by Yury Nikitin
Chapter 17
They feasted in a proud solitude, save for silent monks who appeared noiselessly from behind strange paper walls, took the empty dishes away, put full ones instead. The new courses smelled even more magical, stupefying.
Thomas had loosened his belt to the very last hole and Oleg was slicing a young boar when a thickset, broad-shouldered monk jumped through the window onto the porch. He somersaulted, gave out a terrible screech, which Thomas and Oleg had already got used to, waved his hands abruptly.
Startled, Thomas and Oleg watched him pull some glittering thing from his wide belt, swing his hand swiftly once more, and for the third time…
Thomas heard a thin tinkle against his iron breast. He looked with surprise at the monk who stood waiting, then at Oleg who, in turn, shifted his gaze between Thomas and the monk.
Finally, Oleg’s face lit, he nodded at the floor. “It’s iron!” He felt his chest for a while, then disentangled a gleaming star carefully from the thick wolf hair. The star was made of thick bad iron, its edges sharpened.
With caution, Thomas picked his star (it had been squashed like a bug from the impact) up from the floor, twiddled it thoughtfully in his steel palm. Cursing the poor quality of iron, apparently upset, he started to straighten its edges with care, as if they were the wings of a rare butterfly.
Looking at the knight, Oleg bent all the five sharp ends inside, to prevent the monk from cutting himself, and threw the star back to him politely. The monk shifted his dumbfounded gaze from the guests to his throwing stars, then gave a high-pitched, pathetic cry, as if his paw or something else was jammed in the door, turned his back to them, took a running jump out through the window, head first.
Thomas followed with his eyes the glimpse of his heels, shook his head respectfully. He could not have managed such a jump, with five stones of his armor on and his own significant weight and height, but it was easy to the monks. Light as cats. You can hurl them from the roof down into the paved yard, and they’ll land on their fours, dust off and run back onto the roof, where other cats squeal at the moon!
Oleg gave a loud sigh. “Each country, each tribe makes their own rites… So how can these poor people do without wars?”
“Pagans,” Thomas accused severely. “Christ made the single rite for everyone. Take it and stop fighting.”
“Yes, but till his rites are accepted by all the world, keep your weather eye open, stay alert. Or you may go, by accident, too far before you know it. Mind it: one should not offend people. Even if they are Pagans.”
They finished their meal in silence, feeling anxious. The sun was high, but Oleg looked around and offered to get out of harm’s way into the room allotted for them. Here, behind the closed door, they could rest, sleep, wait for the dawn…
Thomas cast a sharp glance at him. Oleg felt the knight’s thoroughly concealed fear. His own heart felt wrung with iron hand. In the morning, the two mighty warriors will come for us to fight. Now the guests were allowed to rest together with the monastery inhabitants, only because the warriors were absent, but by dawn they would be here. Maybe we should try to lead the horses out in the night by stealth and gallop away?
They walked along a broad corridor, halfway to their room, when some rough grey thing burst out suddenly from the narrow slit in the wall. Oleg drew his knife convulsively. The looped rope brushed against him and winded around the knight’s gleaming body at once, in three rows. The fist-sized stone on the end of the rope landed a final bang on the iron belly. Thomas looked stunned. After a while, he realized he was being tugged, pulled somewhere like a young bull on a rope. He seized the rope with both hands and pulled.
The wooden wall burst with a crush, scattering splinters, dry clots of clay. In the cloud of yellow suffocating dust, Thomas and Oleg saw three monks rolling out to their feet: sinewy and swarthy, half-naked, in strange woman’s skirts. Their eyes, as black as thorn, were blazing on flat decisive faces. The three monks were lean, with no drop of excessive fat. They gripped the rope tightly, one had even wound it round his fist, as large as a baby Angle’s or Slav’s.
Thomas shrugged in bewilderment: he still failed to grasp the meaning of these rites. With caution, he dropped the rope on the floor, where the stunned monks were lying, and walked round them.
Thomas and Oleg left for the guest room. The monks remained in the heap of splinters and clods for a long while, following them with blurred eyes.
