“Go home, help my father farm. He’ll need it if this war goes on much longer. The rich barons easily pay their taxes to the King while poor folk go hungry, sending their sons to die here in this desert wasteland because they cannot pay.”
Robard was a bitter young man on the subject of the rich in general, the poor in particular and taxes especially. Though I was certainly no saint, I winced at his reference to the Holy Land as a “wasteland” and quietly crossed myself.
“I knew a man at home,” Robard went on, “a farmer, like my father, with seven children. After the poor harvest two years ago there wasn’t much in the way of food for such a large family. One day he went off into Sherwood Forest and killed a roebuck. On his way home he stumbled across a squad of bailiffs led by the shire reeve of Nottingham. As usual, the shire reeve and his men were out collecting taxes from poor farmers who couldn’t afford to pay them even if gold were to grow out of the ground like beans. They saw him with the buck and attempted to arrest him, saying he had no authority to hunt the King’s deer.”
Robard’s voice rose. I wished to quiet him, lest more bandits or, God forbid, the Saladin’s men heard us in the woods.
“But before they could grab him he escaped into the woods. As far as I know, he’s still there hiding out. All because he wanted enough meat to feed his children,” he said. “That is who I am forced to fight for. We serve an absent King who cares nothing for his subjects, only that they can send their sons to feed his army. He leaves his sniveling coward of a brother Prince John in charge, and that poor excuse for a monarch allows the shire reeves to rule the countryside like barons. Lionheart, my arse,” Robard said, spitting on the ground for emphasis.
“What of the man and his family?” I asked.
“Ha!” Robard said. “When they couldn’t catch him, the shire reeve arrested his wife instead, confiscated his lands and sent his children off to orphanages. When I return, I hope that fat shire reeve makes a move toward arresting me for something.” Robard held his bow out in front of him, and pantomimed shooting an arrow.
I thought perhaps it might be best to change the subject, so I told Robard some of my history, my time with the monks and how I came to be the squire of a Templar Knight.
“Raised by monks, you say?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you can read and write?”
“Of course,” I said almost incredulously. Then I cringed, realizing Robard had asked me this because he could not. I had taken it for granted. The monks who raised me were learned men who saw to it that I was educated. The Templars were also men of letters. Robard had been born a peasant. No one had ever taught him. He looked at me intently for a moment, then glanced away. I wondered if this had changed his opinion of me. Hoping I hadn’t embarrassed him, I quickly changed the subject, telling him of my service with Sir Thomas.
After that, Robard seldom asked questions about my life and I did not offer more than the barest of details. Still, I was glad to have him along. He was well trained and had showed courage in facing down the bandits. So far I had enjoyed his company-as long as I kept the conversation away from taxes, King Richard, shire reeves, the Holy Land, noblemen, the Saladin and the rich.
We made much better time traveling together. I had no doubt there were others in the woods and on the road who spotted us at some point. But together we were more formidable. We kept moving ever eastward toward Tyre.
On the early morning of our third day together, Robard shot a hare. Deep in the woods we built a fire with very dry wood that gave off little smoke. We roasted the hare and ate a fine meal, the first meat I had eaten since leaving Acre.
We made many miles at night and in the predawn hours bedded down in a rocky outcropping a few hundred yards off the main road. Tall boulders surrounded us on three sides, making a U-shaped enclosure, with the open side to the west, so we would be shaded from the hottest sun while sleeping through the day. Unrolling our blankets on the ground, we were asleep in minutes.
Hours later, a faint and subtle humming sound roused me from sleep, and I was instantly awake. It was still twilight, not quite dark, but I sensed something amiss. I listened. All was quiet. Then a noise, a whisper of movement, came from the woods beyond the boulders.
I rolled quietly to my knees, picking up my short sword. Robard lay a few feet away, snoring softly. Through the opening in the rocks, I could see several yards into the woods, and for a moment, I thought I saw a black-clad figure moving through the trees. Not sure if my eyes were playing tricks, I quietly crawled to Robard, placing my hand over his mouth. He awakened instantly, grabbing at my wrist, but I hissed him to silence, pointing to the opening in the rocks.
