“Your highness,” I said, bowing.
King Richard stared at me and a slow look of recognition came over his face.
“You are that boy, Thomas Leux’s squire?” he asked.
“Yes, your majesty,” I said.
“You came to my aid on the battlefield,” he said. It was not a question, more a statement of fact.
I shrugged.
“Why are you assaulting one of my guards?” he asked.
“I’m afraid it was a misunderstanding. I was looking for someone. Sir Thomas sent me with a message for one of your men. This man and I got into an argument-”
The King waved his hand and his two guards sheathed their weapons.
“I take offense at those who would attack my men,” he said. “I could have you hanged.”
Something told me to be bold. For some reason, being in my presence made the King uneasy. Still, he was the monarch. He could end my life with a word. But I felt he would respect me more if I showed no fear.
“You could, sire,” I said. “My apologies.” I bowed again slightly, but held his gaze.
He eyes bored into me again, much as they had that night in the castle at Dover. I tried not to act nervous or afraid, but I was in over my head, and his stare began to make me uncomfortable. It was almost like he was trying to decide: Should I kill this boy? Or knight him?
“I owe a great debt to Sir Thomas, and since you intervened on my behalf in battle, I will overlook this offense. Do not let it happen again. Never threaten one of my men. Understood?”
“Yes, your majesty,” I said, bowing again.
“Who is it you seek?” he asked.
I told him that I had a message for a guard named Gaston. King Richard barked a command and one of the guards stepped forward. The King brushed past me into the stables, and the rest of his squad followed as they readied their mounts to depart.
I stared after the man I’d just tussled with, but he ignored me as he went to the stall where his horse was quartered and began adjusting the saddle.
Gaston stood before me, a dour-looking fellow, but he matched the description Sir Thomas had given me.
“Sir Thomas asked me to give this to you,” I said, handing him the letter. “It is for the Master of the Order. Can you see it safely to London?”
“Of course. I know Sir Thomas well. After I ride with the King to Tyre, I’ll be posted back to England. I’ll make sure the letter reaches the Master,” Gaston replied.
I thought it best to get away from the King as soon as possible so I quickly left the palace grounds. I walked across the city square, climbing up on the parapets over the main gate. A few moments later the King and his guards departed the city to the east. I watched as the Lionheart rode out surrounded by his men, back astride his pure white warhorse. I kept my eyes on them until they disappeared from sight on the eastern horizon.
My duty done, I left the parapet intending to return to the Knights’ Hall, where I still had unfinished work. As I made my way through the busy streets, I could suddenly hear them far off in the distance. The sound of Saracen trumpets.
The Saladin was coming.
15
The Saladin returned to Acre with a vengeance. The trumpets first sounded that morning, and his forces had encircled the city by nightfall. Atop the walls we watched his army deploy in wave after wave. I couldn’t even begin to count the number of battle flags and had no idea how many men he had brought to bear on Acre, but it easily numbered in the thousands.
When we had taken Acre, the port had been reopened and supply ships from Cyprus and other points east had arrived almost daily. We had been able to build up all the stores and had dug numerous new wells. Now we were garrisoned in a fortress city, well supplied with food and water, but I felt a mild sense of panic as I watched the Saracens surround us. How would we defeat such a large force, cooped up as we were with no room to maneuver or counterattack?
Sir Thomas pointed to a large tent that was pitched on a rise to the east several hundred yards away, out of range of our ballistae and siege engines.
“That is the Saladin’s command tent. He’ll be directing the siege himself,” Sir Thomas said. I kept watch on the tent whenever there was a spare moment but could not tell if one of the tiny figures I saw moving about was the Saladin.
“Sire, surrounded like this, locked in, what will we do?” I asked, unable to keep the nervousness and fear from creeping into my voice.
“We fight. We never stop fighting, Tristan. Rest easy, lad. We’re well dug in here. Acre will not be an easy plum for the Saladin to pick,” Sir Thomas said.
“Yes, sire,” I said. Sir Thomas smiled and left the parapet, no doubt needing to confer with the other knights to begin planning the defense of the city. I continued watching as the forces below us filed forward, pitching their campaign tents and beginning their preparations for battle. Though I desperately wanted to believe Sir Thomas, I found it hard to share his confidence.
The first attack did not come until three days later. The Saladin began with a flurry of flaming arrows shot over the city walls in an attempt to set fire to the buildings inside. Because most of the structures were made of stone, this had little effect. A few wagons hit by stray arrows caught fire, but there was minimal damage. We returned fire with our own siege engines, hurling boulders and pots of flaming pitch at their lines. A few tents caught fire, but I don’t believe any Saracens were seriously injured.
For the next two weeks, it became a game of feint, thrust and retreat between our fighters inside the city and the Saracens outside the walls. They probed and prodded our defenses, searching for a weakness. I was grateful Sir Thomas had been so diligent in preparing the city for the Saladin’s return. He tried to keep things normal, insisting that we squires continue our training with the sword and making sure that we kept all the knights’ equipment in fighting shape.
Some knights thought that perhaps the Saladin intended to try to starve us out. That he was content to wait until our garrison had run out of supplies. But other knights disagreed, believing that the Saladin was waiting for even more reinforcements to arrive. Then he would throw his men against the walls until we were overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers. Though we were hard to get at inside the city, the Saladin’s army was now more than three times the size of the fighting force inside Acre.
As the days passed, Sir Thomas never let up in his furious level of activity. He walked among the battlements atop the wall, encouraging the men who stood guard. From immediately after morning mass to well after evening prayers Sir Thomas could be found inspecting the parapets or drilling the archers and men-at-arms. He never stopped moving, thinking or planning.
Sir Hugh, on the other hand, was hardly seen at all once the Saladin had arrived. After days of waiting for something significant to happen, Quincy and I stood one morning atop the eastern wall of the city watching the activity of the forces on the plains below, discussing where Sir Hugh might have disappeared to.
“He’s slithered away like the worm he is,” Quincy said. And he suddenly dropped to the ground, flopping about.
“Sir Hugh is the regimental worm!” he said, laughing. “He’s found himself a pile of dung to dig through and…”
I began to laugh as well, but was startled by a hand upon my shoulder and turned to see Sir Thomas standing behind me. Quincy heard my gasp and jumped to his feet, embarrassed to be caught fooling around. He nervously brushed the dust from his tunic.
“Quincy, are you ill?” he asked.
“No, sire, I feel fine,” Quincy replied.
“Hmm. With your flopping around like that, I thought perhaps you might have caught some sort of fever,” he
