Sleepless Knights

by Mark Williams

  “By the woodland, where Sir Pellinore makes his quest.”

  “What time did he disappear?”

  “I could not say precisely, but I would estimate between two and three o’clock this afternoon.”

  Sir Lancelot ruminated awhile. “Tell me, Lucas. Do you ever wonder what would happen if any of us failed to drink from the Grail on Ritual Day?”

  “On occasion, Sir Lancelot. Today being a good example of such an occasion.”

  “And…?”

  “I foresee a number of possible outcomes, should that unfortunate scenario come to pass. All of them are highly undesirable.”

  “Hm.” Sir Lancelot ruminated a further while. “I think I know where we’ll find him. An old road, now a fallow field. It’s far enough for him to have exceeded the range of your search party, but close enough for him to stray there these past hours, if he had a mind to it.”

  “Forgive me Sir Lancelot, but time is pressing hard — can you be sure?”

  “Pretty sure. He’s been there before, Lucas. We all have.”

  †

  I was sure that Sir Lancelot was mistaken, for there was nothing to distinguish this field from any of its neighbours, apart from a forest that bordered its easterly edge, stretching up and away over the hills. Indeed, so little did this neglected spot impress itself upon me that I hesitated as I straddled the wooden gate, looking back towards the car. Sir Lancelot merely flapped an exasperated hand towards the field, so I climbed down to make a closer inspection of the waist-high weeds.

  The cloudless sky and a full moon provided ample illumination, and my spirits rose when I saw a stretch of flattened grass in front of me, made by one who had recently shuffled their way up the field’s incline towards the forest. Treading softly and scarcely daring to hope, I followed the track into a small clearing.

  There, to my blessed relief, was the silhouette of the Master. He sat cross-legged and facing a tree trunk, his knife in his lap, surrounded by wood shavings. He had started to carve a picture in the bark, and sat in deep contemplation of his craftsmanship, tracing the outline of a woman’s face with his finger. I rested my hand lightly upon the Master’s shoulder.

  “Sire?”

  King Arthur looked startled, as if he were being addressed by a complete stranger. Then recognition spread across his face, banishing all bemusement. He yawned. “Lucas. There you are.”

  “Yes, sire. Today is Midsummer’s Day —”

  “I know what day it is. You do not need to remind me of my own terms and conditions.”

  “No, sire. But you had wandered, and went missing —”

  “And now you have found me. And we have plenty of time. Come. Let us go.” I helped him to his feet, brushing off the shavings and supporting him as we walked down the flattened path back to the car.

  †

  The Once & Future Inn had rung last orders, but there was no sign of the landlord and his search party. I checked the basement to find it fully, if a little hastily, prepared. A table had been created from several catering packs of mayonnaise, with seven beer barrels serving as chairs. Something in the corner moved at the sound of my feet on the cellar steps — the Grail, covered with an old sack. My pocket watch read ten minutes to midnight.

  “Where are the rest of my knights?” said the Master from behind me. Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain followed him, closing the door.

  “They formed a search party to find you earlier this evening, sire,” I said.

  “Must we now venture out to seek them?”

  “That’s not the royal ‘we,’ I’ll bet,” muttered Sir Gawain.

  “A few more minutes and we shall have to commence without them,” said the Master. Heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards above, sending small showers of dust sprinkling down upon us. The cellar door swung open to admit the breathless and bedraggled trio.

  “Sire! Saints be praised!” said Sir Perceval. “And Sir Lancelot! Oh, and Sir Gawain! Alive; alive and unscathed! A miracle.”

  “Had you reason to think otherwise?” said the Master, giving Sir Lancelot a quizzical look.

  “Why, yes!” said Sir Perceval. “The televisual tidings, of course! Such carnage! Er, that is to say…” In response to the Master’s darkening expression, Sir Perceval’s face began to take on the crimson complexion I recognised from earlier in the evening.

  “Sit down and catch your breath,” commanded the Master. “Kay. What are these ‘televisual tidings’ of which he speaks?”

