Keeper of the Grail by Michael P. Spradlin
Authors: Michael P. Spradlin
Tags: Fiction, General, Historical, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Medieval, Royalty, middle ages, Grail, Knights and Knighthood, Orphans & Foster Homes
Ads: Link
several men unconscious until he himself was overcome by three Saracens.
I held fast to the banner, brandishing it before me, yelling encouragement to the men until my throat was raw. My arms began to throb from holding the flag and swinging my sword. After a while, perhaps from fatigue, it felt as if time had slowed and the noise and confusion of the battle around me took on a curious stillness. It was as if I saw everything in slow motion. I felt dizzy and light-headed but knew instinctively that I must keep the banner held high and my sword in my hand if I was to remain alive.
Finally, the enemy lines were broken. Soon our men were chasing them across the field in the other direction. In a few more minutes it was over. The Saracens were completely routed, sounding a retreat and running east. The knights and men-at-arms gave a mighty shout. Slowly the dust settled and the horses quieted. All that was left was the carnage around me.
The ground was littered with bodies. From where I stood I could barely tell who was friend and who was foe. In truth it did not really matter, for all of them were dead, dying or severely wounded. The sounds of battle were quickly replaced with cries for mercy and prayers to both God and Allah to end their suffering. The sight of it made me weak, and it took all my concentration not to keel over in the dirt. I looked everywhere for Sir Thomas and soon found him, kneeling beside an injured Saracen, offering him water. Sir Basil was also helping tend the wounded. A great sense of relief came over me that they were both still alive.
I felt sick from the carnage and bloodshed around me. Wounded men, now missing limbs, screamed in misery. Some crawled on their hands and knees, pushing themselves through the dirt, pleading for someone to help them. I closed my eyes to the horror.
Looking up the ridge I could see King Richard, now remounted on his warhorse, his banner flapping strongly in the breeze. He surveyed the field and raised his sword in triumph. I looked again at the field scattered with bodies and dying men. My sword was somehow still in my hand, and I was shocked to see bloodstains upon it. I had no memory of how they had gotten there.
A few moments later Quincy rode up and dismounted, his voice full of excitement.
“Tristan! I saw what you did for the King. All the squires are talking about it! You’re a hero! Wasn’t our victory glorious?” he asked excitedly.
It didn’t feel glorious. It didn’t feel glorious at all.
T HE CITY OF A CRE, O UTREMER J UNE 1191
14
W e spent that night camped right on the battlefield. I was exhausted, but the aftermath of our victory meant only more work. Everyone, even the knights, pitched in to carry casualties from the field. The physicians worked like demons long into the night, treating the injured. Burial details were formed and prayers were said over the simple graves of our fallen comrades.
The battle had been won, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the cost had been too great. We had lost nearly one hundred men, and almost double that had been wounded in some manner.
When I finally had a moment to catch my breath, I dropped to the ground near a cook fire, but found I had no appetite. A pot of stew simmered on the coals, but the very thought of food made me ill. I sat staring off at nothing.
Sensing movement, I looked up to see Sir Thomas standing beside me. I should have stood, but I was too tired.
“I’ve just come from a conference with the King,” he said.
“Yes, sire?” Uh-oh.
“He tells me a certain squire rode to his rescue at a critical point in the fight this afternoon.”
From his tone I couldn’t tell if he was angry or proud.
“He did?”
“Yes. Apparently this squire gave up his horse so the King could return to safety.”
I shrugged, staring at the fire.
“Tristan, what you did was incredibly brave. And also dangerous. I believe I left you with orders to stay at your post unless I required your
I held fast to the banner, brandishing it before me, yelling encouragement to the men until my throat was raw. My arms began to throb from holding the flag and swinging my sword. After a while, perhaps from fatigue, it felt as if time had slowed and the noise and confusion of the battle around me took on a curious stillness. It was as if I saw everything in slow motion. I felt dizzy and light-headed but knew instinctively that I must keep the banner held high and my sword in my hand if I was to remain alive.
Finally, the enemy lines were broken. Soon our men were chasing them across the field in the other direction. In a few more minutes it was over. The Saracens were completely routed, sounding a retreat and running east. The knights and men-at-arms gave a mighty shout. Slowly the dust settled and the horses quieted. All that was left was the carnage around me.
The ground was littered with bodies. From where I stood I could barely tell who was friend and who was foe. In truth it did not really matter, for all of them were dead, dying or severely wounded. The sounds of battle were quickly replaced with cries for mercy and prayers to both God and Allah to end their suffering. The sight of it made me weak, and it took all my concentration not to keel over in the dirt. I looked everywhere for Sir Thomas and soon found him, kneeling beside an injured Saracen, offering him water. Sir Basil was also helping tend the wounded. A great sense of relief came over me that they were both still alive.
I felt sick from the carnage and bloodshed around me. Wounded men, now missing limbs, screamed in misery. Some crawled on their hands and knees, pushing themselves through the dirt, pleading for someone to help them. I closed my eyes to the horror.
Looking up the ridge I could see King Richard, now remounted on his warhorse, his banner flapping strongly in the breeze. He surveyed the field and raised his sword in triumph. I looked again at the field scattered with bodies and dying men. My sword was somehow still in my hand, and I was shocked to see bloodstains upon it. I had no memory of how they had gotten there.
A few moments later Quincy rode up and dismounted, his voice full of excitement.
“Tristan! I saw what you did for the King. All the squires are talking about it! You’re a hero! Wasn’t our victory glorious?” he asked excitedly.
It didn’t feel glorious. It didn’t feel glorious at all.
T HE CITY OF A CRE, O UTREMER J UNE 1191
14
W e spent that night camped right on the battlefield. I was exhausted, but the aftermath of our victory meant only more work. Everyone, even the knights, pitched in to carry casualties from the field. The physicians worked like demons long into the night, treating the injured. Burial details were formed and prayers were said over the simple graves of our fallen comrades.
The battle had been won, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the cost had been too great. We had lost nearly one hundred men, and almost double that had been wounded in some manner.
When I finally had a moment to catch my breath, I dropped to the ground near a cook fire, but found I had no appetite. A pot of stew simmered on the coals, but the very thought of food made me ill. I sat staring off at nothing.
Sensing movement, I looked up to see Sir Thomas standing beside me. I should have stood, but I was too tired.
“I’ve just come from a conference with the King,” he said.
“Yes, sire?” Uh-oh.
“He tells me a certain squire rode to his rescue at a critical point in the fight this afternoon.”
From his tone I couldn’t tell if he was angry or proud.
“He did?”
“Yes. Apparently this squire gave up his horse so the King could return to safety.”
I shrugged, staring at the fire.
“Tristan, what you did was incredibly brave. And also dangerous. I believe I left you with orders to stay at your post unless I required your