At night, Oleg felt restive. He heard Thomas flinching in his sleep. Sometimes the knight groaned, tossed and thrashed with an awful grit of his teeth. The fragile beds moaned under their bodies, much bigger than those of monks. The night was stiff. Oleg was dripping with sweat. He wanted to get up and wash himself with cold water, but was afraid to get into a scrape, break a taboo or step on a local shrine. All tribes are passionate towards their rites, and monasteries even more so. Only a bitter experience could have given birth to the wise rule, “When in Rome, do as Romans do.”
Oleg fell asleep at daybreak, when the eastern edge of the sky got red, but once a tiny tip of the sun appeared above the horizon, he jumped up as if scalded. Thomas, in his armor, sat by the door. He looked pale and haggard, watched the wonderer with envy. “One can chop wood on you,” he said gloomily. “Your conscience’s clear, isn’t it? But those two fighters we are about to duel don’t mind your soul. To withstand them, we need something more than clear conscience!”
“We have it,” Oleg grumbled. He dressed quickly, feeling the knight’s inspecting eye on himself, the eye of a professional who could tell at once which muscles were developed by heaving stones, which – by exercise with sword, which – by throwing a spear, and which – by work with battleaxe. Oleg saw doubt in Thomas’s eyes and gave a sullen smirk; the knight was not the first expert to get confused by his muscle.
“What do we have?” Thomas asked skeptically.
“The cup.”
Thomas glanced back in fright, felt the bag with his palm. As his fingers followed the bulging curves tenderly, his stern face softened.
There was a knock at the door. Thomas unsheathed the sword, stood on the left of it. Oleg, with a throwing knife in hand, crossed the room and removed the bar. A monk in pompous clothing was there, standing in the corridor, his face impenetrable, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. He gave them a low bow, then made a sweeping gesture. A table on castors appeared from aside, and Oleg’s guts gave an involuntary loud croak. They sat down, loosing their belts and rubbing their hands, glancing and winking at each other.
The table was wheeled into the room by a monk. While he shifted hurriedly the loads of plates from it to their massive table, the other monk, a pompous one, was bowing to Oleg and stiffened Thomas, trying not to turn his fat bottom to them. At last, he said in a high-pitched, woman’s voice, “The father superior begs humbly to know how you are, whether you had a good sleep, and asks you to taste our frugal monastic meal, the food our gods sent us!”
Oleg was torn between the intent to run into the yard and wash his face and to rush to the table. He heard Thomas muttering, “By gods… One could wish to turn Pagan!”
The knight flopped down at the table decisively, but Oleg dashed downstairs, splashed himself with water near the well. Thomas had barely finished slicing the suckling pig roasted in fragrant leaves when the door flung open and fresh Oleg, with his eyes washed and shiny, darted across the room to the table. Thomas gulped the saliva down and said skeptically, “Such a washing – was it worth the trouble? Or that’s a rite of yours?”
“At least I washed myself,” Oleg objected. “Why didn’t you?”
“I like to wash substantially, not in a slipshod way. At home, I would only bathe in the lake. It’s just outside the windows of my castle.”
“In the lake? That’s good,” Oleg agreed. “But what about winter?”
“Too short to mind it,” Thomas dismissed casually.
They snatched the tender juicy meat. When only several crushed bones, each no big
ger than a nail, remained of the pig, the stunned pompous monk ordered, with a weak gesture, to bring the next course. He grasped that while it would be carried up from the kitchen, the remaining twelve dishes, with roast swans and young geese, swollen with nuts and other things stuffed under their skin, would become empty, well if not nibbled. Those men of North were said to gnaw even at their shields…
Early in the morning, Oleg had been sure that food would stick in his throat before the duel with true fierce warriors, but then – marvelous are the works of gods! – he gorged on, feeling the violent strength spread inside his body, fill his muscle, make the heart beat faster and blood rush quicker in his veins.
Thomas ate like a bumpkin, his noble manners forgotten. He snatched the biggest slices with both hands, ahead of Oleg, spat the bones out onto the middle of the table, though there was still enough space for those under the table. He could throw them into corners as well, all four in the room. His lips and fingers glistened with grease, the crunch of bones in his teeth was incessant, as though it were a middle-sized stone breaker in Baron Otset’s quarry.
