Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

Oleg coughed, said in a hoarse voice, “I’ve been fighting the Seven. And I’m alive, you see… I’m going to saddle horses. And you, noble knight, have much to discuss with this highborn lady.” He went out briskly, knocked the door shut behind. The guard jumped up, grasped his sword. Oleg showed empty hands to him, ran downstairs.

Chachar was still drying her boots, singing merrily in a thin squeaky voice. The fire was blazing so hot as if she wanted to burn the whole castle. As Oleg crossed the hall briskly, he flung out, “Go pack your things! Now!”

“What? But…”

“Don’t be late, or we’ll leave without you!”

She bit her lip but fled to her room like a scared she-goat, with no word against. The wonderer was not like himself, his face contorted. He seemed to have rolled up into a tight ball, with nothing but claws, thorns, and sharp fangs looking out.

In the stables, he was told by an old stableman that Gorvel’s beloved stallion had vanished that morning. The destrier was tendered and cared of since he had carried wounded Gorvel out of the battle for the Tower of David. He hooved the Saracens who tried to catch him, broke through their lines, and took the fainted knight to the positions of European hosts. Since then, the stallion was allotted a special stall and a special groom. Gorvel would only ride him on the biggest occasions. Now the stall was empty, though that beast with luxuriant mane would allow no one close but his master!

Oleg led his stallion out in no hurry, saddled him, loaded the remounts with bags. Chachar had got tired of fidgeting on her bay mare while Oleg harnessed Thomas’s warhorse in the same sullen way, tightened the girths, checked the saddle hooks. He seemed to know the very moment of the knight’s breaking away from the tenacious grip of the fair lady.

Chachar went as dark as a thundercloud, scowled, her big eyes glittered with tears and fright. Once Oleg mounted, the door of the castle flew wide open as if rammed from inside. Thomas almost rolled down the stone stairs, as though some ghosts were after him.

On the last stair, the knight lowered his visor. He mounted heavily, galloped to the gate in silence. Oleg trotted after him and smelled an invisible trail of woman’s perfume after Thomas. He glanced at Chachar: she had bit her lip, the dam of tears broken, wet glitter on her cheeks. If he smelled the fragrance, then she, a woman to her fingertips, could discern every tone of it…

The castle gate swung open, horse hooves thundered on the planks of the bridge. The road from the castle ran straight to the west, but Oleg reined up and pointed at hoof prints, “He went east. As he was bound to!”

He turned his horse. Thomas and Chachar followed him obediently. Thomas obviously wanted to escape the vicinity of blubbery Chachar, so he caught up with Oleg hastily. “Sir wonderer, you did know it!” the knight accused, with his visor down.

“What?”

“What Lady Roveg needed! You could have helped your friend… er… escape that burden of talk.”

“And let her have me crucified on the gate? I’m no highborn knight, just a pilgrim in search of my way to gods… However, in this land knights are crucified as well. Or thrown into stone pits.”

“Sir wonderer… I hate distressing women! We knights were created by God to protect the weak, and women are the weakest and most tender creatures on earth. But I… I had to offend Lady Roveg meanly! I confessed being betrothed to Lady Krizhina, the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Oleg said with sympathy, “The Saracen have found a way: their law permits to have up to four wives. Though we have always kept this way. A Slav could take as many wives as he could feed and clothe. The ranks of Muslims do have a reason to grow that robust. Mind it, sir!”

Chachar rode up to them, unable to do without the company of men that long. She sounded still offended, but fascinated as well. “Is it true that in some other country two or more men can take a single wife? They say it’s common for friends, brothers, companions, who don’t want to leave each other for family burrows…”

They rode in gallop, the wind tousled the manes of horses. Thomas didn’t listen to what Oleg told Chachar in a restrained tone. “Sir wonderer,” the knight said, his throat squeezed with emotion, “it’s no use of you trying to cheer my heart up. It’s burnt with fire! How could noble Sir Gorvel do it? He stole ! He left everything: his castle, vast lands, beautiful wife and faithful vassals! What would the King say of it? And other knights?”

“That’s the power of them , sir Thomas. The power that no king ever had. Yes, Gorvel contradicted, but no long. He left all he had, went out in the night as a thief. The secret affair always comes first.”

“The secret affair… The affair of Secret Seven?”

“The affair of civilization.”

At a tilt, Thomas peered into the wonderer’s frowning face, while Oleg’s glance snatched out the blades of grass trampled down, pebbles pressed deep into ground, indistinct prints of horseshoes. Chachar was all ears but silent. The horse beneath her seemed to make an easy, sweeping float. “The Secret Seven… struggle for civilization?”

“Yes, Sir Thomas.”

Thomas fell silent for a long time, as he thought it over. He snorted, peered at the hoof prints and ended blasting out, “Damn you, sir wonderer! If they support civilization, then you… we… What are we struggling for?”

“Culture,” Oleg replied.

Chapter 10

The thief had been in too much hurry to hide his tracks. Oleg whipped his tired horse: he wanted to come upon Gorvel before dark. Thomas tried to exchange a few words with Chachar but she looked at him with eyes full of anger and resentment. She didn’t seem to be bothered much with the fate of civilization. Thomas came up with Oleg again and asked insistently, “Are culture and civilization not the same?”

“No, they aren’t, Sir Thomas. They aren’t!”

Thomas paused, rode silent for a while, frowned. When he spoke, his eyes were full of suffering. “When we climbed the walls of Jerusalem, shedding them with our blood… and the blood of enemies, it was simple! And now? I’ve always thought civilization to be at the side of good. I thought of myself as a civilizer!”

“Sir Thomas, civilization is an axe. With it, you can cut a tree down, cut some dry twigs to make a fire… or butcher a man. The higher civilization, the sharper axe you have.”

“And culture?”

“Culture is the invisible fingers that seize your arm when you brandish at a human. It is the moral law within you.”

The night was falling fast, the shadows of trees were already black as coal. Oleg drove his horse to the thicket where, he supposed, a small spring was hiding. The trail of Gorvel’s horse was very fresh: they would have come up with him if not the nightfall. However, Gorvel will also ride nowhere at night. Many hamster burrows here, his horse would break legs.

Thomas unsaddled the horses, tethered them, tied bags of oat to their snouts. Oleg made a tiny fire, hiding it from a stranger’s sight thoroughly behind thick shrubs, brought some slices of bread and meat.

Thomas asked awkwardly, “Sir wonderer… What about Christ? Does he support our Western civilization?”

Oleg dropped his eyes, feeling embarrassed by the clear, honest eyes of the young knight. “Culture, Sir Thomas. He supports culture! Satan is much more civilized, don’t you think so? He knows more than Christ, can do more things. He makes wonders at every occasion. He’s free, brave, with a broad outlook, not bound by any rules: neither inward nor outward. A vigorous guy! As against him, Christ looks simple-minded and not very clever. Just a bungler! But he’s kind, eager to give his life for us, mean and ignorant! And he gives it – for them who are no fit to hold his candle! And then there’s a rum go: people get ashamed and start climbing up to the light and goodness. The sacrifice of Christ was not vain! That’s what Satan, with all his great wits, fails to grasp. He still wonders why he, so daring and brilliant, is always defeated!”