This left Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain as the bike party; an arrangement which provided the additional benefit of helmet and goggles to disguise the two of us who were, thanks to their recent television appearance, the most recognisable of our company. Of these two, Sir Lancelot was the more experienced rider, and had spent decidedly less time than Sir Gawain in Sir Perceval’s wine cellar over the past twelve hours. Thus, he was given the task of driving the bike and dealing with Sir Gawain’s many objections. I left him to it, and turned my attention to the matter of the cajoling.
“Books be buggered, Kay! The Grail takes priority!” said Sir Perceval.
“Fine. We’ll see if that perishing pot can find Merlin. Perhaps it will conjure us a compass from a crouton?”
“May I suggest, Sir Kay,” I attempted, “that you leave behind those volumes you have already consulted these past few hours?”
“Out of the question! I need to cross-reference en route. Besides, I’ve already agreed to give up the front seat. Maybe I should give up the back seat too, hm? Cram myself in the boot? How would you like that?”
“Very much indeed,” said Sir Perceval.
“Fine. I’ll just stay here and rot with Sir Hosis of the liver.” Sir Kay strode over to where Sir Gawain was resisting Sir Lancelot’s attempt to exchange his tankard for a mug of black coffee.
“Sorry, Lucas,” said Sir Perceval, folding his arms and resting them on his belly. “But if the Grail’s not going, then neither am I.”
At that moment the Grail, which had been resting on top of a toolbox, floated up into the air and hovered above the car, whereupon it conjured a protective rubber mat and several ropes from within its interior, tying itself securely into place on the roof through the open windows. As it did so, I could have sworn I heard it utter a weary sigh.
If only Sir Pellinore had been so compliant. From the moment we had gathered in the garage he had been jittery and aloof, as if he were afraid the car might rear up on its hind wheels and attack him. He sat in the corner of the garage furthest from the Jaguar, clad in the T-shirt, jeans and leather jacket I had selected, muttering to himself and drawing patterns with his hunting knife in a patch of oil on the floor. On closer inspection these revealed themselves to be anatomical sketches of the car, complete with notes speculating about its diet, behaviour and habits.
“That beast, Lucas. I have seen one before,” he said. I watched him warily, having witnessed the occasion in question. It had taken a large amount of sweet-talking and an even larger cheque to persuade the owner of the vehicle not to involve the police. “At night, their eyes light up like dragons, and they roam the highways for prey. Wasteful, too. Once they’ve killed they barely eat a morsel, leaving the carcass for the crows and flies. Hedgehog they go for mostly, sometimes fox, or a bit of dog. Occasionally… a human.”
Unfortunately, Sir Perceval chose this moment to begin his lengthy manoeuvre into the back seat. His preferred angle of rear-end first, and his red-faced, reluctant demeanour, gave him the appearance of a forest creature being swallowed by a substantial serpent. Sir Pellinore sprang forward with a yelp of alarm, knife aloft, and was inches away from slashing the front tyres when he was grabbed by Sir Lancelot.
“Bloody hell!” said Sir Perceval. “What’s bitten Pellinore?”
“You’re the one being bitten! Eaten alive, dammit! Unhand me, yellow knight!” he shouted, thrashing to remove Sir Lancelot and continue his rescue. I glanced at his anatomical drawing, and a solution occurred.
“It is a form of symbiosis, Sir Pellinore,” I said.
“Foul Symbiosis! Have at thee, and be gone!” said Sir Pellinore, still struggling.
“No, Sir Pellinore, we knights, and the car, we —”
“We live together in intimate association, to our mutual benefit,” said Sir Kay, cottoning on in spirit, if not in brevity.
“You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours,” added Sir Lancelot.
“G-n-will-you-let-go-of — Ah! Aha. Now then.” He stopped squirming. “You mean, like the Kraken and the Merfolk, who pick fish bones out of its mighty teeth in exchange for safe passage to warm seas?”
“It is almost exactly like that,” I said. This seemed to allay his fears, and Sir Lancelot released him. Sir Pellinore took one last look at his drawing as if committing it to memory, then approached the car cautiously, keeping his hand on the hilt of his hunting knife in case the Jaguar decided to go back on its part of the bargain.
