Keeper of the Grail (14 page)

As we passed through the intersection of the street, Saracens came rushing toward Sir Thomas, but veered in my direction when they saw me behind him, thinking a young boy an easier target than a knight. The smaller of the two raised his weapon, screaming in rage. I managed to block his first downward thrust, but his sword was much heavier, and my blade flew from my hand. He swung at my head with all his might, and I barely managed to duck. His momentum spun him around so that his back was facing me. I jumped forward, throwing my shoulder into him and knocking him to the ground.

“Run, Tristan!” I heard Sir Thomas say as he pulled at my arm. I glanced around and saw the other attacker lying nearby, apparently dispatched by Sir Thomas while I was otherwise occupied. As I grabbed my dropped sword, he pushed me farther down the street and on we ran.

After several minutes of picking and fighting our way through the chaos we reached our destination.

The Crusaders’ Palace was a small city within a city. Like Acre, it was surrounded by walls. Each corner section held a tower that was manned by several knights, archers and men-at-arms.

The Saladin’s forces were making their way through the streets methodically, building by building, but they had not yet reached the palace. Ahead of us we saw a small group of Templars outside the palace gate, weapons at the ready.

“Hurry, Tristan, not much time,” said Sir Thomas as we sprinted up the steps through the main gate into the courtyard of the palace. None of the Templars paid us any mind as they and their squires rushed back and forth inside and out of the gate, preparing to make a final stand.

Sir Thomas pushed his way through a small crowd gathering inside, and I followed him across the courtyard. Inside the palace was a small temple where the knights held their ceremonies and the priests conducted mass. Small as it was, it was quite beautiful, with thick walls canceling out some of the noise and confusion from outside.

Sir Thomas strode quickly to the altar. It stood waist high and was made of stone. The top surface was a flat section of marble that had been polished to a high sheen. Sir Thomas laid his bloody sword on the altar and reached below the top, pushing on one of the stones making up the altar’s base. It popped inward a few inches and with his hip he pushed against the marble top. The altar swiveled on a pivot to reveal a small wooden door in the floor below it. A secret passage! But where did it lead?

Sir Thomas lifted the door, and I could see a ladder leading down into the darkness. He crossed the floor to the sacristy door and removed a torch from its holder on the wall. He tossed the still lighted torch into the hatch, and it hit the ground but kept burning, illuminating a tunnel leading away from the ladder.

“You must go, Tristan,” he said. “This tunnel eventually takes you to the caves below the city. They will likely be guarded by only a handful of Saracens. You must make your way past them, travel along the shore until you are safe, then climb up to the main road. Remember, you must travel only at night. Stay in sight of the road so you don’t get lost, but do not travel directly on it. You might encounter more of the enemy.”

Outside, the sounds of the battle grew nearer. Our enemies were closing in on the palace, and the knights in the courtyard were putting up a ferocious defense. Across the room I saw Quincy and Sir Basil. Sir Basil held a large battle-ax in his left arm while Quincy affixed a large bandage to his right shoulder. When he finished, Sir Basil moved toward the door of the palace, where the fighting outside had grown louder. Quincy followed bravely behind him. Would I ever see them again?

Unbuckling his belt Sir Thomas handed me the sword, scabbard and all, and then pulled his Templar ring off his finger, shoving it inside the satchel.

“These may come in handy. Don’t be afraid to use them,” he said.

“But sire, you’ll need your sword!” I pleaded.

He waved me off. “Don’t worry. There are plenty of weapons here,” he said.

Choking back tears, I slipped the belt over my shoulders so the sword was at my back, and made sure the satchel was secure.

I looked at Sir Thomas. “Sire…please…,” I pleaded.

“Tristan, lad…there is no time for this. As your knight I have given you an order, and I expect you to obey it. Now go,” he said, pushing me toward the hatch.

I stepped onto the ladder, beginning my descent. As I looked up at Sir Thomas for the last time, he reached out to touch me on the shoulder.

“Tristan,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “Beauseant! Beauseant, lad!”

Be glorious.

