Orphan of Destiny

by Michael Spradlin

  “Where is it, boy?” Sir Hugh asked.

  “Where is what?” I replied.

  Sir Hugh drew his sword with blinding speed and held it out so it sat poised, just inches from Maryam’s neck.

  “Who dies first?” He smirked. God himself could not imagine how sick I was of his face. How I wished to crush it beneath my boot.

  “Don’t tell him, Tristan,” Maryam said. “You can’t let this swine—” Her words were cut off by Sir Hugh deftly slashing at her with his blade. A small cut opened on her neck. Maryam did not flinch, but Robard went mad. He shouted and tried to dismount his horse, and the knight next to him clubbed him hard across the face. Robard rocked back, nearly tumbling from the saddle, but remained upright, stunned but still cursing.

  “Leave them alone, you miserable wretch,” I said. I dropped Charlemagne’s reins and grasped the strap of the satchel in my right hand. If ever I needed the power of the Grail, it was now. But there was no hum, no vibration or song that I had come to recognize in times of danger. Somewhere along the way I must have sinned, and God had deserted me.

  Slowly and with great deliberation, I dismounted. Sir Hugh sat still on his horse, watching me intently, but with a small measure of confusion in his eyes.

  “All right, Sir Hugh,” I said as I removed Sir Thomas’ battle sword from its familiar place across my back and tossed it aside. Never tearing my eyes from him, I drew my own sword. “Let’s end this.” I took my stance and waited.

  Sir Hugh’s eyes grew wide first in fascination, then amusement.

  “Tristan, no!” Maryam shouted as Sir Hugh leapt from his horse.

  The knights moved from their straight line facing me to form a crude circle around us, with two of them remaining beside Robard and Maryam. I never took my eyes off Sir Hugh, ignoring the wind and snow beating at my face. My hand gripped the hilt so tightly that I thought it would burst. Rage boiled in my stomach as I stared at Sir Hugh like a hawk might study a field mouse. Be ready, I told myself.

  “This must be my lucky day,” Sir Hugh taunted me. “I get to kill you, and your friends, and take the Grail.” He tried to draw me in with feints and thrusts, but I was patient. I would not let him goad me into attacking him with blind rage.

  “Tell me, squire,” he said. “How does it feel to come all this way, to get so close only to fail? I find it quite humorous. Sir Thomas should have been more careful picking his squires.”

  “Are you hoping to talk me to death?” I asked. “Or are you going to fight?”

  Sir Hugh’s face turned crimson and he attacked with fury. He swung his sword in a vicious downward arc. His blade crashed into mine and sparks flew into the winter air as our blades locked together momentarily. The force of his blow nearly drove me to my knees, but I managed to push back and gain space between us.

  Bad enough I was dueling a superior swordsman, but as the snow gathered at our feet, the ground was becoming wet and slippery. Sir Hugh lunged with the point of his sword coming straight at my chest. I pushed it to the side and dodged away.

  “You can’t win, squire,” he sneered at me, plunging forward again. I blocked, but he was too strong, and his blade grazed my sword arm where it met the shoulder. I felt nothing for a brief second, and then pain raged through me. He laughed as blood darkened my tunic. Some inner will prevented me from showing my anguish. He would get no satisfaction from me.

  We traded blows and I swung savagely. I knew I should remain calm, but I was finding it more difficult to contain my rage. My swings rained down on Sir Hugh, but he easily parried every one.

  Already my breath was coming in ragged gasps. We circled each other. Sir Hugh darted at me again and I danced out of the way, spinning around and slashing him across the arm of his empty hand.

  He jumped back, looking down at the wound in shock.

  “Apparently we both bleed, Sir Hugh,” I said.

  He came at me in a flurry of blows. All I could do was hold on to my sword with both hands, keeping it in front of me, trying to sweep his blade away. He cut me deeply on the left forearm, and I cried out this time. Then another slash nearly took me in the chest, but I jumped back just enough, and instead his sword sliced neatly through the strap on the satchel and it fell to the ground.

  I struggled to get clear of it, afraid of stumbling. My arms were suddenly weak, and it was difficult to lift my sword. Maryam and Robard were yelling instructions to me, but I could not focus on what they were saying.

