Act IV: Under the Mask (Part 9)
Nine
"Stay here!" Yakov shoved Yubi back inside. "You can't drink anyway!"
"Can't I try it and then spit it out?" Yubi pushed her way in again. "People say this stuff tastes good!"
“It doesn’t taste good in your mouth; you have to drink it to appreciate its beauty.” Pascal held a bottle in one hand and a small grill in the other, his sadness making him look like a carefree, lazy knight. “Especially at times like this, strong liquor can make you forget your sorrows. You’re still young; there’s no need to indulge yourself like this.”
Yubi wanted to argue, but couldn't find the words, so he reluctantly let Schumer drag him back into the house. Yakov was about to laugh at him, but then suddenly remembered, how could he drink while wearing a helmet? He put one foot back over the threshold. "I'm not going," Yakov said reluctantly, "...Templars shouldn't drink."
Unexpectedly, Pascal burst into laughter, looking as if he'd already downed half a bottle of wine. "Don't make excuses!" he slammed his elbow into Yakov's back, striking the red cross on his cloak. "I knew you were Slavic! Come on!"
Yakov felt dizzy and unusually alert. He was being dragged by the hospital knight all the way to the edge of the forest. “I already knew that the knights of the Zashchtytnikov family were all Slavs. Zashchtytnikov, I suppose, means guards?” Pascal tossed some firewood into the stove to warm the area, then pulled two small cups from his pocket. “I understand your predicament. Many people, upon seeing a Slav’s face, think only of their lowly status, unworthy of being knights. But if you ask me, slave traders are even more despicable than slaves. Whether Tatars or Saracens, no matter how noble or wealthy they may be, these infidels who sell Christians into slavery are truly despicable.”
Zashchitnikov? Yakov thought, his eyes darting around. It was the surname engraved on the hilt of the ruby-embroidered longsword at his waist. He recalled the Templar Knight he had smashed to death by the frozen riverbank, stripped him of his clothes and armor, and suddenly remembered that the man's build was similar to his own, and he seemed to have short, light blond hair as well… But the man's face was smashed beyond recognition, and there were so many blond people; he might not necessarily be a Slav.
Pascal opened the bottle, poured the clear liquor into a glass, and enthusiastically handed it to Yakov. "Have you already tasted it?" he asked. "You can tell this liquor is potent just by smelling it."
“I haven’t tried it.” Yakov lowered his head, and through the visor of his helmet, he could see the firelight flickering in his cup.
“Then take off your helmet and have a taste?” Pascal’s bright green eyes stared at him. “I’ve heard that the Slavs can drink much more than the Franks.”
Yakov hesitated for a moment, reluctant to remove his helmet, yet feeling that such a timid and shameful act would be laughable. He looked up at the Frenchman's eyes and remembered the deceased's last words. After much deliberation, he gritted his teeth and removed the heavy burden from his head. In an instant, the crisp, fresh air of the snow rushed into his nostrils, as if some pathetic shell had truly been shed from him.
“My God brother,” Pascal said, opening his mouth and bringing his wine glass closer to him, “…I can’t imagine how much you’ve suffered along the way. This face…no one would doubt your Slavic heritage.”
A vague discomfort welled up inside him. Yakov frowned, picked up his glass, and downed the strong liquor in one gulp. When he had bathed Yubi, he had guessed the distilled spirit's potency; indeed, the moment it touched his tongue, it made his mouth numb and his throat burn. Seeing this, Pascal also drank his glass heartily. The young French knight immediately winced from the spiciness, unable to speak for a long time.
“…Sister Gianda was absolutely right.” Pascal poured himself another glass. “The most devout and gentle nuns can make the strongest wine.”
Yakov snatched the bottle with disdain and filled his own glass. "Girls? Besides making wine, they're lining up to write you love letters." He lifted the bottom of his glass and downed his second without batting an eye. "Henry told me everything. My servant should really write a poem for you and have it sung everywhere."
Pascal's face quickly turned bright red, just like back at the Brasov manor, perhaps from the effects of the alcohol. "That lad..." he muttered, "I told him not to tell anyone."
The grill he brought was too small; the flames flickered in the cold wind, barely warming either of them. Yet they sat separately, willingly enduring the snowflakes drifting into their chainmail collars. They drank in silence, one glass after another. Before long, most of the bottle of fine wine was gone. Yakov had just begun to warm up when Pascal opposite him started burping repeatedly.
“You can’t outdrink me.” Yakov raised his hand to rub his forehead. “Franks really can’t hold their liquor.”
Pascal rested his elbows on his knees, head bowed and silent. Yakov guessed that the Hospitaller was probably drunk and about to fall asleep, so he reached out to kick his shoes. Unexpectedly, Pascal dodged him, raised his hand, grabbed his shoulder-length brown hair, and covered his eyes with his palm.
“…Henry also has things he doesn’t know.” He slumped down, as if his faith had collapsed before him. “To outsiders, it’s always a romantic story, everyday gossip, the kind of juicy tales discussed at the dinner table. But if you’re in it, there’s no one to confide in about the pain. Even your closest brothers and friends can’t understand how you feel.”
