The Grail of Sir Thomas

throw. The shorter handle is the better. Would you like a try? On the average, the thrown knife makes a turn in the air within seven steps, so it will stab the one standing or running in three, ten or thirteen steps.”

“What if the enemy’s in eight steps?”

“Then you make it turn faster. Or slower. That’s all.”

Thomas handed the knife back hastily. “No! A knight is not the kind of wandering Gypsy.”

“Hum… What about wandering knights?”

“Errant!” Thomas corrected indignantly. “Errant knights! Back in the times of King Arthur and since that, the knights of the Round Table were erring in search of adventure…”

“Isn’t that what Gypsies do?.. Well, well. By the way, you can throw a knife in a knightly way — straightly as if it were a dart. With no turns! That is what the blade ends are made heavier and the handle is made of light wood or bone for. Would you try?”

Thomas shook his head. “We, Angles of Britain, have an inquiring mind but little love for changes. A good sword and a long spear are our weapons for ever and ever! We shall remain what God made us!”

He reined up. Oleg rode farther, alone with his thoughts. Soon he heard the silver tinkle of woman’s laughter behind, then a hollow burst of the knight’s laughter. Oleg marveled at the powers of their vitality and endurance again. Gods must have prepared a hard way ahead for man. Otherwise they’d not give him such powers.

The road rose on a mountain peak and Oleg had time, before a descend, to take in the environs at a glance: green hills, a valley with smooth square fields, small villages — and a high ramparted castle far ahead. At the distance it seemed small like a toy, no details visible, but the road went there, swarmed with galloping riders and slow heavy-loaded carts.

Frowning, he drove his horse down slowly. The road was trodden, gently sloping, sided with old olives: their trunks swollen, their crooked branches seemed to be bent in torment. The heat grew torrid. The bright blue sky was getting lighter until it was the off-white color of ashes. The air turned so dry that a breath of it was scratching. They saw hares darting and heard quails chirring in the wheat fields and thick grass along roadsides.

Thomas rode in his armor stoically, only his helmet off and hanging on the saddle hook. The wind ruffled his flaxen hair, tore the drops of sweat off his red steamed face. Chachar tried to sing, laughed, kept shooting glances in the knight’s eyes of that bright blue color, strange and wonderful in this land of brown-eyed men.

At noon Oleg spotted some rich greenery from a distance, turned there and found a small stream. They made a halt, watered horses. Chachar spread food and spices on the tablecloth. Oleg undressed, rinsed himself with the icy water that made its way upward to the sun from goodness-knows-which depth. Thomas watched him with envy. Finally, the knight couldn’t help stripping naked himself and dipping into the stream, which was less than knee-deep. He screamed and laughed happily, raising clouds of sparkling spray. He also washed his clothes, beat them with stones, spread out in the grass to dry up.

When Oleg untied the bags of oat from the horse snouts, Thomas was sitting near the stream, tearing his white skin with nails as hard as hooves, his face twisted with exceptional enjoyment. “Flies…” he moaned through gritted teeth. “Begot by Satan himself for torturing Christian knights. They get under pieces of armor where no Saracen saber can reach…”

“Flies? Really?”

“Disgusting white worms! They make flies, be it known to you, sir wonderer.”

“I know it,” Oleg muttered, “but a noble knight knowing that is a surprise!”

Thomas shook his head, scratching himself furiously. “You won’t believe what silly things are put in our heads as children! To be named a knight, one needs to learn trivium and quadrivium, to sing and make verses, to read and write… But I, to tell the truth, went into knightly exercise most of all!”

“I can guess,” Oleg mumbled. “If even kings in Europe can’t read and sign with a cross…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thomas dismissed with light heart. “As soon as a king receives a letter, he has a Jew caught and brought to him. All Jews can read and write, it’s required by their faith. The Jew reads the letter to the king. He dictates the answer, the Jew scrabbles it, the letter is sealed and sent back with a rider! That’s all. And the king who gets the answer will also have a Jew brought to read it.”