Tears started then, but I knew nothing would change his mind.

Descending into the darkness of the tunnel, I was convinced I had seen Sir Thomas for the last time. I heard the sound of the altar moving back over the hatch above me, and then noises of the nearby battle faded completely.

Picking up the torch, I quickly made my way through the tunnel. Several yards in, the tunnel became more like a stairway descending into the earth below the city. I did not know how long the torch would burn, so I moved as fast as possible. I didn’t like being in such a small, enclosed space. The air was dank and moist, and I found it hard to breathe. Sweat lined my face, and I brushed it from my eyes. Step after step, I continued until I felt the air becoming cooler, and could smell the ocean.

Eventually I found myself inside a large cavern and stopped to listen. In the far distance I heard the sound of water as waves washed up on the shore. Nearby were the quiet murmurs of voices and the sounds of men.

Extinguishing the torch in the dirt floor of the cavern, I waited a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but even then it was hard to see. The smell of the ocean was stronger now, and after a moment I saw a faint flicker of light ahead, whether from torches or a fire I could not tell.

Keeping to the wall of the cavern, I left the tunnel opening and slowly and quietly made my way toward the light. The first cavern gave way to a larger one, and I crept softly forward. A dim light began to cut the darkness.

Sir Thomas had been right. Saracens were in the cavern ahead of me. The noise of the ocean grew louder, and I realized they must be sitting just inside the cave opening on the beach. It was only by luck that they had not yet discovered the passage at the rear.

Cautiously, I peered around the corner of the cavern. About twenty paces ahead of me sat three of the Saladin’s warriors huddled around a fire. Each of them had a tremendously long scimitar at his belt, and one of them held a giant and deadly looking battle-ax.

The sound of the waves had dimmed the noise of the battle in the city above, but now and then I heard shouts and explosions. I ducked back around the corner of the cavern, needing to think of a plan, a diversion that would get me past these men and onto the beach. I fingered the satchel that hung on my shoulder and offered up a silent prayer, hoping for some sign or guidance to get me out of this predicament. A miracle would also be welcome. A small miracle would be fine. Nothing too serious. No lightning strikes necessary. Just…

At that moment, I heard the sound of a trumpet, and the men in the cave jumped to their feet, talking rapidly in Arabic. The horn must have sounded a call to arms, and from what I could guess, the soldiers were arguing over whether or not to abandon their posts or hold their positions in the cave. Two pointed up toward the battle above, while the third shook his head, pointing at the ground where he stood, muttering something. I assume he meant to stay rooted to his spot.

At last they came to some agreement. Two of the men ran out of the cave, disappearing from sight. The remaining guard sat back down at the fire, unfortunately still facing me with the giant scimitar. Very long and sharp this scimitar was. At least the size of a small tree, I was certain.

I needed to escape before his companions returned, but how could I defeat a trained warrior of the Saladin in hand-to-hand combat? I needed something to give me some advantage. Finally an idea came to me.

Reaching down I grabbed a handful of sand. I quietly drew my short sword and peered around the corner of the cavern to make sure the soldier remained in the same spot. I took a deep breath, gathered my will and jumped out of the cavern, screaming a war cry at the top of my lungs.

The man yelled in surprise, but being well trained, he recovered quickly and jumped to his feet. I ran a few paces directly at him, watching in horror as he drew the scimitar, certain that it measured at least eleven feet long. I hoped my plan would work.

By the time I was a few feet away, his arm had drawn back the scimitar, which would likely remove my head as he brought it around. At the peak of his backswing, I threw the handful of sand in his face.

Temporarily blinded he shrieked, clutching at his eyes with his free hand and trying to see. Staggering backward he began swinging the giant sword all about, blind with rage. I danced away from him, still yelling to cover the sounds of my movement.

In a second I was behind him. I brought the hilt of my sword down on his head as hard as I could. He cried out, falling to the ground, and went silent.

Quickly moving to the campfire I kicked sand on it until the flames went out. I didn’t want anyone passing the cave to spot me in the firelight. The man on the ground behind me groaned. There was no time to waste.

