by Yury Nikitin
Chapter 9
They lingered at Gorvel’s for two more days and nights. The lord yelled, insisting on two weeks, referring to the terrible wound of Sir Wonderer, which the joys of feast and hunt should help to heal. However, to Gorvel’s distress, the wounds of the Pagan (which that pilgrim no doubt was) were healing surprisingly fast, due to Christ’s inexplicable mercy. On the second morning, the wound was replaced by a hideous scar, which, in turn, was subsiding before their very eyes, losing its bluish color, whitening to match the rest of skin.
Gorvel glowered at the wonderer. The knight’s world had been clear and simple before Sir Thomas, his companion-at-arms, and this Pagan pilgrim arrived: that was a beginning to strange things. His minstrel disappeared and turned out to be an assassin… But he was a wonderful singer indeed! Let him, Sir Gorvel, be a blockhead who knew nothing about poetry, but Lady Roveg also enjoyed that strange man singing! And his lady might have been wrong too – just a woman! – but other lordly knights would reward him for his songs and win him from each another! Gorvel failed to understand what could have made the pampered minstrel leave his warm seat by the fireplace and go out into the night to hunt a stranger.
The peaceful pilgrim called forth even more questions. If his scars resolved that fast, his smooth skin might have already had some more terrible wounds resolved on it. Wounds of wandering and fighting. The one who has them is usually no stranger to the sword. And arrows… he was good with them too, as Sir Thomas and that woman, Chachar, had told Gorvel with delight. The odd pilgrim hardly could have mastered archery in peaceful prayers, fasts or contemplations of navel!
The minstrel was talked over for a while and forgotten, but the excited rumors of five thousand gold dinars taken by the wonderer from the robbers were still on. The confessor monk, in a heat of temper, abused the Mother of God, for she had given such wealth to a Pagan. Thomas interceded for the Holy Virgin and all but beat the fool up. Gorvel reminded them sullenly that robbers had not given their gold at will and not just any man could have taken it that way. Definitely, the pilgrim was helped by the Holy Virgin. Perhaps he’s not a hopeless Pagan. The Virgin is no fool, she sees a future Christian in him. He may already be somewhat Christian, though unaware of it himself!
On the same day Oleg came riding back to the castle, reeling in the saddle, he asked Thomas, “Think of your powerful enemies. Do you have any?”
Chachar was dressing his wounded side with care, admiring the strength of muscle. Thomas poured wine into the wonderer’s cup, his brow contracted. “Well… maybe Sir Gregor the Splendid… Or rather Sir Baldan. I knocked him off in a joust. He fell straight down to the feet of peerless Burnilda…. Down into the mud, at full tilt…”
“Not your sworn enemies. Powerful ones!”
“Er… I had no quarrel with kings. As far as I remember.”
He knitted his brows in suffering, as he recalled everyone whose foot he had ever stepped on or whom he had elbowed. Oleg listened with half an ear. No king is obeyed in such a blind, thoughtless way. That was the way Saracen assassins obeyed their sheikhs, but the minstrel was a pure Frank. So was Ganim, though disguised in green Saracen robes. Franks are free and proud. Not of the stuff that makes fanatics. Young Europe is not entangled in the net of secret societies yet, unlike the ancient East wallowing in mysticism, sacraments, prophecies, search of astral paths for mankind… and not shunning mundane poisons and murders on the sly.
His blood rushed back. He heard Chachar’s anxious voice, as though muffled by wadding. “Does it hurt? Have a little more patience, please.”
Stop lying to yourself, he thought bitterly. It’s clear whom the minstrel meant by the Lords of the World: The Secret Seven. Immortal sorcerers, they know no defeat and have a clear goal. Politicians, no starry-eyed dreamers. They mill whole kingdoms, empires, peoples, nations, religions, and beliefs in their millstones. Killing a hero, a king or an emperor is the same to them as squashing a greenfly. “Go have a rest,” he told Chachar. “Go, don’t pout. I need a man-to-man talk with Sir Thomas.”
Her beautiful eyes filled with tears at once. The dam of eyelids could hardly keep the glittering liquid in. Thomas looked helplessly at Oleg.
“Chachar!” the wonderer said through gritted teeth and the dam broke, waterfalls of tears gushed down her pale cheeks, but his voice was so strange that she fled as if blown out by wind.
Anxious, Thomas sat down on the bed next to Oleg. “Does it hurt badly?”
“Sir Thomas, do you know that your cup is pursued… not by ordinary robbers?”
Thomas thought it over, shrugged melancholically. “No, but… what’s the difference?”
Oleg clenched his jaws bitterly, waiting for a pang to pass. He sent a mental order to clean the blood – it would prevent fester – and heated the wound up. It was painful that way, but faster to heal. “The cup is pursued by powerful ones,” he said in a different voice. “Now they send assassins, robbers and burglars… but some day they’ll come for it themselves. Maybe you refuse it? And save your life?”
