After many hours in the saddle the sun moved lower in the western sky. We crested a hill and below us lay the city of Dover. From the hilltop I could smell the ocean. The city, which had been just a small village when I had visited three years ago, had changed much.
On a hill to the north, a large castle was under renovation. I saw men climbing the wooden scaffold encasing the castle keep, crawling up and down ladders like ants. I could see ropes moving, lifting rocks and barrels of sand as the stones were set in place by men at the top of the walls.
Below us the city spread out beneath the white cliffs that rose so beautifully above the ocean. A large marketplace teeming with booths and tents occupied the center of the town. As we rode down the ridge onto the main street leading into the city, I became increasingly aware of the noise.
Vendors in the marketplace called out to everyone. Passing a small inn, I heard the shouts and songs of happy revelers coming from within. The sounds of a blacksmith banging away at a piece of hot steel rang through the air. We were swept away in a wave of bedlam. Even Charlemagne began shaking his head, snorting in disgust at the buzz of activity that surrounded us.
“Have you ever seen a city before?” asked Sir Thomas, noticing the look of awe upon my face.
“Yes, sire, I came here with the brothers a few years ago. But it seemed much smaller then. Not as many people. And quieter.”
“No doubt,” Sir Thomas said. “War has been good for Dover. Many of the Crusaders gather here to board ships for Outremer. King Richard wants the castle reinforced and strengthened. King Philip of France is an ally for now, but allies can quickly turn into enemies. Any force attacking England by sea would make Dover a likely target, so the castle must be ready and able to slow down any invaders until reinforcements can arrive. When I first came here as a boy, Dover was a sleepy fishing village. Now the fishermen are far outnumbered by the innkeepers and the merchants.”
Riding farther into the city, we eventually came upon several large buildings surrounded by a gated fence. Above the entrance flew a banner divided in color, with the bottom half brown and the top half white.
“See the Templar banner, Tristan?” Sir Thomas said. “That flag flies over every Templar commandery. The colors symbolize the heaven above in white, and the earth below in brown. No matter where you travel, you need only look for that banner and you’ll be welcomed as a brother.”
We entered through the main gate. As we reined up, knights and squires hurried out of the building, calling out greetings. As we dismounted, they began to mingle, talking excitedly with one another.
“Our order has a commandery like this in most major cities and towns throughout Europe. Any Templar can rest here, train or reprovision,” Sir Thomas said.
He was interrupted by the approach of a large man with a full beard that hung nearly to his chest.
“Thomas!” he shouted, striding briskly up to Sir Thomas, clapping him vigorously on the shoulders. He was at least a head taller than Sir Thomas and easily the biggest man I’d ever seen, larger even than Brother Tuck. His arms were as thick as small trees, and his hands were the size of hams.
“You smell like a sweaty horse and you look worse,” he bellowed.
Sir Thomas laughed. “Sir Basil, you’ve grown thinner. Surely you’ve eaten since I last saw you?” he asked with a smirk.
Sir Basil roared with laughter, patting his large stomach. “Aye, once I had words with the cook. The food was barely edible when I first arrived. We Templars fight on our stomachs, and this kitchen was in the most pitiful shape. Worst of any commandery I’ve ever seen. Now it has a larder fit for fighting men-I’ve taken care of that. No more cabbage soup and bread. We have real food now. Meats and cheeses galore! But I’ve grown weary keeping the cook in line!”
Sir Thomas smiled. “It is good to see you, Brother Basil. Let me introduce to you the newest member of our regimento. This is Tristan of St. Alban’s. He has been living there with the monks, and has joined us to serve as my squire.”
“Well, well, well,” said Sir Basil. “Monks, you say? Welcome, young Tristan, welcome! A squire to Sir Thomas? Did he not fully explain to you? You can’t be a squire unless you’re serving a real knight! Sir Thomas drinks like a baby camel and fights like a woman. Why, he’s no soldier! In our last battle, I had to lash him to a tree to keep him from running away like a scared kitten. I faced down a dozen Saracens single-handedly while he cowered in the brush. If it’s squire-hood you’re interested in, perhaps you should ride with me. Then you’ll see how a real knight lives!”
I looked back and forth between them, puzzled. It would seem that they were friends, yet Sir Basil had just gravely insulted Sir Thomas.
Sir Thomas saw the look on my face and began laughing.
Then Sir Basil joined in, pounding me on the back. “We’re joking, boy, joking! Why, there is no finer knight than Sir Thomas. You listen closely to him and you’ll grow up to be the Master of the Order! Welcome, lad! Welcome!”
I’d never encountered someone with such energy. Sir Basil pumped my hand again, then moved off quickly to greet the other knights in our group. His voice drowned out everyone as he moved among them, shouting out good-natured insults.
Sir Thomas grinned as he watched Sir Basil work his way through the crowd. Then he turned to me. “Well, Tristan, there is much to do. First, you should return the brothers’ horse to the church stables. Then be back here as quickly as you can. We need to get you outfitted. Our ships depart for Outremer soon, and by then we’ll be well into your training. So, off with you now.”
The church of St. Bartholomew was not far away, and in fact I could see the steeple from the courtyard where we stood. Sir Thomas took his horse by the reins off to the stables, and I turned Charlemagne back toward the gate.
The sturdy plow horse was tired and moved along without much argument. Dover was alive with activity, and I felt I would never grow used to the noise and commotion. I passed busy shops and inns and shouting vendors in the marketplace. I was assaulted by the smells of cooking meat and smoke from the fires of the blacksmiths’ forges that lined the street. Underneath it all there was the unpleasant smell of hundreds of human beings living in close quarters.
In truth I was not watching where I was going, and because of this, I was nearly run over by a column of riders that had burst into an intersection of the street just as I was about to cross through. I had never seen such resplendent men-at-arms, and as I pulled Charlemagne quickly to a stop, one of them shouted harshly at me.
“Watch out, boy. Move that miserable plow horse and make way for the King’s Guards!”
I had nearly been trampled by a mounted detail of the King’s Guards! And not just any detail, for at the head of the column a rider carried a brilliant scarlet banner on which were embroidered three magnificent golden lions. I had never seen it before but had heard many travelers at the abbey describe it. It was the coat of arms of the King, and as I stared in disbelief, there he was, riding past me on the most magnificent white stallion I had ever seen.
Richard the Lionheart had arrived in Dover.