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.
THE CITY OF ACRE, OUTREMER JUNE 1191
14
We 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.”
It felt good to receive his praise, but in truth Sir Thomas’ words did little to resolve the conflicting emotions that poured through me. I struggled to understand what I had seen that day, and more important why any of it had happened in the first place. Finally, exhaustion overcame me, and I slept right there by the fire.
The next afternoon our forces rode onto the plains surrounding the city of Acre and relieved a large force of Crusaders that had besieged it some months earlier. It was a beautiful spot, sitting right on the seacoast. From our position I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below, and the sound was almost comforting somehow. The city itself sat on a promontory that jutted out into the sea. Out in the harbor, several Crusader ships bobbed in the waves as they blockaded the port. Beyond the stone walls, I could see the tiled rooftops of the buildings inside and as we moved into position the Saracens began to yell and jeer at us from the battlements, but they soon lost interest and fell silent.
“It’s a pretty spot,” I said to Quincy as we surveyed the countryside.
“Yes, it is. Sir Basil was here years ago. He says it was quite a wild place then. There are caves below the city, and I guess many pirates and marauders used them as a base. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to explore them someday,” he said.
I would rather have left the caves to the pirates. I much preferred the open air. And who knew? There could still be pirates hiding in them. I’d never met any, but I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to like pirates, just on principle.
The garrison of Saracens inside Acre had been holding out for months, desperate for the Saladin to send reinforcements, which he had yet to do. Upon his arrival, King Richard met with the Saracen leaders under a flag of truce and immediately demanded they cede the city to his command. They refused.
For six weeks we camped outside the city, fighting sporadically but mainly waiting for them to just giv
e up. Exhausted and running low on food, they were overwhelmed with sick and wounded and could barely mount a defense. The King preferred to wait them out, not wanting to needlessly sacrifice men in an assault when it seemed likely they would capitulate before long.
Their surrender finally came on the eleventh of July and Acre was ours. We marched inside the gates, and I watched the Saracens, now prisoners of war, being led away.
The Christian citizens of Acre were overjoyed to have the city under the Crusaders’ control once again. They had been well treated during the Saladin’s occupation. He had issued proclamations allowing them to worship as they pleased and to keep their homes and businesses. But when the siege began, not only was the city surrounded, but the Crusaders had closed off the port as well, and no supplies at all could get in or out. With no medicines and very little food the people had grown sick and hungry.
The King immediately sent word to Cyprus and points east, and in a few days’ time ships began arriving with food and medicines. The Templar physicians enlisted the aid of us squires to help them treat the sick, and we shared our food with some who were near starvation. In these days the true character of men like Sir Thomas, Sir Basil and Quincy and the other Templars was revealed to me. They were not just there to fight for fighting’s sake. Their purpose was the liberation of their fellow Christians.
The first days of our reoccupation, when I wasn’t attending to my duties, I took what time I could to explore the city. As in Dover, a marketplace took up the center of the city with stone paved streets leading in and out of it in all four directions. Every building was constructed of stone with brightly colored awnings covering the doorways and windows. It was a marked contrast as all of Dover’s buildings were built of timber and though it had been a noisy, lively place, Acre felt more subdued and quieter. Perhaps the long siege had taken some of the spirit out of the people.
Being inside Acre confirmed what I’d felt as we had ridden out from the beach upon first landing here; that I was in an alien place. Everything from the spicy smells of the cooking fires to the elegant archways of the buildings and temples was new and unusual. It was going to take some getting used to.
Sir Thomas and I moved our belongings into rooms in the Knights’ Hall. Unlike Dover, where the squires had slept in separate quarters, knights and squires shared rooms. Our days quickly assumed a routine similar to life at the Dover Commandery. We attended to our horses and equipment, and worked on preparing the city’s defenses. Though we had broken and beaten a Saracen force on our way into the city, no one expected the Saladin to give up easily.
“This defeat won’t sit well with the Saladin,” Sir Thomas said as we walked along a parapet above the east wall. “He’ll be back soon, and we’ll likely be on the other end of a siege.”
Sir Thomas was possessed of an uncommon energy in those days. He was everywhere at once. I was amazed at the depth and array of his knowledge of battle tactics. I learned much just by watching him. No detail was too small. He would climb high in the towers and along the battlements that lined the city walls, looking for weaknesses. He constantly checked the sight lines of the archers and made sure that each siege engine or ballistae-the large mechanical crossbows that threw giant arrows at the enemy-was placed in the most strategic position. He was fanatical about making sure our positions were as well defended as possible.
Each day, thoughts of what I had seen on the battlefield paraded through my mind. I wondered how Sir Thomas was able to dedicate himself to a life like this. How could a man accept such horror and carnage and not be affected by what he saw?
One morning as we finished our inspection of the northern battlements, I couldn’t keep my questions to myself any longer.
“Sire, forgive me, but I am troubled by something,” I said.
“I could tell. You haven’t been yourself the past few days. Tell me what it is,” he said.