Snowflakes fell silently onto his armor, where the cold prevented them from melting. Yakov's gaze was colder than the snow. He thought, a born nobleman, a Frenchman, raised in a rich and warm land, yet he insisted on traveling to the far East to flaunt his scars to a lowly Slav. What did he expect? Did he expect Yakov to comfort him, encourage him, and recite those biblical verses with him? Was he more miserable, or himself, or his leprosy-stricken, impoverished, and prematurely deceased fellow countryman?
Suddenly, Yakov remembered Yubi crying in front of him. Back then, the mark on his chest spurred and enslaved him, and the noisy Schumer reprimanded him in his ear. But now, nothing forced him to do anything except the wind, snow, and the cold chainmail.
But he still slowly raised his hand and patted Pascal's shoulder twice.
“You still have your own things to do.” Yakov’s voice was hoarse from drinking, and he spoke as if to himself, “There are people who are counting on you and looking forward to you.”
Late at night, the two knights, completely drunk, returned to their lodgings under the stars. Yakov carried Pascal, his legs knotted, back to the church, without his helmet. The nuns, soldiers, and lepers stared at his face in surprise, only to be met with Pascal's shout: "You only just realized that Slavs can be knights?" Yakov tossed him to someone dressed in black robes like himself—he was too drunk to recognize him. "I...I'm so sorry for breaking my fast, for disobeying the rules..." Pascal began, then apologized again to the statue of the Virgin Mary, mixing French and Latin, "Tomorrow night is Christmas Eve, God should punish me, the captain should punish me..."
Mother Gianda emerged from the side door, observing the commotion. Yakov recognized her and struggled to steady himself. "...I'm sorry, Mother." He bowed his head, struggling to speak clearly, his pale golden hair swaying on his forehead. "I am a Slav."
“Pascal told me about this before, I know all about it,” Sister Gianda sighed. She raised her hand, stood on tiptoe, and gently patted Yakov’s bowed head with her thick, fleshy fingers, as if she were baptizing him. “On behalf of the Virgin Mary, I forgive your sins of drinking and not observing fasting. Everyone has had a long day, go to sleep.”
Although it was a dark night with snow falling outside, Yakov felt as if the sky were bright and clear. His face was freely exposed to the air, unafraid of being seen by anyone; even the snowflakes hitting his face felt crisp and crystalline, and the cold wind seemed refreshingly pleasant. He went back to his guest room and knocked on the door. Yubi opened the latch and let him in. "I thought it was Schumeer returning. Don't you need to wear your helmet anymore?" The vampire's red eyes gleamed strangely in the darkness. "You smell so good..."
The blood slave, dead drunk, couldn't hear the words, only feeling a blurry mass churning in his mind, a blissful blur that made everything equally indistinct and ambiguous. He closed the door, collapsed onto the straw mat on the ground, and with his last strength untied the chainmail strap at the back of his neck, exposing the veins. "You think it smells good?" Yakov said. "Then you may take a bite."
He closed his eyes, too tired to open them again.
In his dream, a beautiful woman resembling Camilla rode on top of him, her delicate, cold arms encircling him, her sharp teeth piercing his skin. The woman would then transform into a man, yet her allure remained undiminished. They continued their joyful embrace, making the most intimate contact, like lovers in the throes of passion, like a couple on their wedding night. Suddenly, the silver-haired beauty lying on his bare chest turned black, her blood-red irises melting, tears streaming from her eyes, twisting and wailing in agony like a grotesque painting melting from dampness. Yakov reached out in horror and grabbed him—it was Yubi. It was his master.
A piercing, agonizing pain jolted Yakov awake. He found himself still in the guest room, the sun streaming brightly through the cracks in the roof—it was a bright, sunny day, and already midday. Yakov dazedly looked down; his chainmail was still intact. Beside him, Yubi, also fully dressed, his cloak rolled up, straw clinging to his clothes, slept as usual, wrapped around Yakov's arm. Only, both men reeked of alcohol, filling the entire room with a drunken haze. Yakov's head throbbed. He looked around but didn't see Schumeer. He must have gone to the church to decorate the walls, Yakov wondered. Had I made a sound in my sleep last night? Had this Jew heard me?
Another terrible headache swirled around his head, feeling as if nails were being hammered into his skull. Yakov rested for a moment, steadied himself, and raised his hand to shove the vampire beside him. "You bit me, are you drunk too?" he frowned and called to Yubi, "Wake up, it's already noon."
The vampire beside him stretched its limbs like a long-haired cat in a church, its joints creaking. "My head really hurts..." Yubi struggled to get up. "Is this what drunkenness is?"
Yakov noticed his wrists. The shirt cuffs there seemed a little too short. He stood up and told Yubi to stand at attention so he could brush the straw leaves off his wool cloak. Yakov was surprised to find that the hem of the cloak also seemed to have risen. He straightened up, looked closely, and noticed that Yubi's hair had grown long, the ends already reaching his cheeks.
“You seem to have grown taller,” Yakov said. “Just a little bit.”
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