  Sir Hugh stood perhaps six paces away from me, the satchel on the ground between us. He circled to my left and I countered, moving to his right. Despite the cold, I was sweating. I felt weak. He came at me again, and I was so exhausted that I could not lift my sword in time and he opened a vicious slash on my chest. He laughed, and then his foot kicked out at me, landing in my stomach, and I flew backward to the ground. I was down and barely able to struggle to my knees. Sweat poured into my eyes, and the whipping wind and snow made it difficult to see.

  Sir Hugh appeared in front of me out of the snow with his sword raised over his head. I don’t know where I found the strength, but as he whipped it downward, I lifted my sword over my head with both hands. His blade was blocked, but with a sickening crack my sword broke in two. I swung at him with the broken blade as I tried to stand, but Sir Hugh stepped well back out of reach.

  Then as the wind blew fiercely across the hilltop, I spied Sir Thomas’ sword on the ground a few feet away, nearly covered in snow. I dropped forward to my hands and knees and crawled toward it.

  “Look at you! Crawling along the ground like an animal, knowing I have bested you. Though I’ll give you some small measure of credit, squire,” he said. “You’re not quite the worthless, puny weakling you once were. In a few more years you may have become almost a worthy adversary. And what makes this so enjoyable for me, besides the fact that you are about to die, is how I managed to destroy everything in your life. You’ve been to St. Alban’s, no doubt. You know I had it burned to the ground. Since I couldn’t give a whit about Eleanor or her desires anymore, I’m just going to kill you. It doesn’t even matter who you really are.”

  “Less talk, more fighting,” I said wearily as I scrambled along the ground. But then I decided that if I could get him talking, he might grow careless. He did love to brag, and I needed only a few more feet to reach the sword.

  “How did you know to come here?” I asked.

  “Ha! You worthless fool! How did I find you in France? I have spies everywhere, especially within the Order. I hear and know everything! Sir Thomas thought he could keep the Grail from me. He was more stupid than you. He never knew I was three steps ahead of him the entire time. It was no trouble at all to find the place he’d ordered you to go. You evaded me in Dover, but I knew you’d come here eventually. I only needed to wait.”

  I was almost there, just a few more feet. “You better learn to enjoy your own company, Sir Hugh. Kill us all and see what good it does you. Take the Grail. You’ll never be able to keep it. You talk too much. You won’t be able to resist telling someone what you have, and they will speak of it to someone else, and before long Sir Thomas’ true Brothers of the Order will find and kill you,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t worry, it’s almost over, boy, and I promise it will be quick. Well, maybe not. I do so love it when death lasts awhile. But there is one more thing to tell you before I take your life. I want to tell you about the look of stunned surprise and disbelief on Sir Thomas’ face when I killed him at the altar of the Crusaders’ Palace in Acre.” His eyes bore into me and the wind blew through his hair. His snarl made him look like the devil himself.

  “No,” I gasped. The breath left my lungs. Though I wished to look away, I could not. Curiously, the world around me appeared to be changing color, the white of the snow becoming a hard, hot red. This could not be.

  “Oh yes,” Sir Hugh said, laughing gleefully. “Such a pompous donkey, your Sir Thomas, always believing himself to be superior. I watched him s
end you on your way and knew what he had given you. He was hiding it somewhere in the city, and he wouldn’t risk having it fall into the hands of the Saracens. So, as he closed the altar behind you—and what a touching little scene it was, by the way . . . Beauseant, indeed,” he spat. “When he turned around, he laughed! At me! His Commander and Marshal! He said I was too late, and he laughed again. But his laughter died in his throat when

  I drove my sword through his guts. He died right there in front of me—”

  “NO!” I screamed. “You’re lying! The other knights, Sir Basil, Quincy, someone would have stopped you! You liar!”

  “Feh! Sir Basil and his fat pig of a squire were already dying in the courtyard by then. They’re either dead or rotting in one of the Saladin’s prisons. No one saw me. I followed you through the tunnel. But I lost you in the countryside. Didn’t matter. I knew you had to be heading for Tyre, that Thomas would send you to the Commandery there. It was almost too easy.”