Twice Oleg tried to tear himself away from the table, as it is difficult to fight with your belly full, but Thomas clapped his shoulder with an air of doom; if one should die, he’d better have fun before, and there is no fun like the table set!
When the table was cleaned for the third time, Oleg stood up. “We, the good sire and I, are ready,” he told the pompous monk firmly.
The monk backed away, bowing frequently, his bottom pushed the door open, he vanished in the corridor. Thomas sighed, started to get up from the table, his breath heavy and strained, his pale face reddened.
Oleg slapped on his forehead. “At last I get it, why you never take your steel off! To keep control of your paunch, yeah? At the table you can go too far, but your armor knows where to stop, doesn’t it?”
Thomas moved his eyes with displeasure, took his sheathed sword from the corner, put his baldric on. Oleg also belted his sword, adjusted the ties of the bow and quiver of arrows on his back, and followed Thomas out.
The father superior, supported under his arms and followed by two old monks, ascended to meet them. At the sight of the two giant figures he stopped, took pause for breath, and made a low bow. Thomas grumbled, as though he had only swallowed boulders for lunch and now they were rolling inside his steel armor.
Oleg bowed in response, knowing his back would endure. “We are ready,” he said briskly. “And the two invincibles… Have they come?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thomas holding his breath, leaning forward to devour every word. The knight’s lean face kindled with desperate hope.
The prior made a lower, more respectful bow, fold his palms together, replied in a thin rasping voice. “They came late at night. Our guard of honor met them.”
The knight’s face went dark. He lowered his visor. For a while, the three monks only saw his sky blue eyes through the slit in his steel helmet. Then Thomas raised his visor, spoke in a dull, absolutely flat voice. “We, sir wonderer and I, are ready for the tournament. Let the herald deign to declare the local rules and customs.”
“Did you look after our horses well?” Oleg asked the prior. “If we are to fight on horseback…”
The prior glanced at his assistants, but they dropped their heads to hide their eyes. He folded his palms by his chest, bowed low. “We have caught them and placed into our other stables. Don’t worry. They have the very best oats, fragrant and medicinal herbs, spring water…”
Oleg was alert with foreboding. “What’s wrong with them?”
The prior glanced at the monks again; all kept their eyes down. He sighed and went on in the same thin rasping voice that sounded like dishes clattering on a potter’s jolty cart. “They… got angry for some reason. Or just wanted to play? Anyway, they smashed their stalls, broke the manger, started to offend the other horses and… touch fillies. Then the black stallion decided to scratch against the main pillar that supported the roof… Strangely, the pillar broke. The roof collapsed. Both stallions were scared.”
Thomas frowned, shot an indignant look at Oleg. His warhorse, never frightened by wild howls of Saracen trumpets and terrific beats of Persian drums, was said to have been scared by some collapsed roof! A slander!
“Scared,” the prior said again, paying no heed to the fact that Oleg frowned too, “they ran away, struck against the wall…”
“Come, come,” Oleg encouraged.
“The wall collapsed. The stallions burst into the garden. Other surviving horses followed them. All the night long, the monks tried to catch them. Your horses ruined the sacred garden, which we were growing for three thousand years. They guzzled the roses of heaven brought from the Lord of Heaven by his beautiful daughter to the brave son of Emperor Fak at the dawn of time… Then your horses drank water from the sacred spring, scared away the sky frogs who deigned to rest there and broke the thirty-year-long silence of the great ascetic Tsob Tso Bae…”
“What did he say?” Thomas asked with fascination.
The prior’s wrinkled face became thoughtful. He choked, then spoke hastily, “How can I, a paltry worm, memorize the spells of ascetics? Then your horses brought down the monastery wall on the side of Bump, our sacred mountain.”
“Scratched themselves again?” Thomas asked with concern. “Sir wonderer, could they have picked up mange? We have to check.”