Thomas looked straight at his friend. “Thank you. But why do you think life so dear? Honor is dearer, truth is dearer, love is dearer. Many things are dearer than our brief lives. Why would I stick to such a small thing? Whoever wants the cup, they are welcome to try. I’ll be defending it.”
Oleg looked around, moved his head close to Thomas. “Then I’ll tell you,” he said in a soft voice, “who wants the cup. Maybe you will tell me why they want it. Think it over once again. Perhaps you’ll change your mind and refuse it… If you do, Thomas, I shan’t blame you! The enemies are invincible. They are the Seven Secret Sages. In fact it is them ruling the world. Kings, emperors, sultans, and shahs are no more than pawns on their chessboard!”
Thomas looked with doubt, but his cheeks flushed hot despite his will, his face lit up. He moved closer, leaned to Oleg who continued in a whisper, “They are immortal. They can be killed, but otherwise live forever. They’ve seen the birth, prosperity, and ruin of many great ancient empires, and they understand the secret, concealed causes of rise and failure of peoples and kingdoms better than anyone. As they’ve lived thousands of years, they mastered the secrets of power. Step by step, they have learnt to influence the development of realms, to bring some of them to prosperity and others – to ruin. You won’t believe, but sometimes it was enough to make a scuffle on a particular day and hour in a market – and the result was the death of an ancient ruling house, of the kingdom… and a new one, strong, young and healthy, sprouted up in the outlying districts. The new state was usually more just and worthy. Yes, as a rule, the Seven destroy cruel realms and approve of kinder ones. They support nations with kind, merciful morals and manners…”
“Do they worship Christ?” Thomas interrupted.
Oleg faltered, his brows knitted painfully while he thought of the answer. The knight watched his face with strain. He could not fathom what the difficulty was. Those who worshipped Christ were friends, the rest were infidel Pagans.
“In general… they do. If to consider the whole of it. Even before The Nativity, as you know, the world was not in the hands of Satan. It was created and watched by God, and His Son came to help his elderly Father. But for the Secret Seven, Christ is not that important… Keep your temper! They saw the world that heard nothing of Christ and they’ll see His next Coming if it occurs. I’d rather have you bothered not with their vision of the future world but with the danger to yourself. You can’t stand up to such powerful men – magicians, I mean – as your enemies! And there is something more…”
He sighed, his face went grey. Thomas moved close to him. The darkness seemed to be gathering in the room. “In ancient times, magic was powerful,” Oleg rasped. “Very little remains of it now, but the Secret Seven come from those times! They know many powerful secrets. I know no mortals, no kings or heroes who could stand up to… or even fight them!” His face looked pinched and dolorous.
Thomas felt a hot tenderness for the lone wonderer
. He stretched his arm involuntarily to embrace Oleg’s shoulders. “Sir wonderer! It’s always possible to fight.”
“To fight,” Oleg repeated sadly, “knowing that you’ll die?”
“Didn’t Roland know it? And Beowulf who stepped ahead to meet his death? And thousands of other valiant heroes who died with fame? They knew life is short and fame is eternal. Sir wonderer, if even those Secret Seven are ancient Pagan gods, I have no fear of them. They may kill me, but they’ll never have me giving the Holy Grail away at will…”
Something in the knight’s voice made Oleg ask warily, “You don’t believe in them, do you?”
Thomas hesitated for a while, replied with his eyes looking aside, “I believe in dangerous enemies. But magic… I believe the world has it. I believe in three-headed men, flying fish and speaking horses that live overseas… as otherwise life’s too boring to bear it. But, dear sir wonderer, I don’t believe that wonders can happen to me or in places I visit.” His eyes were honest, simple-minded.
Oleg sighed. “A lovely world-view! European from withers to hooves. Step aside, old empires, make way for new people… But I advise you to think over what I told you. The world has no wonders, but in this case they may… no, they will happen if the cup is not taken by their hirelings or thieves before.”
Thomas stood up. With a menacing look on his face, he tapped his sword hilt. His gauntlet was tinkling “They are welcome to try! Isn’t that a nail sprinkled with Christ’s blood? Isn’t there true wood of His Cross in the handle?”
Oleg winced. “Stop it, Thomas. It’s false.”
Thomas recoiled. “How you… How dare you talk that?!”
“Do you know wood? Tell me what kind it is.”
“Oak!” Thomas said with confidence. “One has to be blind to miss it. What’s the hilt of a noble knight’s sword to be made of if not old fumed oak, the noble among trees?”
