SLEEPLESS KNIGHTS
Mark H Williams
Sleepless Knights is, quite simply, a cracking good read. A cross between The Remains of the Day, Le Morte d’Arthur and Harry Potter, it’s packed with charming characters, thrilling chases, intrigue and mystery. A glorious modern chapter of an age-old legend, Sleepless Knights introduces us to a distinctive and sympathetic new voice in fantasy writing.
— Toby Whithouse, writer for Doctor Who and creator of Being Human
STARRED REVIEW: Action and comedy duel for prominence in this brilliant debut novel about the knights of the Round Table. … Williams, an experienced playwright and television writer, has created a delightful addition to the Arthurian canon.
— Publishers Weekly
Mark Williams’ dazzling début shakes up Arthurian legend into a wildly inventive, roller coaster ride of thrills, hilarity, dark fantasy and brilliant characterisation all written with an exquisite elegance befitting the originality of the tale. Treat yourself.
— Muriel Gray, author of The Trickster,
Furnace, and The Ancient
Wonderful neo-chivalric highjinks. Williams gleefully takes the training wheels off the Arthurian cycle.
— Mike Carey, author of The Unwritten and the “Felix Castor” novels
Who would have thought that a mash-up between Jeeves and King Arthur would result in such a charmingly bonkers adventure? Sleepless Knights has the kind of silly energy that inspired Monty Python and Time Bandits, and plays out like a modern-day version of The Sword in the Stone. It’s clearly the Arthurian epic PG Wodehouse never got around to writing. Grail-tastic fun for all ages.
— Christopher Fowler, author of Film Freak, Hell Train, and the “Bryant & May Mysteries”
One of the most imaginative and original books I have read in ages. This type of out there fiction is right up my street. Give me more!
— Darren Craske, author of Before His Time and the “Cornelius Quaint Chronicles”
Sleepless Knights
Mark H Williams
Sleepless Knights
First Edition Paperback published August 2013: ISBN: 978–1–927609–01–9
First Edition eBook published August 2013, ISBN: 978–1–927609–02–6
The text in this novel is copyright © 2013, Mark H. Williams, who asserts his moral right to be established as the owner of this work.
Cover art & its design by and copyright © 2013,
Jimmy Broxton (or his representative)
Author’s photo (rear cover) by Simon Gough
(www.SimonGoughPhotography.com)
Typeset in Excelsior! and Warnock
The “Atomic Fez Publishing” logo and the molecular headgear colophon is designed by, and copyright © 2009, Martin Butterworth of The Creative Partnership Pty, London, UK (www.CreativePartnership.co.uk).
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real places or persons — living, dead, or possessing of eternal life by any known or unknown medical or magical means — is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
ATOMIC FEZ PUBLISHING
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Williams, Mark H., 1976-, author
Sleepless knights / Mark H. Williams.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-927609-01-9 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927609-02-6 (ebook)
I. Title.
PR6123.I438S54 2013 823’.92 C2013-904336-5
C2013-904337-3
Table of Contents
Day One
Day Two
Yesterday One
Day Three
Day Four
Yesterday Two
Day Five
Yesterday Three
The Otherday
The Last Day
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For Sue, Dave and Lisa
SLEEPLESS KNIGHTS
Day One
I
There was no escaping it. The Master was not where he should have been, and that was most disturbing.
Today being Ritual Day, I rose an hour earlier than usual to pay particular attention to his morning routine. Piping hot water for the daily bath. A fresh razor blade for his shave, first taking care to satisfy its appetite for bites and nicks with my own light stubble. Two rounds of toast, cut into soldiers slim enough to dip into the egg soft-boiling on the hob. Tea leaves, spooned into a dry, pre-warmed pot, allowed no more infusion than the time it takes to ascend the stairs to his chamber, set the tray upon the bedside table, and pour the first cup.
This morning, however, my knock was not answered with the customary “Enter, Lucas.” Neither, after an appropriate interval, was a second, more vigorous rapping. Inclining my ear to the heavy oak door, I failed to discern any of the telltale sounds of sleep from within. With the tray growing ever more weighty in my hands and its contents in danger of crossing the perilously thin line separating brewed from stewed, I risked a peek through the keyhole.
His bed was entirely unslept in, the quilt smooth and unruffled, pillows still plumped. I calmly put the tray down on the landing and started a methodical search. There is nothing to be gained from undue alarm, I thought, looking under the bed and inside the wardrobe. It is not as if this is the first time, I told myself, scanning bathroom and airing cupboard. I am leaping to false conclusions, I reasoned, as I checked the cupboard under the stairs, when in all likelihood he is exactly where I left him last night, sat in his favourite wicker chair in the conservatory.
He was not in his favourite wicker chair in the conservatory.
The blanket I had covered him with before retiring for the night lay crumpled on the floor, a book spread-eagled beneath it. By now, my mild disquiet was threatening to blossom into moderate panic. A shrill peal cut through the morning air, and I realised that the egg had boiled dry and set off the smoke alarm. Dashing to the kitchen, I grabbed the pan and thrust it under the cold tap where it hissed at me, as if in rebuke. I opened the window to let out the acrid stench of burnt Bakelite handle and silence the alarm. It was then that I saw him.