“Trouble,” I whispered.
He was on his feet in an instant, his bow strung, an arrow nocked and at the ready. Quietly we stepped to the opening in the rocks, taking a position on either side. I left the battle sword on the ground, as it was too long if I needed to fight in such a small enclosed area.
Robard listened, studying the woods. The twilight shadows grew longer and the darkness deepened. I saw nothing, but the woods had gone too quiet. Something was out there. We stood motionless for what felt like hours, but in reality was only a few minutes. I was tense, but Robard appeared calm, holding his bow almost gently in front of him, ready to shoot as soon as he spotted a target.
Then, very clearly we heard movement-a quick rustle of feet through the grass and leaves-but still we saw nothing. Instinct commanded that I look behind me. I glanced to the rocks above our campsite, and there stood a figure clad in a black robe, his face obscured by a black turban and veil.
“Robard!” I shouted. Robard spun, raising his bow as the figure leapt from the rocks above. Then we heard it-that awful, wailing cry. They were upon us.
Al Hashshashin.
The Assassins.
20
The wail of the Assassins was deafening. How they had found us, I had no idea, hidden as we were from casual passersby. There was one to our rear, leaping at us through the air, and I was sure there were at least two more in the woods beyond our camp. But their cries were so loud it sounded as if there must be hundreds of them. For a brief moment I wondered how so few men could make such a thunderous racket. It was a horrible high-pitched keening wail that I was sure must be the song of the devil himself.
Robard’s arrow took the Assassin high in the shoulder, spinning him around. He landed a few feet away on his back with a resounding thud. The twin daggers he held in each hand bounced on the ground, spinning away from his body.
Almost before I could see it, Robard pulled another arrow from his wallet, and it was nocked and ready as he turned to the front of our encampment, facing the break in the boulders. I could still hear the wailing noise, but it seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
“Tristan!” Robard shouted. “We need to move. We’re too vulnerable and trapped. Head for that opening yonder.” He pointed with the arrow on his bow toward a small clearing in the woods, perhaps thirty yards from where we stood.
I had seen my share of battle with Sir Thomas and the knights, and I knew that Robard had as well. But it seemed foolish to me to leave the safety of the rocks. Then from behind us I heard a clawing sound, clearly another Assassin climbing the boulders to come at us again. At that moment, Robard’s plan seemed the best of several bad options.
“You take a running start and tuck and roll out of the opening. I’ll follow behind with the bow. I expect there will be at least two of them on either side, thinking they’ll capture us as we run out. We’ll need to surprise them. You go first and take the one to the right. I’ll come behind you and take the one on the left.”
“Me first?” I said. “Why not you first?”
I found several parts of Robard’s plan to be lacking, starting with the part where I rolled out of the boulders first.
“Tristan!” he shouted again. “I’ll cover you!”
“Okay, ready!” I yelled back. Obviousl
y it was a lie, as I was most certainly not ready!
I wanted to take a moment to think of a different plan. But the wailing grew louder, more insistent, and I had no better suggestion. I backed up toward the rear wall of the rocks, keeping an eye over my shoulder, lest the Assassin behind us show himself. Reaching down I slung the satchel over my neck and shoulder.
With a running start, the short sword firmly in my hand, I sprinted toward the opening of the boulders. Just before I cleared the gap, I dropped to the ground and rolled through. I did not see, but heard, and swore I could feel, the whooshing sound of a scimitar swooping through the air where my head had been only an instant before. I heard the clang of steel on rock as I came to my feet, spinning to face my attacker.
It happened almost exactly as Robard had predicted. Two robed Assassins stood on either side of the opening. In an instant they both leapt at me, scimitars raised, and I ducked underneath their wild swings. I heard and felt something go whizzing past my ear. Then an arrow appeared in the back of one of the Assassins. Robard had found his mark quickly.