“Very convenient,” Oleg agreed.

Thomas did not catch the sarcasm. He reached an itching place between his shoulder blades and groaned with joy. “Call Chachar,” Oleg offered. “She has a cat’s nails.”

Thomas glanced back warily at the woman. She was sitting half-turned in few steps, listening. Her cheek and pink ear were blush red, hands moved awkwardly, dropping meat, eggs and onions. “I can’t,” Thomas replied finally. “She’s a woman of noble birth! I can’t make her do this plain work.”

“Surely, a common woman would have scratched your back better. But she’s not likely to be found here.”

After the lunch and a brief rest, they continued on their journey. Soon they rode in a hundred steps past a strange ancient building. It stood in a flat valley, high thick grass swaying around it, the entrance overgrown with shrubs, thick green ropes climbing up the walls, clinging to the cracks, their leaves glistening like wax. The building was enormous, gloomy, formed by huge grey stone blocks. Having been abandoned for centuries, dented by winds and heat, it was a silent memory of ancient empires and vanished nations.

Oleg felt anguish gnawing at his heart. It is known that Black God would not allow Man to climb out from wildness and ignorance to the shining peaks where the Fair Gods dwell! He plots and impedes, but people are helped by Fair Cods who created them. However, there is still more loss than success on the thorny path. A seat of culture is barely created when the wild hordes sent by Black God would ruin its prospering cities, burn libraries, destroy dams and canals… It is raised from the ruins — and ruined, burned and butchered again by beastly men. Endlessly, all the time… Too much loss, blood and suffering.

Surely, the Man is moving to the shining peak. Though rolling down almost to the bottom after each disaster, he then climbs a bit higher than he did the last time. The young European kingdoms, despite their ignorance and violence of savages, are more humane in their heart as compared to the ancient empires that left the ruins of colossal circuses where live men — the gladiators — had been fighting to death. The empires had built pyramids, lighthouses and temples where thousands of people were sacrificed, while in the new Barbarian faith there was only one human sacrifice the last and the greatest one: Christ, the founder of the faith, gave his life. Since that, people are not sacrificed any more, even the battles of gladiators were replaced by the chariot racing…

The evening was falling. They headed for the crimson half of the sky: it looked like covered with dry blood, dark and brown, bright purple drops let out in the ruptures only. The sun was half below the skyline, long reddish shadows lay across the evening land.

The road led to the castle that stood out gloomily against the crimson sun and expanded with every step they made. Oleg looked at it with a sullen eye, urged his horse on, so that to pass by it before dark. The lands around the castle looked swept by a terrible storm. Everything was broken, trampled, and soiled. Wide stubs glistened in place of the grove, for the trees had been sawn down almost at the ground level. The castle stands in the middle of trampled field — freshly built, its watchtowers still not roofed. No annexes: only a great square keep of four floors and stables and a rampart surrounding a large area of the roughly loosened ground. The main building has holes instead of windows, some with fresh-forged grates in them. A flag with eagles, dragons and roaring bears is flying over the castle gate.

Thomas was telling Chachar loudly and competently that shrubs and trees had been cut down and grass burnt in order not to allow a wicked enemy to get close without being seen. The land is still Saracen, Christian warriors need to consolidate the captured lands urgently. After that, they will be able to extend their noble rule to other Pagan nations.

They had passed the castle when the gate opened and two riders burst out at full tilt. Both shouted loudly, waved their hands. Thomas reined up and turned his horse slowly, his lance pointed menacingly at the strangers who were approaching. Oleg rode aside, took his bow and draw the string briskly. Chachar hid behind the back of the shining knight.

Two unarmed, except for daggers on their belts, young boys in very bright clothes came to them unhurriedly, stopped in three steps. One of the boys raised his palm. “I am a squire of Sir Gorvel, the noble knight!” he said in a clear ringing voice. “My lord asks you, tired travelers, to do him a honor of your visit! You are invited to have a rest