Holding the Grail in my hands, I could scarcely believe my luck. Pulling it close to my eyes, I turned it slowly, but could find no imperfection of any kind. No scratch or indentation at all. I went limp with relief and quickly rewrapped the Grail in the linen cloth, restoring it to the secret compartment within the satchel. With my fingers, I pushed back on the leather around the space where the arrow had pierced the satchel and found that the hole closed up well and was not very noticeable. At the very least the white cloth would not show through the satchel wall and would hide the Grail well enough until I could find some way to repair the hole.
Pulling the satchel back over my shoulder, I turned my attention to the wounded Assassin on the ground. With my knife I carefully cut into the cloth of his garment around where the arrow had punctured his shoulder. The bleeding had stopped, but the arrow was buried deep in the flesh.
I had seen how Templar physicians removed arrows when injured knights returned from the battlefield. However, I had never performed this technique before on any living person. The most efficient way was to push the arrow all the way through, then cut off the arrowhead and pull the shaft back out. This was often not as easy as it sounded, for the arrowhead can encounter bone and muscle, causing more damage. But it was usually better than the damage caused by pulling the arrowhead out the way it went in.
Then there was the pain involved. And the shouts of agony.
I knew, though, that the arrow must come out. To leave it there was not an option. Blood poisoning would set in and then…well. There was only certain death after that.
I pulled away the cloth around the shaft of the arrow and examined the wound. As the Assassin had leapt through the air, Robard had indeed made a very good shot. A few inches to the right and the arrow would have missed entirely, but the shaft had found the Assassin’s shoulder up high and close to the arm. This was good news, as it meant I might be able to push the arrow through the soft tissue without hitting bone or the shoulder blade. At least in theory.
A few minutes later, Robard returned with the full water skin and the small, sturdy stick I had asked for. He handed them to me without comment. Removing the stopper from the skin I poured fresh water over the wound. The Assassin did not stir.
I couldn’t hold up the Assassin and push the arrow through at the same time. I needed Robard’s assistance.
“Robard, could you help me here, please?” I asked.
Robard stood to the side of the boulders, scanning the forest. He looked at me and his eyes narrowed.
“Robard, I beg you. I’m aware of your feelings here, but this man is injured and it is our Christian duty to help him. I can’t do it alone. I need your help. Please.” I used some of the Cistercian guilt tactics I had learned from the brothers.
Robard was unmoved.
“Robard. Please. God is watching us,” I said. Such a powerful weapon guilt can be. That should sway him. I hoped.
Robard puffed out his cheeks, letting out a sigh full of indignation and annoyance. But slinging his bow over his shoulder he walked to where I knelt holding the Assassin about the shoulders.
“If you hold him up, I will see to the arrow,” I said.
Robard and I switched places. With my fingers I probed the tissue around the wound, and when I took the arrow firmly in my hand and began moving it about, the Assassin’s eyes flew open and he bellowed out in pain. With his good arm he grabbed at my hands, shouting at me in Arabic.
“Watch out!” shouted Robard. “He…”
“Hold!” I hissed, grabbing the Assassin’s arm. He stopped yelling momentarily.
I held up the stick so he could see it. I mimed putting the stick in my mouth and biting down on it. The Assassin looked down at his wound, then at me again, nodding. I held out the stick and he took it between his teeth.
Trying to still my shaking hand, I clutched the arrow firmly by the shaft. The Assassin took a deep breath and held it. I pushed gently on the arrow at first, hoping to work it through easily, but it was not to be.
I looked at the Assassin, who nodded again, closing his eyes. I tightened my grip on the arrow, pushing harder.
The Assassin screamed through his clenched lips, and his body straightened and tensed. I felt the arrow go in farther, but it was still stuck. I shifted my weight, pushing down still harder, and the Assassin shrieked in pain. Slowly the arrow began to move, but the Assassin was thrashing and kicking, and it was difficult to keep my grip.
“Hold him!” I hissed.
Robard gripped the Assassin more tightly by the shoulders, and I pushed again. The Assassin’s body was nearly rigid. He bellowed, wiggling and kicking his legs, but at last I felt the arrow exit through the skin on his back with a pop and the arrowhead came free. He threw back his head, letting loose one final cry, then passed out.
Robard looked up at me, his face a mass of confusion. At first, I didn’t notice because I was busy wiping the sweat from my forehead and trying to pull myself together.
“Tristan,” Robard whispered. “Look.”
I followed Robard’s gaze to the face of the Assassin. During all the thrashing and kicking about, the Assassin’s turban had been knocked loose and the veil had fallen away. Only it wasn’t his face. It was her face.
For before us, lying there in Robard’s arms, was not the hardened visage of a determined killer. Instead, there was the almost innocent face, framed by long, flowing and beautiful black hair, of a young girl.
The Assassin was a she.