by K. T. Tomb
With that fortune within his knowledge and grasp, Pierre knew that he could become a major contender for the position of Master of the Order of the Knights Templar. Of course, there was still de Sable to get out of his way. That time would come.
Pierre de Mandeville rolled the parchment carefully and tightly and slipped it once again into the gold and emerald scabbard. When he had stretched out fully within his narrow tent, locking his heavily muscled arms behind his head, he had never felt more confident that, at last, things were going his way.
He believed his map would seal his destiny, the one he so richly deserved.
Chapter Sixteen
In the middle of the night, a ghost-like swarm of men silently descended upon the small group of soldiers and kings, taking even the posted sentries by surprise. In a sudden violence of metal on flesh, they were everywhere, brandishing flashing scimitars and attacking more fiercely than Richard had ever seen anyone fight.
Caught completely off-guard, Richard was only barely able to reach for his own sword before three men burst into his tent and kicked it away. The King of England could only blink at the sharp blades pointed at his face. The men were silent, their faces covered in black paint. Had it not been for the shooting pain in his wrist where they had kicked him, Richard would have thought this a dream.
“Do you know who I am?” he thundered, hoping they would ransom him instead of kill him.
He took a boot in his jaw for his question and was momentarily stunned.
Others were in a similar position, unable to react in time to defend themselves. The guards, who were given the most time to draw their swords, were quickly killed, set upon by many fierce men with one goal in mind: Slaughter.
Only Saladin managed to run his scimitar of Damascus steel through one of his attackers. Always a light sleeper, the Muslim leader had flipped up his scimitar just as a man lunged in his direction. Saladin, now on his feet, and using one hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes, proceeded to take on the next attacker, parrying the assassin’s vicious overhead jab, and then kicking the man hard in the ribs.
Another attacker, standing in the doorway of Saladin’s bigger tent, suddenly gasped and shouted at the top of his lungs that before him was the great Muslim king, Saladin. Like a rebuked puppy, the first attacker backed off and ran from the tent.
However, five or six tents down, another Templar lay dead, an arrow shaft in his heart, blood trickling from his open mouth. He had died instantly, his own sword in hand. In his other hand was the golden scabbard. The attacker had stepped up to the tent opening, seen Pierre de Mandeville lunging with a sword—Pierre had always been a quick and hearty fighter—and stopped the Templar in his tracks with a bolt from a crossbow. Pierre had been hurtled backward by both the force of the arrow, and by his own natural instinct to jump away from the flying shaft. With a final gasp of air, he died.
All in all, three Knights Templar had died in the raid, and one of the attackers had also perished.
Richard’s tent was destroyed. Even the kefir bag that had hung by the tent pole was slashed; its contents spilled onto the dusty ground. His stools were broken and the meeting table, too. His sleeping cot, the one that had been carried throughout the Holy Land by Andre, had been smashed by the marauders.
King Richard admitted to himself it was a most efficient raid. He was both chagrined by the enemy’s ability to sneak up on them and admiring of it. He was sorely distraught over the deaths of the three Templars but tried not to show it.
It occurred to him that their attackers seemed more interested in Saladin than in him. Once news traveled through the ranks of the thieves that Saladin was in the camp, a nervous chattering came from the thieves as they held the remaining Templars at bay with sword points and arrows nocked in crossbows.
The Templars and Muslims and kings were all out of their tents, along with those who didn’t have tents—those who slept on the ground with their bedrolls were also at the ready. All were standing in the open night away from their tents and away from their weapons; they had been herded away like sheep.
One of the attackers, who had been studying Richard all along, said that he suspected this man was the King of England, and word quickly spread like wildfire among the thieves that not only had they caught Saladin, but the Lionheart. There was some discussion of ransom plans, but the notion was quickly dismissed by a figure who rode up to the prisoners from out of the darkness. He sat high upon the mount. He, too, was covered in black paint. He stopped the horse before Saladin and Richard, who stood together not as enemies, but as comrades in arms, and now, as prisoners with a common enemy.
The man spoke slowly in Arabic.
Saladin interpreted quickly. “He says, ‘My lords, forgive our intrusion. We had no idea that there were two kings in this camp.’”
“Silence!” the man shouted in Arabic. That much Arabic, Richard knew.
Saladin growled something in return, but Richard was unable to understand the reply.
Then the man high up on the mount spoke in his own halting Norman French, a ragged attempt, but French, nonetheless. “I am no one, just a thief in the night. But, I invite the two of you to my tent.”
Unarmed, they didn’t have much of a choice.
After a short ride on swaybacked nags that crossed over a small hill, wine and sweet bread were given to the two respected kings as they sat before the lone figure in a luxurious pavilion. The figure seated before them on a dark cushion was not entirely alone. Fierce warriors flanked the two kings, and more stood guard at the door.
The wine was cool and refreshing. Richard didn’t touch the bread, as he was distrustful of their host. At the moment, he was held captive by an unknown enemy; so, his hunger could wait for the time being. He also did not entirely trust that someone wouldn’t try to poison him. He did see the wine being drunk by their enemies and thought it was safe, though he held out his own small leather cup to be filled—the one that swung from his belt—instead of one of theirs, in case their cup was poisoned.
