The Grail of Sir Thomas

Chapter 29

  When they got out of the pile of stones, there was a valley, green as the surface of an old bog. Trees stuck out of the carpet of grass in small, tight groups, very distinctive on the plain, as flat as a table. In places there were also curly bushes; thick, crowded, their branches very close, as though holding the line against the attacking hosts of grass and thistle.

  Through pain and pounding in his head, Thomas felt supported, at times even dragged by strong hands. They hobbled up to the nearest shrubs and fell down into the shade; the sun was high. Thomas breathed quickly, his chest uttered rattling, screeching sounds, as though a knife was scratching a pan.

  “Be patient,” the wonderer told him in a husky voice. “When it darkens, I’ll steal into a village. You hear the dogs? It’s close. I’ll take a hammer, some pincers…”

  Helplessly, Thomas felt his chains. The thick links were covered in blood – his blood. The iron shackles had chafed his legs to the flesh, almost to the bone, the sores oozed with blood and ichor constantly, the pain at times made all go dark before his eyes. “You won’t reach the village!”

  “I will! Slavic children are taught to steel up to a wild goose to pull a feather out of its bum. I’m no Christian, I feel no shame in filching a hammer. Though I’d leave a coin instead… If I had any.”

  “Are you strong enough?”

  “Now I am,” the wonderer answered mysteriously.

  “How did you gain strength?”

  The wonderer did not reply; he was dead to the world. Helpless, Thomas sprawled on the grass in the shadow of a tree. Exhaustion fell upon him, like a warhorse in full armor. He lapsed into a doze.

  His waking up was terrible; a rattle nearby, Thomas gripped the sword hilt, but his arm flinched with pain, he heard the tinkle of chain… and there was no sword. He lay on his back, three tower-like men with coarse faces stood over him. They were clad in leathers, convenient for hunting, with bows over their shoulders, heavy knives on their belts. All the three had short spears in hand, the iron spearheads leaned on Thomas’s belly and under his ribs.

  The wonderer lay bound tightly, the right side of his face covered with fresh blood. Thomas closed his eyes in helpless despair, groaned through gritted teeth. “Our Lady, what for? For the second time! So foolish…”

  One of the hunters bared his crooked black teeth in a broad smirk. “Haven’t fought for long time, you robber? Get up!”

  Nearby, the wonderer was jerked up by his tied hands and held up; he was sinking, his knees giving way, his head dropped to his chest. Thomas looked at the faces desperately; all strangers. “What do you want?”

  The older hunter looked surprised. “Us? Nothing. We’ll take you to our master, for him to decide. It’s clear you are runaway slaves… Or some outlaws broken out of prison?”

  “We are not outlaws,” Thomas moaned.

  “Why chained then, you? Defiler, yeah? I see it by your mug.”

  Thomas gnashed his teeth, nodded at the wonderer. “And him? Let him go. He is not chained.”

  “Why’d he hobnob with you?” the hunter asked sober-mindedly. “Either he helped you, or a sort of help. If not guilty, we let him go. Our master’s a beast, but a fair beast. He will let you go too if he finds out you are chained for nothing. But don’t be too hopeful; such chains are never put on for nothing!”

  They were thrown across the saddles and bound tightly. The only man who escorted them drove the horses fast. The rest had galloped away, shrieking, as they saw a deer. Thomas started to twitch fervently, trying to weaken the ropes at least, but the beautiful house of white stone was looming ahead too quickly; a light mansion, its roof supported by pillars of snow-white marble, open to the light of the southern sun.

  A young boy ran out to meet them, flung open a gate that would have been easy to jump over for a pregnant hare. The master of the castle seemed to be carefree; either a fool or his very name kept robbers away.

  The well-groomed grass crept under hooves. The palace towered ahead, but the horses were led past the stables to a gloomy barn formed by massive granite slabs. The gate squeaked open, the captives were hurled inside. The gate bars thundered outside; one, two, three, and a padlock was hung on with a thud. A stern voice commanded invisible guards to keep their eyes peeled; if they leave their guard even for a moment, both would be fed to dogs, just like the runaway wench who tried to escape the master’s bed the week before.

