by Yury Nikitin
The Grail of Sir Thomas
by Yury Nikitin
Copyright 1994 Yury Nikitin
English translation 2013 Ingrid Wolf
Editing 2013 Sarah Widdup
Cover art 2013 Denis DeNeWeR Petrov
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed, provided it remains in its complete original form and the reader is not charged to access it.
Table of Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part II
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgments
About the author
Endnotes
Bonus: The Secret of Stonehenge, Sample Chapter
Part I
Chapter 1
The scorching Saracen sun is burning the endless orange world. An eagle, barely visible from the ground, has spread his wings high in the blue of the sky, as if nailed to the firmament. The air is sweltering, swaying in translucent waves.
Along the broad trodden road, a huge knight rode a heavy black stallion, heading to the north. Jets of overheated air are trembling over his iron armor, beads of sweat trickling down his unprotected face. His sky blue eyes, a color never seen here before the arrival of Franks, look defiantly. The knight seems to be looking for a reason to grab the hilt of his long sword with his gauntleted hand.
The huge stallion kept a steady pace fitting for a long journey. He left a track of hoof prints, each as large as a plate, on the ground as hard as stone, trampled by myriads of hooves and feet.
A white cloak, with a red cross embroidered elaborately on it, is flowing from the knight’s armored shoulders. At the left hip, he has a triangular shield, a bit rumpled, showing a sword and a lyre upon a starry field. On the right, a great two-handed sword is strapped to the saddle, the iron hilt polished to a shine. A small bag of camping things is bulging on the horse’s back behind him.
The crusader had a lance pointed upward in his right hand. The spike was glittering with orange, as if he carried a red-hot lump of metal on top of it. The stallion stepped heavily, glanced askance at his rider with a sullen fiery eye. The mounted knight looked like an animated statue, one of those numerous Pagan remnants on the squares of Rome.
The sun was dazzling. The air seemed to be rising from Hell’s stove that waited for all the infidels and sinners, to burn them. Away from the road, there was a puny group of trees, some people in colored, mottled oriental robes lying in the sparse shadow. Three more men found shadow under a cart, their bare feet stuck out. Some buffalos stood in the middle of a muddy puddle, which could pass for a lake in this land. They were as motionless as boulders, with only their snouts out of the mud.
The knight passed by the grove without moving a muscle. It did not befit Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland, the crusader and hero of the capture of Jerusalem, to show his weakness before the eyes of conquered people.
The destrier walked slowly, the road was deserted. Not until midday had Thomas come up with some live creatures – a string of pilgrims. They went on foot, ragged and emaciated, without looking up. Thomas whispered a thankful prayer to Our Lady for his being a noble knight. Cloaks on these travelers are dirtier than a cloth for people to wipe their shoes on.
The pilgrims, covered with grey road dust, dragged their tired feet on. Their worn-out shoes were falling to pieces even as they went. Each one looked like a scarecrow or a skeleton in hooded cloak. The dust raised by their feet made Thomas cough, he spurred to leave them behind. None of the pilgrims cast a single glance at the magnificent knight: they had seen lots of his sort in the Holy Land. However, the knight had also seen all manner of travelers, pilgrims, madmen, dervishes, even prophets.
The dark wall of forest was approaching. The destrier looked there with hope for rest and cool, but it was still far, so he didn’t bother to mend his pace. The road went across a small village. Thomas adjusted his sword baldric, alerted. Since the army of crusaders had passed there with fire and sword, the resistance of the Saracen was broken, but the land remained wild. A lone warrior should stay alert here if he didn’t want his throat cut in the night.
Thomas lowered his visor with a metal clink. His eyes looked closely through the narrow slit in his steel helmet. At that moment, he saw no beauty in that place: just flat earthen roofs from where some hothead could throw a spear, and tall leafy trees, a good vantage point for archers…
He heard some dogs ahead, barking and growling maliciously. The destrier snorted, laid his ears back, but did not break his step. Once Thomas entered the outskirts, he saw, some ten steps ahead, a pack of scraggy dogs attacking a pilgrim who was pelted with sticks and clods of dry earth from behind the earthen wall. Dogs snapped at his rags and legs. He did not even try to protect himself with his thick staff; he could barely stagger along on his legs, covered with bloody clots, a fresh red trickle running down the calf. As the mongrels smelt blood, their attacks became fiercer. One dog jumped, clawed at the poor man’s back and hung there, pawing his flesh.