“Hum… A hilt – yes, but a cross… You won’t drive a nail into it, only get your fingers cut. Your god was crucified on a cross of aspen! In general, your faith is strangely hostile to this tree. Asp was the only tree that did not bend its branches to greet your god in his escape to Egypt. And while he was led to Calvary, only the asp did not tremble with pity and compassion! All the other trees are said to have brought down their branches and leaves! Surely that’s a lie. And he was flogged by the twigs of an asp. His cross, as I’ve said, was made of asp too. Besides, it was also the tree for Judas to hang himself…”
Thomas gasped at his words. Oleg muttered thoughtfully, “What a stubborn tree! Trembles with fear but stands its ground. A proud one! It began as early as the creation of the world. Asp was the only tree to refuse work then, while all the other trees did it… In Rus’, we never hide from a storm under an asp, for Peroun casts lightning at it to kill a demon – that lot always hide under asps. Once the strike of his lightning was so powerful that the tree got spattered with the demon’s blood all over. That was how the asp got the reddish color of its leaves. And it has one more reason for trembling: demons sleep beneath its roots and scratch their backs on them. Asp stakes are driven into vampires, as you know…”
His voice broke into whisper. He spoke to himself, Thomas forgotten. The knight held his breath. How could the wonderer know the details of Flagellation and Crucifixion? The regiment prelate once told him that one of the witnesses still walked around… Was it true?
The night made the castle walls cold, its gloomy halls chilly, as is common for desert lands in summer: hot days make you drip with sweat, you can bake an egg in the sand, but once the night comes, your teeth start chattering with cold.
Oleg found Chachar near a fireplace blazing hot. She sat on a small bench facing the fire, throwing chocks into it. With her face washed clean, she looked as fresh and healthy as a sweet juicy apple. Her boots stood on the iron fireguard, her bare feet were buried in a beast’s skin on the floor.
She raised her face, reddened with heat, to look at the wonderer. Lovely tender dimples played on her cheeks. “Dear Oleg, you must be in bed! Your wound…”
“…healed as that of a dog,” Oleg dismissed. “I’m no highborn to have them healing for ages. We’ve been here for two days. A guest must not outstay his welcome. Is Gorvel here? Or left for hunting?”
Chachar glanced around in fright and whispered, “Have you heard? A strange rider came tonight. Sir Gorvel locked up in his chambers to talk to him. Even Lady Roveg wasn’t allowed in.”
“Gorvel has much to care for,” Oleg muttered, his heart wrung with foreboding. “And this place is not so peaceful! Perhaps the king sent his vassals a word that the Saracens prepare an attack.”
“But they argued! They shouted!” Chachar glanced around again, her whisper even more mysterious. “I was walking past the door by chance. The visitor demanded something. Once being refused, he began to yell and threaten the lord!”
“Did you hear it well?”
“My lace got undone, so I stopped to tie it. I leaned over and… just happened to see them through a keyhole. Gorvel had a humble, miserable face. Would you believe it? I think no man should be humiliated like that. Never! A man deprived of his pride is no man anymore.”
“What did the visitor demand?” Oleg hurried her up.
“I didn’t get it. I only saw a strange sign: he draw a circle in the air with his hand, and then… er… maybe a cross. And that made Gorvel blanch and bow to him. It was his stupid wife treating him like that before! And that minstrel… I understood all of it! Yesterday I heard Lady Roveg reproaching Gorvel for his lack of skill to build a proper castle. I barely refrained from shouting at her, ‘Do you have the skill, stupid woman?’ A true woman demands nothing: a man will give her everything at his own will. He needs to be supported, comforted, helped.”
“Is that man still at Gorvel’s?” Oleg asked tensely.
“They say he left before dawn.” Her face was serene. Red lights from the blazing fire played on it, reflected in her big gleaming eyes like a scatter of sparks. Her cheeks were as red as if she’d had a good sleep all the night long. Maybe she’s a sleepwalker? But they fail to recall their nightly adventures.
“Where’s Sir Thomas?”
“In the great hall,” she replied in vexation. Red sparkles in her eyes turned green. “He found some special sword. Now he’s busy trying it at the senior guard.”
At that moment Oleg grasped the meaning of the thundering, clanging, and panting sounds from below. He also heard rude male voices, marking the best or the most violent blows with roar and shouts. Oleg nodded to Chachar and went there, guided by the clang of steel and the strong smell of man’s sweat.
When he entered the great hall, it was full with the roar and glitter of steel. The bright rays of the morning sun struggled through the narrow windows. In the smoky semi-darkness, there were four men jumping and brandishing steel: Thomas fought three of Gorvel’s men. He had a triangle-shaped iron shield in hand, and the huge sword in his other moved so briskly that he seemed fenced with a shiny wall of cold steel.
“Thomas!” Oleg cried insistently. “We have to talk to the host!”
Thomas dodged a blow and parried two more with the shield. “You are his guest as well!” he cried back merrily.