  Thomas waited till his eyes got a bit used to the dark, then called quietly. “Sir wonderer… are you alive?”

  He heard a feeble moan. “My head, smashed…”

  “It is the end of us,” Thomas said with a creepy feeling of doom. “It is! Not because we got captured but because it’s the second time I blundered on my watch. The second time they took us sleepy! Two times in a row! I beheaded sentinels who guarded our hosts from the Saracen for such things.”

  He heard a faint voice in the dispersing dark. “What watch, Sir Thomas? Don’t be foolish. We were both half-dead.”

  Oleg tossed in his corner, groaned, squirmed, gnashed his teeth. A strip of bright light penetrated under the door. Thomas’s eyes accommodated, he could see protruding stones in the walls, dirty hay on the floor.

  “Dark…” a hoarse voice came from the corner. “Or it’s my eyes? Sir Thomas, is it night?”

  Thomas felt his back cold, snowy. He moved his shoulder blades, as though a wet icicle slipped over the scruff of his neck. “Take heart, sir wonderer.”

  “I see,” Oleg rasped, “I see now it’s dark… in me…”

  Squirming, bending in torment, he scratched some whitish thing out of his pocket, with the fingertips of his tied hands, bent his palms with effort in the opposite direction, brought it to his mouth. Thomas felt a sharp smell, watched closely and gave a start; his friend’s lips were covered in yellow big-bubbled foam. “A rare moss…” the wonderer rasped. “Extinct all but everywhere, survived here. We in our woods call it overcome grass. I’ll die soon, Sir Thomas, but first I will make you free.”

  “How?!” Thomas exclaimed in disbelief.

  “The overcome grass gives strength… Then one dies, like a fly in the frost.”

  “Poison?”

  “Each man has some strength in store… like a hamster in his burrow… Overcome grass is to release all of it at once. That’s why he dies – he has no strength to live anymore…”

  He brought to his mouth the whitish fibers, the biggest of which looked like blind worms that live in deep caves where God’s light can’t reach. Thomas caught his hand, tore the disgusting fibers off his palm and threw them into his own mouth. Twisted with disgust, he started to chew, his palate and tongue got burnt at once, his mouth hot, as though he swallowed a red-hot horseshoe. His stomach twitched, started to climb hastily up his throat.

  Thomas overcame the sickness and swallowed. A ball of fire sank down his larynx, kicked down the stomach that was climbing from below, and both came down as a burning avalanche. He felt something in his belly ooh, toss, and jump. “We’ll die together!” he claimed firmly.

  “Don’t be stupid…” the wonderer whispered with his heavy, swollen eyelids lowered. “What about Holy Grail? Krizhina?”

  Thomas closed his eyes tight. He hated himself for all the trouble he had brought on his friend. “Isn’t it a disgrace to leave you to death? And more disgrace to save myself at your expense.”

  “But Krizhina?”

  “I don’t want her to be the wife of a disgraceful man.”

  “And the Holy Grail?”

  “It was searched for by the Knights of the Round Table, as far back… They found it and lost it again! Now I see it was the Secret Seven who hampered them too… But I believe that, though I now lose it, my good young Britain will have other brave knights who, eventually, shall bring the Holy Grail to its shores.”

  The wonderer turned to him silently. Thomas divided the rest of the moss, as disgusting as nothing else on earth, in two equal parts. “Chew it. We sha
ll die as men.”

  Imperceptibly, his legs, sore with fetters, stopped aching. His bleeding wrists got covered with dry rustling scabs. Thomas shifted his stunned eyes to the wonderer; he grasped that when Oleg had chewed that slick muck for the first time, over the waterfall, all the strength he gained was used to heal the terrible wounds faster. And now – Thomas blazed with shame and disgrace – he burnt down the rest, trying to help Thomas, his random companion. The faithful friend, a peaceful seeker of Truth would die first for him, a man of war? A brass head, as old men put it, though his forehead was covered by no brass but shining steel…

  Thomas gnashed his teeth, depressed by the feeling of guilt. “When does that moss take effect?” he asked angrily.