“It is the battle, sire, what I saw, what we did…” I couldn’t find the words.
“You have a good heart, Tristan. I could tell it bothered you. It should. It was horrible,” he said.
“So why do we fight, then, if it is such a terrible thing?” I asked.
“That’s a good question, Tristan. A warrior, a true warrior, must always ask if his cause is just. The taking of another’s life is not a trifle. You fight because you must. There can be no other option,” he said.
“But sire, why do we fight here?” I asked. “What is wrong with talking and sorting out our differences?”
“The fighting usually starts when the talking ends. It lasts until men grow weary of the fighting and seek to talk again. Then the fighting stops…for a while. But in the end there is always more fighting. It is what men do. It has always been this way. So if we fight, we must choose why we fight. Then we fight with honor. It is the only way. It will take time, and I’m afraid you may see many more horrible things before you do, but you will understand eventually,” he said.
I was still confused, but as I worked things out in my mind, I kept seeing certain images over and over. It was the sight of Sir Thomas after the battle giving water to a fallen enemy. I thought of Sir Basil carrying a wounded man from the field. I remembered the Templar physicians treating both sick Christian and Muslim children in the city. If I was going to fight, I would fight nobly and with honor, like Sir Thomas and his comrades.
For weeks, we worked long, hard hours, rising before the sun came up and falling dead tired into our beds at night. One morning there was word that King Richard and his guards would be leaving the next day. He would ride east to inspect his forces in Tyre, another coastal city. The King desperately wanted to take the Crusaders who were waiting in Tyre and press toward Jerusalem in the south, not be cooped up in Acre if the Saladin’s armies returned and surrounded the city.
I was working in the stable when word came that Sir Thomas wished to see me. I found him in the main room of the Knights’ Hall, seated at one of the long tables with Sir Basil.
“Ah, Tristan, there you are,” he said.
“Yes, sire. You wished to see me?”
“Yes, I did. You have no doubt heard that King Richard will be departing shortly?” he asked.
“Yes, sire,” I said.
Reaching into his tunic he removed a letter and handed it to me. It was thick and felt as if it had something inside it other than just sheets of parchment. It was sealed with Sir Thomas’ mark in wax.
“I need you to take this letter to one of the King’s Guards. He will be somewhere in the Crusaders’ Palace. His name is Gaston. A rather burly fellow. Brown hair. Give the letter to him, and only him. It is for the Master of the Order in London, and Gaston will see that it gets to him safely. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sire. Gaston of the King’s Guards,” I repeated.
“Excellent. Now off with you,” he said.
I left the Knights’ Hall and in a few minutes reached the Crusaders’ Palace. Asking around, I was told that Gaston might be found in the stables below the palace. Finding my way there, I walked toward a large open doorway that led inside. The stables were quiet and nearly deserted, save for a solitary guard who sat on a barrel in front of one of the stalls, sharpening a small dagger with a stone. At my approach he stood, sheathing the dagger, and rested his forearm on the hilt of his sword.
His casual stance jogged something in my memory.
It was possible I had seen him here in Acre, passing by the barracks or perhaps on duty outside the King’s quarters. But he seemed more familiar than that. As I drew closer, it came to me. I had seen him before. Not here in Acre, but before that, in the streets of Dover.
On the day I had been followed as I led Dauntless to Little John’s smithy, this man was the guard who entered the tavern and, I was willing to wager, sent the two drunks after me. What’s more, I saw in his face that he recognized me as well, though he tried not to show it.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
The guard shook his head. “N
o. I don’t think so. State your business.”
“I’m looking for someone. I was told he’d be here,” I said.
He shrugged. Then he stared off over my shoulder.
“Have you ever been to Dover?” I asked.
“No,” he said. But he fidgeted nervously.
“You followed me a few months ago. You stood outside the Whistling Pig Tavern and watched while two drunks tried to beat me and steal my knight’s horse,” I said.
The man looked down at the ground, then up at the ceiling-everywhere but at my face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been posted in Dover in years. You shouldn’t be making such rash accusations, boy,” he said, finally looking at me. His tone had changed, full of menace now. “I would learn to keep my mouth shut if I were you, squire. Now, run along.”
“I want to know why you-” But I couldn’t get the words out, because before I knew it he had pushed me roughly to the ground. I sprawled in the dirt, stunned, and watched his hand move back to the hilt of his sword.
“I have no time for this, boy. Leave. Before I teach you a lesson in manners you’ll not soon forget.” He glared down at me. I stood up, never taking my eyes off him.
“You’ll answer for this,” I said. “Sir Thomas and the Templars will-”
He moved to pull the sword, but not quickly, believing that he could easily frighten me. I was faster. I grabbed his arm and held on to it with all my strength. I pushed him back against the door to the stall, pinning him in place.
“You fool!” he said as he struggled. “Attacking a King’s Guard? You’ll be hanged!”
“Perhaps, but not before you give me some answers. Why did you follow me that day? Why did you send those men after me?!”
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