“So you have,” the prior agreed hastily. “After that, they ruined the indestructible war tower – it had stood for two thousand years, endured two hundred and three wars, five hundred eighteen storms, and twelve strikes of lightning… they scratched against it too. Then they ran after the young filly that was raised to carry the ruler of our land. They ate the garden of bonsai, the dwarf trees, mistaking them for grass. Finally, they got to the larder where we kept all our stock of wine…”
“They drank wine?” Thomas gasped. He wheeled round to Oleg with all his shining body, his blue eyes flashed with lightnings. “Sir wonderer, it was your unproven horse who seduced my honest friend-at-arms! With whom I passed fire and water, Crimea and Rome, saw the priest’s pear tree, stormed the Tower of David…”
“And here he stormed a tower himself,” Oleg pointed out. “A war horse, who would argue? If he had never broken into a wine cellar before… maybe he just had no opportunity?”
The prior gave some timid coughs before he dared to interfere. “In fact… it was your stallion, sir iron knight, who began to lick first. At that point, we managed to catch both and lead them into a new stable… after we moved all the monks away from there, moved our library, carried ancient manuscripts away. The white stallion got drunk and lay down into a puddle of wine…”
“Our Lady!” Thomas cried in terror. “How much time will it take to wash him clean?”
“I think they have good wine,” Oleg said thoughtfully, “if even horses got dead drunk. Holy prior, where do you store it?”
The prior backed up so hastily that he would have collapsed if his trembling assistants did not catch him under arms. “Your horses have drunk all of it! Now they sleep in the lib… the new stable.”
Oleg listened and grasped, at last, the meaning of the intermittent dull roar that had been disturbing his soul and sleep. He wanted to inform the haughty knight venomously that his noble knightly horse of blue blood snored like a plain cart horse from the village, but at that moment a barefoot monk came running from the far barn, started to whisper in the prior’s ear, looking at the scary strangers askance with his eye, as dark as a bird’s.
The prior staggered. Two strong monks supported him by shoulders. His dark eyelids flickered like a butterfly’s wings in the wind.
Thomas turned his head to Oleg. It looked like a turning observation deck on the top of a watchtower. “For us,” he said in half a voice. “To fight the invincibles.”
Oleg nodded, adjusted the sword baldric up – he’d almost forgotten its unkind weight for the past years – moved his shoul
der blades to check whether the quiver was in place. “Holy father, we are ready. Sir Thomas just needs to be whistled up – and he will run to the world’s end for a good fight! Pugnacious as a cock. I wonder whether all Angles are like that.”
The prior shifted a desperate gaze between his guests. Down at the stairs, a large crowd of monks had gathered. All barefoot, belted with plain ropes, none of the usual poles and rural threshing flails with them.
“Great warriors,” the prior rasped, “we hate to upset you and kindly beg your pardon. We understand that your brave hearts are burning with desire to display the full scope of your martial art, that you crave for a fight and sight of blood splashed around, that you have a fervent thirst for crunch of bones, for violent blows received and landed… received and landed… received and landed…”
“Don’t pull the cat by… the paw,” Thomas interrupted. His soul could be seen reviving; a happy presentiment of the dream come true flourished as a bright crimson color on his cheeks, as white as chalk. “Where are they? In the yard? In the dueling hall?”
The prior drooped his head in grief. He would have kneeled if not kept by the monks: they were right to think they would have more trouble getting him up. “I beg you, iron knight… and you, hairy Hyperborean turnskin, to forgive us kindly! The invincibles left at dawn. Without saying goodbye… without saying a word at all, two on one horse…”
Thomas breathed out loudly, as though an iron stake he had been writhing on till the night before was removed at once. He even subsided a bit, seemed to become smaller in height. Oleg also felt a great relief; he liked it without fight, but the poor prior misinterpreted it. “Please don’t tear your brave hearts with this unheard-of grief!” he cried pathetically. “It’s not our fault it happened that way!”
“We shall not blame you,” Oleg promised. “Never!”
“Did they say anything at their leave?” Thomas asked with utmost caution. “A challenge, maybe, or a wish to meet us in another place?”
The prior shook his head guiltily. “Nothing! That’s surprising. Their leave was very quiet.”