  “It’s ancient overcome grass…”

  Through the wall of the barn, they heard heavy steps. The bars thundered, the door flew open with a heartrending screech. In the bright sunlight, a squat man in a red shirt, with a crimson brand on his forehead and heavy eyebrows, appeared on the threshold. With his gimlet-like eyes, he inspected the tied-up captives quickly, lingered his look on the wonderer, whose face was covered with stabs of dry blood. “Who fed them?” he asked in a creepy voice that seemed to be coming from his belly.

  Behind him, men in leather jackets were moving anxiously. They sounded like frightened birds. “No one! We swear it! Never, none of us would!”

  “Why they slobber?”

  “Gnawed at the walls with hunger! Moldy, mossy as they are…”

  The branded man stepped inside, stopped before Thomas, kicked him in the face. Thomas’s head jerked with his blow. The branded man’s smile got broader, he kicked the captive again with his shoed boot, a brass flourish glittered dimly on the toe. “Get up, you carrion!” he roared terribly. “Live carrion, but how close to dead! Now you’ll be sorted out.” The hunters came after him, set their short spears (the heads of those looked more like knives) at Thomas and Oleg from three sides. The wonderer stood and went out first, having cast a warning glance at Thomas.

  The green yard was flooded with bright sunlight, but the air cool and fresh. A young ripe girl was carrying a wooden barrel across the yard, her body a beautiful curve. Water splashed over the brim, clear drops glittered like pearls. She glanced slantwise at the bashed, tied-up captives, one of them ringing with fetters, and smiled vacantly, showing her even white teeth.

  Behind the shed gate, two more guards advanced their spears and that way, in a tight ring, the captives were led across the yard into the palace that looked like a dream made of white lace. On the stairs, broad and sparkling in the sunlight, they were met by two armored warriors. One tripped the wonderer up silently and, as he stumbled, roared and whacked him on his back with the thick end of spear. Thomas, beside himself with fury – the wonderer had two wounds from the arrows and one from the dagger on his back! – jumped on the guard, gripped him by the chest with tied hands, his strong fingers pinched his skin together with mail, lifted him up into the air and hurled him forcefully down to his feet.

  He did not feel the blow, only a thunder in his head, a flash of lightning, and he fell down, face first, but even as he lost consciousness, his lips curled in a smile.

  “Sir Thomas,” a stern voice over him called insistently, “come to yourself, now! Or you’ll die.” Once Thomas heard that familiar voice, he plunged, with effort, out of the black oblivion. The back of his head was still aching from the blow landed by the axe butt. He felt a salty taste in his mouth.

  The smooth marble floor was pleasantly cold to his bashed body. He and the wonderer were in a great hall; tall marble pillars on three sides, instead of the usual walls, supporting the massive vault. The mosaic ceiling pictured flying cupids, goat-like satyrs jumping in embrace with naiads, maenads, and other impious characters of Hellenic Paganism. Oleg’s anxious face hung over Thomas, covering the ceiling; his eyes in dark circles, his cheek blooded. Behind him, the sun was shining brightly, and the wonderer’s face seemed completely dark.

  Three steps away, a red-bearded man in rich clothes was sitting on a high carved chair that looked like a throne. The eyes on his puffy face were cold and cruel. Two stocky guards with battleaxes stood near him, goggling their eyes. Two other guards shifted their feet impatiently near Oleg, touched his ribs threateningly with iron spearheads. The jailer with the branded forehead and three hunters stood near the pillars.

  Thomas moved his hands, but the iron chains kept them firmly. The wonderer stood with his shoulders leaned back, trying to relieve the pain in his arms pinioned behind.

  “If doesn’t come to,” a new voice said, imperious and impatient, “throw him to the dogs! And you answer; why are you chained while he is not?”

  Two guards grabbed Thomas by his hands, dragged him across the hall. When they approached the stairs, the sun came out from the edge of the ceiling, shone into his eyes. Thomas closed them, groped for the guards’ arms, caught them, and pulled on. Both men collapsed, shrieking. Thomas squeezed their necks with joy, got up to his feet heavily. The guards remained lying in odd poses, their heads wrenched in a strange way.

