Sleepless Knights

by Mark Williams

  “Sir Pellinore,” I said, and shook him gently but firmly. I could find only the weakest of pulses. “If you have the strength, the Master needs you.”

  “Herne?” said Sir Pellinore, opening an eye.

  “It is Sir Lucas,” I said. “We must hurry. We have to go and get Sir Kay, and bring aid to our fellow knights in the field.” But even before I spoke the words, I knew how empty they were.

  “The Beast turned the tables on me, butler. Got me on the chest — see?”

  He pulled up his T-shirt to reveal two large bloody puncture marks from a snake’s teeth. “The quest mastered the man, in the end.” Sir Pellinore chuckled.

  Then he closed his eyes and breathed out his last rattling breath.

  †

  Sir Pellinore was a lot heavier than I expected. I had carried him up the cliff from the beach, not knowing where I was going or what to do next, lost in a numb, grief-struck daze. Then I saw Merlin, and had stumbled half way back down the cliff-side towards the cowled wizard when I dropped Sir Pellinore’s body. He slid down the scree and came to rest by a rock on the shore. Merlin did not lift a finger to help me. He merely stayed there like a standing stone. It was this more than anything that made me quake with anger and want to throttle him with my bare hands.

  “The Eternal Quest is over!” I called to the wizard. “The Master lies on the brink of death.”

  Merlin nodded.

  “I hope you are pleased with yourself,” I said.

  He nodded again.

  “All this is your fault.”

  He shook his head.

  “Do not try to deny it. You knew this would happen if you came back.”

  He nodded. I laughed, mirthlessly.

  “Is there any point in even asking for your help?”

  Merlin pointed at the inert body of Sir Pellinore, and then to me, to my bloodstained chest. “This is no time for riddles, damn you!” I shouted, my voice echoing around the rocks. Merlin pointed to his own chest, to the place where an amulet would have hung, had he been wearing one beneath his cloak. His finger traced the outline of a necklace. My hand reached up to my chest. There was nothing there. I was no longer wearing the amulet. Exactly when and where I had lost it, I could not say. But now that I thought about it, I was not sure it had been with me ever since falling off my neck during my tumble down the Camelot laundry chute. So how on earth had I teleported? This and a hundred other thoughts were vying for utterance when Merlin stepped into the vortex of the Otherworld portal, swirled around a few times, and vanished.

  I picked up the body of Sir Pellinore, this time hoisting him over my shoulder more securely in a fireman’s lift. I walked towards the portal. The hairs on my head stood up as I approached. My face tingled with what felt like static electricity.

  I stepped over the edge, and followed Merlin into the Otherworld.

  Yesterday Three

  I

  “We meet at last, Sir Guy of Gisbourne,” said Robin Hood. His bow was drawn, the tip of an arrow aimed directly at my heart.

  “The pleasure is all mine, so-called Robin of the Hood,” I replied.

  “You are a good deal shorter than I expected, Sir Guy.”

  “Your insolence, however, is of precisely the stature I anticipated. Did you really think you could steal from the Sheriff’s purse without reaping the full harvest of his wrath?”

  “Be that as it may, I have you at an advantage.”

  “Indeed? How so?”

  “Surely even one as distant from the life of the working man as you has heard of my skill with the bow? I could fell you and your lackeys in half a breath,” said Robin.

  “Though it pains me to admit it, you are correct.”

  “So give me one good reason not to pierce your black heart and leave your corpse for the crows?”

  “I will give you two.” A second squad of my men emerged from their hiding place in the greenwood, leading two captives at sword-point. “Friar Tuck and Little John.”

  “Hello, Robin,” grinned the Friar. “What a thing to happen, eh?”

  “Came out of nowhere. Had no choice but to surrender,” said John, less amused than his companion. “Give the word, Robbie, an’ we fight to the death.”

  “Nobody dies today, John,” said Robin Hood. “Sir Guy knows that full well.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. You do.” Robin Hood seemed to have something in his right eye, for it closed and opened in a sudden spasm.

  “Do not be so confident about that,” I said. “If you ask me, Robin Hood, you look far from hale and hearty.”

