Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

“Sir Aragorn, without hesitation, as it befits a knight, lowered his visor and galloped straight to the barred door, with smoke and flames bursting from beneath it! The door shattered of the knight’s blow. Sir Aragorn stormed into the hell of burning walls and church plate. In the fire and smoke, he managed to find a poor young woman: she got so mad with terror that she resisted him picking her into the saddle. Sir Aragorn took her out of the fire and left to the care of townspeople. He also left his destrier, lest his luxuriant mane be burnt, and rushed back into the fire! He was not seen for a long time. The townspeople on the square started to cry with pity for the young knight when he came out of the blazing church: staggering, burnt all over, but clasping to his breast the icon of Holy Virgin he’d saved!”

“Was it worth the risk?” the wonderer muttered, though he listened with interest. “Icons are the same wood as spades, aren’t they?”

“Oh, sir wonderer! Surely, he’d swallowed so much smoke that he collapsed like dead. They needed a long time to bring him to, and he was weak as a nestling. The best doctors nursed the brave hero back to health, as the woman whom he’d saved was a daughter of a grand seignior, and the icon was a gift from His Holiness of Rome. Two days passed before Sir Aragorn was able to mount. At once, he hurried to the tourney in Gisland…”

“Surely, he got late,” Oleg said skeptically.

“Sir wonderer, you have evil wits. As Sir Aragorn approached the jousting field, he heard the silver trumpets heralding the end of the tourney…”

“Late as a crow,” the wonderer grunted.

“And when he came to the gate, woebegone, some dressed-up knights rode out to meet him. They dashed up to him and started to congratulate, to admire his mighty blows, his knightly art, his unfathomable skill to drive his horse by knees only, with no touch to reins…”

The wonderer hemmed but kept looking with interest. Thomas went on with ardor. “Sir Aragorn was astonished to hear that he had come to the tourney at the very last hour, challenged the strongest knights and threw them off, one by one, with a single lance! He won an easy victory even over the powerful Black Bull whom the strongest knights of Britain could never make lurch in his saddle!

“Sir Aragorn offered a prayer to Our Lady and told his friends everything. And all of us – I was also there – thanked the Holy Virgin heartily, for she had assumed the aspect of Sir Aragorn and took a horse and a lance to ride instead of him into the jousting of the strongest knights! A noble deed wins an award, sir wonderer!”

Oleg thought it over for a while. “But who was babysitting for her?” he asked then innocently. “On the icons, she has such a small child! With no eye on, he can burn down the house or make such a mess…”

“It’s her business,” Thomas snapped angrily. “But you don’t doubt the fact of her help?”

“Why would I?” Oleg wondered. “In our land, we had dime a dozen female warriors. We also called them Amazons. They drove a horse without reins, shot at a tilt… They would love to throw a strong man off! I believe it. But who did she leave her child with? Our girls only romped that way until they married…”

They left the grove after a brief rest but Thomas for a long time kept looking back with pity at its peaceful greenery. The trees were big, thick, ancient, their interweaved green crowns sheltered the young grass from the scorching sun. Unhurried moles dug their burrows underground, songbirds built their nests in thick branches, and squirrels rushed merrily along the branches and trunks.

Thomas and Oleg rode in a big arc, moving to the north gradually, heading for the shore where they could take a ship to Constantinople. They avoided any settlements, even detoured around big caravans or groups of pilgrims, as those could remember the strange couple.

Only on the fifth day of the journey did they turn into a small village. They had run out of their bread and oats and salt. Without the latter, no one could survive in such a hot desert this land was to both of them.

The local smith examined the horseshoes, fixed something in Thomas’s armor with his thundering hammer. “A strange couple you are. Heading for Merefa?”

Thomas said nothing. “Is it the nearest city?” Oleg wondered.

“Yes, straight by the road. If you have some gold, I’d advise you to visit Piven, a great magician.”

“What’s he good at?” Oleg asked.

“He knows future. Tells you what happens tomorrow and the day after it and next year! It always comes true. We, local dwellers, know.”

Thomas, already mounted, gave a roar of merry laughter. “If he’s a magician, why should we pay in gold? He must know the spells to make gold of fallen leaves!”

The smith shrugged. “As you like. I only gave an advice, as a good man to good people. Every magician can make gold coins of leaves but they turn leaves again at touch of iron!”

Oleg mounted and said a warm goodbye. Thomas burst out with laughter again. “That’s why he dropped our golden coin on his anvil first!”

When they got out onto the road, Thomas was thoughtful. For a long time, he rode silent, then said firmly, “We must visit that Piven.”

“Sir Thomas…” Oleg began.

Thomas interrupted decisively. “Sir wonderer! You have your vows, and I have mine. You serve the Truth, and I serve love! I must find out how’s my Krizhina. Whether she waits for me, whether her brothers oppress… And I swear I’ll know it! No force will stop me!”

Oleg advanced his palms, as though sweeping the knight’s anger away. “All right then! Find it out, I don’t care. I thought you wanted to know our way…”

“And ride all that way trembling? No, thank you! I’m no fool to wish to know my future. I don’t want to undertake what belongs to God. But to know about Krizhina…”

He kept urging his horse on. Oleg watched him with surprise: Thomas looked glowing: he leaned forward in the saddle, as though ready to fly up and ahead of his galloping stallion. At that moment, he seemed to have forgotten even about the cup in his saddle bag.

The tall white walls of Merefa were visible from afar but only half a day later did the meandering road lead the travelers to the city gate. Thomas gawked at the walls of white stone. He could see the stripes on the gate when their folds flung open to the full, some riders in waving red cloaks darted out, one by one, on lathery snorting horses, with a dim shimmer of blooded swords and sabers in hands.

Thomas counted twenty of them. Five could barely sit in their saddles, almost each one had his armor cut and blood-stained. All the group swept by them like a whirlwind, along the other road, heading for the green hills.

Thomas and Oleg made their horses shift from gallop to cautious pace. Thomas gripped his lance tightly. Oleg moved his shoulder blades habitually to check the place of the bow.

There were sounds approaching from the city: clatter of hooves, beastly roar, clang of steel, and loud blows of war trumpets. A new group of riders on fast horses burst out of the gate: all squealing shrilly, in furry caps, bloody sabers in hands. They brandished fiercely, scattering drops of blood around. Their horses flew like birds, as they were coming upon the first group. The first rider in the second group snatched from his saddle hook a bow with drawn string, put an arrow on, aimed, lingering, as he needed to consider the skips of his galloping horse. Finally, he let the bowstring off abruptly, his arm bent in a shape of hook. Thomas and Oleg saw a flash of white teeth, as the man grinned.

The last rider in the first group was a young boy on a tired horse, his face white and childish. He had neither beard nor moustache but his shoulder and breast were stained with blood. The arrow hit him on the back, just under the neck. The boy gave no cry: he fell silently onto the horse’s neck, embraced it convulsively, with the arrow feather stuck in his back. The rider in furry cup squeaked, pulled the next arrow out of the quiver.