III
My heart was in my mouth as our little convoy set out along the narrow roads surrounding the Once & Future Inn. The tension came partly from the importance of not attracting any undue attention to our progress. But it was more than that. The simple act of sitting behind the steering wheel was an unpleasant reminder of the unsettling occurrence in the nightclub.
Now that some time had elapsed, I was plagued by a nagging sensation of déjà vu. The explanation for it, however, lay beyond my grasp, and in reaching even tentatively for the memory I experienced intense waves of nausea, so I resolved to focus on the more tangible concerns of the present.
I decided it would be safer to drive slowly along the back roads as much as possible. As well as making us less conspicuous, this would give Sir Kay more time to research our final destination, for although I knew we had to head west, we would soon have to commit to a more specific direction.
We had scarcely gone five miles, however, when a police vehicle pulled out from a junction, separating us from Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain, who had been keeping a close but cautious distance behind the Jaguar. As alarming as this was, I tried to remain calm. In the event of any separation, we had arranged that the forward party would continue west, pulling in at the nearest suitable spot to wait for the others to catch up. Besides, we were doing nothing wrong, and there was no reason to think that the police car’s presence on such a quiet country road was anything other than a coincidence.
Until, that is, the driver switched on his lights and siren.
“Lucas? What’s going on? What does he want?” said Sir Perceval.
“At this moment, your guess is as good as mine, Sir Perceval,” I said, praying that the Jaguar had not been identified leaving Cardiff city centre, or that the body of Sir Kay’s intruder had not been discovered in his back garden.
“Well, this is just fantastic,” said Sir Kay as I pulled over onto a grass verge. Sir Lancelot gave me a barely perceptible nod as he and Sir Gawain passed us on the bike. This made me feel slightly better, but there was still the unfortunate matter of Sir Pellinore, wriggling with delight at the prospect of quizzing the officer on the science of automobile biology.
“This flashing, wailing species disgorges its passenger with ease,” he said, squinting through the back window at the officer getting out of his car. “I’ll ask him what manner of symbiosis he shares with his host, and see if it compares with our —”
Sir Perceval leaned over and hit him squarely across the head with a hefty book. “I stand corrected,” he said, as Sir Pellinore slumped unconscious into Sir Kay’s lap. “Your library is proving its worth after all.” Sir Kay grimaced and hastily obscured Sir Pellinore with a blanket.
“What is it, Lucas, why have we stopped?” said the Master, waking from a doze.
“The police, sire.”
“What?”
“A routine check, I am sure.”
The Master went as white as a washday sheet, opened the car door, and proceeded to vomit on the grass, just as the officer reached the driver’s window.
“What’s up with him?” the policeman asked.
“Car sickness, officer. It will soon pass,” I said. The officer regarded the Master with a smirk, and I was struck by an overwhelming, but blessedly brief, impulse to reach for one of Sir Kay’s books and wipe it from his face. He took out his notebook and shifted his attention to the Grail lashed to the roof.
“Bit precarious, that.”
“It is tied securely, I can assure you.
Classic cars and roof racks do not good bedfellows make.”
“No, suppose not. Lovely vehicle. Nice colour. Cream and… maroon, is it?”
“Plum,” I said.
He inspected the protective rubber sheet beneath the Grail. “Play havoc with your paintwork.”
“Needs must, officer.”
“Where you taking it, then? Antique fair?”
“Yes,” I replied, grasping the unwitting lifeline with both hands. “That is indeed where we are heading, officer.”
“Should fetch a fair bit, I reckon.” He rapped the Grail with a knuckle, eliciting a hollow clang. I felt Sir Perceval tense up behind me and prayed for his continued restraint.
“Old, is it?”
“I am no expert, but I believe so.”
“Iron age?”
“Ancient Celtic, certainly.”
“Smashing piece. Tempted to make you an offer myself. You can read in the car then, can you?” This was directed at Sir Kay, who was attempting to obscure both his own face and the blanket-covered Sir Pellinore with a large leather-bound book.