The remaining Assassin came at me with his sword moving in a vicious downward arc. I blocked the first swing, but as before in the streets of Acre, a scimitar is a much heavier weapon than the small sword I held, and the force of the Assassin’s blow sent it spinning from my hand. Now I was defenseless, for I had left Sir Thomas’ battle sword inside the ring of boulders.
The Assassin’s momentum toppled him into me, and I grabbed at his arms, grappling with him, too late realizing I was between Robard and the attacker. He would not have a clear shot.
The Assassin broke free of my grip. Jumping backward, he screamed in fury, raising his scimitar again and lunging at me. I darted backward. His eyes, all that I could see of his face through his turban and veil, went wild with anger. I was momentarily frozen in fear.
Behind me I heard Robard yell, “Tristan, move! I can’t get a clear shot!” But there was nowhere for me to go. The Assassin was lunging again, driving me back between the rocks. I spotted my sword a few feet away. Too far. I wanted to remind Robard that I had been against this plan from the very beginning. However, I doubted the Assassin would allow me any time to rebuke my friend.
The Assassin swung his scimitar at me with two hands. I dodged this first swing while looking wildly about for a rock, a tree branch, anything I could use as a weapon. Then remembering the satchel, I pulled it off my neck and shoulder, wrapping the strap tightly in my right wrist.
“Robard! The battle sword!” I screamed. I could not see Robard, but heard him shouting behind me. I had no idea what he was saying. Probably something about how I had ruined his perfectly good plan by trying to wrestle with an enraged Hashshashin.
I had only one advantage: although the scimitar is a fine weapon, it is heavy and not made for quick thrusts and jabs. It is wielded like a club, crashing down on its victim to break bone and steel or puncture armor. When the Assassin stepped in and swung the sword again in a long looping arc, I moved back and away from the sword tip. As it went by and the attacker’s momentum carried him with it, I stepped in and swung the satchel with all my might. I hoped that it wouldn’t break my precious cargo, but it was well padded and at the bottom of the satchel. And right now I needed its heft.
It swung out from my wrist like a mace, and I watched it connect solidly with the head of the Assassin. I heard a sound like a melon dropped on a stone floor, and the attacker crumpled to the ground.
“Go!” shouted Robard. He tossed me the battle sword and I caught it by the hilt. I turned and ran, throwing the satchel over my shoulder and scooping up the short sword as I passed by. We sprinted to the clearing and stood back-to-back, making a slow circle, watching the woods for any sign of more Assassins.
We knew that at least four attackers had set upon us. Robard had shot two and I had managed to knock one unconscious. The woods went quiet. The keening wail of the Assassins had stopped as instantly as it had started. The night grew darker, and it was getting harder to see.
A black-clad figure plunged through the opening in the rocks. No arrow protruded from him, so it must have been the one I had heard climbing from the rear. I yelled and Robard turned, letting loose a shot, but the Assassin darted to the side as Robard’s arrow struck the rocks behind him. Reaching to the ground he pulled his now-conscious companion to his feet. They dashed into the forest away from the rocks, zigzagging from tree to tree, making it difficult for Robard to shoot. In moments they had vanished.
Robard and I kept quiet, slowly circling in the hushed clearing, waiting for another attack. Silence. For several seconds there was very little sound. Then the noises of the night began to return. The chirp of insects. The call of birds.
“I think they are gone,” I said.
Robard still held his bow at the ready. He was tense, arm held in front of him, the muscles coiled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Al Hashshashin do not run. They fight to the death.”
“Yes. Strange,” I agreed.
We circled again, but there was nothing more to see or hear.
“We need to leave,” Robard said.
“Agreed.”
Robard lowered but did not completely relax his bow, and we cautiously made our way back to the boulders. I held a sword in each hand and we kept a sharp eye, but the woods around us felt empty.
We quickly gathered up our blankets. Our plan was to move as far away from there as quickly as possible. I rolled our blankets together, slinging them over my shoulder. I would carry Robard’s blanket tonight, giving him quicker access to his bow and wallet.