  Two men with battleaxes recovered their wits, rushed to him. The sun glared on their raised axes.

  “All stop!” the man on the carved throne shouted. The warriors stopped, their eyes watched every move of Thomas in a guarded way. He shot a glance at the wonderer; Oleg did not move and gave Thomas a sign to stand still too.

  Thomas turned to the master. “Why do you keep us?”

  The man descended from his throne, stopped three steps before the knight. His dark eyes looked with perplexity, the way a wolf could look at a hare that dug its unexpectedly big teeth into its paw. “Who are you?”

  “Thomas Malton of Gisland,” the knight cut short with dignity. “A noble knight, seven generations of noble ancestors! Championed over the Black Knight on the tourney in Manchester. The first crusader to rise on the Tower of David. Commander of the hundred who broke into Jerusalem.”

  The man waved away, as though driving an importunate fly. “Never heard of that. The Tower of David – where’s it? Jerusalem – what is it? Here are different lands, noble captive. I’m a man of Sezuan. I’m known as Rocambole the Quietest. I took you in my lands – and have a right to do what I wish to. And I will do it. But I’ll listen to your excuses first.”

  “We are not going to give any excuses,” Thomas said angrily.

  Rocambole turned his head a bit, shouted over his shoulder. “Gnusak! Prepare the torture chamber. Make a good fire. What’s burning now once made seven tents of Gypsies freeze to death. Check the pincers. What will you pull out teeth and other organs with? And don’t forget the boot!”

  The branded man bowed, rushed across the yard. Rocambole turned to Thomas, his lips curved in a predatory smile, his eyes goggled like a rare sea fish’s. “You will tell all, noble knight! Not the first to be carried out of my cellar in pieces. Or fed to the dogs while alive – I always keep them half-starving.”

  Thomas scowled, his eyebrows collided on the bridge of his nose. “You are no Saracen but European! How can you…”

  Rocambole roared with laughter. “Saracens have never even dreamed of what we do in our cellars! We are a young nation, still wild! We can do everything.”

  There were fast steps on the stairs. The branded man came into sight, cried out, panting, “All is ready, master! Executioners await, the fire burns… Pinches and hooks sharpened!”

  Rocambole bared his teeth in a predatory smile, nodded to guards. Thomas and Oleg were encircled by shining spears, two pierced Thomas’s back from behind. Rocambole nodded again, and the captives were driven away from the hall.

  They were coming downstairs into the yard, when a ringing clatter of hooves came from far ahead. Five riders, armed to the teeth, in iron helmets, on clothed horses, jumped over the low fence into the yard. The first of them was… Gorvel!

  Blooded cloths peeped out from under his solid cylindrical helmet. His right shoulder was bou
nd tightly with a white towel that had large red-hot spots of blood on it. Gorvel was followed by four gloomy warriors, all big and armored. It took Thomas some time to recognize Paul and Stelmah among them.

  Gorvel reined up before the stairs. “Aha!” he cried in a strained voice. “Got you at last! Slash these stinkers! Slash them now!”

  The four warriors drove their horses at a slow pace to the marble stairs. Sabers in their hands glittered in the sunlight, casting bright sparkles.

  Rocambole stepped ahead, on the topmost stair. “Who are you?” he bellowed in an angry, enraged voice. “Who allowed you… in my lands?”

  Gorvel shot a fierce glance at him and angrily told the dressed-up, like a peacock, master of the sumptuous palace to go to very far lands. Gorvel’s men laughed, sabers in their hands scattered fine sharp sparkles around.

  Rocambole grew crimson, took a step back, waved his hand abruptly. Stelmah rode up to Thomas, raised the saber over his head with a malevolent smirk. Suddenly his fingers unclenched, the saber fell down and went bouncing on the white marble. Thomas looked up and recoiled; a crossbow bolt was in Stelmah’s forehead, it had broken through his iron helmet.

  He heard the loud clang of a sword to the side. Paul leaned back in his saddle, his arms outstretched wide, as though to grapple all the world. A steel bolt was between his eyes. Behind the pillars, three more crossbowmen shouldered their weapons, aiming at Gorvel and his men. The first two crossbowmen turned wrenches hastily, drawing the steel bowstrings.

