Michael Spradlin: Keeper of the Grail

We entered through the main gate. As we reined up, knights and squires hurried out of the building, calling out greetings. As we dismounted, they began to mingle, talking excitedly with one another.

“Our order has a commandery like this in most major cities and towns throughout Europe. Any Templar can rest here, train or reprovision,” Sir Thomas said.

He was interrupted by the approach of a large man with a full beard that hung nearly to his chest.

“Thomas!” he shouted, striding briskly up to Sir Thomas, clapping him vigorously on the shoulders. He was at least a head taller than Sir Thomas and easily the biggest man I’d ever seen, larger even than Brother Tuck. His arms were as thick as small trees, and his hands were the size of hams.

“You smell like a sweaty horse and you look worse,” he bellowed.

Sir Thomas laughed. “Sir Basil, you’ve grown thinner. Surely you’ve eaten since I last saw you?” he asked with a smirk.

Sir Basil roared with laughter, patting his large stomach. “Aye, once I had words with the cook. The food was barely edible when I first arrived. We Templars fight on our stomachs, and this kitchen was in the most pitiful shape. Worst of any commandery I’ve ever seen. Now it has a larder fit for fighting men-I’ve taken care of that. No more cabbage soup and bread. We have real food now. Meats and cheeses galore! But I’ve grown weary keeping the cook in line!”

Sir Thomas smiled. “It is good to see you, Brother Basil. Let me introduce to you the newest member of our regimento. This is Tristan of St. Alban’s. He has been living there with the monks, and has joined us to serve as my squire.”

“Well, well, well,” said Sir Basil. “Monks, you say? Welcome, young Tristan, welcome! A squire to Sir Thomas? Did he not fully explain to you? You can’t be a squire unless you’re serving a real knight! Sir Thomas drinks like a baby camel and fights like a woman. Why, he’s no soldier! In our last battle, I had to lash him to a tree to keep him from running away like a scared kitten. I faced down a dozen Saracens single-handedly while he cowered in the brush. If it’s squire-hood you’re interested in, perhaps you should ride with me. Then you’ll see how a real knight lives!”

I looked back and forth between them, puzzled. It would seem that they were friends, yet Sir Basil had just gravely insulted Sir Thomas.

Sir Thomas saw the look on my face and began laughing.

Then Sir Basil joined in, pounding me on the back. “We’re joking, boy, joking! Why, there is no finer knight than Sir Thomas. You listen closely to him and you’ll grow up to be the Master of the Order! Welcome, lad! Welcome!”

I’d never encountered someone with such energy. Sir Basil pumped my hand again, then moved off quickly to greet the other knights in our group. His voice drowned out everyone as he moved among them, shouting out good-natured insults.

Sir Thomas grinned as he watched Sir Basil work his way through the crowd. Then he turned to me. “Well, Tristan, there is much to do. First, you should return the brothers’ horse to the church stables. Then be back here as quickly as you can. We need to get you outfitted. Our ships depart for Outremer soon, and by then we’ll be well into your training. So, off with you now.”

The church of St. Bartholomew was not far away, and in fact I could see the steeple from the courtyard where we stood. Sir Thomas took his horse by the reins off to the stables, and I turned Charlemagne back toward the gate.

The sturdy plow horse was tired and moved along without much argument. Dover was alive with activity, and I felt I would never grow used to the noise and commotion. I passed busy shops and inns and shouting vendors in the marketplace. I was assaulted by the smells of cooking meat and smoke from the fires of the blacksmiths’ forges that lined the street. Underneath it all there was the unpleasant smell of hundreds of human beings living in close quarters.

In truth I was not watching where I was going, and because of this, I was nearly run over by a column of riders that had burst into an intersection of the street just as I was about to cross through. I had never seen such resplendent men-at-arms, and as I pulled Charlemagne quickly to a stop, one of them shouted harshly at me.

“Watch out, boy. Move that miserable plow horse and make way for the King’s Guards!”

I had nearly been trampled by a mounted detail of the King’s Guards! And not just any detail, for at the head of the column a rider carried a brilliant scarlet banner on which were embroidered three magnificent golden lions. I had never seen it before but had heard many travelers at the abbey describe it. It was the coat of arms of the King, and as I stared in disbelief, there he was, riding past me on the most magnificent white stallion I had ever seen.

Richard the Lionheart had arrived in Dover.

The news that the Lionheart had arrived spread quickly through the city. The King’s Guards had been forced to slow by the crowds of people in the intersection, and the delay had given me a brief moment to study King Richard. His horse was magnificent, as white as a cloud. He wore a gleaming coat of mail and over that a bright red tunic, embroidered with the same three golden lions that flew upon his banner. He wore nothing on his head, certainly no crown, but not even a helmet. His beard was full but neatly trimmed, unlike the manner of the Templars. He carried a large battle sword at his belt, and wore leather riding breeches.

As the people of Dover realized the King was riding through the main thoroughfare, they called out shouts and he waved in greeting. But before a crowd could gather, the riders were gone, and I followed their progress as they headed to the castle gate.

If Dover had been noisy before, the King’s arrival had given its citizens even more cause for boisterous shouts and laughter. As I resumed my journey to the church, the news moved visibly from person to person and shop to shop. Several folks called out to me, asking if I knew that the King had arrived, and I answered back that, indeed, I had seen him with my own eyes.

When I arrived at the grounds of St. Bartholomew, one of the priests there was delighted to show me to the nearby stable used by the church. He was familiar with the brothers of the abbey and agreed to care for the horse until they arrived to take him home. I led Charlemagne into his stall and saw that he was fed and watered. I felt reluctant to leave him, knowing that in so doing, I was severing my last connection to St. Alban’s.

Charlemagne seemed to sense this as well. While he silently munched his hay, I patted him and he turned, gently nuzzling my neck. It felt as if he knew we would not see each other again and wished to say good-bye.

The priest had stood idly by while I stabled the horse, and he quietly began to fidget and cough. Knowing that I’d taken up enough of his time, I thanked him again and made my way back to the street. I hoped there would be a meal soon upon my return to the Commandery, for I’d grown hungry and thirsty as well. Perhaps I would have a chance to see what wonders Sir Basil had done with the kitchen. Sir Thomas had mentioned that my training as a squire would begin straightaway, but I hoped he’d meant after we’d had a chance to rest somewhat from our travels.

Dusk was falling and the sun danced along the tops of the hills that lay to the west. The streets and buildings were bathed in gold. And the smells of evening meals were everywhere, so much so that my stomach growled.

Approaching the Commandery, I noticed Sir Hugh standing outside the gates with another Templar knight, one I’d not seen before, the two of them speaking in hushed tones to two other men who wore the uniform of the King’s Guards. Whether they were members of the same squad that had just ridden through town, or another stationed here at Dover, I could not tell, but Sir Hugh was talking to them anxiously, as if agitated about something.