Michael Spradlin - Keeper of the Grail

“Tristan, step quickly to the Knights’ Hall and bring my sword and mail. Quincy, find Sir Basil and have him alert the other knights. Hurry!”

“Sir Thomas, what is happening?” I asked.

“They are preparing to attack, Tristan. Any moment now. Be quick and fetch my equipment. Now go!”

As Quincy and I rushed down the steps, I could hear Sir Thomas shouting commands and instructions to the men-at-arms and sounding the call to arms. The urgency in Sir Thomas’ voice told me that this was something different, unlike the attacks we’d faced so far. My stomach lurched, and I was reminded of how I’d felt riding into that first battle so many weeks ago. I began to feel light-headed as I ran, and it became difficult to raise and lower my feet, as if the ground had turned to mud. I tried to push the nervousness down and focus on my duties, but images of the carnage in the valley flashed through my mind, and I felt myself growing afraid. I tried to pray but found myself unable to.

In a few moments what had been a relatively quiet morning inside the city became a whirlwind of activity. Quincy left me on the run to locate Sir Basil as I raced through the streets to the Knights’ Hall, where I retrieved Sir Thomas’ gear.

I retraced my steps and found Sir Thomas on the parapet shouting out orders. Peering over at the Saladin’s army I saw a flurry of activity out on the plains. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, and for a moment I felt that I was outside my body looking down on the city and the field below as the warriors on each side scurried about in their chaotic dance. A shout in the distance brought me back into focus, and I watched a series of large scaling ladders being moved from the rear toward the Saracens’ front lines.

Sir Thomas took the chain mail and sword from me as the parapet around us became crowded with men and equipment, and before long, the cries of the army below and those of our own forces had created a fearsome din. With a mighty shout, the Saladin’s lines surged forward, the Saracens charging across the ground. At the same time, their archers released a fusillade of thousands of arrows high into the sky, aiming to drop them on top of us. Forcing us to take cover would also let their troops advance unhindered to the base of our walls.

I dropped to my knees, huddling close to the parapet, trying to make myself as small as possible. The arrows whizzed through the air, one striking the ground not three feet from me. I tried hard to ignore the screams and cries as some found their targets.

An order was given to return fire, and from all around, our archers stood and fired at the surge of men rushing toward us from below. I looked up to see another raft of arrows coming at us from the Saladin’s rear guard. It became impossible to keep an eye on everything. Down below, the Saracens had nearly reached the base of the wall, although our archers were making them pay with every step they took.

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?