  “You’re a liar!” I screamed, rage rising in my gut. I tried to stand but could not. So help me, I would kill him.

  “Enough of this.” He smirked. He lifted his sword to shoulder height and came forward, drawing back for a mighty swing, a killing blow.

  Just as Sir Hugh came at me, the world slowed down. My eyes opened wide and Sir Hugh advanced in slow motion. One step, then two, then a third. He swung from the shoulder, and his blade whistled, louder than even the sound of the wind.

  I lurched to the side and scooped up Sir Thomas’ sword in my hands. Rising to my feet, I caught his blow with my sword. The power of it nearly lifted me into the air, but Sir Thomas’ blade held. Before he could strike again, I countered, managing to slash his tunic. I don’t know where I found the strength, but our steel danced, back and forth, each thrust and parry sending sparks jouncing into the winter wind. As we circled and tested each other, I thought I spied the smallest sense of alarm on Sir Hugh’s face. He had expected to dispatch me quickly. Yet I was still standing. Bleeding and growing weaker by the moment, but refusing to give up. I stared down at the satchel, lying on the ground between us, nearly covered in the snow. The Grail remained silent.

  My back was to Maryam and Robard. They had been shouting out encouragement, whereas the knights remained silent. But their voices sounded far away, and my concentration remained fixed on Sir Hugh, who charged at me again, his sword swirling back and forth like a whirlwind.

  My eyes were still clouded with red rage as he surged toward me, and strange sounds overwhelmed me. Off in the far distance, I thought I heard a familiar bark, but over it all finally it came: the low faint humming sound of the Grail.

  For a moment, I believed myself too weak to raise my sword in defense. Sir Hugh had won and this would be my end. But the soft, musical sound grew louder, and as Sir Hugh crossed the ground between us, whether by accident or miracle, he tripped over the satchel. He staggered toward me, glancing down at his feet momentarily. He tried to halt his fall forward but it was too late. His momentum carried him toward me, eyes wide with shock, and with my last bit of strength I thrust forward with Sir Thomas’ sword, stabbing Sir Hugh through the ribs.

  With a defiant cry of “Beauseant!” I drove my sword deeper into his flesh, and as I did so, for a moment I felt the presence of Sir Thomas, and Quincy, Sir Basil and the abbot and Brother Rupert and the other monks there with me. And my hands became their hands as I pushed with all my might. It felt as if they stood beside me, helping me deliver the world from a great evil. With a groan, I pulled the sword free.

  Sir Hugh dropped his blade to the ground. His eyes fell to the seeping wound in his chest. Blood ran from his mouth, and he staggered past me. His horse, standing behind us, pranced out of the way, skittish and spooked at the sight and smell of blood. Confused, Sir Hugh reached down and grasped the satchel in his hands. He staggered backward, holding it as if it were as fragile as a bird’s egg.

  “No,” he said wearily. “Not like this . . . No . . . You filthy squire . . . I . . .” He looked at me and his head shook. He shouted at his assembled knights. “Kill them . . . Don’t let them get . . . He has it . . . the Grail. . . . Kill them.”

  I moved toward him and he swung his head up at me, watching me advance.

  “No,” he said as he staggered backward. “No, not by you. I . . . will . . . not . . . be . . .” Sir Hugh collapsed, falling to the ground right on the edge of the promontory. Then to my horror he began sliding over the side.

  And he was taking the Grail with him.

  34

  No!” I shouted. Everyone remained still. Sir Hugh’s momentum built and I doubted I could reach him in time. From somewhere came the strength for me to take three giant steps toward his falling body, and I leapt through the air, landing hard on the ground, grabbing the satchel by its broken strap. Sir Hugh’s hands still held firmly to the leather case, and I found myself wondering if it was impossible to kill this man. Then my arm jerked forward and I felt his weight pulling me over with him. I dug and clawed at the ground with my boots, trying to find a toehold, but the wet snow gave me little purchase.

  Straining and groaning with the effort, I slid slowly forward, feeling I would surely fall off the cliff with him unless someone intervened. I could hear shouts and noise behind me, but I was now head and chest over the side of the ridge looking down at Sir Hugh hanging there, staring up at me. His eyes were nearly closed in death, the front of his tunic soaked red with blood, but he still spat out the word “Squire . . .”