  From the stone barns in the yard, even from the stables, armored warriors came out; two or three score in total. Gorvel and two of his surviving soldiers were encircled by the malicious glitter of swords, axes, jagged spearheads.

  Rocambole was covered with shields from both sides. He spoke in a loud cold voice that sounded like death itself. “What would you say as your excuse, worm? I’m ready to listen, though I’ll treat you as I wish… Gnusak, is the furnace burning?”

  The branded man rubbed his hands with joy, shrieked with delight. “If short of firewood, I’ll bring more in my teeth! Three more came, eh! Came running by themselves, no need to search!”

  Gorvel fidgeted in his saddle, looked over the cruel smirking faces in fear. He was surrounded tightly, reached for by predatory hands to drag him down, and the damned crossbowmen – seven of them! – kept aiming at him. He jerked his hand up hastily, to drive Rocambole’s attention, made a strange move across his chest, as though drawing an acute angle.

  Rocambole’s eyes opened wide, he started back, as though pushed on the chest. Warily, he put his fingers together, drew a strange sign in the air. Gorvel bent his head. “All back!” Rocambole said, very reluctantly, hoarse in his voice suddenly. “These are no enemies.”

  His warriors retreated, grumbling like animals when driven into cages. Swords and axes, which were raised overhead, went down but remained in hands, while scabbards and covers stayed empty. Their sullen faces showed severe disappointment. Four of them picked up the bodies, dragged them away, leaving bloody traces on the white marble stairs. The dead men’s saber and sword were taken away then. The crossbowmen lowered their weapons, but stayed on the spot, with drawn steel strings.

  Gorvel rode up to Thomas, his voice a dull thrash in the steel basket of his helmet. “You didn’t escape, our mortal… and my personal enemy!”

  Thomas, with complete ignorance of the heavy rider hanging over them, turned to Oleg. “This scoundrel is doomed to Hell… but he’s already got it here, in his lifetime!”

  “Spit,” Oleg advised him. “Don’t even think of him.”

  Gorvel struck Thomas forcefully on his face. The knight’s head jerked, but he kept his feet, made no step back. With a heavy scuff, Gorvel made a broader swing and smote with great force, trying to smash lips with his gauntlet. Thomas shook his head slightly again, glanced askance at the wonderer who told him sadly, “You revive? I’m brimming over… as I had a chew before…” He could hardly move his tongue.

  Rocambole, with his beastly senses, felt something wrong. “To the torture chamber!” he cried anxiously. “There we’ll know all.”

  Guards gripped the wonderer from both sides, hung on his shoulders. He gave a terrible, inhuman roar. The ropes cracked, then flew up, like thin supple snakes. In two giant leaps, he got on the topmost stair, struck with his fist, and Rocambole made a long arch in the air, fell on the ground before the stunned guards and remained there, motionless.

  Thomas strained, tore his chains. The iron endured, but he felt violent might, made a stronger jerk, and his arms flew apart! He stooped hastily, seized the chain on his legs. A ringing crunch, and the end of the crumpled chain was in his hand. Without pause, he crushed the guards who tried to drag him into the cellar, trampled over someone and squashed them, rushed after the wonderer.

  The rest ran after him, screaming. Gorvel urged his horse upstairs, hooves slid on the smooth marble, the frightened horse stopped and backed up.

  “Too late!” Oleg cried in a thundering voice. He struck his whole body against a snow-white pillar. Cracks ran down the shiny stone, the pillar bent in the opposite direction, two or three heavy boulders fell out, as though battered with a ram, crashed down the stairs with a thunder, knocking and maiming the guards who ran up.

  Thomas gripped another pillar, shook it, imitating the wonderer, but the marble column endured, the roof kept it. In three steps Oleg fell down to dodge a thrown spear, rolled over his head, struck another pillar in his jump. There was a crash above, the colored mosaic started to fall down with a ringing of glass. In place of the pillar, a broad stone stump remained. Heavy boulders rolled in all directions, knocking the guards down, but the heavy castle roof endured, only subsided a bit, showering with no more rain than a colored hail of small pieces of glass and stone.

