Yury Nikitin - The Grail of Sir Thomas

The Grail of Sir Thomas

by Yury Nikitin

Copyright 1994 Yury Nikitin

English translation 2013 Ingrid Wolf

Cover art 2013 Denis DeNeWeR Petrov

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part II

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

About the author

Endnotes

Bonus: The Secret of Stonehenge, Sample Chapter

Part I

Chapter 1

The scorching Saracen sun is burning the endless orange world. An eagle, barely visible from the ground, has spread his wings high in the blue of the sky, as if nailed to the firmament. The air is sweltering, swaying in translucent waves.

Along the broad trodden road, a huge knight rode a heavy black stallion, heading to the north. Jets of overheated air are trembling over his iron armor, beads of sweat trickling down his unprotected face. His sky blue eyes, a color never seen here before the arrival of Franks, look defiantly. The knight seems to be seeking for a reason to grab the hilt of his long sword with his gauntleted hand.

The huge stallion kept a steady pace fitting for a long journey. He left a track of hoof prints, each as large as a plate, on the ground as hard as stone, trodden by myriads of hooves and feet.

A white cloak, with a red cross embroidered elaborately on it, is flowing from the knight’s armored shoulders. At the left hip, he has a triangular shield, a bit rumpled, showing a sword and a lyre upon starry field. On the right, a great two-handed sword is strapped to the saddle, the iron hilt is wiped to a shine. A small bag of camping things is bulging on the horseback behind him.

The crusader had a lance pointed upward in his right hand. The spike was glittering with orange, as if he carried a red-hot lump of metal on top of it. The stallion stepped heavily, glanced askew at his rider with a sullen fiery eye. The mounted knight looked like an animated statue, one of those numerous Pagan remnants on the squares of Rome.

The sun was dazzling. The air seemed to be rising from the Hell’s stove that waited for all the infidels and sinners to burn them. Away from the road, there was a puny group of trees, some people in colored, mottled oriental robes lying in the sparse shadow. Three more men found the shadow under a cart, their bare feet stuck out. Some buffalos stood in the middle of a muddy puddle, which could pass for a lake in this land. They were as motionless as boulders, with only their snouts out of the mud.

The knight passed by the grove without moving a muscle. It did not befit Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland, the crusader and hero of the capture of Jerusalem, to show his weakness before the eyes of conquered people.

The destrier walked slowly, the road was deserted. Not until midday had Thomas come up with some live creatures – a string of pilgrims. They went afoot, ragged and emaciated, without looking up. Thomas whispered a thanking prayer to Our Lady for his being a noble knight. Cloaks on these travelers are dirtier than a cloth for people to wipe their shoes on.

The pilgrims, covered with grey road dust, dragged their tired feet on. Their worn-out shoes were falling to pieces even as they went. Each one looked like a scarecrow or a skeleton in hooded cloak. The dust raised by their feet made Thomas cough, he spurred to leave them behind. None of pilgrims cast a single glance at the magnificent knight: they had seen lots of his sort in the Holy Land. However, the knight had also seen all that lot of travelers, pilgrims, madmen, dervishes, even prophets.

The dark wall of forest was approaching. The destrier looked there with hope for rest and cool, but it was still far, so he didn’t bother to mend his pace. The road went across a small village. Thomas adjusted his sword baldric, alerted. Since the army of crusaders had passed there with fire and sword, the resistance of Saracen was broken, but the land remained wild. A lone warrior should stay alert if he doesn’t want his throat cut in the night.

Thomas lowered his visor with a metal clink. His eyes looked closely through the narrow slit in his steel helmet. At that moment, he saw no beauty of that place: just flat earthen roofs from where some hothead could throw a spear, and tall leafy plane trees, a good hide for archers…

He heard some dogs ahead, barking and growling with malice. The destrier snorted, laid his ears back but did not lose the step. Once Thomas entered the outskirts, he saw, in some ten steps ahead, a pack of scraggy dogs attacking a pilgrim who was pelted with sticks and clods of dry earth from behind the earthen wall. Dogs snapped at his rags and legs. He did not even try to protect himself with his thick staff: he could barely stagger along on his legs covered with bloody clots, with a fresh red trickle running down the calf. As mongrels smelt blood, their attacks became fiercer. One dog jumped, clawed at the poor man’s back and hung there, pawing his flesh.

Once the pack heard the hooves, they growled louder. A dog tried to snap at the stallion’s leg. Thomas hit it with the end of the shaft, the yelping mongrel jumped away. Some Saracen children showed their curly heads up over the fence, hurling sticks and stones at Thomas. Dogs surrounded him, snarling, pouncing, looking ready to attack all together. The destrier shorted anxiously. Thomas reined up to keep the scared horse from bolting. He turned his lance quickly, speared a dog, shook the squealing blood-stained body off and struck another mongrel’s spine.

The speared dog crawled in the dust, its guts dragged behind, leaving a wet track. The pack crowded around. One mongrel licked the blood, and suddenly all of them attacked the wounded creature. They tangled into a ball, hair flying all around from it, the dog squealed in agony.

The pilgrim leaned on his staff, his face hidden under the hood. Thomas heard his rattling breath: it sounded like some torn bellows blown nearby.

“Take my stirrup,” Thomas ordered with disgust. “These mad dogs will rip you.”

“Grace... upon you... good sire,” the pilgrim answered in a choked husky voice.

His hand, which seemed skeletal to Thomas, appeared from a torn sleeve. The destrier snorted with disgust for the pilgrim’s bad smell.

Thomas could barely hold the stallion in. The pilgrim dragged himself along, clinging to the stirrup. He looked a real fright in his loose shredded cloak, definitely off another man’s back.

When they passed the village, the pilgrim released the stirrup and fell into the dust in exhaustion. His wide-open mouth gasped for air. His eyes sank down, lips turned pale and bloodless, his breath howled like a cold winter wind in a chimney. “Thank God...”

“Laudetur Jesus Christus,” Thomas muttered piously.

The destrier trotted away in haste. Not until the stranger was left far behind did he take a heavy slow pace again.

The forest was approaching slowly. The sun was setting. Red and burning it was, like a half-finished hot sword on the anvil. The air was so dry that it scratched his throat. Thomas felt like having been hungry for ages. His tired body ached, his destrier stumbled more and more often.