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
“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
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
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. “No. 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?!”
The man said nothing, only attempted to free his arm from my grip. Just as he was about to break loose, someone spoke from behind us.
“What is the meaning of this?” Before I could turn, I saw the guard’s eyes widen in fear. Though I had heard it up close only a few times, I recognized the voice. I released my grip on the guard and spun around. The Lionheart stood before me. He had a small squad of guards with him, two of whom had drawn their swords and now pointed them at me. He was dressed to ride, wearing his red tunic with the golden lions emblazoned on his chest, leather riding pants and knee-high boots. A large sword hung at his belt, and he held a helmet under his arm.
I was in trouble if I did not act carefully.
