Trail of Fate

With every intention of walking along the beach, I stumbled to the ground after a few steps, too tired to go any farther. Dropping on the sand, I quickly fell asleep.

When I woke, there were six people standing around me. Two of them were young women, four were men. Each held a horse by the reins.

All of them were pointing swords at me.

2

They stood silently, swords in hand, studying me intently. I was unbelievably sore, but tried to make a quick assessment of my situation. Lying on my back, Sir Thomas’ battle sword dug into my spine. Good; I hadn’t lost it. The satchel was still around my shoulder. I could also feel my belt and the weight of my short sword. I had fought Mother Nature and clearly lost, but I was lucky I wasn’t injured more seriously.

Of course, it wasn’t “lucky” to be surrounded by sword-wielding strangers. I tried to rise, but a stern look from the woman holding her sword against my neck persuaded me to lie back down.

After a while, the silence became uncomfortable.

“Hello,” I said.

Nothing: only more stern looks and sword pointing.

“Nice day. You wouldn’t happen to know exactly where we are, would you? I’m very lost.”

The young woman who held her sword closest to my neck said something in a language I recognized. French. Brother Rupert was from France and had taught me to speak it a little. By no means was I fluent, but I should be able to communicate. Then I wondered if I was actually in France, or had washed ashore somewhere else and these French travelers had happened across me.

The others sheathed their swords, but she kept hers out. Not as close to my neck but still at the ready if needed.

“Je m’appelle Tristan,” I said. I am called Tristan.

“I speak English,” she said with just a hint of an accent. “Who are you?”

“Am I in France?” I asked, ignoring her question, compelled to find out where I was.

Sword woman nodded.

“My name is Tristan of St. Alban’s. I was attached to a Templar regimento in Outremer, but I am. . was on my way back to England. Our ship was lost in the storm, and I washed up on this shore. You speak French. Am I in France?” I asked again.

She paused before speaking but nodded. Then she and her companions began an intense conversation that went far too fast for me to understand. I could pick out only a few words here and there, but the tone was heated, and from what I could gather, the others would be happy to kill me or leave me behind and ride on. So I concentrated on the girl with the sword.

I looked past the weapon to her face and realized she was quite beautiful. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders and was pulled back with a headband. Her eyes were a fierce light blue, and her skin was tanned. She had an air of leadership about her, and there was a determined set to her expression. My immediate fate rested in her hands. She looked about my age, and though the rest of her party was older, she was definitely the one in charge.

“A Templar regimento, you say?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“We have no love for the Templars, servants of their cowardly Pope,” she said. One of her companions, an extremely large and angry-looking man, spat on the ground at the word Templar, reminding me of Robard whenever Richard the Lionheart’s name was mentioned.

Drat. I silently cursed my big mouth.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m only a squire, and have never even met the Pope, so I’m not one to judge his level of bravery,” I said.

For a brief instant a very slight smile flashed across her face. The second young woman spoke quietly to the men, and when she did, they cursed and shook their swords excitedly in my direction.

“Yes, well, I can assure you of his cowardice,” she said.

I nodded in agreement. No need to try to debate the angry young Frenchwoman.

“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.