“Hmmm… and what did they do when they came? Why that sudden?”
The prior responded slowly. His voice grew stronger, sounded with a note of fury. “That’s a great mystery for us as well. I’ll have all the monks solve this riddle. No food for them till they find the correct answer… or at least an elegant one, in the spirit of our school. The invincibles came through the gate on their splendid horses, their banners flew spectacularly in the silver moon shade, their faces were stern and arrogant, as befits invincibles. Then they saw the rock on which our heroes had once been breaking bricks. It was broken, and they asked what had happened. Then they saw the broken log and asked about it too. At that time, your horses broke through the wall of stables and began to chase fillies. Then, very unfortunately, the barrels of drinks gave a leak. You stallions deigned to drink all our wine, and the white one jumped on the invincible’s horse to mate…”
“Was it a mare?” Thomas inquired.
“No, but your stallion was so mad… sorry, so delighted with our wine that he did not mind the difference. The other horse tried to break away, but your stallion was much stronger. Besides, the invincible’s horse could not endure his weight, its spine broke.”
“Poor animal,” Thomas said indifferently. “And what about mine?”
“He fell asleep and snoring straight on the invincible’s crying horse. Due to that, we managed to catch and carry him in his sleep to the lib… the stable.”
Oleg listened to the noise and thundering sounds through the wall. “What about my horse?” he asked anxiously.
The prior shook his head dolorously. All the monks standing at the distance behind him also shook their heads and left them shaking like that. “Yours goes on. Do you hear the thunder? It’s him running after the fillies, sheep, and she-goats, trampling hens and ducks. He peeps into windows, scaring monks and distracting them from godly reflection of the High. The invincibles hurried to mount the surviving horse together and ride away, as your cheerful stallion began to glance at that horse too, and it was much smaller: white, slim-legged…”
“No,” Oleg objected firmly. “My horse is not that sort!”
Thomas gave him a once-over, as though seeing him for the first time, and burst out with derisive laughter. “You know little though you lived in caves! We found this horse several weeks ago. Where could he live before? Maybe in Greece? Besides, in that very land where we… bought him, our merciful God had once in wrath… in righteous wrath, of course!.. destroyed two big cities for such tricks.”
Oleg kept listening to the crashes, croaks, and neighs. “I heard much of the monastic wines,” he said then. “We’d like to take some of it for the road, as befits true ascetics, to make the temptation of low flesh stronger, for us to fight it with all our might and have a more glorious victory!”
The prior backed up and fell into the arms of his assistants. “You too? Nothing will remain of the monastery then!”
“Men are stronger than horses!”
Thomas also listened to the constant rumble, nodded to the prior. “You are right, holy father. We have many other things to combat Sir wonderer, it’s time for us to leave, isn’t it? Alas, no knightly joust nor a good fight to amuse us here. The only hope is of some evil thing waiting on the road. We have nothing to do here. We ate and drank but… er… some fun we’ll have to find in some other place. And we will find it!”
The prior turned round and cried, “Pack up, for the great northern warriors leaving us, the precious tribute… er… gifts, food, and blankets. Now!”
The monks darted away in all directions. The prior turned round with caution and was led across the garden where Oleg saw a terrible picture of ruin, as though the hordes of Attila had passed here. The spacious stable of non-burnt clay had crumbled. The big yellow blocks had rolled sideways, trampling and maiming tender flowers and all but filling up the spring.
“Where’s my horse?” Thomas asked with concern.
“The iron man’s horse is being woken up. They play songs over him, beat in tambourines, give him aromatic salts to smell…”
“Shove your salts into the ass,” Thomas advised. “Yours, not the horse’s! My friend can only be woken by this.” He slapped on his thick belt where a battle horn was hanging.
They followed monks across the garden. There were many more ruins, Thomas even gave a puzzled whistle. If he did not know it were two drunken stallions brawling at night, he would have thought the monastery visited by godly crusader knights in search of the Holy Grail.
