned, and watched his hand move back to the hilt of his sword.

“I have no time for this, boy. Leave. Before I teach you a lesson in manners you’ll not soon forget.” He glared down at me. I stood up, never taking my eyes off him.

“You’ll answer for this,” I said. “Sir Thomas and the Templars will-”

He moved to pull the sword, but not quickly, believing that he could easily frighten me. I was faster. I grabbed his arm and held on to it with all my strength. I pushed him back against the door to the stall, pinning him in place.

“You fool!” he said as he struggled. “Attacking a King’s Guard? You’ll be hanged!”

“Perhaps, but not before you give me some answers. Why did you follow me that day? Why did you send those men after me?!”

The man said nothing, only attempted to free his arm from my grip. Just as he was about to break loose, someone spoke from behind us.

“What is the meaning of this?” Before I could turn, I saw the guard’s eyes widen in fear. Though I had heard it up close only a few times, I recognized the voice. I released my grip on the guard and spun around. The Lionheart stood before me. He had a small squad of guards with him, two of whom had drawn their swords and now pointed them at me. He was dressed to ride, wearing his red tunic with the golden lions emblazoned on his chest, leather riding pants and knee-high boots. A large sword hung at his belt, and he held a helmet under his arm.

I was in trouble if I did not act carefully.

“Your highness,” I said, bowing.

King Richard stared at me and a slow look of recognition came over his face.

“You are that boy, Thomas Leux’s squire?” he asked.

“Yes, your majesty,” I said.

“You came to my aid on the battlefield,” he said. It was not a question, more a statement of fact.

I shrugged.

“Why are you assaulting one of my guards?” he asked.

“I’m afraid it was a misunderstanding. I was looking for someone. Sir Thomas sent me with a message for one of your men. This man and I got into an argument-”

The King waved his hand and his two guards sheathed their weapons.

“I take offense at those who would attack my men,” he said. “I could have you hanged.”

Something told me to be bold. For some reason, being in my presence made the King uneasy. Still, he was the monarch. He could end my life with a word. But I felt he would respect me more if I showed no fear.

“You could, sire,” I said. “My apologies.” I bowed again slightly, but held his gaze.

He eyes bored into me again, much as they had that night in the castle at Dover. I tried not to act nervous or afraid, but I was in over my head, and his stare began to make me uncomfortable. It was almost like he was trying to decide: Should I kill this boy? Or knight him?

“I owe a great debt to Sir Thomas, and since you intervened on my behalf in battle, I will overlook this offense. Do not let it happen again. Never threaten one of my men. Understood?”

“Yes, your majesty,” I said, bowing again.