The Master was sitting on the garden bench in his dressing gown and slippers, his vacant gaze fixed on a patch of crumbling brickwork on the cottage wall. He was chill and damp to the touch from the morning dew, but otherwise unscathed, the empty scabbard still fastened securely to his belt. A spider had spun a web between the tip of his ear and the edge of his shoulder. As I relocated the intrepid arachnid to the garden sundial, my happiness increased with the realisation that this particular episode had not been characterised by any more of the Master’s wider wanderings. I lifted him up from the bench and eased his arm around my shoulder, carefully coaxing the basic motor functions that remained. In such a manner, I conveyed him to a wooden seat at the bottom of the stairs and went up into the bathroom.
As luck would have it, the level of the bathwater had just reached the overflow outlet. I pulled a lever on the side of the bath and diverted the excess water into the pipes that powered the counterweighted stair lift. The Master’s chair slowly ascended to the top of the stairs, where I undressed him and conveyed him to the waters, fastening the scabbard belt carefully around his neck. I then turned my attention to the matter of his wardrobe. I had spread out
the numerous pieces of the Master’s ceremonial armour on his dressing table the previous day in readiness. I regarded each item of elaborate clothing in turn. Then I looked at his dressing gown, draped over my arm. I took out my pocket watch and made a few swift calculations.
I pulled a suitcase out from under the bed and packed the armour inside.
II
My careless lack of foresight had squandered our early start, so it was late morning by the time we arrived at Hay-on-Wye. I drove the Jaguar into the yard at the side of the house, first moving the piles of junk that had accumulated there since my last visit and which prevented the access of anything wider than a bicycle. Through a series of deft manoeuvres I parked the car, before ensuring that the Master was safely secured in the back seat, his dressing gown pulled tight and the scabbard looped through the cord.
The back door was ajar. As I pushed against it, I noticed it had been forced open, and with some vigour. The door was barely attached to its hinges, its wooden panelling splintered, the glass of the upper window lying in shards on the kitchen floor. I propped the door against its battered frame as best as I could, then stopped in my tracks. Directly opposite the kitchen door, the dead body of a man sat slumped in a chair.
My heart skipped a beat. I was about to rush back to the car for the thermos flask, praying I was not too late to revive him, when a closer inspection revealed the man to be far younger than the owner of the house; in his early twenties, if that. His position made it appear as if he had simply nodded off, head lolling forward, forehead almost resting on the sword protruding from a wound in his heart. It was impossible to go any further without stepping in congealing blood. My subsequent footsteps made the sticky tearing sound one creates when walking on linoleum that has not seen a mop for some time. A recently brewed pot of coffee popped and gurgled on the counter in cheerful ignorance of the corpse. The aroma wafted away through the half-open entrance to the study, and I followed it through the gap.
The door resisted against what I assumed to be a stack of books. It felt safe to assume this, given that the room before me contained very little else. Books of every shape and size were arranged in piles, some the size of a small hedge, others as high as monumental pillars. Bulging bookcases lined every inch of wall space, their shelves coated in dust as thick as midwinter snow. The entire haphazard library formed a miniature maze that I began to navigate toward the centre of.
The layout of this literary labyrinth had changed entirely since my last visit, and my progress was little helped by the few rays of sunlight strong enough to push through the grime-coated bay window. Gingerly, I extended my fingers into the gloom, only to find a dead end of heavy tomes. I was about to move the topmost of these volumes, when a voice sounded from somewhere within the warren.
“Leave it, Lucas,” it said. “It’s bad enough being so late. For pity’s sake don’t compound matters by rearranging my entire library.” By this verbal marker I found my way to the desk, where the speaker was engaged in his daily toil.
“I would not dream of it, Sir Kay.”
“Well just don’t, is all I’m saying.” I paused for him to continue. When it became clear he was not about to address the unconventional scene in his kitchen, I considered it prudent to broach the subject myself.
“Forgive me if I am stating the obvious, Sir Kay, but there appears to be a dead body in your kitchen.”
“Hm? Oh yes, that little bastard. He’s ransacked three houses in the last month alone. Battered the old dear over the road black and blue for fifty quid and a TV set. Been watching me come and go all week, biding his time. Had the shock of his life when he ran into me last night, biding mine. See to the usual routine, would you Lucas?”
“Excuse me, Sir Kay?”
“Get rid of the body. Like you did last time.”
“Last time, Sir Kay, was just over a hundred years ago.”
“So?”
“Such matters are not as… straightforward as they once were.”
“It’s straightforward enough to me. Direct application of the Eternal Quest! Protect the weak and fight evil-doers. Elsie over the road is your ‘weak.’ That witless whelp cluttering up my kitchen is the ‘evil doer.’ ”
“I understand what you are saying, Sir Kay. But I doubt the representatives of law enforcement will see it that way.”
“Then you’d better dig a bloody deep hole. Spade’s in the shed. And next time, phone ahead before you turn up, will you?”
“I did consider it, but decided against interrupting your labours.”