“I need you.”
The soldiers grumbled. Oleg felt their hostile looks from all sides. Someone abused (in half a voice but loud enough for him to hear) the pigheaded prying pilgrims who kept grunting, though that year was good with acorns.
Disappointed, Thomas flung his sword to a soldier. The man caught it by the hilt in the air. The rest saw Thomas to the stairs: crying out, banging with their sword hilts on their shields. Oleg and Thomas hurried up to the second floor.
In front of Gorvel’s chambers, a soldier was walking to and fro, yawning, rubbing his sleepy eyes with his fists. He livened up at their sight. “Relief…? Oh, that’s you. Want the master?”
“Yes,” Thomas grumbled. “Is he in?”
“Lady
Roveg is. And Sir Gorvel left this morning.”
A vacant smile was blown off Thomas’s face at once. Oleg pushed the door before the soldier could stop him. The friends rushed into the bedchamber.
Lady Roveg, with her eyes red and tearful, was rummaging in a big ornate box. Two others stood open on a bench, one more – on the floor. As she heard footsteps, she recoiled in fright, moving like a furious cat. At the sight of Thomas and Oleg, and the guard running at their heels, she clasped her hands and gabbled out, “A trouble, Sir Thomas! My lord husband is gone!”
Thomas made a helpless gesture, glanced at Oleg who was gloomy as night, then waved to the guard. “It’s all right. You, guard, outside. Leave us! Lady Roveg, could he have left for hunting? He invited me there too, I recall…”
“He was going to!” Lady Roveg replied, her voice constrained with fury. “Just going to, as he had not a single day free! So busy with building… He’s made no step outside the castle gate since we came to this wild land! Even wenches… he had enough of them in the kitchen and servant rooms.”
Oleg coughed, asked softly, “What’s in the boxes?”
She wheeled round to him, swift as a forest predator, her eyes narrowed wildly. “Yesterday there were family jewels! Mine, as I was born the princess of Bodrik! I brought him, a poor knight with a long sword, my diamonds, golden earrings, chains with pendants of emerald, not to mention plain gold…”
“Any of the servants?” Thomas asked, startled, his hand feeling the sword hilt nervously.
“Sir Thomas! Can’t you believe that a knight can have less honor than a servant? No one entered the chambers but a strange man last night. He had a long talk with my husband, but my jewels were all in place after he left!”
“Did you suspect him?” Oleg asked at once.
She shook her head arrogantly. “Definitely not. He had a lord’s face. Not the sort of man to stoop to theft. Such men can take away but not steal… It’s just my habit to finger my jewels before going to sleep. No occasion to wear them in these backwoods, so I simply take and touch and shift them from place to place.”
Oleg took in the room at a glance. The hook on which Gorvel used to hang his sword was empty. “Sir Thomas, is our bag of gold in place?”
Thomas got pale with indignation. “How dare you think that? Of a noble knight!”
“Hasn’t he robbed his wife?”
Thomas shot a sharp glance at him and ran out. His iron feet made brisk thunder on the stone stairs. Lady Roveg clenched her fists in anger, her knuckles went white. “You are,” she told Oleg suddenly, “as far as I see, a sort of Pagan confessor to Sir Thomas?”
“Not quite so…”
“Details don’t matter,” she dismissed, still angry. “As a priest, you must know men better than their arms. Please tell me, would Sir Thomas take my offer to stay as a lord of this castle?”
Oleg recoiled. “But the tenure…”
“The King bestowed this land on a mighty knight, not namely Gorvel! The one able to build a castle and keep the lands under the reign of Christ’s warriors. The King doesn’t bother with names. He wants the lord to be Christian, have real power, keep the Saracens in awe!”
Oleg hesitated for a while, then offered warily, “He’ll be back in a moment. Better ask him.”
“And who is that… Chachar?” she asked shrilly. Her beautiful eyes narrowed to slits.
“Hmmm… a woman. We saved her from robbers. She asked us to take her to any big city.”
“She can stay here and work in the 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 iron balls spilled over them, died away in a moment. Oleg did not move. He felt miserable – and surprised by it: that was none of his concern. 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 terrifying, 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 rasped, in more torture than the worst sinners in Hell suffered, “Gorvel is a man of great honor… We stood back to back! We covered ourselves with 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 an 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 onto 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 the horses. And you, noble knight, have much to discuss with this highborn lady.” He went out briskly, knocked the door shut behind him. 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 powerfully hot, as if she wanted to burn the whole castle. As Oleg crossed the hall briskly, he barked, “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 plan. 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 tended and cared for since he had carried wounded Gorvel out of the battle for the Tower of David. He hoofed 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 the 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 almo
st rolled down the stone stairs, as though some ghost 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 the 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 still sounded 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 a 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 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 longer. He left all he had, went out into 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.