Trail of Fate

by Michael P. Spradlin

  “I don’t want any trouble. If it weren’t for the storm, I wouldn’t be here at all. All I wish is to find a way home. If you can tell me where we are and the nearest port where I may find a ship, I’ll be on my way. May I stand?”

  She backed up a few steps and nodded, and I slowly rose to my feet. I groaned with the effort and flexed my knee several times, trying to work the soreness out of it.

  “You are injured,” she said.

  “Not seriously, I don’t think,” I replied.

  “How long were you in the water?”

  “I don’t know. Since sometime last evening. The mast gave way during the storm and I was thrown into the water, which is the last thing I remember. I have no idea if the ship survived. There were two other passengers and four crewmen, and I fear they may be lost. Oh, you haven’t come across a small golden-colored dog, have you?”

  She shook her head. “We spotted you from the trees as we rode by. We’ve seen no one else. Did you hear a humming noise?” she asked.

  My skin prickled immediately.

  “Noise?”

  “Yes. Faint and far away. Sort of a strange musical quality? I heard it when we first saw you, but it stopped when you woke,” she said.

  She had heard the sound of the Grail. But how?

  My vision had narrowed and I thought I might fall to the ground again. If she had heard it, did this mean others had as well? If this were true, then how could I keep it safe?

  “No, I heard nothing. In fact, I think my ears are still full of water,” I said, willing myself to speak slowly and methodically. Steady, I told myself, looking up at the sky, then down at the sand, then out at the water, trying to be casual. I made another show of flexing my knee and bending my back, trying to make it obvious that I didn’t know anything about strange noises.

  “My name is Celia,” she said, sheathing her sword. I relaxed a little, but not much.

  “Can you ride?” she asked.

  “I think so,” I replied. I looked around but saw no other horses. “Um. But you have six riders for six horses.”

  “I know. You’ll ride behind me.”

  Ride behind her? No, thank you. She had already said she didn’t like Templars, and she was well armed. I’d be safer walking.

  “I’d rather walk,” I said.

  “If you walk, you won’t be able to keep up. You’ll get lost.”

  “Then if you’ll just point me in the right direction . . .”

  She stopped. “You are unable to ride then?”

  “No. I can ride.... I just . . . I don’t . . . I mean,” I stammered.

  “So then you are uncomfortable sharing the horse with me?”

  “What? No, of course not! It’s just . . . I mean . . . I’m quite dirty and . . .”

  “Would you rather ride with Philippe?” she interrupted, and pointed to the largest of the four men accompanying her. The spitter. He was wearing a purple shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his massive forearms. I imagined Philippe spending many, many hours lifting heavy objects or perhaps crushing rocks with his bare hands. Not to mention how he glowered at me with a look saying that if it were up to him, he’d prefer bashing in my head and leaving me where I’d been found.

  “Ah, no,” I said.

  “You should know, then, that Philippe believes you might be a spy. I haven’t decided yet. But since we have the swords, don’t you think it best if you come with us? At least until we can decide what to do with you?”

  “I have a sword,” I said defensively, having been caught completely off guard. I wanted to prove to them that a Templar squire is no one to be trifled with.

  “Yes. I see. Two, in fact. We have six.”

  She had a point.

  Done with the discussion, Celia mounted her horse. She nudged him forward and held her hand out to me.

  Reluctantly, I grabbed it and struggled up into the saddle behind her.

  So far, France did not have much to recommend it.

  3

  We rode west along the beach for several hours without a word passing between us. As dusk approached, Celia rode farther inland toward the tree line. Soon we were riding through the wooded countryside. I hoped we’d find a place to stop shortly, as it was enormously uncomfortable riding the horse. I had overestimated my condition; each hoofbeat brought jarring pain, and every so often a groan escaped my lips. It grew worse when we crossed from the sand onto the more uneven terrain of the forest.

  “Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” Celia asked.

  “No, I’m fine, really,” I said through gritted teeth.