I saw Saracens moving about here and there on the beach, luckily too far away to have heard their comrade’s cry. Moving from the safety of the cave I crept as quickly as I could along the cliff face, darting from boulder to boulder, finding whatever cover there was. It took me more than an hour to move even a half league. Several times I dove behind a pile of rocks as soldiers rushed by, but as the darkness of the night deepened, eventually I managed to put the cave and the city of Acre above it behind me.

When I had seen or heard no one for half an hour or so, I began looking for a place where I could scale the cliffs and reach the road to Tyre. A few leagues from the cave I found a trail leading from the rocks along the shore up the side of the cliffs.

The path was steep and narrow, cutting back and forth along the rock face. It was a hard climb, and soon I was sweating, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I stopped to rest several times, always hugging the cliff, praying that I would meet no one coming down from the top. It would be a simple matter to be pushed or thrown from the narrow trail, and that meant sure death on the rocks below.

After another hour of climbing, I reached the cliff top. I paused momentarily to catch my breath, then cautiously made my way inland from the cliffs toward the road.

Cresting a small rise, I looked back toward Acre. The city was in flames. Even from that distance the wind still carried the sounds of battle—the screams and shouts of dying men and above it all, a high-pitched, eerie wail that will forever haunt my sleep. The sound that told me all was lost.

The cry of Al Hashshashin.

O
N THE
R
OAD TO
T
YRE

18

I
t was near dawn on the third night after my escape from Acre. Following Sir Thomas’ instructions, I rested during the day, finding a group of rocks or some wooded glen to sleep in, and traveled near but never directly on the main road to Tyre. I was able to fill my water skin in the many streams and springs on this part of the coast. The wild olive, fig and date trees that dotted the countryside provided me with food.

From the shadows, I watched many groups of men pass by me in the darkness. A large detachment had ridden by the previous night, but with the cloudy sky, I could not tell if they were friend or foe. It was better to remain alone than risk capture and sure death at the hands of the Saladin’s forces.

Before I fell asleep each morning, I worried over the Grail. I knew that Sir Thomas saw its safety as my duty, but it weighed me down as if I’d been tossed into the sea with a millstone about my neck. I reminded myself that Sir Thomas, the man I admired and respected like no other, had chosen
me
for this sacred duty. I should have been honored.

Part of me was angry with Sir Thomas. “Here, Tristan, take the Grail back to England. Don’t let anyone near it, Tristan. Keep it safe at all times, Tristan.” Horse dung. I wished I’d had the courage to stand up to Sir Thomas. That I had demanded to stay in Acre, as my duty commanded.

Then I realized that I was alive, that I owed Sir Thomas my life. And I was grateful.

The night was nearly over. Soon I would need to find a safe place to sleep for the day. I found it hard to concentrate. There was danger all about me, yet the fate of Sir Thomas and the other knights was all I thought of. I missed Quincy and Sir Basil and tried to force myself not to think of what I knew their fate must have been. I told myself that somehow, the knights at the palace had managed to turn back the Saracens. I held that thought, small comfort that it was.

Perhaps because I was not paying attention, the bandits surrounded me before I realized my mistake.

“Hold!” a voice said out of the darkness.

My hand moved toward the short sword at my belt. Sir Thomas’ battle sword was still strapped to my back, but was too difficult to draw without notice.

“Don’t do it,” the voice said again. From the accent, I could tell it was an Englishman. And for a moment I felt the relief wash through me that I had not stumbled upon a group of Hashshashin. But then I remembered: bandits. Bands of these men, who had grown weary of the Crusade, roamed the countryside, preying on the weak and defenseless while they made their way homeward. Englishmen and Christians they were, and most likely deserters.

“My name is Tristan St. Alban,” I said. “Servante of Sir Thomas Leux of the Knights Templar. Who commands me to hold?”

There was no response. Only silence. The night was cloudy, and I could only make out a dim shape several paces in front of me. Off to my right and left I sensed movement but saw nothing. All of them were well out of reach of my sword.