Keeper of the Grail (10 page)

As they spread out across the valley floor I saw a sea of turbans, mostly white, but here and there I noticed some were striped with different colors; greens and blacks.

“Why do those Saracens have striped turbans?” I asked Quincy over the gathering noise of our deployment.

“Those are their commanders. They direct the fighting and give orders to the individual squads,” he answered. Somewhere from their lines a trumpet sounded and their cavalry began moving into position.

Their horses were magnificent; tall, stately mounts that were draped from head to flanks in brightly colored blankets, some of which completely covered the horse’s head with holes cut out for the eyes. Many of the coverings were decorated with stars and other designs.

“Why do they cover their horses so?”

“Sir Basil says it’s to protect the horses from the sun when they ride through the desert. They are quite beautiful though, aren’t they?” Quincy asked.

Their horsemen carried shields and scimitars, not lances. I wondered at this, since it seemed that the longer lance would give our knights an advantage, but perhaps the shields countered their effectiveness.

Turning from the mounted warriors I studied their foot soldiers more closely. They were dressed in simple tunics, most of them white or light brown. All of them carried scimitars. Their scabbards were looped around the neck and shoulders, not carried at the belt, probably because the weapons were so heavy. Here and there I saw that a few men wore iron guards to protect their arms but I did not see any mail or armor among them.

Despite this surprise our forces moved rapidly to form a line along the ridge. The King and his guards took the center. I saw Sir Thomas move to the King’s left with about thirty mounted Templars. Sir Basil took the right with about the same number. Other regimentos followed until they had fully deployed along the rise. The men-at-arms dismounted, leaving their horses with the sergeantos in the rear. They were trained to fight on foot and would charge forward in an attempt to break the enemy lines. Taking their place in front of the King, they lined up three deep with swords drawn and shields at the ready. To me it looked like everyone was running about in confusion, but before I knew it all the forces had deployed along the ridge and were ready to attack.

Down below, the Saracens scurried about, moving their men and horses into position. Buglers at the rear of their columns raised extremely long, straight horns, roughly the length of a man, and sounded their call to arms. They began to deploy in nearly the same fashion as we did, perhaps four or five hundred yards away. As they made ready to attack, they began to shout
“Allah Akbar”
over and over again.

“Quincy! What is that chanting?” I shouted.

“It’s their battle cry. It means ‘God is great!’”

As if to answer the chants of the Saracens, the knights began singing from the Psalm of David: “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but to your name give glory!”

“Watch!” Quincy shouted over the din. “After they sing the Psalm, they’ll order a charge!”

Then I heard the sound of our trumpets, and the battle was on.

My horse began to fuss when the noise and shouting started. I reached forward to quiet her with a pat on her neck. We squires strained our eyes to keep track of our knights as they rode forward. I heard the Templars shout
“Beauseant!”
over the noise. It was a Templar war cry and it meant “Be glorious!” Sir Thomas and the other knights around him lowered their lances, surging forward as one. Their horses charged across the rocky ground, and the noise even from a distance was deafening.

The King and his guard did not charge, holding their position on the ridge, watching as first the knights, then the men-at-arms plowed forth. The Saracens, to their credit, did not give ground easily. Countering the charge, their horsemen rode straight at the knights with scimitars held high. The first wave of Saracens and knights collided with a tremendous clang as steel met steel. Horses reared and men screamed and the dust flew. I lost sight of Sir Thomas in the mass of bodies and swirling clouds of dust that squirmed in the valley below.

As I glanced again at the King astride his white warhorse, I noticed to my disgust Sir Hugh sitting next to him on horseback. He carried no lance, content to watch the conflict from the safety of the ridge. Studying the battle below, I was desperate for a sign of Sir Thomas. For a moment I considered spurring my horse forward, but fear held me in place. My grip tightened on the reins and I felt paralyzed, unable to move or speak.

Without warning the battle began to turn against us. Some of the men-at-arms broke ranks, sprinting back toward our lines at the top of the ridge. I heard the shouts of King Richard and his advisers, exhorting them to return and face the enemy. The King spurred his warhorse down the hill and met the first wave of retreating men. Waving his sword he shouted, but his words were lost in the noise and distance. It did have an effect on the men though. For a moment they stopped running and rallied.

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.

T
HE CITY OF
A
CRE,
O
UTREMER
J
UNE
1191

14

W
e 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.

“Yes, sire?” Uh-oh.

“He tells me a certain squire rode to his rescue at a critical point in the fight this afternoon.”

From his tone I couldn’t tell if he was angry or proud.

“He did?”

“Yes. Apparently this squire gave up his horse so the King could return to safety.”

I shrugged, staring at the fire.

“Tristan, what you did was incredibly brave. And also dangerous. I believe I left you with orders to stay at your post unless I required your assistance during the fighting.”

I looked up at Sir Thomas and saw the concerned smile on his face. He wasn’t mad exactly.

“Forgive me, sire, I don’t know what came over me. When I saw the King there with the Saracens about to overtake him, I…well…I just reacted,” I stammered.

“I understand. And you’ve become quite the hero to the entire army. You saved a comrade without thinking of yourself, and the King, no less. That is one of the marks of greatness in a warrior, Tristan. But please. No more such acts of bravery. England can always get a new King. Good squires are not easy for me to find,” he said.

I looked at Sir Thomas and he winked at me.

“Get some rest,” he said. “We ride out in the morning.”