  “Oh… Do I?”

  “Yes, I am afraid that you do. Guards, seize him! Bring him to the castle.”

  †

  “The charges laid against the outlaw Robin Hood are as follows,” said the Sheriff of Nottingham. “That in the year of our Lord eleven hundred and ninety eight, he did knowingly steal property of the Crown, namely: five hundred gold marks, fifteen hundred silver marks, thirty pigs, twenty two swords —”

  “Twenty six,” said Robin Hood, picking his nails.

  “Twenty six swords and shields, fifty barrels of mead —”

  “Fifty five.”

  “Suffice to say,” I interjected, lest the Sheriff burst a blood vessel, “that the outlaw is guilty of crimes numerous and grievous against the Sheriff of Nottingham, wise and generous administrator of this county.”

  “Aye, generous to him and his own, while the poor starve to death!”

  “Peace, John,” said Robin Hood.

  “What is the punishment to fit such a list of crimes, Gisbourne?”

  “I believe that would be death, Sheriff,” I said. “To be more precise, death by firing squad.”

  “Firing squad?” said the Sheriff. “What the devil is that?”

  “I meant archers, Sheriff. My apologies.”

  “No, don’t apologise, I like it. ‘Firing squad.’ I shall use it again.”

  “Does the prisoner have any last words?” I said.

  “Yes I have actually, Sir Guy,” said Robin Hood. “You are quite sure that I look far from hale and hearty?”

  “Indeed, Robin.”

  “Not as much as he’s about to look, eh, Gisbourne?”

  “Most amusingly put, Sheriff.”

  “Sir Guy, you can’t do this,” said Friar Tuck. “Not now.” He looked at me beseechingly. “Not yet,” he added, so that only I could hear.

  “The law is the law,” I said. “An example must be made. Archers at the ready!” Ten archers drew their bows taut with a sound like the stretching of a great muscle.

  “Take aim!”

  Robin Hood looked at me without fear or regret. Indeed, if I had to describe his expression in one word, it would be ‘peeved.’

  “Fire!”

  Ten arrows were loosed from their bows. Eight struck him in the torso; two hit wide of the mark. Crimson bloomed on Lincoln green. Robin Hood staggered but did not fall.

  “Is that the best you can do?” he laughed.

  “Reload,” I said.

  “No!” said Friar Tuck, attempting to rush forwards. My men held him back. Little John merely watched in silence.

  “Fire!”

  Another ten arrows, this time all of them hitting their target. Robin Hood fell to his knees and fixed the Sheriff with an unblinking stare. “Now I come to think of it, it wasn’t five hundred gold marks at all,” said Robin, and spat out a mouthful of blood. “It was a thousand.”

  “Fire!” screamed the Sheriff. Another ten arrows loosed. Three of them hit Robin Hood in the face; one in each eye, and one in the middle of his forehead.

  “That tickled,” he said, and lurched backwards into the wall.

  “One more round, just to make sure” I said, as Robin Hood slumped to the floor and died.

  “Good job, Gisbourne,” said the Sheriff.

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” I replied. “Now cut the throats of those other two, and we shall see about a spot of
lunch.”

  †

  The cart bumped and bounced along the pitted track. I tried for the third time to get a suitable grip on the arrow. “Aaaaah!” said Sir Lancelot. “By all the Treasures, be careful, Lucas!”

  “I am sorry, Sir Lancelot, but these are far from ideal conditions.”

  “So stop the bloody cart!”

  “We daren’t risk it till we clear the district,” said Sir Gawain with a grin, the scar already fading on his freshly-renewed throat.

  “It would take the edge off the advantage of being dead if we were recognised,” said Sir Perceval, taking off his friar’s cassock. “By God, this stuff itches.”

  “Alright, alright,” sighed Sir Lancelot. “Just get on with it.”

  “Aye, Lucas. Lancelot gets the point.”

  “Shut up, Gawain.”

  “Sorry, King Harold.”

  “I mean it!”

  I waited until the cart stopped rattling and tried once more to pull the final arrow out of Sir Lancelot’s face. The eyeball stretched and quivered around the edges of the arrowhead. Sir Lancelot took another gulp from the flagon of Grail potion.

