Dark and terrible days loomed over the walls of Acre and the last crumbs of the Crusader Kingdom. The Mamluks besieged the final refuge of the so-called Kingdom of Jerusalem, both day and night.

Gottfried knew he would have to bid farewell to the Holy Land—whether alive or dead. But as he had sworn in his Templar oath, as long as blood ran in his veins—or unless his superior commanded otherwise—he would defend the coastal city against the Muslim forces.

He gazed out from the city walls over the town wrapped in night, though it was not cloaked in total darkness. Fires caused by the siege were being extinguished in the streets, while others prepared for the next assault. The sounds of blades being sharpened, blacksmiths’ hammers ringing, war engines being repaired, bells calling to prayer, and murmurs of supplication filled the air. And above it all hung the heavy fog of fear and tension.

He heard footsteps behind him. So, he’s come, he thought as he turned to see the Grand Master of the Templar Order, cloaked and hooded, concealing his identity. The magnuspior had asked the younger knight the previous day to meet outside the fortress walls—on a matter of great secrecy. He did not want anyone to overhear.

After greeting each other, the elder knight wasted no time.

“Acre is finished. It has weeks, perhaps days—maybe only hours—left. Our task has always been to protect Christendom in the Holy Land. But now a new age awaits us. If we are to preserve our traditions and, one day, reclaim this land—where the blood of our Lord Christ was shed—some of us must go West. But they will not bleed for this land as we have. I know it’s a great ask—but I want you to accompany the refugees.”

Disappointment washed over Gottfried. He would have done anything for his homeland and for God—and now they asked him to abandon it all.

“But that’s not your only task,” the Grand Master continued, sensing how deeply the request had cut into his former student’s pride. “I summoned you tonight to speak of something most confidential. I do not intend to send you to Frankland empty-handed. But what you must take is no longer in my possession—nor in that of the Order, though it rightfully belongs to the Templars. Before you leave the shores of Acre, I must ask you to recover it. Rescue it—so that it may once again be safeguarded and not fall into the hands of pagans, scoundrels, or the unworthy, as it likely has.”

“What are you speaking of? What must I retrieve and carry away?”

The old Templar closed his eyes to steel himself, then looked Gottfried in the eye.

“The Holy Grail.”

Gottfried could not believe his ears. He even staggered back slightly in disbelief.

“The what? That’s just a legend!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, once it was. And even now, it is—at least to most. Our Templar forebears, after great searching more than a century ago, found it. But to keep others from hunting it, they convinced the world it was merely myth. Since then, only the reigning magnuspior has known of it, each passing the secret to his chosen successor. But one Grand Master’s confidant stole the relic before the old man’s death—and we have only guesses as to where it might have gone. Many of us have tried to trace it. I am the last of those seekers still alive. None of us ever laid eyes on the Grail. We knew so little of it, we barely knew what we were even searching for. And yet, every line of inquiry led back to one place, one family.”

“Who stole it? Where should I begin?”

The Grand Master knew this would pierce his former pupil’s heart—and ignite fire within it.

“All signs point to Amarlik the Bloody-Handed. Today, it lies with his descendants.”

“Joscelin the Bloody-Handed…” Gottfried seethed.

Amarlik had been the first to earn the bloody-handed title. A ruthless Templar. Even in times and places of peace, he would storm mosques during Friday prayers and bathe them in blood. Joscelin was his nephew—though rumor had it he was his son. He was no better than his kin. Gottfried had always hated the man, eight years his senior, for bullying younger boys for sport. A real coward’s bravery… But the final insult was when Joscelin married the woman Gottfried had loved most dearly—beautiful Isabella. On the very day she was wed, Gottfried had joined the Templars. They had taken her from him—and he had taken the vows in response.

And now, remembering Joscelin’s old boasts, it all made sense. Even as a boy, Joscelin had often raved about the Holy Grail—though Gottfried had paid it no mind. He hated the boy, and never believed in such relics anyway.

But now those memories rang differently. Joscelin used to say the Grail could be anything—that one might not even recognize it. That the Grail was an idea, a collection of things. He said such strange, cryptic things.

Gottfried vowed to his master that he would recover the relic, though he had no idea how he would do so. There was only one person who might hold a clue.

The next day, he received permission to act on his own authority. He spent the entire day lurking near the cathedral, praying for a stroke of divine luck. And God did grant him mercy. For there came to pray a woman he once trusted—and still did. Isabella.

Her head was wrapped in a scarf, her delicate face veiled. But the woman he had once loved—perhaps still did—he would have recognized her among a thousand veiled ladies.

When she knelt alone in a secluded alcove, Gottfried crept near. She gasped at the sight of him.

“What do you want?” she whispered, breathless, her chest heaving.

“I need to speak to you. I need your help. If you ever loved me, you’ll do what I ask. This story is ending soon—not just ours, but all of ours. The Templars’ story too. But it cannot end with loose threads left unknotted.”