He drank their good wine and listened:
“Let me begin by saying, it is an honor to have such legendary fighting men, men of renowned leadership and rulers of vast empires, as guests with me in my humble tent. Sultan Saladin, I am almost beyond words when I speak of my great admiration for you and what you have done.”
Saladin nodded. He wasn’t much of a talker. He learned by listening.
Their mysterious host continued, “King Richard the Lionheart, your prowess on the field of battle has raised you to the rank of the legendary, mythic heroes, along the same lines as the White Knight and Robin of the Hood.”
Richard, not especially flattered by the comparisons, followed Saladin’s actions and nodded politely and listened.
“However, you are now my prisoners. Saladin, you asked for my name. I am but a thief, though a rich and successful one. I still fear God, for I am not a heathen. Perhaps God above shows me favor because of the good I show to others. I do not hoard my wealth. I give freely to my men, but most importantly, I give to the poor: a motto, I must admit, that I did not entirely make up on my own. More than once, I have passed a poor beggar upon a street or in a market and I have made that poor beggar into a very rich man.”
At this point of his captor’s self-important story, Richard snorted and drank more wine, draining his goblet. The mysterious man before them signaled and instantly, Richard’s cup was overflowing with more of the dark liquid.
Suddenly, Saladin spoke up. “You are an assassin.”
The man smiled and nodded. “No longer, my lord. But, yes, I was an assassin, a trained killer. But I left to pursue my fortunes elsewhere. The Old Man of the Mountain, of course, did not approve, especially since much of our booty has come from caravans heading up into the assassin’s mountainous castle. Already, I have fended off more than one attempt upon my life. But I was one of the best, if I may sing my own praises, and it is difficult to kill an enemy who has been equally trained.”
A moment passed with nothing spoken. The man before the kings kept a smile on his face. From all appearances, he was unabashedly pleased to be sitting before two men who controlled such vast empires; perhaps, also, he was overly smug because he held these same two powerful men at his mercy.
Assassin or no assassin, Richard knew that he could spring forward and break the man’s neck in a heartbeat. However, without a weapon, he could only hope to kill two of the guards at most—if he was able to secure a sword during the melee, all the better. However, there were plenty more soldiers milling about outside of the spacious tent. If worse came to worst, this brute force escape was Richard’s plan and he knew he was likely to be wounded in the ensuing escape. As of now, he would bide his time and wait. As Saladin waited. They were united in their lack of action until an opportunity presented itself to escape their captors.
Together.
“What do you seek to gain from this meeting?” Richard finally ventured.
“Why have I brought the two of you here?” asked the man, still smiling, presumably enjoying himself. “First of all, it is not often that I entertain such esteemed guests.” The man said the word “guests” as if Richard and Saladin were truly guests and not prisoners. “Second, I want to tell you about a dream I had.”
Saladin suddenly stood. It was a surprisingly quick movement for one who had been so deathly ill just days before, but the guards next to him were almost, but not quite, as quick.
“Sultan, please be seated. I have no intentions of harming you or the Lionheart, but I will, if forced.”
The old king, with his thick head of gray hair, stared long and hard at his captor. That same look would probably send shockwaves of fear through many a man, but the thief just sat there and smiled, his smile reaching to the edges of his thin face, but not to his eyes.
Richard read into Saladin’s impatient expression something akin to: Enough of this foolishness! Saladin did not suffer foolish men with any patience. He was angry to the core but restrained himself from acting upon his emotion. Richard did likewise.
Saladin sat down. He was a man not used to taking orders, and it obviously rankled him to do so. Richard did not sense that the thief purposely wanted to upset the old king and that he did indeed have all the respect in the world for Saladin, but at that moment, they were playing the role of prisoners.
“If it were not for my dream, my lords, I would not be here. In fact, I wouldn’t have even known the location of you and your small company.”
This bit of news may not have gotten the full attention of the Muslim leader, but Richard found himself growing more interested. The thief had mentioned a dream. Richard, in fact, would not have been here if it weren’t for his own peculiar, terrifying dream. With a full goblet in one hand and a sizable chunk of dark bread in the other, the old Muslim ruler seemed somewhat pacified, which pleased Richard.
“Go on,” Richard said politely, “what about this ‘dream’?”
The lanky thief, leader of this band of thieves that overtook his and Saladin’s best men with relative ease—turned his full attention onto Richard. Saladin did not hide the fact that though he was in fact, a prisoner, he had no intention of behaving like one. Indeed, Richard was sure that the old Muslim king was doing all he could to make the thief feel intimidated.
If Saladin’s bravado affected the thief, he did not show it. Indeed, his smile had yet to leave his face, and it upset Richard when he finally realized that the thief was having a quite amusing time with his captive audience.
The thief continued: “I had a dream last night of two kings, once fierce enemies, but now reconciled through a deed that was beyond my understanding. That, however, was not the purpose of the dream, that is, it was not important for me to understand this reconciliation—which I can now see before my eyes as something that has indeed taken place. It is an amazing thing to witness this unlikely situation.”
