Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

“Very convenient,” Oleg agreed.

Thomas did not catch the sarcasm. He reached an itching place between his shoulder blades and groaned with joy.

“Call Chachar,” Oleg offered. “She has cat’s nails.”

Thomas glanced back warily at the woman. She was sitting half-turned in few steps, listening. Her cheek and pink ear were blush red, hands moved awkwardly, dropping meat, eggs and onions. “I can’t,” Thomas replied finally. “She’s a woman of noble birth! I can’t make her do this plain work.”

“Of course a common woman would have scratched your back better. But she’s unlikely to be found here.”

After the lunch and a brief rest, they continued the journey. Soon they rode in a hundred steps past a strange ancient building. It stood in a flat valley, high thick grass swaying around it, the entrance overgrown with shrubs, thick green ropes climbing up the walls, clinging to the cracks, their leaves glistening like wax. The building was enormous, gloomy, formed by huge grey stone blocks. Having been abandoned for centuries, dented by winds and heat, it was a silent memory of ancient empires and vanished nations.

Oleg felt anguish gnaw at his heart. It is known that Black God would not allow Man to climb out from wildness and ignorance to the shining peaks where the Fair Gods dwell! He plots and impedes, but people are helped by Fair Cods who created them. However, there is still more loss than success on the thorny path. A seat of culture is barely created when the wild hordes sent by Black God would ruin its prospering cities, burn libraries, destroy dams and canals… It is raised from the ruins – and ruined, burned and butchered again by beastly men. Endlessly, all the time… Too much loss, blood and suffering.

Surely, the Man is moving to the shining peak. Though rolling down almost to the bottom after each disaster, he then climbs a bit higher than he did the last time. The young European kingdoms, despite all their ignorance and violence of savages, are more humane in heart as compared to ancient empires who left the ruins of colossal circuses where live men – gladiators – had fought to death. Those empires built pyramids, lighthouses and temples where thousands of people were sacrificed, while the new Barbarian faith only had one human sacrifice, the last and the greatest one: Christ, the founder of the faith, gave his life. Since that, people are not sacrificed any more. Even gladiator battles were replaced by chariot racing…

The evening was falling. They headed for the crimson half of the sky: it looked as though covered with dry blood, dark and brown, bright purple drops let out in the ruptures only. The sun was half below the skyline, long reddish shadows lay across the evening land.

The road led to the castle: it stood out gloomily against the crimson sun and expanded with every step they made. Oleg looked at it with a sullen eye, urged his horse on, so that to pass it before dark. The lands around the castle looked swept by a terrible storm. Everything was broken, trampled, and soiled. Wide stubs glistened in place of the grove, for the trees had been sawn down almost at the ground level. The castle stands in the middle of trampled field – freshly built, its watchtowers still not roofed. No annexes: only a great square keep of four floors and stables and a rampart surrounding a large area of the roughly loosened ground. The main building has holes instead of windows, some with fresh-forged grates in them. A flag with eagles, dragons and roaring bears is flying over the castle gate.

Thomas was telling Chachar loudly and competently that shrubs and trees had been cut down and grass burnt in order not to allow a wicked enemy to get close without being seen. “The land is still Saracen, Christian warriors need to consolidate the captured lands urgently. After that, they will be able to extend their noble rule to other Pagan nations.”

They had already passed the castle when the gate opened and two riders burst out at full tilt. Both cried loudly, waved their hands. Thomas reined up and turned his horse slowly, his lance pointed menacingly at the approaching strangers. Oleg rode aside, took his bow and draw the string briskly. Chachar hid behind the shining knight’s back.

Two unarmed, save daggers on their belts, young boys in very bright clothes came to them unhurriedly, reined up in three steps. One of the boys raised his palm. “I am a squire of Sir Gorvel, the noble knight!” he said in a clear ringing voice. “My lord asks you, tired travelers, to do him a honor of your visit! You are invited to have a rest in his castle. Your horses will be fed by choice corn, and you will be woken up in the morning… if only you don’t prefer to stay for a few more days.”

Oleg took a breath in, going to refuse firmly, when Thomas cried happily: “Gorvel? We climbed the walls of Jerusalem together with him, like two evil monkeys! Arrows swished, stones flew, and two of us stood back to back… Is it his castle? He’s a seignior now?”

“The King granted him these lands,” the squire replied with such pride as if it were himself granted with them. “There are only seven of us. The rest are Saracen, hirelings and vagrant folk, but the location is perfect – the crossing of caravan roads!”

Thomas waved imperiously for Oleg to come to, drove his horse along the road to the castle. Chachar cast a triumphant look at the wonderer who looked like a wild animal to her. She caught up with the magnificent knight and young squires briskly. Oleg hid the arrow, followed them reluctantly.

The squires shouted to the guards at the gate. One of them blew a horn, though the guards had seen them from the wall before. The squires made way respectfully for guests, including Oleg in his barbarian clothes. He could not help shuddering. He never liked strangers behind himself, especially when his soul shrunk with a vague foreboding of evil.

The gate swung open. In their way, blocking the passage, a huge red-bearded knight stood in his armor, his helmet in the crook of right arm, his shoulder-long hair, as red as fire, ruffled slightly by the wind.

Thomas vaulted off the horse heavily with a clang of steel. The red-bearded knight came to him. They embraced with such a thunder as if two forgers collided, thrown by giant hands. While they clapped each another on shoulders and shouted happily, it sounded like an iron gate being knocked out by a ram, with sparks scattering around.

“Sir Thomas!”

“Sir Gorvel!”

The squires and a handful of guards were standing around in a sparse circle, looking at the mighty warriors in silent awe. Finally, one man dared to lift his sword and cry glory to the Crusader army.

The squire took the reins of Oleg’s horse. “I’ll take them to stables,” he said with an air of importance. “You go to the servant room, have dinner there.”

Oleg nodded, jumped off and squatted, stretching his legs. He thrust the bow and quiver into his bag over shoulder, left the axe by the saddle but took the sword. Chachar flew down as a butterfly, threw the reins gracefully to another squire.

Thomas released himself from the read-bearded lord’s embrace. “Wait, sir wonderer!” he cried to Oleg hastily. “Stop, you deaf devil! Sir Gorvel, this man is no servant to me but a brave companion-at-arms. A co-fighter, as they say in Rus’.”

Gorvel put his hands in thin mail gloves on Oleg’s shoulders in a friendly manner. “Welcome, Sir… wonderer. My castle is your castle. Please feel at home! Angles say: my home is my castle, but we are another sort of man – all wide open, our hearts on our sleeves…”

His tanned scarred face expressed astonishment: his gauntleted hands seemed to be lying on round granite boulders.

“We don’t need much,” Oleg said sulkily. “A pitch of hay for horses, a corner for us to sleep in, a slice of bread for dinner.”