The Grail of Sir Thomas

“Late as a crow,” the wonderer grunted.

“And when he came to the gate, woebegone, some dressed-up knights rode out to meet him. They dashed up to him and started to congratulate, to admire his mighty blows, his knightly art, his unfathomable skill to drive his horse by knees only, with no touch to reins…”

The wonderer hemmed but kept looking with interest. Thomas went on with ardor. “Sir Aragorn was astonished to hear that he had come to the tourney at the very last hour, challenged the strongest knights and threw them off, one by one, with a single lance! He won an easy victory even over the powerful Black Bull whom the strongest knights of Britain could never make lurch in his saddle!

“Sir Aragorn offered a prayer to Our Lady and told his friends everything. And all of us — I was also there — thanked the Holy Virgin heartily, for she had assumed the aspect of Sir Aragorn and took a horse and a lance to ride instead of him into the jousting of the strongest knights! A noble deed wins an award, sir wonderer!”

Oleg thought it over for a while. “But who was babysitting for her?” he asked then innocently. “On the icons, she has such a small child! With no eye on, he can burn down the house or make such a mess…”

“It’s her business,” Thomas snapped angrily. “But you don’t doubt the fact of her help?”

“Why would I?” Oleg wondered. “In our land, we had dime a dozen female warriors. We also called them Amazons. They drove a horse without reins, shot at a tilt… They would love to throw a strong man off! I believe it. But who did she leave her child with? Our girls only romped that way until they married…”

They left the grove after a brief rest but Thomas for a long time kept looking back with pity at its peaceful greenery. The trees were big, thick, ancient, their interweaved green crowns sheltered the young grass from the scorching sun. Unhurried moles dug their burrows underground, songbirds built their nests in thick branches, and squirrels rushed merrily along the branches and trunks.

Thomas and Oleg rode in a big arc, moving to the north gradually, heading for the shore where they could take a ship to Constantinople. They avoided any settlements, even detoured around big caravans or groups of pilgrims, as those could remember the strange couple.

Only on the fifth day of the journey did they turn into a small village. They had run out of their bread and oats and salt. Without the latter, no one could survive in such a hot desert this land was to both of them.

The local smith examined the horseshoes, fixed something in Thomas’s armor with his thundering hammer. “A strange couple you are. Heading for Merefa?”

Thomas said nothing. “Is it the nearest city?” Oleg wondered.

“Yes, straight by the road. If you have some gold, I’d advise you to visit Piven, a great magician.”

“What’s he good at?” Oleg asked.

“He knows future. Tells you what happens tomorrow and the day after it and next year! It always comes true. We, local dwellers, know.”

Thomas, already mounted, gave a roar of merry laughter. “If he’s a magician, why should we pay in gold? He must know the spells to make gold of fallen leaves!”

The smith shrugged. “As you like. I only gave an advice, as a good man to good people. Every magician can make gold coins of leaves but they turn leaves again at touch of iron!”

Oleg mounted and said a warm goodbye. Thomas burst out with laughter again. “That’s why he dropped our golden coin on his anvil first!”

When they got out onto the road, Thomas was thoughtful. For a long time, he rode silent, then said firmly, “We must visit that Piven.”

“Sir Thomas…” Oleg began.

Thomas interrupted decisively. “Sir wonderer! You have your vows, and I have mine. You serve the Truth, and I serve love! I must find out how’s my Krizhina. Whether she waits for me, whether her brothers oppress… And I swear I’ll know it! No force will stop me!”

Oleg advanced his palms, as though sweeping the knight’s anger away. “All right then! Find it out, I don’t care. I thought you wanted to know our way…”

“And ride all that way trembling? No, thank you! I’m no fool to wish to know my future. I don’t want to undertake what belongs to God. But to know about Krizhina…”

He kept urging his horse on. Oleg watched him with surprise: Thomas looked glowing: he leaned forward in the saddle, as though ready to fly up and ahead of his galloping stallion. At that moment, he seemed to have forgotten even about the cup in his saddle bag.