  “Sire,” I said, “perhaps this particular tale would be better told after the ritual, given that we have less than eight minutes remaining?”

  “Sir Kay? Now, if you please.”

  Sir Kay glanced at me for assistance, but I could give none, for the Master had spoken. “Well, sire. Picture the scene. The moon is high in the velvet black sky; as round and full as a well-turned cheese. Sir Perceval, his voice ringing as clear as a smithy’s hammer on anvil, strides out ’pon the bracken-strewn forest floor, proclaiming —”

  “Cut to the meat,” growled Sir Gawain.

  “I can hardly do the tale justice without setting the scene.”

  “Consider it set,” said the Master. “This is not the time for Chronicles.”

  “Oh, very well. We divided ourselves in two, myself to search the immediate area, while Perceval and Pellinore made a foray into the next valley.”

  “I’m on good terms with the landlord of the Horse & Hound,” said Sir Perceval. “I hoped one of his patrons might have seen you on your wanderings, sire, and could provide me with information.”

  “By the time I arrived, the only thing he’d provided you with was half his cellar,” said Sir Kay.

  “Information harvesting is thirsty work. I noticed you wasted no time getting a drink.”

  “What was left of it, after you’d finished.”

  The Master cleared his throat sharply and Sir Kay continued. “While partaking of a small, well-earned measure of fortifying spirit, sire, I chanced to view the pub’s television set. There we saw a sight most doleful. A picture of Sir Lancelot, struck stone dead!” The Master’s expression had taken on the colour of burnt toast, but Sir Lancelot did not bat an eyelid. “It seemed that he expired in front of a large audience of onlookers at a charity dinner, and was pronounced deceased at the scene. Quite, quite dead.” Sir Kay paused to look at Sir Lancelot, as if to verify his status among the living.

  “Get to the skirmish!” said Sir Perceval.

  “I’m coming to that. The news programme went on to say, in so many words, that it was curious how Lancelot — though they called him by some other name, Lance somebody —”

  “De Troyes,” said Sir Lancelot.

  “That it was curious how this ‘Lance De Troyes’ was dead, given that corpses are not usually in the habit of starting large scale brawls. Someone matching his exact description had been identified at the scene of a violent quarrel in the city centre, at a popular nightclub —”

  “This being a cross between a tavern and a banqueting hall, for dancing, assorted revelry and suchlike,” said Sir Perceval.

  “Yes, thank you, Perceval. The scale of this conflict, sire, was conveyed via some hazy black and white pictures of Sir Lancelot engaged in combat against tremendous odds —”

  “Oh aye,” said Sir Gawain, sitting up. “Hog the glory, why don’t yer!”

  “— and emphasised by a roving newsman, reporting from the scene, which was one of great devastation, with many wounded. This herald implored witnesses to come forward, offering a reward for information that might aid the authorities in pursuing the perpetrator and his accomplices, and bringing them to justice.”

  My watch read four minutes to midnight.

  “The very existence of the Eternal Quest has been placed in jeopardy,” said the Master.

  “The fault was mine, sire,” I began.

  “No, Lucas,” said Sir Lancelot. “If there is any blame, it’s mine to bear.”

  “Ours,” sai
d Sir Gawain.

  “As you wish, Gawain. Ours.”

  “There’s no cause for panic,” said Sir Perceval. “We’ll just do what we always do. Move on and lay low, until all this blows over.”

  Suddenly, from somewhere outside the pub there came the sound of a high-pitched wailing. Sir Pellinore shot bolt upright, wide-eyed. “Banshees!” he cried.

  “No,” said Sir Kay. “Those are sirens.”

  “Mermaidens? On land? Never!”

  “Police sirens, Pellinore,” said Sir Kay.

  “Kay, please tell me you remembered to switch the lights off,” said Sir Perceval.

  “It’s your pub!”

  “But you were the last one down —”

  “Quiet!” said the Master. Having reached a crescendo, however, the caterwauling quickly subsided into the night, and each knight breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Did you hear that, Lancelot?” said the Master. “They will not rest until they have found you. Until they have found me.”