  He lost his grip. His eyes flew open, and for a moment he seemed to hang suspended in the air. With a howl of agony and desperation he fell from the promontory to disappear with a splash into the river far below.

  Lying there panting and groaning with the effort, I pushed myself back from the edge of the ridge and staggered to my feet, holding the battered satchel in my hands.

  Everyone was stunned. But Robard and Maryam recovered first and took action. Even with his hands bound behind him, Robard lashed out at the knight next to him. Smartly, he kicked the horse in the flank and it reared. The knight fought for control while Robard rolled backward off his own horse. He landed on his feet, shouting loudly and nudging his horse in the flank with his shoulder, sending it scurrying across the circle directly into the path of two other knights.

  Maryam gave her ululating war cry, and it added to the noise and confusion. She jumped from her horse and darted beneath it, coming up on the other side and spooking the steed next to her. But it was too little too late. We were outnumbered, Robard and Maryam had no weapons and I feared I would bleed to death shortly. The entire front of my tunic was dark with blood, and my left arm throbbed in pain from the cut I had received.

  One of the knights lowered his lance and spurred his horse toward me. It would take only a moment for him to cross the few paces between us. I stood stock-still, unable to raise either arm in my defense. My vision was fading and the world collapsed around me.

  As the knight closed in, I focused only on the point of his lance. A horrible way to die, I thought, struck down by a brother of the Order. My last thought was to apologize for failing to protect the Grail as Sir Thomas had wished. But at least Sir Hugh was dead. No matter what happened, he would never be the one to possess the Grail. I hoped it would make Sir Thomas happy.

  As death rode down on me, I stood as straight as my wounds would allow, determined to die on my feet. Maryam was shouting at me, but soon it would all be over. I could finally rest.

  Then the steel weapon suddenly disappeared, and I looked up in confusion as the knight tumbled backward off his horse. The next thing I knew he was lying on the ground, a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. What? Some last instinct of survival commanded me to lurch away from the path of the charging horse, and though I jumped aside, the giant animal still collided with me and spun me to the ground.

  There was shouting. I heard “Drop your weapons” and suddenly a furry golden flash was over me. It was Angel. She took an
instant to bark at me, and I tried to rise up but was too sore and weak. She licked my face, then sniffed at the satchel clutched in my hand, finally sitting on it, as if it were her duty to protect the Grail now.

  A shadow fell across the ground in front of me. Someone knelt, placing a hand upon my shoulder. A voice spoke and it sounded familiar. I glanced up thinking for a moment God was playing tricks on me again. For here knelt Sir Thomas, and behind him were several mounted Knights Templar. All of them were pointing crossbows at the knights who had just tried to kill us.

  With my last ounce of strength I raised my hand and pointed at Robard and Maryam and said, “Please don’t harm those two,” and then I fell into a world of blinding white light.

  35

  The murmur of voices pulled me to consciousness. I lay on my back and could feel the warmth of a fire. When I opened my eyes, my head was turned to the side and Angel’s face was perched perhaps two inches from my own. Her tongue lashed out and licked my nose.

  I wanted to roll over and sit up, but the pain of my wounds prevented it. I lay on a pallet next to a large campfire beneath a cloudy sky. It was cold but the fire cut the chill. My shoulder and arm were wrapped in bandages. A priest sat on a cut section of log to my right, near the fire. He smiled and I nodded in return. Maryam and Robard stood on the far side of the fire, a few yards away. Robard leaned on his still-strung bow, Maryam next to him, looking at me with grave concern. She held the satchel in her hand and nodded, indicating it was safe.

  Sir Thomas sat on a log next to my left. My heart raced, then dropped to my stomach, for as I studied the man, I realized it wasn’t Sir Thomas after all. This knight’s hair was a slightly lighter shade, and there was no distinctive scar along his face. His beard was not as thick, and he looked smaller.

  “Who . . .” I let my words trail off, mystified.

  “You must be Tristan,” he said.

  “Excuse me, sire—”