The tall white walls of Merefa were visible from afar but only half a day later did the meandering road lead the travelers to the city gate. Thomas gawked at the walls of white stone. He could see the stripes on the gate when their folds flung open to the full, some riders in waving red cloaks darted out, one by one, on lathery snorting horses, with a dim shimmer of blooded swords and sabers in hands.

Thomas counted twenty of them. Five could barely sit in their saddles, almost each one had his armor cut and blood-stained. All the group swept by them like a whirlwind, along the other road, heading for the green hills.

Thomas and Oleg made their horses shift from gallop to cautious pace. Thomas gripped his lance tightly. Oleg moved his shoulder blades habitually to check the place of the bow.

There were sounds approaching from the city: clatter of hooves, beastly roar, clang of steel, and loud blows of war trumpets. A new group of riders on fast horses burst out of the gate: all squealing shrilly, in furry caps, bloody sabers in hands. They brandished fiercely, scattering drops of blood around. Their horses flew like birds, as they were coming upon the first group. The first rider in the second group snatched from his saddle hook a bow with drawn string, put an arrow on, aimed, lingering, as he needed to consider the skips of his galloping horse. Finally, he let the bowstring off abruptly, his arm bent in a shape of hook. Thomas and Oleg saw a flash of white teeth, as the man grinned.

The last rider in the first group was a young boy on a tired horse, his face white and childish. He had neither beard nor moustache but his shoulder and breast were stained with blood. The arrow hit him on the back, just under the neck. The boy gave no cry: he fell silently onto the horse’s neck, embraced it convulsively, with the arrow feather stuck in his back. The rider in furry cup squeaked, pulled the next arrow out of the quiver.

Thomas swore, shook his lance. The riders in red cloaks dashed past them in three score steps. Thomas and Oleg had time to discern young faces, rich blood-stained clothes. The first were two warriors on milky-white horses, flanking and covering with own big bodies the third rider: a young girl with golden hair coming out from under a light shawl. Amazed, Thomas saw a small golden crown on her head. After the golden-haired princess or queen, the rest of warriors galloped: a live screen of dozen and a half riders between her and the pursuers. The last of her defenders jerked his hands up suddenly, fell out of the saddle like a sack: an arrow was in his back. The horse dragged his body on, his arms trailed helplessly in the dust.

Thomas wheeled round to Oleg. “Shoot!” he roared in fury. “Shoot, you!”

“This is not our war,” Oleg snapped.

“Those are enemies!”

“How do you know which side is right?”

“A knight’s duty is to protect the weak! It’s noble to be always on the weaker side!”

Oleg said nothing. “Hail Britain!” Thomas bellowed in a thunderous voice. “If I don’t deliver the Holy Grail, please understand and forgive me, Our Lady!” He spurred his horse, drove to intercept the galloping riders in furry caps. Oleg swore helplessly, snatched his bow.

Thomas galloped with a breakneck speed. Two score steps remained between him and the beastly riders when the first of them was pierced by an arrow. He had barely snatched at his wound when the next one jumped up in his saddle, dropped his reins, and the third rider fell down at full tilt, head first, as though he plunged into a river.

Oleg’s horse stood motionless as a mountain but Oleg swore furiously, shooting much slower than he’d like to. Every Rusich should have six arrows in the air before the seventh one hit the pumpkin in hundred steps. Oleg could shoot eight before the ninth (or, more precisely, the first) one brought down a wedding ring suspended on a silk thread, but the riders were galloping at full tilt and Oleg shot, clenching his teeth, in fear of injuring Thomas who was in the thick of the fight.

Thomas pierced a foe with his lance, seized his sword, struck the second one and slashed the third before he discovered that, just a moment before, all the three had been killed with arrows shot so forcefully that they went into flesh up to their white-feathered ends. Thomas yelled with offense and insult, galloped on his mighty stallion