Tuck was a large man, strong and sturdy, with a generous heart. Though he couldn’t speak, he made a soft humming noise while pushing his hoe through the soil, moving to some rhythm only he felt. He could not hear the riders approach, or the sound of horses’ hooves pounding across the hard ground, or the clang of chain mail and sword as the knights reined up at the abbey gate.
Knights wearing the brilliant white tunics with red crosses emblazoned across their chests. The Warrior Monks. The famous Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. Known to all as the Knights Templar.
2
The knights rode through the abbey gate into the shade of the tall trees lining the courtyard. I counted twenty in the group, well mounted, their chain mail gleaming in the morning sunlight. The abbot walked down the front steps to greet the travelers.
“Welcome, soldiers of God,” he said.
I stopped working, leaning on my hoe to watch from the garden. I tapped Brother Tuck on the shoulder and pointed to the Templars astride their horses in the courtyard.
A tall, thin knight wearing a gilded cowl dismounted, removing his helmet, and greeted the abbot.
“Thank you, Father,” he said. His voice was high pitched and seemed out of character for a warrior. Templars were forbidden to shave their beards, but this one’s was sparse, as if he could not grow a full one. His face was pinched as though his helmet were too tight and had forced his features into a permanent scowl. He wore a Marshal of the Order emblem on his tunic, which meant he was in command.
“My name is Sir Hugh Monfort; we are bound for Dover and the Holy Land.” He pointed to another knight, who dismounted and stood holding the reins of his horse. “This is Sir Thomas Leux, my second in command. We have ridden far this day and wish to rest here this evening,” he said.
“You are welcome to all that we have, sire,” said the abbot. “We are a poor abbey but rich in spirit. I shall have some of the brothers assist you with your horses and you shall dine with us this evening.”
Sir Hugh gave the order to his men to stand down. The knights dismounted. Some of them began to stretch, shaking their legs and arms, tired as they were from their journey.
“Tristan!” I heard the abbot call my name.
“Yes, Father?” I asked as I ran over from the garden.
“Make room for our visitors’ mounts in the stable, then return with some rope to help them hobble the rest here in the courtyard. They are welcome to our feed and hay,” he said.
“Yes, Father,” I said.
Sir Thomas, who had overheard our conversation, stepped forward, removing his helmet and holding the reins of his horse in his hand. He was a head taller than I, and a large battle sword hung at his belt. Though his face was covered in dust, I could see a long scar on his cheek that traveled from his right eye down his face until it disappeared in the tangle of his beard. His hair was a reddish-brown color, and an easy smile came to his face.
“After you, lad,” he said.
I led him across the courtyard while Sir Hugh remained behind talking with the abbot. The other knights mingled with some of the brothers, waiting for me to return with rope. Our path led around behind the main building to the back where our outbuildings lay. We kept a small stable there, with a brace of draft horses, two milk cows and some goats. In addition to my garden duties I cared for most of the animals at the abbey.
As we walked toward the stables, the knight introduced himself.
“My name is Sir Thomas Leux,” he said.
I stopped and turned to bow, but he waved me off. A knight was nobility, and it was my obligation to bow to him.
“Ah, no need to bow. We don’t stand on such formalities in times such as these,” he said. “Tristan, is it?”
“Yes, my lord,” I said, still partly bowing out of habit.
I noticed that Sir Thomas’ tunic was frayed and that his boots were caked with dust and mud. His mail was tarnished, the rust showing through in several places. The shining hilt of the sword that hung at his belt, however, gleamed in the sunlight.
“I beg your pardon, but you seem a bit young to be a brother,” he said.
“I have not taken vows, sire,” I said. “I am an orphan. The monks have raised me from a babe.”
“Ah. Well, you grow strong and straight. It would seem they do right by you,” he said.
As we reached the stable, I pulled open the door, taking the reins of his horse and leading him to one of the empty stalls.
“Is the stable your duty?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Yes. Among other things,” I answered. “I also work in the garden, I assist the cook in the kitchen with the morning and evening meals and each week I’m required to gather one cord of firewood from the forest so that we have enough for cooking and for the fireplaces in the winter. I also help with the harvest. Then if anything else requires doing, it generally falls to me.”
“An impressive list of chores. Are you sure you didn’t leave anything out?” asked Sir Thomas, with one eyebrow raised.
“No, sire, I’m fairly certain that covers it,” I said, embarrassed that I had shared far too much information with a knight who probably had no interest in my day-to-day affairs.
“Well, as for the stable,” he said, looking about, “it would seem the brothers have chosen wisely. This may be the neatest, cleanest stable I’ve ever seen,” he added, laughing, as I lifted the saddle from his horse and laid it on the rail of the stall. Removing the saddle blanket, I rubbed the horse gently on its hindquarters. Then I filled the manger with hay and emptied a water bucket into the trough for the horse to drink.
“I’ll need to help the others with their mounts,” I said, “but when I’m finished with them, I’d be happy to groom the horse for you.”
A look of weariness mixed with gratitude came over Sir Thomas’ face.
“Don’t trouble yourself, lad,” he said.
“It’s no trouble. I see you ride without squires or sergeantos so you can probably use the help. Besides, the abbot says we have a duty to assist the Crusaders all we can.”
“Does he now?” Sir Thomas asked. “Very well then, I accept your kind offer.”
“I can show you where the guests sleep in the abbey if you’d like to follow me, sire,” I said.
Leaving the stall, I grabbed a coil of rope from a hook on the wall, looping it over my shoulder. The door to the stables had swung shut in the breeze, and as I pushed it open, it caught a gust of wind, slamming backward on its hinges with a bang.
Just outside the door, I watched in horror as Sir Hugh’s mount reared up in alarm, whinnying loudly, spooked by the loud sound.
“Haw, haw!” he yelled, taking a length of the reins and striking at the horse as it bucked and tossed near him. This only made the stallion rear again and then jump sideways. When it landed, Sir Hugh lost his grip on the reins and tumbled to the ground. The stallion reared again, landed on four legs and stumbled, crashing into the fence. Its foreleg struck one of the timbers and began bleeding from a small cut.
Sir Hugh lay in a heap on the ground, and while the stallion’s head was down, I leapt forward, hugging it hard around the neck with my arms before it could rear again. I calmly whispered to the horse, holding it fast as it tried to jerk away from me. In seconds the horse stopped its rant and stilled, standing with its foreleg gingerly touching the ground. It nickered and whinnied, but had finally calmed.
I let go of the horse’s neck and took hold of the reins. Sir Thomas stood in the doorway of the stable with a smile on his face. “Well done, lad,” he said.
“Well done? Well done?” shouted Sir Hugh as he scrambled to his feet. “This idiot boy’s carelessness lames my horse and nearly kills me-and you tell him well done?”
I winced at his words. Sir Thomas glared at Sir Hugh but said nothing for the moment.
“You stupid boy!” Sir Hugh strode to where I stood. “You imbecile! This stallion cost the Order thirty pieces of