  Oleg ran into the third pillar, knocked it down and reached the fourth one when there came a terrible thunder, a heavy stone slab fell near him, small broken fragments flew sideways. He heard the shouts of crushed people, and a stone avalanche came on.

  Oleg felt a painful hit on his shoulder. Boulders and slabs were collapsing on him, bas-reliefs, flying nymphs, and headless satyrs darted past. Through a cloud of sparkling dust and fine stone crumbs, he saw the mighty figure of Thomas who snatched, squeezed, threw aside, and snatched again. Then the mass of falling stones and the collapsed roof hid the knight. Oleg dashed there, jumping over the heaps of marble, seeing nothing in the dust cloud. “Thomas! Sir Thomas! Sir Thomas, where are you?”

  Slowly, it grew lighter, the thunder died down. Oleg saw there was no more roof, the sun rays burning the dusty cloud through. It subsided very quickly; that was the dust of marble. “Thomas!” he shouted again. “Where are you?”

  The colossal palace was reduced to ruins. Oleg stood waist-deep in white broken stone. The stumps of pillars stuck out, like giant’s teeth, huge boulders had rolled about the green yard. The cloud of heavy marble dust had subsided, forming a silvery coating on the ruins and the grass in the yard.

  A small stream of blood came out from under ruins near Oleg. In fear, he threw the stones about and saw two guards lying crisscross. Both looked like toads squashed by a cart’s wheel. “Thomas! Sir Thomas!”

  A moan came from the left. Oleg started to throw away the boulders, broken fragments, found protruding legs. Before he could remove the last stones, the whole heap gave a stir, then scattered, and Thomas stood up straight. His eyes were mad, he swayed, grabbing at the air. The torn pieces of chain were ringing on his wrists.

  “Were you socked on the head?” Oleg asked in his ear.

  “I saw the Virgin…” Thomas whispered madly. “First some lightning flashed, then stars came raining down, then a Pagan god seemed to have socked the back of my head with his hammer… Sir wonderer, why does everyone strike at the same place?”

  “All people are the same,” Oleg muttered. “The prophet of yours said, there is no Gentile or Jew. It means everyone is the same, like p
lanks in a fence. You should have chewed the overcome grass, not swallowed it like a hungry duck!”

  Two warriors were running from the gate; the last of Rocambole’s guard. They yelled with goggled eyes, their swords dangled on belts. The first one saw Thomas and Oleg among the ruins, pulled his sword out as he ran.

  Oleg picked up a huge stone, as large as a horse, threw it towards the warriors. It hit heavily against the ground in front of them, loosened the earth, jumped and rolled on, its edge knocked one of the guards down, then the rock smashed the gate and rolled out on the road. The guard remained lying down, his healthy hand clutching his injured shoulder. The second one stopped, looked at the strange guests, then at his injured friend, and backed away.

  Thomas limped heavily across the yard to the utility outhouses. Frightened horses neighed in the stables, the gate cracked. Oleg got out of the ruins and hurried after Thomas. His head was strangely light.

  Thomas knocked the gate out, chose horses. Oleg examined them and approved; the knight knew horses better than he knew men. He kept the frightened horses easily, though he had very little of the overcome grass, as Oleg had chewed the rest. “Sir wonderer, how long is the effect of overcome grass?”

  “The sun is setting,” Oleg replied heavily. “By midnight, it will end…”

  “So little? We have to take the Holy Grail before midnight! And then we can die, as good Christians…”

  “I’m Rodian,” Oleg reminded gloomily.

  They rushed out of the gate like a whirlwind, but to Oleg they seemed as slow-moving as freezing snails. Thomas also kept urging, with no real need, the frightened horses who still could not recover from that terrible thunder.

  Oleg glanced back at the white heap of stones. “Too good a sepulcher for your friend!” he said sulkily.

  “Christ told us to forgive,” Thomas sighed insincerely. “The devil will have a long dig in the ruins before he finds the scoundrel’s soul pressed under… Surely, it’s disgusting to take in his hands, but he will need to take it to Hell.”

  “He can put it straight into his bag,” Oleg advised.