  “Not too much, Sir Lancelot, until I have got it all out.”

  “Hurry up then!”

  The punctured organ yielded the arrow. The elements of Sir Lancelot’s eye rearranged themselves as the eyeball resumed its natural shape. Sir Lancelot blinked hard, taking a deep glug from his flagon. “What was that ‘one more round, just to make sure’ business?”

  “I am sorry, Sir Lancelot,” I said, turning my attention to the many arrows still sticking out of his chest. “The Master instructed me to make your death appear as convincing as possible.”

  “That. I would call over-convincing.”

  “Fine one you are,” said Sir Gawain. “ ‘That tickled’ indeed. Serves ya right. Glory hog.”

  “Glory hedgehog, more like.”

  “Ha, good one, Percy.”

  “Glory’s got nothing to do with it. The least I could do was give the people something to remember me by. Five years was the agreement, Lucas, not five months! What the hell happened?”

  “A change of plan, Sir Lancelot.”

  “You don’t — ow, watch my nipple! — say.”

  “The Master is becoming increasingly anxious at the rumours in circulation, concerning his return,” I said.

  “He’s been officially dead for 600 years. Surely no-one believes he’s coming back now?” said Sir Gawain.

  “The Master pays a great deal of attention to what he refers to as ‘tavern talk.’ He also feels that Sir Lancelot’s current interpretation of the Eternal Quest is, how can I put this —”

  “Bloody showing off?”

  “I was going to say, a little on the colourful side, Sir Gawain.”

  “So tell me, Lucas,” said Sir Lancelot, “where was this expert on the outlaw tradition today? Why didn’t he grace us with a personal appearance? Maybe then he could see some of the ‘colourful side’ for himself. Like the colour in the cheeks of the villagers, who face a well-fed winter thanks to our hard work.”

  “As I say, the aforementioned tavern talk has given the Master much cause for concern. He feels it is best that the Eternal Quest enter another period of quietude —”

  “What?!”

  “— until he can put in place certain measures, to ensure these rumours are dealt with once and for all. To that end, you are to head to France, establish a new identity and lodgings, and await further instructions,” I said.

  “And what if I say no?” said Sir Lancelot, pulling out the final arrow from his chest with a hard yank. “What if I refuse to twiddle my thumbs for yet another hundred years? Has he got ‘certain measures’ in place to deal with that?”

  “No, Sir Lancelot.”

  “No, I thought not.”

  “The Master merely said he was sure Knight X would do whatever was required to further the greater interests of the Eternal Quest.”

  We all left our seats as the cart took a particularly deep rut. Sir Lancelot had been pressing an arrow tip against his thumb. The force of the jolt broke the skin, the blood congealing as soon as it appeared. He flicked away the scabrous husk.

  “Alright then, fine. But tell me one thing, Lucas. Exactly what do you mean by ‘tavern talk’?”

  II

  All gentlemen and yeomen bold

  All drinking men come listen

  To hear a shining story told

  With lustre it doth glisten!

  Flagons clashed, sending a sousing of ale down onto my head. The drinkers marked the rhythm of the ballad by stamping their feet on the ground, so that the floorboards of the tavern creaked and see-sawed. This, combined with the falling spray and raucous noise, gave me the fleeting but vivid impression of standing on the deck of a ship in the middle of a wild sea.

  A man so brave and strong and bright

  That none may share his name-o!

  The doom of evil in the night,

  Let villains run in shame-o!

  I tried to banish such thoughts by concentrating on the matter at hand. If, for example, I were to tear up these wooden floorboards, they would serve as an effective means of escape from a disintegrating boat.

  No. What was I thinking?

  That was not the matter at hand; that was not it at all.

  I shook my head to clear the image, and ducked a flying puddle of beer. Sir Pellinore! Yes, that was it. I was here to find Sir Pellinore. I stepped further into the fug of mead and masculinity.

  It is a tale of a knight so fair

  From whence he came no man can say

  I tapped the shoulder of a stout fellow in front of me. The parts of his face not covered by a wiry black beard were blotched and ruddy, giving him the appearance of a wild boar.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “I wonder if you have seen a certain fellow I happen to be seeking?”

