Keeper of the Grail by Michael P. Spradlin Page B

than England to be sure, but in many ways it reminded me of Dover, except here the cliffs were made of rock, not chalk.
    We made camp right on the sand. Within a day, the beach became a city of campaign tents, each one flying a regimento or battle flag. Large cook fires were built, and as we sat around them at night, I loved watching the embers rise high into the sky. It was as if each one carried a message to heaven. The Templars conducted mass by firelight and passed the hours in song and storytelling while we waited for orders to march.
    The King’s headquarters tent was not more than a few yards away from where I slept. Now and then I would see him outside his tent, at a table holding maps and other documents. He spent hours in consultation with his military advisers. Plans were being made and battle orders drawn. Word passed through the camp that Saracens were near.
    We spent the next week organizing, resting and preparing to move toward Acre. When the horses had rested and regained their land legs, the call came to move out. Quincy and I went with the other squires to retrieve our knights’ horses from where they were hobbled on the shore. Quincy seemed calm, whistling quietly to himself as we gathered up the saddles and halters.
    “Aren’t you nervous?” I asked.
    “What? Nervous? Why? Oh yes. This is your first time in enemy territory. You get used to it,” he said.
    “Really?” I couldn’t imagine that.
    “Oh sure. You’ll see. The knights are well trained. They know what they’re doing all right. It’ll be fine,” he said, smiling. But his confidence was not contagious. I still felt on edge.
    I had Dauntless saddled and prepared to go when Sir Thomas found me. His chain mail had been polished to a high sheen, and there in the sun I helped dress him. When he was properly outfitted, he mounted the horse. He took the battle sword from me and buckled it securely around his waist. I handed him his iron-tipped lance, hoping he wouldn’t notice my shaking hands. He settled himself into the saddle, stood up and down in the stirrups a few times to find a comfortable spot, then sat still.
    “Are you ready?” he asked me.
    No! I wasn’t ready for anything other than perhaps getting on board the ship and sailing back to England.
    “Yes, sire,” I said.
    “Are you afraid?” he asked.
    In truth I was terrified. My hands quivered as I attended to my duties, and my breath came in small gasps. It felt as if I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs. My vision began to close in. I was in no way prepared for this. Everything that had come before—the training, the practice, the days in the Commandery—was as faint as a dream. However, I could not, must not, let Sir Thomas feel that he had made a choice unworthy of him.
    “A little,” I answered.
    “That’s good, Tristan. If you had told me you were not afraid, I wouldn’t have believed you. The important thing is to stay alert at all times. Here in Outremer, battles tend to happen quickly and with little warning. Keep your eyes open. If a fight starts, stay focused on your duties. We’ve practiced and discussed it many times. The most common thing is that I’ll lose my lance or it will break. Stay near the quartermaster, and if you see me riding back, ride forward with a replacement. You’ll do fine. We may not even engage the enemy. Our scouts have seen Saracen patrols, but have not yet encountered a large force. We might march to Acre unopposed,” he said.
    For some reason, I very much doubted that. Something told me I would see my first action very soon. Death was coming. The air had changed. We were in an alien land, marching forward as intruders, and everything felt upside down and out of place.
    An order was shouted to march. The knights and men-at-arms moved out four abreast. They left the beach encampment, moving inland toward the higher ground rising east along the shore. The sergeantos and squires came behind the knights. I rode a sorrel mare