The Grail of Sir Thomas

“She can stay here and work in kitchen. No, though… If Sir Thomas stays, she will have to leave. She behaves too bluntly.”

“I’ll take her away,” Oleg promised hastily. “She likes handsome men, that’s all.”

“All women like such knights as Sir Thomas. But I don’t behave that… natural, do I?”

They heard hurried steps behind the door. Thomas burst in like a hurricane, blared from the doorstep, “Sir wonderer, you’ve slandered the noblest of warriors! We, back to back, on the wall of Jerusalem… He’s a man of great honor!”

Oleg was going pallid, his body numb with cold. Thomas fell silent on half a word, his eyebrows rose in surprise. “What else?”

“Sir Thomas… Have you told anyone of the cup?”

Thomas seemed to have been windblown away at once. A thundering fast clatter on the stairs, as if some iron balls spilled over them, died away in a moment. Oleg did not move. He felt miserable — and surprised of it: that was none of his concerns. The Holy Grail was a sacred thing of Christian faith that was hostile to him. The votaries of Christ were guilty of trampling on his ancient Slavic faith, of destroying the priests of great Rod, the god of all that exists…

Lady Roveg stiffened, her confused gaze shifted between the pale wonderer and the open door. Her fingers moved on the lid of the box involuntarily, following the intricate ornament.

Thomas broke in like no hurricane but an avalanche. His face was scary, with lips bluish and eyes popped out. “It’s… gone!”

“Gorvel,” Oleg whispered heavily as if his breast were heaped with stones. “What made him do it? Did they…”

Thomas croaked, in more torture than the worst sinners in the Hell suffered, “Gorvel is a man of great honor… We stood back to back! We covered selves by a single skin, shared the last loaf of bread…”

Oleg cast a wary look at the motionless lady: her face was perplexed. He took Thomas carefully by iron shoulder. “Gorvel would have refused the King if he commanded it, I believe. But there are other lords whom I told you of. Their orders are always obeyed.”

Thomas staggered to the table, collapsed on the bench. His head dropped on the table with a clang of helmet. “You speak to gods… Please help me! Tell me what to do!”

Lady Roveg came to him with a sympathetic look. “Poor Sir Thomas… Perhaps the counsel of my confessor will help you?” Behind Thomas’s back, she made a gesture to Oleg as if throwing a cockroach out of the window. Her delicate hands lay on Thomas’s iron shoulders, yellow lights flared up in her eyes.

Oleg coughed, said in a hoarse voice, “I’ve been fighting the Seven. And I’m alive, you see… I’m going to saddle horses. And you, noble knight, have much to discuss with this highborn lady.” He went out briskly, knocked the door shut behind. The guard jumped up, grasped his sword. Oleg showed empty hands to him, ran downstairs.

Chachar was still drying her boots, singing merrily in a thin squeaky voice. The fire was blazing so hot as if she wanted to burn the whole castle. As Oleg crossed the hall briskly, he flung out, “Go pack your things! Now!”

“What? But…”

“Don’t be late, or we’ll leave without you!”

She bit her lip but fled to her room like a scared she-goat, with no word against. The wonderer was not like himself, his face contorted. He seemed to have rolled up into a tight ball, with nothing but claws, thorns, and sharp fangs looking out.

In the stables, he was told by an old stableman that Gorvel’s beloved stallion had vanished that morning. The destrier was tendered and cared of since he had carried wounded Gorvel out of the battle for the Tower of David. He hooved the Saracens who tried to catch him, broke through their lines, and took the fainted knight to the positions of European hosts. Since then, the stallion was allotted a special stall and a special groom. Gorvel would only ride him on the biggest occasions. Now the stall was empty, though that beast with luxuriant mane would allow no one close but his master!

Oleg led his stallion out in no hurry, saddled him, loaded the remounts with bags. Chachar had got tired of fidgeting on her bay mare while Oleg harnessed Thomas’s warhorse in the same sullen way, tightened the girths, checked the saddle hooks. He seemed to know the very moment of the knight’s breaking away from the tenacious grip of the fair lady.

Chachar went as dark as a thundercloud, scowled, her big eyes glittered with tears and fright. Once Oleg mounted, the door of the castle flew wide open as if rammed from inside. Thomas almost rolled down the stone stairs, as though some ghosts were after him.

On the last stair, the knight lowered his visor. He mounted heavily, galloped to the gate in silence. Oleg trotted after him and smelled an invisible trail of woman’s perfume after Thomas. He glanced at Chachar: she had bit her lip, the dam of tears broken, wet glitter on her cheeks. If he smelled the fragrance, then she, a woman to her fingertips, could discern every tone of it…

The castle gate swung open, horse hooves thundered on the planks of the bridge. The road from the castle ran straight to the west, but Oleg reined up and pointed at hoof prints, “He went east. As he was bound to!”

He turned his horse. Thomas and Chachar followed him obediently. Thomas obviously wanted to escape the vicinity of blubbery Chachar, so he caught up with Oleg hastily. “Sir wonderer, you did know it!” the knight accused, with his visor down.

“What?”

“What Lady Roveg needed! You could have helped your friend… er… escape that burden of talk.”

“And let her have me crucified on the gate? I’m no highborn knight, just a pilgrim in search of my way to gods… However, in this land knights are crucified as well. Or thrown into stone pits.”

“Sir wonderer… I hate distressing women! We knights were created by God to protect the weak, and women are the weakest and most tender creatures on earth. But I… I had to offend Lady Roveg meanly! I confessed being betrothed to Lady Krizhina, the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Oleg said with sympathy, “The Saracen have found a way: their law permits to have up to four wives. Though we have always kept this way. A Slav could take as many wives as he could feed and clothe. The ranks of Muslims do have a reason to grow that robust. Mind it, sir!”

Chachar rode up to them, unable to do without the company of men that long. She sounded still offended, but fascinated as well. “Is it true that in some other country two or more men can take a single wife? They say it’s common for friends, brothers, companions, who don’t want to leave each other for family burrows…”

They rode in gallop, the wind tousled the manes of horses. Thomas didn’t listen to what Oleg told Chachar in a restrained tone. “Sir wonderer,” the knight said, his throat squeezed with emotion, “it’s no use of you trying to cheer my heart up. It’s burnt with fire! How could noble Sir Gorvel do it? He stole! He left everything: his castle, vast lands, beautiful wife and faithful vassals! What would the King say of it? And other knights?”

“That’s the power of them, sir Thomas. The power that no king ever had. Yes, Gorvel contradicted, but no long. He left all he had, went out in the night as a thief. The secret affair always comes first.”

“The secret affair… The affair of Secret Seven?”

“The affair of civilization.”

At a tilt, Thomas peered into the wonderer’s frowning face, while Oleg’s glance snatched out the blades of grass trampled down, pebbles pressed deep into ground, indistinct prints of horseshoes. Chachar was all ears but silent. The horse beneath her seemed to make an easy, sweeping float. “The Secret Seven… struggle for civilization?”

“Yes, Sir Thomas.”

Thomas fell silent for a long time, as he thought it over. He snorted, peered at the hoof prints and ended blasting out, “Damn you, sir wonderer! If they support civilization, then you… we… What are we struggling for?”

“Culture,” Oleg replied.