  Celia chuckled, and then as if to intentionally vex me, slapped the reins and broke into a quick gallop. After a few yards, I couldn’t take it anymore and begged her to stop. This only made her spur the horse harder, and after we jumped a small creek, she pulled up into a clearing.

  “Are you all right, Templar?” she asked.

  With great care, I slid off the horse, nearly tumbling to the ground. With hands on my knees, I struggled to breathe, but each gasp only brought more pain.

  “Just need a little rest, but I don’t want to hold you up. If you’ll just tell me where I can find the nearest port, I’ll sleep for a day or three and proceed on my own.”

  “We’re stopping here for the night anyway. Here is fresh water. Philippe should be able to find us something to eat,” she said.

  By now the other riders in the party had caught up to us. The other young woman and three of the men dismounted and began making preparations to camp for the night. Philippe spoke to Celia in low tones. It was impossible to hear what they were saying, but from their expressions it looked like an argument. She raised her voice at one point, and he glowered in my direction before riding off into the woods. The other members of her group paid no attention to their little spat.

  In a matter of minutes, the horses had been tethered between two trees, their saddles removed. A small fire was built in short order, and two of the men scoured the nearby woods for more firewood.

  The woman pulled a few cooking implements from a bag she had carried on her saddle. She knelt near the fire, adding more wood.

  Still sore, I limped to a nearby tree, slowly lowering myself to the ground and leaning back against the trunk. Sleep came instantly. The clattering sound of Philippe returning woke me. It was still light, but the twilight shadows crept through the forest. Philippe dismounted, carrying some type of large fowl across his saddle. He handed it to one of the men, who left the clearing to clean the bird.

  Celia was circling the camp, her hand on the hilt of her sword as if she’d been keeping watch.

  “Feeling better?” she asked when she saw me awake.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said.

  “We’ll have food soon. Philippe is an excellent hunter, and Martine is an even better cook.”

  Looking at Philippe, I saw no evidence of a bow or other hunting weapon.

  “How does he hunt with no bow?” I asked.

  “He has his ways.”

  Wonderful. I was already on unfriendly terms with a large, enormously strong man with a sword who evidently captured wild game with his bare hands. My situation was improving by the hour. Using the tree for support, I clawed my way to my feet. My back and knee felt better, but I resigned myself to several days of pain and stiffness.

  The fowl was cleaned and mounted on a wooden spit. Martine took some herbs from her bag and sprinkled them over the bird, then propped it over the fire. The sight of the food made my stomach growl in anticipation.

  Celia smiled and walked to the fire. As I followed her with my eyes, I caught Philippe glaring at me. He had pulled his sword from his scabbard and was sharpening it with a stone. As he worked, he periodically ran his thumb along the edge, never taking his eyes off me.

  I smiled and gave him a jaunty wave.

  “Bonjour, mon frère,” I said.

  He was not amused. His eyes darkened and his jaw muscles clenched. It was quite possibl
e he might jump across the fire and thrash me, but he returned to his sword. Then his head snapped up and he hissed, catching everyone’s attention. They were on their feet in an instant, silently drawing their swords.

  The woods were quiet. Too quiet. Unsure what was going on, I was afraid to pull my own weapon from my belt, lest the friendly Philippe misinterpret it as a threatening move. Something was wrong.

  Philippe slowly rotated, looking intently into the woods surrounding our camp. He cocked his head to the side, like a dog searching the underbrush for vermin. He stood about five yards away from me when without warning an arrow thunked into the trunk of the tree between us. Gray goose feathers were attached to the shaft, and I recognized it instantly.

  Robard.

  4

  Philippe shouted out a command, and in a blur one of the men kicked dirt over the fire, dousing the flame. He let out a bloodcurdling scream and charged into the brush in the direction the arrow had come from. The other three men melted into the forest.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Robard, don’t shoot! These are friends!”

  Robard didn’t answer, and when I turned to explain to Celia what was happening, I was startled by the sight of Maryam holding Celia firmly from behind with one golden dagger at her neck.

  Oh no.

  “Maryam, wait! Stop. Everyone stop.”