The destrier lay in the middle of the trampled-down garden and snorted, his eyes protruding frightfully. The monks stood at a respectful distance, watched the monster with awe. Thomas brought the horn to his lips, his cheeks puffed out. A dreadful roar swept over the monastery. The window glasses shattered down with plaintive ringing. The old prior and his monks collapsed on the ground like overripe pears. The stallion’s left ear twitched in vexation, but the wild modulating snores went on.
Thomas cursed, took a deeper breath and blew the horn again, reddened, with goggled eyes. A deafening roar rent the air. Oleg jerked his head up and saw the monastic cupolas and stucco moldings collapsing. The destrier moved both ears in annoyance but his snoring only grew louder.
The knight glanced at the wonderer, saw his venomous smirk. Thomas frowned, raised his horn hurriedly for the third time. “Damn you, callous brute! To get that drunk while your master was… preparing for a hard battle! Pretty nice you’d have been under the saddle! Well, now I will get you awake, even if you become a stammerer…”
He put the horn to his lips, but Oleg seized his arm. “Wait! You’d only get him turning to his other side. I’d better apply a stick to him!”
Thomas gasped with great indignation, almost dropped his horn. “To a knight’s warhorse? A plain stick?”
“I can borrow a gilded one from the prior,” Oleg suggested.
He took the horn from the knight, squatted near the stallion and blew almost in his ear. The destrier snuffed and flew up, as though hundred snakes bit him at once, his eyes wild and mad, his body trembling all over.
“Good morning, you drunkard,” Oleg greeted venomously. “When your master’s in hangover, he has only his hands trembling as a hen thief’s, and you are shaking all over… Holy father, is my horse in the library?”
From the yellow field of sprawled monks who had just started to stir, a faint voice came, “Yes… There…”
“What is he reading there?” Oleg wondered. “Never saw him at it before… I need to take him away quickly. Why would I need a literate horse? I’d feel awkward riding him.” He went to the low yellow building. It was shaking, clots of clay dropped down from its walls.
“May your horse happen to be a Jew?” Thomas smirked after him. “I heard they are all literate!” He started to saddle his warhorse, who stood reeling and watching him with bloodshot eyes. The thick mane was tangled, with luxuriant burdocks of rare eastern flowers of the Lord of Skies stuck in. The destrier reeked of alcohol, his left side looked all bare; the hair on it had got matted while he slept in the puddle of red wine. He looks at the saddle and broad belly bands like a true crusader looks at Saracen shrines.
They heard a menacing clatter of hooves from above. It was Oleg, descending by the broad stairs, ahorse. His stallion had the red eyes of keen reader, with bulging veins in them, but his steps were resolute enough, though deliberately cautious. Mounted Oleg looked heavy and gloomy, like a rock in the middle of a broad river. Behind him, two travelling bags were hanging on both sides of the saddle, along with the giant sword and even the bow and the quiver. The wolfskin jerkin was thrown open as wide as possible, baring broad plates of muscle. The wonderer was girded by a wide belt studded with metal plates. On the right of it, there was a pot-bellied flask that attracted Thomas’s suspicious gaze at once. The knight even tried to catch the smell of it. “I’m ready,” Oleg said, cheerful as a woken-up hare. “Holy father, thank you for your bread and kindness.”
From the only spared building (though fresh cracks had already appeared on its walls) monks were carrying out the harness for Thomas’s horse and his saddle bags and bags of oats for both horses and food for two weeks journey. Oleg saw no wineskins. Probably the international custom of “the morning after” drink is not known here. If it was, the prior would have done his best to ensure that the humble pilgrims who avoid any fight would get away as soon as possible.
Thomas climbed heavily onto his horse who reeled, moved his legs apart clumsily, and shook his head. Three monks came running with the knight’s lance on their shoulders. Thomas picked easily the shaft that had been polished by his iron fingers, gave a dashing salute. “Thank you for your welcome! On my way back, I’ll surely come to be your guest again. With friends!”
Screaming, monks dashed away into the building. Thomas turned his destrier to the wonderer who was glancing impatiently at him.
They trotted out of the monastery gate briskly. The iron horseshoes made a ringing clatter on the fragile wings that lay on the ground, where it had collapsed from the mighty roar of Sir Thomas’s battle horn.