We had turned toward the freedom of the woods when I heard a small gasping sound coming from the Assassin who lay on the ground inside the circle of boulders. Robard’s arrow had hit him high up in the right shoulder, and as I looked, I could see him moving. Not to attack, but not dead yet either.
“Wait,” I said. “He’s not dead.”
Robard stopped and I approached the Assassin, kicking the daggers out of reach. Another groan, and then his eyes flew open; two black ovals stared up at me in both alarm and hate.
“Careful, he may still be armed,” Robard said.
I looked at the wound where the arrow had entered his shoulder. I didn’t see much blood, but he wore a black robe and it was hard to tell. When I touched the shaft of the arrow, the Assassin cried out in pain and his eyes shut.
“What do we do now?” I asked, not looking at Robard as I spoke. “He’s not dead. If we leave, and if he lives, he may be able to find his companions. We don’t need them following us.”
Robard had remained quiet while I checked the Assassin’s wounds. And as I turned to look at him, awaiting his answer, the blood drained from my face.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he said.
I felt as if I were falling into quicksand. With my back turned, Robard had pulled an arrow from his wallet, nocked it on his bowstring and pulled it taut. It was now pointed directly at the heart of the wounded Assassin. I struggled to stand, but it felt as if my legs weren’t working properly.
Robard drew the bowstring to his cheek, and I could see his fingers twitch as they were about to let it go.
“Robard! No!” I shouted, launching myself toward him. To my horror I saw his fingers release the arrow, and I could only gasp as it flew through the air headed directly for my chest.
21
Time stood still. I felt I could see and hear everything that happened in exact detail. I had leapt from my crouch and thrown myself in front of the helpless Assassin. I watched Robard’s fingers twitch as they released the arrow. It left the bow, and in this state of heightened sensation, I heard the twang of the string and saw the shaft move slowly past the sight rest. I could hear Robard’s sharp intake of breath and the word NO! leave his mouth in a stunned gasp. But it was too late.
The arrow moved with frightening speed. Robard stood but a few paces away. He had no chance of missing at this distance. I thought of many thin
gs in the instant before I died. I remembered Sir Thomas, the brothers and even Sir Hugh and his hatred of me. I thought of the musky smell of the stable at the abbey and the quiet shuffle of the monks’ sandals as they filed into the chapel for prayer. I heard the sound of the songbirds that called to me each day when I worked in the abbey garden.
I also thought this was a silly way to die-in defense of a man who would undoubtedly have slain me if the situation were reversed. I remembered Sir Thomas, and how he had tried to teach me honor and humility and his lessons that a warrior is humble and compassionate in victory. Then, not quite dead yet, I hoped he would be proud.
I closed my eyes. I heard it pierce my flesh before I felt it. I fell spinning in the air and landed upon my back, feeling the air rush out of my lungs. My eyes opened briefly to see the arrow sticking straight up, and I waited for the flash of burning pain that would be the last thing I experienced on this earth.
Except the pain didn’t come.
Robard rushed to my side, dropping to his knees. “My God! Tristan, please, please forgive me! I had no…I never thought…Please. I did not mean…” His eyes were wild and full of fear. He looked at the arrow, protruding as it did from my chest, and tears fell down his cheeks.
I sat up.
Robard gasped. “How? What?” He stared at me in wonderment.
I looked down at my chest and saw a miracle. Strong words, I know, and the brothers would take me to task for assigning such heavenly status to my own mere survival. But to me, it was a miracle, for I knew I should be dead, or at least gravely injured, and I was neither.
Then I saw the source of my miracle and almost wished I were dead instead. There could be only one explanation.
As I had leapt toward Robard from where I crouched beside the Assassin, the satchel that hung around my shoulder had swung upward with my forward momentum. As it did, it had moved to a spot in front of my chest, and Robard’s arrow had found not flesh, but the tough leather of the case. I was glad to be alive, but that feeling changed as soon as I noticed that the arrow had punctured the satchel where the Grail lay hidden in the false bottom.
Keeper of the Grail tyt-1 Page 12