  Celia was not moving but cursing rapidly. Maryam ordered her to drop her sword. Celia shouted something back and reluctantly complied.

  “Maryam, let her go! For God’s sake, she’s a friend. These people have not harmed me!”

  Maryam looked confused, but did not release her grip on Celia. I heard Robard shout, “Tristan, run! I have you covered!”

  “No! Robard, stop! Please put down your bow! And watch out! You have a very large, angry Frenchman headed your way.”

  “What?” he shouted back.

  “Just don’t shoot anyone. I’ll explain everything. Come into the camp!”

  Maryam still held Celia, but in the seconds I’d been preoccupied, Martine had advanced toward her, sword at the ready.

  “Martine, s’il vous plaît. Arrête! ” She ignored me, swinging her sword up. Maryam crouched slightly, then shoved Celia away. She stumbled the few feet between us before falling into my arms.

  “No!” I shouted. Martine’s sword flashed down, but the Assassin was ready. She crossed both golden daggers over her head, catching the blade of Martine’s weapon between them. With blinding speed, she twisted them to the side and the sword was ripped loose.

  Pushing Celia back to her feet, I ran between them, holding up my hands against the now advancing Maryam.

  “Maryam, stop. It’s all right!”

  “Tristan! You are alive! Praise Allah! Robard and I are here to rescue you!” she shouted.

  “Maryam, I don’t need rescuing! These people are helping me. They found me washed up on the beach. Please! Stop this! Before someone gets hurt or killed. Put your weapons away.”

  Maryam’s eyes darted between me, Celia and Martine. She crouched, tense like a coiled spring, and I was torn between enormous joy at finding her alive and extreme worry that something horrible was going to happen. Robard was also in grave danger. There were four Frenchmen in the woods who didn’t know these attackers were not enemies.

  “Celia, these are my companions from the boat. They made a mistake and mean you no harm. They incorrectly believed me to be a prisoner. Please! Tell your men to stand down!”

  Celia looked from me to Maryam and was still angry at being held at knifepoint.

  “If one of my men is injured by your bowman, I will hold you responsible, Templar!” she said. But she shouted out to the men, and the woods went quiet again. After what felt like an eternity the three men returned to the clearing. All but Philippe.

  “Robard, if you can hear me, you need to put away your bow! These people found me washed up on the shore this morning. They’ve been helping me. Please! Come into the clearing so we can all discuss this!”

  No sound came from the woods. Then from the underbrush, there came a yelp and the sounds of a scuffle. Next, a shouted curse in English, followed by one in French.

  The men in the camp were still ready to fight at any second, holding their swords unsheathed.

  “Celia, please tell Philippe to stop,” I begged.

  “Sorry, Templar,” she replied. “When Philippe is in a rage, there is little I or anyone can do to control him.”

  Philippe and Robard emerged from a thicket thirty yards beyond the camp. They were grappling with each other, but I could tell they were both tiring. Robard had his hands around Philippe’s throat, but the big Frenchman clubbed his arms away. He threw a wild punch, but Robard ducked it easily, jumping on Philippe’s back when his momentum carried him around. Philippe tried to flip him off and finally caught Robard by the hair, tossing him forward through the air.

  Robard landed hard on his back and lay stunned on the ground. Philippe pulled a small dagger from his belt.

  Celia and I both shouted, but Philippe behaved as if he did not hear us. Robard had rolled to his hands and knees, but his back was to the Frenchman. Maryam started toward Robard’s side, shouting, but two of Celia’s men moved threateningly toward her and I put out my arm to stop her, not wanting this to get any worse than it already was.

  Philippe was only a few feet from Robard when a golden streak whirled past me, headed directly toward the Frenchman, barking furiously. It was the dog.

  Unafraid of Philippe’s great size, she ran full speed at him and leapt into the air, clamping down on his wrist with her jaws.