“Sir — er, Kay,” I said. “The officer asked you a question.”
“Mmm,” replied Sir Kay.
“Don’t know how you do it. I’d be chucking up my breakfast, like your mate here. What’re you reading, then?”
With enormous reluctance Sir Kay lowered the tome to nose-level. “Research,” he said, and raised it again.
“Oh, I get it.” The officer winked. “Don’t let them so-called antique experts put one over on you. Knowledge is power, like.”
“Never a truer word spoken, officer,” I said. “Will that be all?”
“Almost. ’Fraid I’m going to have to be a bit of a pest first, though. Ask you gents to step out of the car, so I can have a good look at you.”
“Is there a problem, officer?”
“No, no. No problem. Only, we’re on the look out for a couple of men in connection with an incident in Cardiff last night. Quite a big fight, it was. Lot of damage to property, a lot of injuries. Two men were identified at the scene, maybe a third. Older men, like. About your age. One eyewitness put them leaving in a classic car. We’re especially keen to speak to one in particular, name of De Troyes. You probably saw his picture on the news.”
“We do not have a television,” said the Master.
“Fair do’s. Would you mind stepping outside the car anyway, sir? And you gents in the back? Won’t take a minute.”
“This is ridiculous,” said the Master. “We’ve never heard of Lance De Troyes, so why can’t we be on our way?”
The policeman paused, pencil poised above his notepad. “Now that’s funny. Because I never said anything about his name being Lance, and yet there’s you, saying you’ve got no telly…”
A bumble bee flew in through my window and out through the passenger door. Its buzzing sounded unnaturally loud to my ears, perhaps because all five of us were holding our breath at the same time. The policeman fixed me with a penetrating stare. I held his gaze and stared back. Deep into his eyes.
“I think you will find that you did mention his full name,” I said, calmly and quietly. “You said you were keen to speak to a man by the name of Lance. Lance De Troyes.”
The officer opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, as if he were unsure of even the smallest syllable. “Did I?” he said at last.
“Yes, you did. But I am sorry to say we have never heard of him.”
“Oh. I… see,” he said, more confidently.
“In fact, none of the gentlemen in this car know who he is. So, you can inform your colleagues to mark our vehicle off their lists, and not to stop us if we are seen again.”
“I’ll do that, sir. Yes. I’ll be sure to do that.”
“What is more, if they should see two gentlemen riding a 1940s motorbike and sidecar, there is no need to stop them, either. They cannot help with your enquiries.”
“Right you are. I understand,” he said.
“We should probably be going,” I said, a little faster and a little louder.
“Of course.” The officer seemed to perk up. “Don’t let me keep you.” He checked the rooftop ropes again with a brisk tug. “Seems secure enough. Just drive careful mind. Keep her under thirty, I would.”
“Thank you, officer.”
“No worries. All the best.”
“And to you.”
I watched him walk back to his car, scarcely believing my own powers of persuasion, and fully expecting the others to express equal amazement at what had transpired, as soon as the policeman was out of earshot. But they merely sat waiting for the off, as if nothing untoward had occurred, and so I put the car into gear and drove back onto the road.
IV
The bike party were not too far ahead, and our little convoy reformed in a lay-by half a mile away. Once I had informed Sir Lancelot of the reason for the delay, we resumed our westerly progress. Before long our route necessitated more substantial highways, and thus we would soon require a more specific destination. After several miles I bowed to the inevitable, handling my words with the degree of care one would reserve for a nest of hibernating hornets found in one’s attic.
“Sir Kay… I wonder if you have decided on our final destination?” I said.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied, closing his book and removing his spectacles.
“Oh. Have you?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Splendid. So where in the west are we heading?”
“Carmarthen.”
“Carmarthen it is,” I said.
“Or, Cardigan,” he added.
“I see. Well —”
“With an outside bet on Haverfordwest.”
“Forgive me, Sir Kay, but is that not three possible destinations?”
“Yes, and it’s three more than anyone else has come up with. So unless they have any better ideas, I suggest they keep their big fat mouth shut,” he said, for the benefit of the smirking Sir Perceval.
