ON THE ROAD TO TYRE
18
It was near dawn on the third night after my escape from Acre. Following Sir Thomas’ instructions, I rested during the day, finding a group of rocks or some wooded glen to sleep in, and traveled near but never directly on the main road to Tyre. I was able to fill my water skin in the many streams and springs on this part of the coast. The wild olive, fig and date trees that dotted the countryside provided me with food.
From the shadows, I watched many groups of men pass by me in the darkness. A large detachment had ridden by the previous night, but with the cloudy sky, I could not tell if they were friend or foe. It was better to remain alone than risk capture and sure death at the hands of the Saladin’s forces.
Before I fell asleep each morning, I worried over the Grail. I knew that Sir Thomas saw its safety as my duty, but it weighed me down as if I’d been tossed into the sea with a millstone about my neck. I reminded myself that Sir Thomas, the man I admired and respected like no other, had chosen
Part of me was angry with Sir Thomas. “Here, Tristan, take the Grail back to England. Don’t let anyone near it, Tristan. Keep it safe at all times, Tristan.” Horse dung. I wished I’d had the courage to stand up to Sir Thomas. That I had demanded to stay in Acre, as my duty commanded.
Then I realized that I was alive, that I owed Sir Thomas my life. And I was grateful.
The night was nearly over. Soon I would need to find a safe place to sleep for the day. I found it hard to concentrate. There was danger all about me, yet the fate of Sir Thomas and the other knights was all I thought of. I missed Quincy and Sir Basil and tried to force myself not to think of what I knew their fate must have been. I told myself that somehow, the knights at the palace had managed to turn back the Saracens. I held that thought, small comfort that it was.
Perhaps because I was not paying attention, the bandits surrounded me before I realized my mistake.
“Hold!” a voice said out of the darkness.
My hand moved toward the short sword at my belt. Sir Thomas’ battle sword was still strapped to my back, but was too difficult to draw without notice.
“Don’t do it,” the voice said again. From the accent, I could tell it was an Englishman. And for a moment I felt the relief wash through me that I had not stumbled upon a group of Hashshashin. But then I remembered: bandits. Bands of these men, who had grown weary of the Crusade, roamed the countryside, preying on the weak and defenseless while they made their way homeward. Englishmen and Christians they were, and most likely deserters.
“My name is Tristan St. Alban,” I said. “Servante of Sir Thomas Leux of the Knights Templar. Who commands me to hold?”
There was no response. Only silence. The night was cloudy, and I could only make out a dim shape several paces in front of me. Off to my right and left I sensed movement but saw nothing. All of them were well out of reach of my sword.
Finally the voice. “State your business,” it commanded.
“I am gathering forage for the horses. Our camp is yonder.” I needed to convince them, whoever they were, that I was not alone.
Again, silence. There were a few hushed whispers among them, but I could not determine what was being said.
“I think not, boy,” the voice said. “I think you are alone. There is no camp about. We would have seen it. Now, very slowly, draw your sword and lower it to the ground.”
There was no further sound for a moment. I heard the barest whisper of movement as those on my right and left moved to take a position behind me. They would surround and try to rush me, so I kept my hand on the hilt of my sword.
“You would assault a servante of the Templars?” I asked. “Are you mad? They will hunt you down, and you will know no mercy if you harm one of their own.”
“If you serve the Templars, as you say,” the voice replied, “we will be long gone before you are able to rejoin them. Now, this can end quickly and easily or with difficulty. Lower your sword and hand over that satchel and bedroll.”
His words told me they had been following me for some time, and if so, they definitely knew I was alone.
The moon was setting low in the sky but broke through the clouds and began giving shadows to the darkness of the woods. Ahead of me perhaps ten paces, the dim outline of a man grew less faint. He held a worn sword in his left hand and was dressed in shabby clothing. I could not make out much else, except that he was bearded and wore a cloth hat pulled low and close to his eyes.
Looking quickly to my right and left I could not yet see either of the other men. Sure that they had moved behind me, I tightened my hand on my sword, and with the other I firmly gripped the satchel. I was about to take flight when two sets of arms grabbed me roughly from behind.
“Let me go! Let me go!” I shouted. “Sir Thomas! Sir Basil! Help! Bandits!”
Of course, there were no knights nearby, but I hoped to confuse and delay the thieves all the same. Holding fiercely to the satchel, I managed to free my other arm momentarily, scratching and clawing and punching at the arms holding me. The man to the front of me started toward me with his sword raised.
I kicked and hollered and screamed mightily, but was outnumbered and considerably outmuscled. I started gasping for breath, for each time I yelled, the arms holding me grew tighter around my chest.
Then a very strange thing happened. The man who held me yelled loudly in my ear, followed by another painful scream a second later. His arms let loose and he staggered forward, falling to the ground. To my great surprise I saw in the dim light that two arrows had magically appeared in his backside and a large red stain darkened his pants, moving outward from each arrow’s shaft. He shrieked, wiggling on the ground, clutching at his buttocks.
From behind me a loud voice commanded, “Drop your weapons!”
The man in front of me paused, unsure what to do. The other man to the side of me released his grip on the satchel, and as he did so, I drew my short sword and jumped sideways away from him. He and his companion were confused, not knowing where the voice had come from, but realizing the situation had turned.
“Now! Drop your swords or my next arrow finds a throat and not an arse!” the voice shouted. “I have a wallet full of arrows and haven’t shot a bandit in a week, so move one more step toward the lad and see what sport a King’s Archer can make with swine like you!”
A King’s Archer? Here in the woods?
The bandits were silent. Their wounded companion struggled to his feet and had clearly lost his taste for thievery. He staggered past the leader of the group, howling like a wounded pig. In moments he had disappeared into the woods.
I kept my sword up and pointed toward the bandit closest to me.
“Very well,” the archer shouted from the woods behind us. “My arm grows weary. Perhaps I’ll just shoot you both and be done with it! The world could use two fewer bandits!”
It was not to be, however. The bandit closest to me ran, and I pivoted to face the leader. As I did so, I drew Sir Thomas’ battle sword from behind me, holding it in my right hand with the short sword in my left.
“Time to run,” I said.
As the bandit’s face grew more distinct in the gathering light, I could see a look of anger clouding his features. He had failed to rob an easy mark, and it did not sit well.
“I will see you again, squire of the Templars,” he muttered. But as he started to turn, an arrow whistled past my ear, taking the bandit’s hat off his head. I nearly laughed as I watched it land with a solid thud in the trunk of a tree ten paces beyond him. The bandit froze.
“If
But the bandit didn’t hear the last part. Losing his hat had clearly unnerved him. He disappeared into the