Once the pack heard the hooves, they growled louder. A dog tried to snap at the stallion’s leg. Thomas hit it with the end of the shaft, the yelping mongrel jumped away. Some Saracen children showed their curly heads up over the fence, hurling sticks and stones at Thomas. Dogs surrounded him, snarling, pouncing, looking ready to attack all together. The destrier snorted anxiously. Thomas reined up to keep the scared horse from bolting. He turned his lance quickly, speared a dog, shook the squealing bloodstained body off and struck another mongrel’s spine.
The speared dog crawled in the dust, its guts dragged behind, leaving a wet track. The pack crowded around. One mongrel licked the blood, and suddenly all of them attacked the wounded creature. They tangled into a ball, hair flying all around, the dog squealed in agony.
The pilgrim leaned on his staff, his face hidden under the hood. Thomas heard his rattling breath; it sounded like torn bellows blown nearby.
“Take my stirrup,” Thomas ordered with disgust. “These mad dogs will rip you.”
“Grace... upon you... good sire,” the pilgrim answered in a choked, husky voice.
His hand, which seemed skeletal to Thomas, appeared from a torn sleeve. The destrier snorted with disgust for the pilgrim’s bad smell.
Thomas could barely hold the stallion in. The pilgrim dragged himself along, clinging to the stirrup. He looked a fright in his loose torn cloak, definitely off another man’s back.
When they passed the village, the pilgrim released the stirrup and fell into the dust in exhaustion. His wide-open mouth gasped for air. His eyes sank down, lips turned pale and bloodless, his breath howled like a cold winter wind
in a chimney. “Thank God...”
“Laudetur Jesus Christus,” Thomas muttered piously.
The destrier trotted away in haste. Not until the stranger was left far behind did he take a heavy slow pace again.
The forest was approaching slowly. The sun was setting. Red and burning it was, like a hot, half-finished sword on the anvil. The air was so dry that it scratched his throat. Thomas felt as though he’d been hungry for ages. His tired body ached, his destrier stumbled more and more often.
The road stopped twisting. It seemed to dash as fast as it could to the salutary coolness of the green forest, where a stream could be found. Thomas rode up to the nearest trees. As branches shielded him from the burning sun, his shoulders squared and his back straightened. His warhorse gave a short neigh as he trotted by a narrow path among big stocky trees. Thomas recognized oaks, hornbeams, and elms. The rest were nasty Saracen plants, none of them allowed by Holy Virgin to grow in his blessed Britain.
“We’ll have a rest soon,” Thomas soothed his destrier. “This grove must have a spring. I feel coolness with all my knightly heart and soul, like a hungry lion!”
He heard a crack in the shrubs ahead. A big thickset soldier tumbled out of there, like a huge boar, clad in a shining helmet and a breastplate pulled over a dirt-colored leather jacket. He had broad shoulders and bandy legs, a wide dagger on his belt, a huge battleaxe in hands.
The robber looked at Thomas mockingly and his voice sounded deep and powerful: “A knight on his warhorse! Not the sort to set off without gold. Yes, good sire?”
Three more men jumped out on both sides. Thin and swarthy, clad in ragged Saracen clothes and turbans, they had resentful looks on their faces and curved narrow swords in their hands. Those one-edged weapons had the local name of sabers. The three of them kept their eyes on Thomas, while he only watched the soldier. Definitely a deserter from the great Crusader army, that one was heavy, strong in arms, his splitting axe far more dangerous than lightweight sabers.
The Saracen blurted in broken Frank language, “Silver also... good.”
The leader grunted with content. “Then we’ll fleece him. Hey, knight! You have the rare chance to leave without a fight.”
Thomas reined up in five steps before the leader, who crouched with his eyes fixed on the knight’s hands. The other three set on from the sides.
“All right, go without a fight,” Thomas agreed.
The leader exposed his yellow crooked teeth in a smirk. “You go. Leave everything and go.”
“You can’t take me like that,” Thomas replied tensely. “I fought in the Holy Land, I slew hundreds of Saracens...”
“Looks like you ran from hard fists in your home Britain, huh?” the leader asked mockingly. “Or Germany? Get off your horse! Move it, or we’ll help you.”