“I am not criticising your efforts, Sir Kay,” I said. “But searching three separate locations is highly impractical, not to mention unwise, given our recent brush with the law. Is there any way you could narrow it down?”
Sir Kay sighed. He opened his book, and pushed his glasses back onto his nose.
“I wish I could. When considering Merlin’s last resting place, it’s a hellish job remembering what’s truth and what’s fiction. See, here. One book, based on my original History, says it’s Carmarthen, the town of his birth, where Merlin rests beneath a hawthorn tree. Another, claiming to pre-date my History, says ‘Merlin’s Bridge’ is so-called because the wizard sleeps there in the stone. A third book, a collection of prophecies attributed to Merlin, suggests Cardigan, as that’s the name men now give to —” Sir Kay dropped his voice to a low whisper “— you-know-where. But precisely where at you-know-where, it doesn’t say.”
A thought surfaced, like a bubble in a drink.
“He is at Cardigan,” I said.
“Maybe he is, yes, but —”
“I know it,” I said. And somehow, I did. “That is where we will find him.”
“It’s as good a place as any, I suppose. But where in Cardigan?” said Sir Kay.
“Perhaps, in this matter, we should do what everybody else does,” I said.
†
The Tourist Information kiosk was part of a motorway service station, which also provided fuel for the petrol-hungry bike. Sir Lancelot steered into the petrol station on the lower forecourt, while I parked the Jaguar on the upper level. The Master immediately made for the conveniences and I followed at a discreet distance, lest he remain inside too long and lapse into another reverie. Sir Kay began a grudging search for a guidebook to Cardigan, and Sir Perceval was entrusted with Sir Pellinore in case he awoke from his enforced sleep.
My hunch proved its worth. Sir Kay was not long in finding exactly what we needed, and read aloud from the appropriate page of
Warren’s Guide to West Wales Wanderings as the Master and I rejoined him in the glass-fronted kiosk.
“ ‘The landscape of Cardigan Bay is rife with myth and mystery, and is rumoured to be one of the locations of the legendary court of’ — well, I don’t need to read that bit, er, let me see now… ah yes. ‘The cliffs of Merlin’s Bay (pictured) are said to be the last resting place of the famous wizard, imprisoned in the rock by Viviane, the Lady of the Lake. If they listen carefully, visitors to the cave known as Merlin’s Tomb (below, inset) might be able to hear the magician snoring in his eternal sleep.’ ” Sir Kay snapped the book shut. “Hackwork of the deepest dye. I say we check Carmarthen first, just to be on the safe side.”
“I feel it prudent that we make for Cardigan immediately. We have been blessed thus far with a relatively uneventful journey. It would not do to tempt fate, Sir Kay. Sir Kay? What is it? What is wrong?”
I followed the direction of his appalled gaze; a look I had previously only ever seen him use in bookshops, when witnessing a purchase he did not approve of.
The scene that presented itself through the window of the Tourist Information kiosk was, indeed, stupefying in the extreme. It ran as follows. Sir Perceval’s stomach had overruled my request to stay in the car with Sir Pellinore. He was queuing at a nearby burger stand, and so absorbed in the menu that he failed to see what we did — a bleary-eyed Sir Pellinore stepping out of the car and walking the life back into his legs, wobbling like a fawn.
At the same time, in the parking space directly opposite the Jaguar, an elderly couple had returned to their vehicle and were placing their pet poodle into the caravan hitched behind it. The animal was voicing loud protests at the travel arrangement, struggling wildly under the old woman’s arm. To Sir Pellinore’s befuddled senses, an innocent canine was being sacrificed to appease the caravan’s blood lust and buy the humans’ safe passage in its interior. We were standing well out of earshot, but I suspect the gist of his resultant cry involved a pledge to rescue the pup from its pagan captors, or die in the trying. To that end, he drew his knife and made a successful running jump at the back of the departing caravan, which then sped away with Sir Pellinore dangling from its rear roof ladder.
Sleepless Knights Page 5