  He shook his wrist, howling in pain, but she would not let go. He dropped the dagger and danced around the clearing shrieking, but could not free his arm. Robard finally rose and shouted a command, and she instantly released her grip. She didn’t retreat though, backing up a few steps and going low to the ground, growling, muscles coiled and teeth bared. The fight had finally gone out of both Robard and Philippe, who stood eyeing each other.

  Seizing the moment, I moved between them, holding out my arms.

  “Both of you, stop! Enough! There are no enemies here. Robard, I am very glad you are alive, but this has been a mistake. I am not a prisoner.”

  Robard was still confused and dazed by his fight with Philippe. He was out of breath, but I wanted him to calm down. There was no need to make enemies when we were outnumbered and in a strange land.

  Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked back to find Celia and her companions pointing at the mutt at my feet and laughing hysterically.

  5

  Celia, Martine and the others were laughing wildly now. Philippe and Robard looked at us, perplexed. Maryam stared at them in wonder, but lowered her daggers.

  “Oh. Oh my goodness,” Celia said, wiping at her eyes, trying to control her laughter. “Philippe! You have been undone by a savage beast!” She chuckled again, and Martine and the rest of her group joined in.

  “Celia? Philippe still looks ready to charge. Can you please ask him to relax?”

  Celia tried but burst out laughing again. Although Philippe had temporarily stopped his advance on Robard, the dog sat on her haunches barking excitedly, then jumped up and down until I scooped her up in my arms. She licked my face, and this brought another round of laughter.

  “Celia?” I asked.

  Celia spoke to Philippe and he answered back sharply. She talked over him until, with one last glare at Robard, he stormed off toward the stream, washing his hands and face in the water, complaining loudly all the time.

  “Friendly fellow,” Robard said, still trying to catch his breath.

  Celia’s head snapped around to face Robard, and her eyes blazed. She had gone from laughter to anger in a heartbeat.

  “We do not appreciate being shot at for no reason. Someone could have been killed,” Celia replied. There was steel in her voice, and given Robard’s temper, I knew this could start things up again.

  Robard looked sur
prised she could understand him. To avoid her intense gaze he occupied himself with straightening his tunic and slapping the dust and dirt out of his breeches.

  “Mademoiselle, I assure you: if I wanted someone dead, they’d be dead. It was a warning shot, a diversion to give Maryam a chance to act. It appeared you were holding my friend prisoner,” he said.

  I interrupted, hoping to change the subject and defuse the situation.

  “Robard, where did you come from? How did you survive the storm? How did you find me? Us? And where is your bow?”

  Truth be told, I still didn’t know much about Celia and her group. They had yet to show me anything other than a sort of abrupt kindness, but they still made me wary. Considering we were outnumbered, I thought it best that Robard remain armed.

  “We followed your tracks from the beach. The boat broke apart, but we managed to cling to a piece of the decking and were blown ashore. We found a set of footprints on the beach, thinking it might be someone from the ship, then discovered six riders had surrounded whoever made them. In the woods where the Frenchman knocked it out of my hand,” he replied dutifully.

  “And with such paltry information you decided it was necessary to attack us?” Celia snorted. She was not easily pushed off point.

  Robard looked at her and smiled.

  “My mistake, mademoiselle. Please accept my apologies,” he said, bowing gallantly.

  Maryam sheathed her daggers and gave me a hug so fierce I thought it might push all the breath from my lungs.

  “Tristan, are you hurt?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t,” I groaned at the intensity of her embrace, which had reawakened the aches and pains I’d suffered in the shipwreck. Finally her hands rested on my upper arms, and she looked me up and down. Celia studied Maryam intently. Forgetting her anger with Robard, her face clouded as she watched Maryam inspect me.

  “No, Maryam. I’m just sore from being battered about by the waves. I’m fine. Really.”

  “Praise Allah!” Maryam said.

  It took a few minutes of explanations and questions back and forth until everyone was satisfied. Celia introduced everyone in her troop, but Philippe sulked off near the horses by himself. Once Celia had explained everything, they were willing to let bygones be bygones, all of them smiling and having another good laugh over the dog so ferociously attacking Philippe.