The Grail of Sir Thomas

Bonus: The Secret of Stonehenge, Sample Chapter

If you enjoyed The Grail of Sir Thomas, look out for The Secret of Stonehenge, the next book in the series, also by Yury Nikitin. Soon at Smashwords!

With the first peal, all the four gates of Kiev began to creak. Bearded guards, sleepy and angry, dug the heels of their metal-tipped boots into the ground with strain and groaned, applying themselves to strong wooden folds. The Great City was opening to the world.

The powerful sound of bells, as thick as frozen oatmeal kissel, flowed unhurriedly along the paved streets of the city, squeezed into the closed shutters, woke people up.

From the city center to the western gate, with a ringing clatter of hooves on the paving, two riders came on tall warhorses. They looked like two mounted towers. The first one was clad in steel armor from top to toe, in the way of noble Franks. The second one could be taken for his squire or servant if he was dressed better. No knight would tolerate a servant in a wolfskin jack, with a simple bow on his back and a rough club, looking out of his saddle bag, instead of a proper weapon!

The guards greeted the knight, their voices hoarse after a sleepless night they spent drinking with him at a local inn. The foreign guest had been paying, they’d called wantons and had fun with them, roared songs, played for money, arms and boots (by morning no one could recall what he owed others, so everyone just took his own things). And what a party without a good scuffle? They scuffled much and willingly, enjoyed themselves, so now one has his eye swollen, another his lips thick as flapjacks, and the third one is unable to get out of the sentry box. But that was good fun!

Oleg gave a slack nod, though no one bellowed greetings to him. He was avoided and a bit afraid of. A silent one, unhurried and reserved. Never carousing, never drinking, he still looked able to stand for himself. His exorbitant strength could only be missed by a child or a blind man, and the guards of the gate were neither.

Thomas held his horse, alerted. The way through the gate is blocked by three stocky, beastly-looking common men. All watch him closely, with searching eyes. They look no warriors, but their moves show big strength, they resemble mighty bulls who grew in the open. One said something and went straight on Thomas.

“Don’t strike at once!” the wonderer whispered. “First we’ll find out what they want.”

The man stopped in front of Thomas, and the knight felt uneasy. The common man has broad shoulders and looks as hard as a rock, his arms strong enough to crush the knight’s armor like the bark of a rotten stump. His sharp eyes under the overhanging superciliary arches, heavy like mountain ridges, look in some aiming, demanding way.

Two other men came slowly to flank Thomas. They smelled strongly of beer and home brew. All the three looked like woodcutters or stonemasons: the kind who break both tree trunks and blocks of stone with bare hands.

Thomas cast anxious glances around. The wonderer kept his gloomy looks: a mysterious glitter in his green eyes, the iron hoop keeping his red hair on the forehead. He also looks like a wild woodcutter or stonemason, but he’s beside me. Not blocking my way.

The common man asked in a deep strong voice that sounded like a roar of an old bear woken up, “Are you… from overseas?”

“You guessed right,” Thomas answered in a constrained voice.

“If from overseas,” the common man roared, keeping his eyes in Thomas, “you’ve seen more than those who stay at home…”

“Who would argue?” Thomas said in a guarded way. “As one wise traveler put it, he who made a walk around his house is wiser than he who never stepped outside.”

The common man made a nervous swallow, his stentorian voice broke, a begging note appeared in it, “Yes, that’s just what I’m talking about. Please tell us, dear guest, give your advice… How to make Rus’ better?”

Thomas wanted to spit down to the other man’s feet, his own legs still trembling so that they made his horse sway, his heart pounding like a hare’s, but there were such grief and anguish in the common man’s voice that Thomas only grunted, “Sir wonderer, let’s get out of this mad land. Don’t they see they are living here, not I? I’d give them a pretty good advice!”

“Rude you,” Oleg complained. “Though a noble!”

They left the gate behind, their horses walked briskly on the morning dew. The sky was clean as a shelled egg and blue as baby’s eyes, the air fresh as it usually is in the mornings. The day is going to be warm, though the trees along the road have already put on their autumn gold and purple.

The knight, Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland, listened to the church bells piously, crossed himself slowly, with diligence. Oleg frowned, green eyes went dark. A strange faith, made for the slaves of Rome, is growing stronger and stronger in my free nation. Though with fire and blood, hundreds of villages burnt, sorcerers being killed and crucified, along with those who refused to name themselves slaves of a foreign lord, even the one of Heaven.

Rus’ seems to have had no slaves before, no habit for slavery, but, just imagine, only few ones dare to protest openly now. The bravest men stay put in the villages where the Old Faith remains, and sorcerers only make their heathen temples in the thick of woods. Looks like our souls have much of timidity if a man makes no attempt to knife the one who insults him to his face: You are a slave of the Heavenly Lord…

Oleg’s horse, after having a good sleep and food in Kiev, was eager to break into gallop. The rider had to hold him, looking back at Thomas. The knightly stallion is no fit for gallop: too heavy, and his rider is like a tower of steel. He’d only gallop fifty sazhens, then a full stop: just stand and slash. That’s enough to cleave any lines like an axe. And the breach is penetrated by foots: those always follow a knight in crowds, as if chasing a furious bear.

The strong fresh wind hit in their faces. The sorcerer’s red hair went flickering, as though a blazing torch he carried in gallop. Behind Thomas, a white cloak, the color of swan’s wing, was blown up and stretched quivering. The huge red cross on the white heralded proudly that the knight was not just a knight but the one of the Christ’s host that had freed the Holy Sepulcher valiantly from the impious Saracens.

“On the way again,” Thomas said in a fine manly voice. “What is a man born for if not for traveling?”

Oleg looked askew at the knight’s proud face. In his long life, he’d heard this question many times before. And many answers to it. All convincing, but all different. “Haven’t you swapped the cup for drink?”

Thomas felt his bag hastily. The cup’s roundish side escaped his fingers for a while, his heart missed a beat. “Sir wonderer,” he said with displeasure, “I not only haven’t swapped it for drink but haven’t lost at dice either! Though I’ve seen noble knights… yes, the ones of the highest birth, lose at dice not just money, horse and weapons but their wives and castles! They even lost more than castles: their own names! That’s the power of Satan, his skill to entrap weak souls…”

“But you played,” Oleg teased. “And all the games, according to the doctrine of yours, were invented by Satan. They say it was why your god threw him down: Satan used to win every game…”

Thomas said with dignity, “Sir wonderer, I don’t think Sir God would have won no game if he really sat down to play with the vile devil. But I think He’d not even sit down near him in the latrine. Sir Satan might have been cheating. Though no, that’s too… As it was when Sir Satan used to sit on Our Lord’s right and was not yet the sort he became on earth.”

He crossed himself piously. Oleg laughed. “Oh yes. He’s lived on earth among people for a while, and he who lies down with dogs, gets up with fleas.”

Thomas looked puzzled. “Do you want to say Satan became that vile after he mixed with people? Though… why not? Man is no angel but he’s craving for light, and devil in his spite was getting lower and lower until he became worse than man. Then he also began to provoke man into becoming worse.”

“Exactly. And games remained his domain.”

“So I clashed him! As befits a valiant knight: in my opponent’s field, and I also left the choice of weapons to him. I played that impious game, won, swapped my prize for drink, as it’s dishonorable to buy any good thing for such money, played again and won again! So I treated those men to drinks… That was how I put the devil to shame.”

Oleg twisted his head with delight. “Great! This doctrine… or faith will go far if it allows such an