She stared forward with composure.

“No, we cannot let it end that way.”

“Your husband and his family have always played a great role in this kingdom’s story. I need something that once belonged to them. You might know of it.”

“Not here!” Isabella cut him off. “I know Joscelin is not a clean man. Tonight, he won’t be home. He’s off to tend to his secret affairs. I’ll leave the back upstairs window open. Come through there. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Gottfried nodded, and the young woman departed. The Templar stayed for the litany, praying for success.

“Jesus, ruby heart,” intoned the cantor.

“Pray for us,” came the reply.

“Jesus, holy body.”

“Pray for us.”

“Jesus, golden blood!”

“Pray for us.”

That evening, Gottfried approached the house. The upstairs rear window was open as agreed. He adjusted his hood, climbed the wooden beams and window ledges. Luckily, no one noticed. He prayed Isabella had not lured him into a trap. His doubts grew when he found the room empty but for a lit candle. He placed his fingers on the hilt of his sword and waited silently, eyes adjusting to the dark.

Then a sound behind him.

“Well now,” came Isabella’s voice, calm and unafraid—unlike at the cathedral. “Is this what the brave Templars teach? To draw your blade upon entering a house where you’re a guest?”

He turned. She stood before him in nothing but a cloak. Her rich brown hair spilled over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled—more than the moon’s silver path on the sea—and she bit her lip ever so slightly. Gottfried tried not to show his discomfort. This was a trap—but not the kind he feared.

“I didn’t come for that,” he said quietly, noticing the unmade bed behind her.

“You said these were the end times—and that no thread should be left loose. Well then—tonight we can tie ours, my husband’s, and the Templars’ too. But you’ll never tie the last two without first tying the first. That much I promise.”

Gottfried was torn. He still loved her, deeply. The way she stood, he desired her. And he needed Joscelin’s secret—surely she could help.

But then there was his Templar vow, his celibacy, his sacred order. He could not.

But you chose this life because you could not have her, one part of him argued. Now she is here.

She did not choose me, he countered. So I chose the Order. That was my path.

Seeing his hesitation, Isabella leapt to kiss him.

“Perhaps this will help,” she smiled, pointing to two goblets of beer on a nearby table.

Still dazed from her kiss, Gottfried walked over and drank. It was truly delicious—like nothing he had ever tasted.

Meanwhile, Isabella slipped naked under the silk sheets. Gottfried muttered a prayer, remembering his vow—but every part of him was drawn to that bed and its company. He found himself draining the goblet and beginning to remove his tunic. Isabella smiled contentedly.

“This drink is wonderful,” he murmured, barely knowing why he said it.

“Yes. It’s effective. Joscelin’s family recipe,” she said idly. “His father’s servants began brewing it. Liquid gold, they called it.”

It hit him like lightning.

Liquid gold… Jesus’ golden blood… Joscelin’s father brewed it… Amarlik the Bloody-Handed stole the Grail… The Grail isn’t what we think. It’s a concept. A collection. Anything can be the Grail…

He sat stunned—but satisfied—on the bed’s edge.

“Even a beer mug could be the Holy Grail. Two mugs, even. The Templars’ secret wasn’t the chalice—but what was in it. There is no true Grail.”

He turned to Isabella.

“I know the secret Amarlik stole—the recipe for this beer. It belongs to the Order. Where is it?”

She went pale, stammering.

“I—I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie! You betrayed me—so I took the vows. I gave up freedom. I made sacrifices. Now it’s your turn. Give me what they call the Holy Grail! Your husband is as good as dead. For his crimes, his name—he’ll be among the first the Mamluks seek when they breach the city. So give back the stolen treasure. Perhaps you’ll find some redemption—after trying to tempt me from my sacred vow.”

Tearfully, Isabella donned her robe and left for a moment. When she returned, she held a gilded box adorned with a chalice engraving. She handed it to the knight. He opened it with the key. Inside was a small book. Flipping through it, he saw Latin instructions—every step of the brewing process, ingredients, measurements, timing. Even illustrations for clarity.

Suddenly, cries and screams erupted from the streets.

“They’ve broken through! The infidel dogs are inside! Christ have mercy!”

Gottfried leapt from the window, clutching the box and the book within. One part of his promise was fulfilled—and by God’s grace, he had not broken his vow.

Now came the second half.

…

The chroniclers recorded the year: 1291.

Acre burned. Wails, groans, and weeping filled the air. Gottfried and the ones entrusted to him were already far from shore aboard a galley. He watched as the last Crusader stronghold was lost. He flipped through the little book.

He knew he would never see Isabella again. Perhaps that was for the best. Just as he had to leave her behind—so too must he leave the Holy Land forever.

The land is holy—but ruled by Muslims. Amarlik was a Templar—but stole their greatest secret. Isabella once loved him—but still tried to deceive him. And the Holy Grail? It was not a chalice, nor relic—but the very art of brewing beer.

Nothing is ever as it seems.