Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

The senior monk backed, with his head tossed and mouth open. At last, he came to his senses, spoke in a shaky voice, “Which of my warriors will you fight, Frank?”

Thomas had spotted the weakest, in his view, one among them but looked back at Oleg, suppressed a sigh of grief and replied as haughtily as he could, “Would I, Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland, select one when my humble friend, who wouldn’t harm a fly, did fight two ? Surely, I’ll fight all three.”

The senior monk wheeled round to the three warriors of his. They breathed fast, their arms quivered with strain. In that silence, one could all but hear the creak of their extremely tensed muscle. The three of them had their eyes fixed on the gleaming knight, the heads of their spears aimed at his breast.

Thomas looked back at his huge warhorse. His giant lance, as thick as a young tree, remained across the saddle, but he only waved his hand. “Dear sirs! I beg you to start with the arms we have. My lance is more fitting for a knightly joust.”

The senior monk uttered a desperate shriek, the three brave fighters rushed forward. Thomas had barely tightened his grip on the sword hilt when three spears hit his chest. He felt a violent push, white wooden chips flew up before his eyes. One of the warrior monks who came running hit the knight’s steel breast with own head. He gasped, fell down to Thomas’s feet. The rest two staggered away, their eyes malevolent and confused. The ground before the knight was strewn by splinters of broken spears. One of the monks was shaking his blooded hand.

Thomas stooped, slapped the unconscious monk sympathetically on the back of his head. “Dear sir! Get up, it’s all over.”

“A well-nursed child utters no scream!” Oleg cried out. “Don’t hit on head! You have your gauntlet on, and his head is as large as mine… er… fist.”

“I didn’t hit,” Thomas muttered in fright and took his hand away hastily. “I patted him, for Christ wanted us to love even our foes… And this one’s no foe indeed. Dear sir herald! Please call new fighters. These ones got tired, I see.”

The senior monk screeched in despair, tore his hat off, trampled on it fiercely, as if it were a jumping viper. His goggled eyes looked like owl’s, then they got bloodshot. His thin lips dropped foam. He kept glancing back at the gate impatiently. His face lit up when three more warriors ran out.

With spears at the ready and such terrible screams as if some parts of them were pinched in the door, they dashed on Thomas, their legs moved swiftly. The knight gripped his sword – and was late again. A spear hit him straight in the face, hooked his visor, two others broke on his chest. The triple blow was so crushing that Thomas couldn’t help reeling back. He even made a small step back but, as his frightened glance fell on the wonderer who watched the fight very closely, Thomas stepped forward with haste.

Two monks were staggering back, their hands pressed to their smashed, bleeding faces. The third one lay at Thomas’s feet: his arms spread out wide, his squashed nose and slashed eyebrow bleeding heavily.

Groaning with vexation, Thomas pulled out the spearhead stuck in the visor, twisted it about in his steel fingers, with disgust for the low quality of iron, and flung away. “These tired too,” he spoke loudly to no one in particular. “Can’t fight but fall asleep, like fish ashore.”

“Too nimble they are, like mice!” Oleg said with concern. “And you only gape your jaws, scratch yourself, and keep harnessing… Are you a Slav 13? Fight, or they’ll smash their heads before you get ready, stuffed iron dummy!”

“Before I get ready?” Thomas got surprised. He looked around nervously. “I am ready! I’m shaking in my shoes as I wait for them to start using their martial arts… And all I get is their pre-fight rites!”

“Which rites?” Oleg didn’t get it.

“Pre-fight,” Thomas said again. “The ones before fight. Breaking their twigs, hitting their foreheads… I’m tired of trembling and waiting for their famous fighters to show up!”

The men with small wounds were taken by arms and led away, the motionless one carried after them. A new score of warrior monks ran out, armed with poles, spears, and sabers. Some even had strange flails: the likes of those were used in Russian villages to thresh the sheaves of wheat. The monks stopped at the gate, talking to each other in shrill chirping voices. Like a big flock of small forest birds , Oleg thought. One was sent by senior monk back to the monastery. Seems he was told to deliver a message and be back in a flash.

Oleg came to his horse, pulled the sword out, turned his face to the monks. Thomas stood in two steps, casting jealous glances, as he compared the length of their weapons. The wonderer’s sword did not look shorter, though Thomas’s one was the longest in all the crusader army. Moreover, Oleg’s sword was obviously heavier, as its blade was half as broad again as Thomas’s. The senior monk, as the knight had spotted, couldn’t take his eyes off the wonderer’s blade sparkling with bluish lights. However, he gazed at Thomas’s huge sword, as long as any of monkish spears, in the same way. Like a rabbit enchanted by a cobra.

That time no one came running out of the gate, screaming, jumping, and swaying a thin rite spear in complicated ways. They heard a bass gong in the monastery. A very old monk appeared in the gate, clad in a sumptuous oriental robe embroidered with gold and a multistoried hat with little bells and ribbons. The staff in his hand was decorated with silver, its knob was shaped as a head of furious dragon.

“That must be a senior sorcerer,” Thomas said quietly.

“An abbot,” Oleg objected in whisper. “Or even a bishop!”

Thomas snuffled indignantly but, out of respect, said nothing. The local sorcerer (or bishop) looked the battlefield over from beneath his senile swollen eyelids, advanced his trembling hands. Monks came running from both sides to support his stretched arms respectfully.

“Who are you, strangers?” the dressed-up sorcerer or bishop (or maybe an abbot) asked.

“Pilgrims,” Thomas replied respectfully. “We ride in no hurry from the Holy Land, bother and offend no one… You see, the monks of your monastery have greeted us by a strange rite, but even sir wonderer, though a Pagan, knows: when in monastery, do as monks do. In some places a guest must wipe his feet, while in others he must not…”

“I’m a preceptor of this famous monastery,” the old man said in a rasping voice. “Here we study the martial art of mao shui , the best in the world. We revere great heroes, even the wandering ones, and invite you to honor the ancient walls of our wonderful monastery that has the only true rules with your visit.”

“Well… we are not quite great heroes,” Thomas mumbled with a stunned look.

Oleg slapped loudly on the knight’s metal shoulder. “Let’s go, or no seed will remain of these men. They lay themselves out just to show their hospitality!”

On an open porch, there was a table of polished walnut set for them and mats to sit on. Oleg managed to seat himself, with his legs crossed in the way he had learnt from Saracen (though it made his joints crunch as snow), while poor Thomas tried to settle himself this way and that and ended pulling his breastplate off fiercely. His body was warmed, Oleg smelled at once that the noble knight hadn’t washed it for a long time. Thomas sat down on his iron armor, put his glittering helmet on the floor besides. His hair, the color of reap wheat, poured over his shoulders, lighting the walls with golden shine.

Glancing at each other across the table, they snatched quails roasted in dried white breadcrumbs and stuffed with nuts and lard. The birds were so juicy and tender that Thomas gobbled them down with bones. The peacocks, partridges, and starlings cooked skillfully on spits were even more tender, and those baked on griddles were just melting in the mouth. Thomas barely had time to squeeze big walnuts and small hazelnuts in his strong teeth before they were served a new course on huge plates: ham seasoned with Eastern spices, set densely with whole nuts, sprinkled with crumbled nuts and shredded fragrant grass.