Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

When he rode up to the gate of Gorvel’s castle, he found guards with bare swords waiting for him. The gate swung open hastily. Gorvel hurried to meet Oleg, helped him to dismount. The red-bearded lord’s face was grim, his eyes flashed like lightnings. He clenched his fists and yelled at the guards.

Thomas came rushing, in full armor, only his visor up. “Been in a fight, sir wonderer?” he cried anxiously from the distance. “Is anyone left there?”

“Your minstrel with friends,” Oleg replied gloomily, as he was combating sickness with the last of his strength. “If you want their songs… you’ll have to go there. They’re not likely… to climb out of the gully soon.”

Chapter 9

They lingered at Gorvel’s for two more days and nights. The lord yelled, insisting on two weeks, referring to the terrible wound of Sir Wonderer, which the joys of feast and hunt should help to heal. However, to Gorvel’s distress, the wounds of Pagan (whom that pilgrim no doubt was) were healing surprisingly fast, due to Christ’s inexplicable mercy. In the second morning, the wound was replaced by a hideous scar, which, in turn, was subsiding before their very eyes, losing its bluish color, whitening to match the rest of skin.

Gorvel glowered at the wonderer. The knight’s world had been clear and simple before Sir Thomas, his companion-at-arms, and this Pagan pilgrim arrived: that was a beginning to strange things. His minstrel disappeared and turned out to be an assassin… But he was a wonderful singer indeed! Let me, Sir Gorvel, be a blockhead who knows nothing of poetry, but Lady Roveg also enjoyed that strange man singing! And his lady might have been wrong too – just a woman! – but other lordly knights would reward him for his songs and win him from each another! Gorvel failed to understand what could have make the pampered minstrel leave his warm seat by fireplace and go out into the night to hunt a stranger…

And the person of pilgrim calls forth even more questions. If his scars resolved that fast, his smooth skin might have already had some more terrible wounds resolved on it. Wounds of wandering and fighting. The one who has them is usually no stranger to sword. And arrows… he was good with them too, as Sir Thomas and that woman, Chachar, had told Gorvel with delight. The odd pilgrim hardly could have mastered archery in peaceful prayers, fasts or contemplations of navel!

The minstrel was talked over for a while and forgotten, but the excited rumors of five thousand gold dinars taken by the wonderer from villains were still on. The confessor monk, in a heat of temper, abused the Mother of God, for she had given such wealth to a Pagan. Thomas interceded for the Holy Virgin and all but beat the fool up. Gorvel reminded them sullenly that villains had not been giving their gold at will and not any man could have taken it that way. Definitely, the pilgrim was helped by Holy Virgin. Perhaps he’s not a hopeless Pagan. The Virgin is no fool, she sees a future Christian in him. He may already be somewhat Christian, though unaware of it himself!

On the same day when Oleg came riding back to the castle, reeling in the saddle, he asked Thomas, “Think of your powerful enemies. Do you have any?”

Chachar was dressing his wounded side with care, admiring the strength of muscle. Thomas poured wine into the wonderer’s cup, his brow contracted. “Well… maybe Sir Gregor the Splendid… Or rather Sir Baldan. In a joust, I threw him off. He fell straight down to the feet of peerless Burnilda…. Down into the mud, at full tilt…”

“Not your sworn enemies. Powerful ones!”

“Er… I had no quarrel with kings. As far as I remember…”

He knitted his brows in suffering, as he recalled everyone whose foot he had ever stepped on or whom he had elbowed. Oleg listened with half an ear. No king is obeyed in such a blind, thoughtless way. That was the way Saracen assassins obeyed their sheikhs, but the minstrel was a pure Frank. So was Ganim, though disguised into green Saracen robe. Franks are free and proud. Not the stuff to make fanatics. Young Europe was not entangled in the net of secret societies yet, unlike the ancient East wallowing in mysticism, sacraments, prophecies, search of astral ways for mankind… and not shunning mundane poisons and murders on the sly.

His blood rushed back. He heard Chachar’s anxious voice, as though muffled by wadding. “It hurts?.. Have a little more patience, please…”

Stop lying to yourself , he thought bitterly. It’s clear whom the minstrel meant by the Lords of the World: The Secret Seven. Immortal sorcerers, they know no defeat and have a clear goal. Politicians, no starry-eyed dreamers. With their millstones, they mill whole kingdoms, empires, peoples, nations, religions, and beliefs. Killing a hero, a king or an emperor is the same to them as squashing a greenfly. “Go have a rest,” he told Chachar. “Go, don’t growl… I need a man-to-man talk with Sir Thomas.”

Her beautiful eyes filled with tears at once. The dam of eyelids could hardly keep the glittering liquid in. Thomas looked helplessly at Oleg.

“Chachar!” the wonderer said through gritted teeth and the dam broke, waterfalls of tears gushed down her pale cheeks, but his voice was so strange that she fled as if blown out by wind.

Anxious, Thomas sat down on the bed next to Oleg. “Does it hurt badly?”

“Sir Thomas, do you know that your cup is pursued… not by ordinary burglars?”

Thomas thought it over, shrugged melancholically. “No, but… what’s the difference?”

Oleg clenched his jaws bitterly, waiting for a pang to pass. He sent a mental order to clean the blood – it would prevent fester – and heated the wound up. It was painful that way, but faster to heal. “The cup is pursued by powerful ones,” he said in a different voice. “Now they send assassins, villains and burglars… but some day they’ll come for it themselves. Maybe you refuse it? And save your life?”

Thomas looked straight at his friend. “Thank you. But why do you think life so dear? Honor is dearer, truth is dearer, love is dearer. Many things are dearer than our brief lives. Why would I stick to such a small thing? Whoever wants the cup, they are welcome to try. I’ll be defending it.”

Oleg looked around, moved his head close to Thomas. “Then I’ll tell you,” he said in a soft voice, “who wants the cup. Maybe you tell me why they want it. Think it over once again. Perhaps you’ll change your mind and refuse it… If you do, Thomas, I shan’t blame you! The enemies are invincible. They are Seven Secret Sages. In fact it is them ruling the world. Kings, emperors, sultans, and shahs are no more than pawns on their chessboard!”

Thomas looked with doubt, but his cheeks flushed hot despite his will, his face lit up. He moved closer, leaned to Oleg who continued in a whisper, “They are immortal. They can be killed, but otherwise live forever. They’ve seen the birth, prosperity, and ruin of many great ancient empires, and they understand the secret, concealed causes of rise and failure of peoples and kingdoms better than anyone. As they’ve lived thousands of years, they mastered the secrets of power. Step by step, they have learnt to influence the development of realms, to bring some of them to prosperity and others – to ruin. You won’t believe, but sometimes it was enough to make a scuffle on a particular day and hour in a market – and the result was the death of ancient ruling house, of the kingdom… and a new one, strong, young and healthy, sprouted up in the outlying districts. The new state was usually more just and worthy. Yes, as a rule, the Seven destroy cruel realms and approve of kinder ones. They support nations with kind, merciful morals and manners…”