  “Let them come,” said Sir Lancelot. “I am ready for the spin of Fortune’s wheel.”

  “Your confidence is misplaced.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “No, Sir Lancelot. We shall not. First, we partake of the Grail. Then, I will decide how to preserve the Eternal Quest, which you are so willing to sacrifice to feed your lust for fame and glory.”

  My watch read two minutes to midnight, as each knight took his place around the small table. By small increments I squeezed between the Master and Sir Perceval’s ample girth. At a word from King Arthur, the Grail rose up from under the sacking and moved towards him, filled with a dark foaming liquid that bubbled and smoked like a broth. The Master held the Grail and drank deeply, then passed it along to Sir Lancelot. In this manner did each knight sup in his turn — Sir Gawain, Sir Pellinore, Sir Kay, Sir Perceval and myself. Each man yawned and stretched, feeling his life renewed to his very bones. Sir Kay once described the experience of drinking from the Grail as “like rubbing sleep from the corners of your soul,” but to me it has always tasted like medicine of the bitterest kind.

  When all had partaken, we stood at the Master’s command to recite the vow, the tallest stooping to avoid hitting their heads on the low rafters.

  “I, Knight of the Round Table, swear loyalty to my fellow Knights, and to uphold the code of our glorious and Eternal Quest. An eye for unrest. A sword to the tyrant. A shield for the weak. To never lack in courage, mercy, generosity and grace. In the name of Almighty God and the King.”

  My pocket watch reached the stroke of midnight.

  Day Two

  I

  There was much to be done once the Master’s decision had been made. Indeed, I was so absorbed in preparing for our departure, Sir Lancelot may have interpreted my industrious manner as somewhat brusque. He approached me as I was seeking appropriate clothing in which to dress the Master and Sir Pellinore for contact with the wider world. The latter’s full hunting garb would act as something of a beacon, while the former would be no less conspicuous if he remained in his nightwear and dressing gown. A return to the cottage, however brief, was out of the question. So was the ceremonial armour I had hastily packed for the ritual. I therefore had to content myself with the items in Sir Perceval’s lost property box.

  “Slim pickings there Luc,” he remarked, as I inspected a mouse-bitten travelling cape in the dawn light. “Unless you want them to look like they’re off to a fancy dress party with a very broad theme.”

  “I was hoping for a more muted effect,” I said, discarding a tunic of faded Lincoln green. Sir Lancelot picked it up and rubbed the material between his thumb and fingers, before tossing it back in the box.

  “Lucas; a word,” he said. Sir Perceval, who had been on the point of leaving the room, suddenly found much to interest him in the woodwork of the door frame. “In private,” added Sir Lancelot.

  “Don’t mind me, I’ve got no interest in your little schemes. Got stacks to do,” said Sir Perceval, and made a great show of bustling out of the room. Sir Lancelot closed the door firmly behind him. Whatever it was he had to say, I hoped it would not take long, for I had just discovered a jacket with leather patches on the elbows in the Master’s size, and I was eager to match it with a pair of trousers. “Well? What do you think?” said Sir Lancelot.

  “The collar has seen better days, but it will fit him well enough,” I replied.

  Sir Lancelot made an impatient tutting sound. “Of his decision.”

  “It is not my place to offer such an opinion, Sir Lancelot.” A grey cotton shirt had caught my eye, and I scrutinised it for moth bites.

  “So you do have an opinion, at least?”

  “The Master’s decision is the Master’s decision. That is the beginning and the end of it.”

  “Oh come off it, Lucas; this is me you’re talking to. It’s a crazy idea! Even by his standards.”

  “This conversation does not appear to be heading in a constructive direction.”

  “And what’s so constructive about what he’s proposing? The only way to deal with this problem is face it, head on. You know that, Lucas. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I am going to support the Master fully in his decision. A decision that was not taken lightly.”

  That much, at least, I could say with confidence. After the ritual, we had retired to the main bar to discuss our options while the Master sat in deep deliberation. Throughout the long debate he remained silent. Only when our chatter burned as low as the dwindling fire in the grate did he finally speak.