“Well it didn’t work. I couldn’t settle on a single thing all morning for looking at my watch, wondering when you’d decide to roll on up.” He picked up a book and quickly placed it over a newspaper crossword.
“And how is your work, Sir Kay?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Very well, Sir Kay.”
“I’m fed up with the lot of it, Lucas. Fed up with looking at it. Fed up with thinking about it. And certainly fed up with talking about it.”
“In that case, I shall —”
“Sometimes I wonder why I ever bothered putting pen to parchment in the first place. All it’s ever brought me is anonymity, failure, penury and disappointment.”
“Come now, Sir Kay. I am not much of a reader myself —”
“Ha, you said it there.”
“— but I have always held your History in the highest esteem. As has the Master.”
“Yes, he would, wouldn’t he? But what’s the good of writing something so, so…”
“Clever?”
“It is clever, but that’s not the word I’m after. So, so…”
“Influential?”
“Just let me think for a moment!” He clicked his fingers. “Seminal! What’s the point of writing something so seminal as my History, when I’m never allowed to claim any credit for my, erm… seminality…”
“Seminalitude?”
“Damn it man, are you a butler or a thesaurus?”
“Sorry, Sir Kay.”
“Well, I suppose I should pack.”
“You have not already done so?”
“Of course I haven’t! I’ve been too busy working. What kept you, anyway? You haven’t been this late since — oh. Oh no. He isn’t, is he?”
“If you are referring to one of the Master’s delicate spells, then I am afraid you are correct.”
“Oh dear me, no. He could be gone for days. Weeks. Years! What are we going to do about tonight?”
“I am sure we will manage, Sir Kay.”
“But it’s hardly ideal, is it?”
“No, it is not, Sir Kay. Which is why I would be most grateful if you would prepare for departure, and with a degree of haste.” I had taken out my pocket watch, and did not care for the expression on its face.
“Yes, yes, don’t fuss, I was just about to.” Sir Kay began to select certain volumes from the library, carefully placing them into a large leather hold-all.
While he continued with his packing I set to work in the kitchen. I reattached and boarded up the back door, swept up the glass, and washed the worst of the blood from the floor. By the time Sir Kay was staggering to the car with the first of several suitcases, I had buried the body of the intruder and the murder weapon, the shallow grave easy to obscure thanks to a thick tangle of weeds in the untended vegetable patch.
“Are you quite sure you will need so many books, Sir Kay?” I said, returning the spade to the shed. “We shall have you back by this time tomorrow.”
“Once again, Lucas,” he puffed, shoving in a large box on top of the cases, “you demonstrate your complete ignorance of the creative life. We writers thrive on books. They are our lifeblood. Speaking of which, you’ll want to give the kitchen floor another clean. You missed a spot.”
III
According to my updated itinerary we remained within the margins of an acceptable time frame. Nevertheless, it was still something of a relief to leave Hay behind and head for th
e hills, the vintage car’s suspension making only the mildest of complaints at the weight of Sir Kay’s books. Their owner sat beside me in the passenger seat, absorbed in an ancient tome. The Master remained strapped into the back seat and gave no outward sign of waking in the immediate future. Sir Kay was correct in anticipating that this would make the evening’s ritual difficult, but it was by no means impossible. What concerned me far more, as it always did, was the safe conveyance of all seven participants to our destination in plenty of time for the appointed hour. But, even the grandest banquet is served one course at a time, so I focused my attention upon the hills and forests ahead.
When we reached the right spot I pulled the Jaguar into a lay-by and switched off the engine. “I am going to get Sir Pellinore, Sir Kay,” I said. He did not look up from his book, but I took a barely audible grunt to indicate comprehension. “I anticipate I shall be no more than half an hour. Please pause in your reading from time to time, and check on the Master. His seatbelt is secure, but it is no substitute for a wary spirit and a watchful eye.” Another mumble came forth. “Should you require refreshment, you will find a selection of ham sandwiches in a Tupperware box on the back seat. Those with mustard are wrapped in tin foil; those without, in cling film.” I paused until I received a final low murmur in the affirmative, and opened the boot of the car to retrieve the items essential for the summoning of Sir Pellinore.
First a large mouldering headdress, upon which the antlers of a stag were secured, like two frozen flashes of forked lightning. Next, a grey cloak, threadbare cousin to the headdress, which I wrapped about my shoulders. Finally, a walking staff, gnarled and stout, and a hunting horn small enough to fit in my trouser pocket. Thus equipped, I stepped over a low ditch, through a gap in the hedge, and into the forest.
I did not venture far before the cheerful brightness of the summer day vanished, with only an occasional dappling of sunlight penetrating the canopy of leaves. Unlike Sir Kay’s study, however, this landscape was reassuringly consistent in its geography, and I had no fear of losing my way. Between the gathering of tall oaks; across the narrow trickle of a stream. Past the log stump that resembles Queen Victoria. Up a muddy embankment, along the moss-hugged ruins of a stone wall, and into a glade, agreed upon long ago as a suitable summoning spot. I took a moment to prepare myself, under the inquisitive eye of a local pheasant. With the horn ready in my hand I cleared my throat, tipped back my head and, in a faltering tenor, sang out
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