“Go on, assassin,” growled Saladin.
The leader paused, perhaps to show Saladin that he would go on when he was ready, but nonetheless, he did continue.
“The nature of the dream was this: attack the group and carry away their gold. Now, I can do this, and am quite good at it. But the dream went on to further instruct me to deposit the gold in a deep shaft under the Eye of the Sun. I do not know what this ‘Eye of the Sun’ is, but I do know that it is far below in the Sancta Sophia in Constantinople. Now, I am not in the habit of losing such immense wealth to a commander in a dream. Indeed, I have already been informed by my men that you are in possession of great quantities of gold. I have, however, been known to give away my gold, though not such great quantities of it. I think it best to follow my dream, for thus far, it has turned out to be quite correct. And if the dream continues to play itself out, then I will be adequately rewarded for my troubles sometime in the future.”
“Thief!” said Richard, addressing the leader, a word he barked crisply.
The smile finally faltered as the leader looked upon King Richard, for the single word had been spoken with enough authority to weaken the knees of most men. Now their captor was becoming aware that neither Richard nor Saladin were in the least bit amused by what he hoped was his engaging story.
With the tent silent and all eyes on him, even the dark, brooding eyes of the Muslim leader, Richard continued: “In your dream, were you given a reason for attacking us?”
The smile returned, but it was an unpleasant smile now, rather like a slithering snake. “Yes, my lord. There is, or was, among your group a defiler of the law of God. He is dead now, and of the three of your men who died, I do not know which one he was. I do know this, and this was spoken to me very clearly in my dream, that this man broke a covenant with Allah, with your God, a covenant he agreed upon…a covenant, in fact, imposed upon him by you, my lord.”
He knew immediately that the man was referring to the location of the Holy Grail. Each man was to go to their grave without sharing that information, and each had sworn to do so.
But who could he have told? They had yet to meet another living soul except for the slaughtered thieves of the day before, and there was not one now living. Richard suddenly knew the answer, and knew, as if he were looking at it now, that the man had drawn some sort of map to the location of the Holy Grail.
In the least, the man had likely written down the directions on how to find the cave and then, the Holy Grail. But the map maker was dead now. Where, then, was his map? And why were these thieves told to gather up all the gold and dispose of it in a mosque? Perhaps the map was etched onto a golden shield or a golden bowl? To Richard, etching all that information onto the face of gold seemed like an endless and foolish ordeal, especially when one could have simply done so on a piece of parchment.
Richard shrugged. He did not know why God would send these thieves to steal their gold. A last, inconsequential thought on the matter was this: somehow, he could have hidden the map to the Holy Grail within the gold. But Richard’s mind could not fathom how this could be done without being seen.
He certainly appreciated the nature of God’s punishment: one man breaks God’s law and they all were punished by the loss of the gold, and within the gold, somehow, the map was swept away, never to be seen again at the bottom of a pit under the Eye of the Sun.
Alas, thought Richard, the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh.
He said convincingly, even though he wasn’t sure he would really do it, “Very well. I have heard your dream. From here, my men and I shall ride hard and long to Ankara, and then to Constantinople and deliver the gold unto the Lord. It will be a waste of a lot of beautiful gold, but who am I to question the wisdom of God, whom you call Allah?”
“Truly? And the Holy Grail?” their captor asked.
“Gold is easily replaced, but there is only one Holy Grail. We must leave it for someone else to find.”
“Why, King Richard?”
“Because it belongs to the world. Not to England, not to Germany, not to Rome
, not even to Jerusalem. But to all cities and to all peoples.”
“I don’t understand,” the man said, his voice growing very small and disappointed.
“In time, I pray that you will understand, pilgrim,” Richard said. “The fate of your soul depends on your obedience, even to the smallest detail. Or didn’t Allah tell you that in the dream?”
He raised his eyes upward. His meaning was not lost on their captor.
Chapter Seventeen
Saladin looked at Richard with something that approached gratitude, which was not easy for the old king. Apparently, Richard had said just the right things to facilitate their hasty release.
Riding through the unusual misty night, the two kings were swiftly escorted within a league of their huddled men. Just short of their destination, the escorts bid the kings farewell, turned sharply and galloped away into the night.
Richard knew that once the handful of riders made it back to their own camp, their leader’s pavilion would be dismantled and packed onto the backs of horses, ready to move out.
They had come quickly and would leave just as quickly. A fierce strike of wrath from God would unleash on them if they tarried, or if they removed the Grail from the hiding place. Richard pitied any soldier who took God’s command lightly. They would pay a heavy price if they failed to obey. A final price.
Once back in his own camp, Richard saw that the plundering was complete. All the gold, every bit of it, was gone. Weapons enough to defend themselves had been left behind, and even a little food and fresh water. At least, there was that.
“Kako!” Saladin called. “Come out if you are hiding! Your uncle is back!”
But the boy was gone. A single tear fell from Saladin’s eye and Richard felt the pang of loss as well.