Thomas looked the four of them over haughtily, reined up with deliberate slowness. His thoughts darted feverishly. He thanked Our Lady for preventing him from taking his armor off, despite this damned heat, which was definitely sent from Hell by Satan himself.
“I passed the lands of Saracen,” he replied arrogantly. “I will pass here too!”
The deserter raised his axe. Thomas turned left, pulled the heavy sword out and slashed, holding it with one hand. The axe handle crunched like a straw. The deserter dashed aside: too late. Thomas felt a start of sword hilt in his fingers, heard a creepy tinkle. The robber’s arm, cut away near the shoulder, plopped down on the ground, still gripping the stick.
The robber uttered a terrible shriek. Thomas turned his shield quickly to the right. A pounding strike in the center of it made his arm numb. The thieves dropped their sabers. The warhorse made two giant leaps, he saw the open road ahead, a sparkling stream...
Something pounced upon him, a strong hand gripped his throat. Thomas swayed, falling down. At the last moment he pulled his feet out of the stirrups, as he was taught to, caught the enemy’s arm, wriggled and collapsed on top of him.
Thomas weighed one hundred and ninety pounds, and his armor put him at two hundred and fifty. The robber gasped, blood gushed out of his mouth. Thomas raised himself a little. He heard another tramp flee, fell aside, and a short spear crunched into the stunned robber’s chest.
Thomas rose, still a bit stunned by the fall. His helmet had slipped down over his eyes; he set it straight. He had barely heard fast breath behind him when someone socked him on head. Stunned, Thomas wheeled round and saw a dim, giant figure. The giant swung his arm for a new, terrible blow. Thomas realized he had no sword in hand, nor a solid heavy shield. He jumped aside, his head buzzing, his heavy armor a burden. A dreadful strike froze his shoulder, he heard a crunch of either his bone or his iron armor plate.
The robber swung for the last crushing blow. Thomas’s mind cleared. His enemy turned out to be no giant but a small Saracen, dark and very evil, with bare teeth. A sharp saber was useless against the armored knight but the Saracen had a battleaxe instead, or maybe a cleaver, its blade narrow as a beak. He attacked Thomas hastily, with a hail of quick blows, allowing the knight no time to regain his senses. Thomas backed, trying to shield with forearms and elbows. His head was clearing, his strength coming back, but his armor cracked from the violent blows!
Thomas was still choosing the right time when his knees were jogged by something behind. He flipped his hands, trying to keep his feet. The Saracen jumped ahead with a scream, brandished, aiming at the knight’s face. Thomas dropped on his back. He saw a scary flash of steel, heard the axe swish past him and caught it in the air. The blow was hard but Thomas held on to the weapon and rolled aside. Something tinkled under his body, his fingers found the leader’s giant axe. That one had a short staff, like Thor’s hammer.
Thomas had time to rise to his knees. The robber gave him a heavy blow to the side Thomas became rigid with sharp pain. The robber yelled bestially, his eyes goggled, his mouth spitting. His sharp blade aimed at Thomas’s face, with those hateful eyes looking through the narrow slit; bright blue, as though the very sky was seen through the Frank’s skull.
Thomas seized the axe with left hand, as his right arm hung helpless, and stepped to meet a new blow, felt hot spreading within his side, his body contorted with pain. He blocked the axe blade with his elbow. The new pain made his teeth clench, but at the same moment he struck back heavily.
The broad steel axe blade clove the Saracen’s head down to his teeth. The blood spurted out powerfully, like splashes from a huge stone thrown into a puddle colored by the sunset.
Thomas dropped his axe, staggered along the road. Stout trees wriggled around like snakes, but Thomas saw his clever stallion who was nibbling grass and fresh leaves hastily, knowing his master would not linger.
Thomas struggled to pick up his shield and sword. They were incredibly heavy, he dragged them on. His steel armor had a crack on the side, the red oozing out of it. Thomas felt more blood spreading under the armor, soaking his knitted shirt, squelching in his boot.
The stallion stopped eating around, ready to break into a gallop, but the knight stood still, clinging to the saddle. The destrier snorted, turned his head in surprise to sniff Thomas. The knight had lost much blood, everything was going dark before his eyes. With great effort, he hung his sword on the saddle hook, then the shield. He felt too weak to clamber up the saddle but he must have managed it somehow, as later he saw, in half-oblivion, some green branches moving towards him till all the world went dark.