  “Maybe,” he replied. “Whasse look like?”

  “He is of my approximate age and height, though somewhat more dishevelled in appearance.”

  “Whassis name?”

  But yet he is beyond compare

  This noble man we call Sir Kay!

  Kay! Kay! His name is Kay!

  His legend grows with every day

  “He does not often have cause to give his name,” I said, conscious of aggressive scrutiny from porcine eyes.

  So raise a cup and drink with me…

  To the greatest man in history!

  “But if he had, you may know him by the title of Sir Pellinore.”

  At this the music stopped, as if the name had ordered me one awkward silence, instantly delivered. The hog-man grunted into the quiet. “Garr!” he said. “The devil is among us!” Before I could say ‘no, he is not,’ rough hands were pulling me through the angry throng and out into the sharp night air.

  In the field behind the tavern, a large pile of dry wood was stacked around a central stake. Some distance away from this, a small outhouse stood by the fringe of a forest next to a makeshift gallows, created from the nearest tree, a length of rope, and a barrel. The motley band of locals spilled out of the pub and gathered around me. Some of them held flaming torches. Others brandished sharp agricultural tools with an enthusiasm that suggested they were not about to be used for the purpose for which they were designed.

  “Ho, Tom! We’ve got another one!” said the hog-man.

  “Have we now,” said Tom. “Best be getting on with it, then.” At his signal, several drinkers walked to the outhouse while another brought a second barrel and length of rope over to the tree.

  “Another one of whom, may I ask?” I said, trying and failing to loosen my shoulders from the tight grip of trotter hands.

  “As if you don’t know!” said Tom, clearly the master of whatever unsavoury ceremony was about to transpire. “In the last days, before the return of King Arthur (his name be praised) and the start of his new Golden Age, certain false knights will walk among us. Only one ma
n is worthy to pave the way for King Arthur (his name be praised) and that is Sir Kay, who even now fights in disguise for the cause of the common folk, with his brave band of merry men.”

  “He robs from the rich and gives to the poor!” said one fellow, still ballad-minded.

  “Any other knights claiming to be of his court are demons in disguise,” hog-face hissed in my ear. “Sent from Hell to deceive the hearts of men. Like this ‘Sir’ Pellinore. Ain’t that right, Tom?”

  “I saw it with me own eyes. Found him in the forest half dead, gored by a wild animal. Took him to the village, and by sundown his wounds had gone! Babbling, he was; full of talk of dragons. Claims he can speak their language. And I says, them that talks with dragons, is like to be warlocks!”

  “And them that looks for warlocks, is of that same warlock company!”

  Tom’s lackeys returned from the outhouse with the pinioned person of Sir Pellinore. It was fruitless to attempt to unravel such a tangle of supposition and superstition. Clearly, a more direct approach was required.

  “Did I say Sir Pellinore?” I said. “A simple mistake on my part, easily explained. My name is William Rees of Dyfed, a wandering tailor. I was searching for a Lord Palomides, by whom I am commissioned to fashion a garment for his forthcoming nuptials to Lady —”

  “What ho, Sir Lucas!” said Sir Pellinore.

  “Liar!” shouted the hog-man. “He’s of the warlock’s company an’ all!”

  “There’s only one thing to do with warlocks,” said Tom, “And that’s hang ’em, draw ’em and quarter ’em!”

  “Then burn ’em!”

  “Aye, then burn ’em! So that the name of our once and future King Arthur (his name be praised) should be… praised.” The trotters tightened and I was shoved towards the gallows alongside Sir Pellinore.

  “Evening, footman,” he whispered. “Between you and me, I seem to have mislaid my Grail snifter in all this kerfuffle.”

  I felt in my pocket for my own Grail flask. There was a small amount of fluid remaining, but I doubted it would be enough for the two of us. Still less when one factored in the effects of hanging, drawing, quartering and burning. None of our company had experienced such a thorough execution before. I was not at all sure how well we might recover, not to mention who would administer the required dosage.