Keeper of the Grail by Michael P. Spradlin Page B

character of men like Sir Thomas, Sir Basil and Quincy and the other Templars was revealed to me. They were not just there to fight for fighting’s sake. Their purpose was the liberation of their fellow Christians.
    The first days of our reoccupation, when I wasn’t attending to my duties, I took what time I could to explore the city. As in Dover, a marketplace took up the center of the city with stone paved streets leading in and out of it in all four directions. Every building was constructed of stone with brightly colored awnings covering the doorways and windows. It was a marked contrast as all of Dover’s buildings were built of timber and though it had been a noisy, lively place, Acre felt more subdued and quieter. Perhaps the long siege had taken some of the spirit out of the people.
    Being inside Acre confirmed what I’d felt as we had ridden out from the beach upon first landing here; that I was in an alien place. Everything from the spicy smells of the cooking fires to the elegant archways of the buildings 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 here ?” I asked. “What is wrong with talking and sorting out our differences?”
    “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 why we fight. Then we fight with honor. It is the only way. It will take time, and I’m afraid you may see many more horrible things before you do, but you will understand