  “We shall seek Merlin,” he said, rising from his chair. I stood up alongside him. “Only he can help us now. Lucas: attend to the matter of our departure.”

  The five who remained seated looked at each other in amazement.

  “Forgive me, sire, I’m tired,” said Sir Lancelot, “but I could have sworn I just heard you say ‘We shall seek Merlin.’ ”

  “He is the only one who can offer counsel on this matter. The only one who can, by his magical arts, protect the Eternal Quest from all that threatens to destroy it. We leave at first light.”

  “But Merlin’s dead,” said Sir Gawain.

  “Merlin passed out of history. But he did not die. Did he, Sir Kay?”

  “Well, I don’t think so. Not exactly. That is to say, not technically, if the history is correct, but —”

  “Your History, Kay?” said Sir Perceval.

  “In part, yes. My book has a brief section concerning wizards. But there are other books in my collection, some of them attributed to Merlin himself, that speak in more detail of his final destiny.”

  “So consult your books, and tell us exactly where to find him,” said the Master.

  “It’s not that straightforward,” said Sir Kay with mounting alarm. “These are not primary historical records. They’re scraps of legend; rumour and hearsay. A patchwork quilt of prophecy and poetry, stitched together by bargain-basement bards.”

  “Then you will simply have to unstitch them,” said the Master.

  “But it’s been so long, sire! Take my own History, for example. Even I find it hard these days to remember what is true, and what was written to, well…” Sir Kay swallowed and twitched his cheeks, “…conceal the truth.”

  “Calm down, Kay. It won’t come to that,” said Sir Lancelot. The side of his mouth twisted upwards in a lopsided smile. “We won’t be seeking Merlin, because that means going back west. And that is no easy journey. Isn’t that right, sire?”

  “Petty practicalities are not my concern, Lancelot!” shouted the Master. His hands gripped the back of his chair so tightly that it trembled audibly on the stone floor. “Merlin is my decision, and that is the end of it. Sir Kay, you have until dawn.”

  “As you wish, sire,” said Sir Kay, and left to commence his research.

  “Perceval. Is my bed here made up?” said the Master, letting go of the chair.

  “Always, sire.”
<
br />   “Then I shall retire.”

  “What a brilliant idea,” said Sir Lancelot.

  The Master turned to look at him for a moment. There was that smile again; Sir Lancelot’s dark amusement at a private joke.

  “Wake me when we are ready to depart, Lucas,” said the Master, and went to his room.

  †

  My fingers alighted on a black, clip-on tie in the bottom of the lost property box. “I believe that the Master has the best interests of the Eternal Quest at heart,” I said, fumbling with the rusty clasp.

  “And that’s your final word on the matter?” said Sir Lancelot. The mechanism was stuck tight, but it came loose with some cajoling.

  “A crude invention, but it serves its purpose well enough,” I said, holding the tie against the shirt so he could see the match. But Sir Lancelot was already at the door. He opened it with some force, disturbing Sir Perceval, who just happened to be passing at keyhole level in a low crouch and straightened up suddenly, pulling a muscle in his back.

  II

  The question of transportation was, at heart, one of mathematics. On one side of the equation: seven knights, plus luggage and one cauldron of the approximate height and circumference of a well-fed middle-aged stomach. On the other side: two means of transportation. The Jaguar would take five of us. Another two would have to use the only other vehicle in Sir Perceval’s garage: a motorbike and sidecar, left to the landlord in the will of an eccentric regular to settle a thirty year bar tab.

  The finer details were sorted out by means of a little logic, and a lot of cajoling. As to the logic, the Jaguar would lead, with myself as the most experienced driver taking the wheel. Sir Kay, bag-eyed and belligerent from his nocturnal studies, insisted he could only navigate from the passenger seat; however, there was no question of the Master agreeing to travel in the back. Sir Perceval’s cauldron-like proportions ruled him out as far as the bike was concerned, and the very thought of Sir Pellinore travelling in such an unsupervised manner made my mouth dry up like a stale biscuit.