Yury Nikitin
THE GRAIL OF SIR THOMAS
PART I
Chapter 1
The scorching Saracen sun is burning the endless orange world. An eagle, barely visible from the ground, is motionless high in the blue of the sky, as though 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 to the north, jets of overheated air 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. A track of his hoof prints, each as large as a plate, were left on the ground hard as stone, as it had been trodden by myriads of hooves and feet.
A white cloak with an elaborate embroidery of a red cross is flowing from the knight’s armored shoulders. At the left hip, he has a triangular shield, a bit rumpled, with a sword and a lyre upon starry field. On the right, a great two-handed sword is strapped to the saddle, the iron hilt 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 the top of it. The stallion stepped heavily, looked at his rider askew 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 waiting 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 that 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 born a noble knight.
The pilgrims, covered with grey road dust, dragged their tired feet on. Their worn-out shoes were falling to pieces even as they went. Every single 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, maniacs, dervishes, and 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 Saracens was broken but the land remained wild.
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 the place: only 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 maliciously. The destrier snorted, laid his ears back without falling out of step. Once Thomas entered the outskirts, he saw a pack of scraggy dogs attacking a pilgrim in some ten steps ahead. Someone was pelting the stranger 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, his legs covered with bloody clots, a fresh red trickle running down his calf. As mongrels smelt blood, their attacks became fiercer. A dog jumped, clawed at the poor man’s back and hung there, pawing his flesh.
Once the pack heard the pounding of hooves, they gave out a louder growl. 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 went crawling in the dust, its guts dragging behind and 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, a dog squealed in agony.
The pilgrim leaned on his staff, his face hidden under the hood. Thomas heard his rattling breath, as if some torn bellows were blown nearby.
“Take my stirrup,” Thomas commanded with disgust. “These mad dogs will rip you.”
“Grace… upon you… good sire,” the pilgrim answered in a choked husky voice.
His hand, seeming skeletal to Thomas, appeared from a torn sleeve. The destrier snorted with disgust for the pilgrim’s bad smell.
Thomas hardly kept the stallion from trotting faster. The pilgrim dragged himself along, clinging to the stirrup. He looked a real fright in his loose shredded cloak, definitely off some other man’s back.
When they passed the village, the pilgrim released the stirrup and fell into the dust in exhaustion. His wide- open mouth was gasping 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 hastily. Not until the stranger was left far behind did he take a heavy 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 the throat. Thomas felt like having been hungry for ages. His tired body ached, his destrier stumbled more and more often.
The road stopped twisting. It seemed to be rushing as fast as it could to the salutary coolness of the green forest where a stream could be found. Thomas rode up to the nearest trees. As branches covered him from the burning sun, his shoulders squared and his back straightened. His warhorse gave a short neigh as he trotted by a narrow path among big stocky trees. Thomas recognized oaks, hornbeams, and elms. The rest were nasty Saracen plants, none of them allowed by Holy Virgin to grow in his blessed Britain.
“We’ll have a rest soon,” Thomas soothed his destrier. “This grove must have a spring. I can feel coolness with all my knightly heart and soul, like a hungry lion!”
He heard a crack in the shrubs ahead. A big thickset soldier tumbled out, like a huge boar, clad in a shining helmet and a breastplate pulled over a dirt-colored leather jacket. He had broad shoulders and wry legs. A wide dagger was on his belt, a huge battleaxe in hands.
The robber looked derisive and sounded stentorian. “A knight on his warhorse! Not the sort to set off without gold. Are you, good sire?”
Three more men jumped out at both sides. Thin and swarthy, clad in ragged Saracen clothes and turbans, they had resentful looks on their faces and curved narrow swords in hands. Those one-edged weapons were named
