Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

Chachar stood up with great reluctance. No way to tell that she’d heard saltier things and preferred the company of men to any other. She doesn’t like women, neither they like her, offending her out of fear . The maid led her to the vast chambers of Gorvel’s son, Roland, Odoacer, or Theodoric (Gorvel had not decided on the name for his firstborn son still, though he dismissed flatly any of his wife’s hints that the stars heralded a girl to be born.)

Chachar turned and tossed in the luxurious bed for a long time: the chamber was too vast, she felt exposed, like in the middle of a city square. Sleep escaped her. Something was scratching and rustling under the bed, so she dared not to put her feet down on the floor. She wrapped herself in the blanket up with her head, but the night was too hot and stuffy, she bathed in sweat. Finally, Chachar stood on the bed, looked around, and jumped down on the floor, trying to land as far as possible from the bed.

The single faint lamp lit grey squares of the stone wall, leaving the rest of the room pitch-dark. Chachar made the wick longer. The oil blazed up, as her eyes did, when she saw a sparkling mirror framed in wood on the wall next to her. Not the polished bronze plate her previous home had, but a true bright mirror where she could really see herself!

The mirror was sided by bare daggers. One had a big spider sitting on it, its belly whitish, its eyes gleaming strangely in the yellow light. Chachar stepped away warily, but not so far as to lose the sight of her reflection in the mirror. She turned around, moved her eyebrows, bent her slender waist. The roar of rude male voices and tipsy singing came from below, and she saw that the reflection’s cheeks flashed cheerfully, her eyes lit up, her breasts rose, their hard nipples stuck against the fine fabric of her nightgown. She always felt better with men, while in women’s company she faded – like a butterfly with pollen wiped roughly off her wings.

Hesitantly, she glanced back at the dark bed, so gloomy and scary to sleep alone in: she couldn’t help expecting a hairy black hand to emerge from beneath and grab her. She pushed the door, walked out warily into the dark corridor.

She saw a light moving far ahead and hurried to it until she saw a lit face, red and puffy, pieces of felt armor with iron plates sewed on them. The soldier reeked of wine. He gave her an indifferent once-over, nodded at the stairs. “Still feast here in hall! Hungry you? Come down, help need in kitchen. And you’ll gorge there!”

“Thank you, sir,” Chachar said. The old soldier, flattered by her words, threw out his chest, raised the torch proudly as if it were his lance and he were the knight riding into the royal tournament.

Chachar approached the ajar door of the big hall, peeped into with caution. The feast was lavish but the wooden armchairs and the bench facing them empty. Gorvel’s wife and the pale young man disappeared. The monk was sitting at another table, eating and drinking for three. He dropped goblets and copper cups, yelled obscene songs, even tried to dance.

Chachar stepped aside without being seen, slunk tip-toe along the corridor until she heard voices from behind the last door. She listened, tidied her hair, set ajar the door timidly.

In a big chamber, Gorvel and Thomas sat near the blazing fireplace. Lady Roveg was seated regally in a luxurious armchair besides. All three of them listened attentively to the young man singing and playing lute. His fingers ran across the strings briskly, his voice sounded so manly and beautiful that Chachar forgave him at once his arrogant face and malevolent fishy eyes.

Thomas was the first to spot the door ajar. Chachar tried to move away, but the knight whispered something to Gorvel who replied with a broad smile. Chachar knew that sort of understanding grins. Thomas stood up and, stepping as softly as he could, came out to her.

“I’m afraid,” she told him in a plaintive voice. “Can’t sleep.”

Thomas looked at her from above. He smelled of good wine, strong man’s body, sweat, and something special that made her gasp for air and her heart beat faster. She felt her cheeks flush as red roses. Thick blush covered even her neck, only her breasts, high and sensual, remained snow white. Thomas looked down involuntarily. In sweet presentiment, Chachar saw the effort it took him to take eyes off the low neck where her waving breasts rose eagerly to meet his keen gaze.

“What chamber did my friend Gorvel allot you?” he asked in a suddenly hoarse voice. His eyes turned in their sockets in spite of himself. Chachar felt his ardent gaze moving on her tender skin, leaving a red trace of blush.

“A floor above,” she answered and dropped her eyes to let the knight look where he would. “The chamber of his future heir.”

“Or a heiress,” he said with a hoarse laugh. “Would you… like to see round my friend’s castle? Now that you can’t sleep in such a stuffy night… Maybe a storm’s coming? I also feel somewhat anxious…”

“I’ll be happy to stroll around the castle with you, Sir Thomas. The walk may help me to sleep…”

Thomas glanced back at the monstrously thick wall. “Well then… let’s start from the bottom? And finish on the watchtower, under the sky and stars. I’ve never seen such big stars before!”

“Neither have I,” she confessed and went first, feeling his gaze on her back. Her cheeks were so burning that they felt nipped. She was glad she had put no excess clothing on: her well-built body, always inspiring men to reach out for it, was seen through the nightgown even in the dim torchlight. Back at the feast, the Saracen stared at her, the red-bearded host glanced approvingly, stripping her off with his eyes, and even the fishy-eyed minstrel was looking at her too intently, to Lady Rovig’s obvious vexation!

They went descending by steep stairs. It was moist and chilly down there. Chachar kept close to Thomas: she felt creepy, and the knight walked by her side, mighty and handsome, a true man from head to foot, so at the first opportunity she screamed with fear and seized his hand. So they proceeded: she trembled and nestled up to him in fear, as the shadows thickened and moved in such a way as if this newly built castle were already haunted.

Down in the cellar, they faced a massive iron door. Thomas sniffed, his chest puffed up, he pushed the iron folds hastily. From inside, there came a cold moist air of deep underground – and such a powerful smell of wine that Thomas reeled. In the dim crimson light of the torch he held overhead, they could see three high bulging rows, as though formed by lying buffalos.

“Three rows of wine barrels!” Chachar exclaimed in astonishment. “Why does he need that much?”

“I know that man!” Thomas laughed. “He deems it an offense to drink water when there’s any wine within two miles around. And now, in his own castle by the cross of caravan roads…”

Chachar looked in the knight’s laughing face, with crimson lights dancing on it, and descended into the cellar bravely. The stairs had sharp edges, not worn still, the ground beneath her feet smelled of untrodden freshness. Poles and boars jutted out of the rows here and there. The wine barrels formed three rows: two along the walls and one in the middle, sided by passages as wide as a man’s arms spread: such breadth is convenient for rolling out the barrel you need. The monstrous casks of thick oaken planks towered on each other so high that Chachar shook her head in amazement. “More than one can drink in hundred years!”

“And one with friends?” Thomas asked merrily.

“Well, maybe in fifty…”

“Gorvel’s a brave knight but not the one to miss profit. He always had a transport of loot following him. That’s why he’s a lord here and I’m going home. He’ll sell the wine, buy something else, then sell again… We’ll hear of a new kingdom soon, Chachar!”