My hands were tied behind my back and a coarse noose pulled over my head. As it scraped against my nose I inhaled a whiff of damp rope that sent my stomach lurching as if it were trying to climb up through my insides.
“I must say, you are brave men indeed,” I said, trying not to let my voice quiver.
“Thankee,” said Tom.
“Brave; but mistaken.”
“Oh?”
“This Sir Pellinore is no warlock.”
“Ha! Says you!”
Hog-man spat on the ground. “An’ what makes you so sure?”
“Because I am a warlock.” The noose was pulled tight around my neck. It imbued my voice with a strangulated pitch that did little to give my words the desired degree of menace.
“We knows that!” The crowd roared with laughter.
“That’s why we’re hanging, drawing and quartering you!”
“Then burning you!”
“But I am no ordinary warlock,” I said. “I am Herne the Hunter.”
“Ha, ha!”
“Herne!”
“Hark at him!”
“Set us free immediately, or I will use my magic on you.”
The crowd laughed even harder, imagining the spectacle, which was exactly what I wanted them to do.
“Do not force me to demonstrate my powers by further provoking my wrath.” I waited for the fresh hilarity this generated to pass.
“What’s all this, footman?” said Sir Pellinore.
“A ruse, Sir Pellinore,” I whispered from the corner of my mouth. “This is your last chance!” I shouted. “Let us go, or suffer the consequences!”
As I hoped, my words were having the desired effect on highly impressionable minds. Already some of the mob had lost their mirth and replaced it with a nervous sense of expectation.
“I’ve had enough of these games,” said Tom. “We’re wasting precious drinking time! Remove the barrels!” Our hangman took a step towards me, but I was gratified to see him pause for a moment before doing so.
“Stay your hand, and I shall spare you,” I said to him. He looked to Tom and the hog-man.
“What are you waiting for?” roared Tom. “Move!” The hangman still hesitated. A cloud covered the moon. A gust of wind guttered the torches and sent a whispering rustle through the trees.
The perfect moment.
I drew myself up to full height, teetering on tip-toe on top of the barrel, and deepened my voice. The effect of the tight noose changed my tone from comical to sinister.
“Foul creatures from the deep places. Harken to the summons of Herne! Dread demons that dwell in the dark. Answer my call and come to my aid!”
The hangman took a couple of steps backwards, bumping into the man behind him.
“From the depths of Annwn, I summon thee, Glatisant, the Questing Beast!”
The wind whipped up a treat and my confidence in the charade increased a hundredfold. A breaking storm at this moment would be of great benefit to my plan.
“Let the noise of your arrival fill the air! The sound of sixty hounds baying for blood!”
“Whassat?” said one, dropping his cudgel. “Was that dogs barking?”
“Yes! I hear it too, Herne!” said Sir Pellinore beside me.
“Mighty Beast of Herne! Head of a snake, with fangs like knives! Body of a beast to bear down on your prey! Feet of a stag, no man may out-run! Sweep out of the forest and devour my foes!”
Lightning split the sky directly above, a flash of inverted antlers over my head. The first drops of rain fell, hissing as they hit the torches. The crowd started to split into smaller groups, wavering, uncertain. “Ah hell, I’ll do it myself,” said Tom, but he was knocked over by the hog-man, who ran squealing for the tavern.
“Behold, the Beast! Behind you and before you! Around you and about you! See its forked tongue flicker! Hear its ravening roar!”
Thunder rolled. The rest of the crowd screamed and scattered.
“Yell hound, yelper, hound of doom! Heed the Hunter’s call! Destroy these people, destroy them all!”
Tom got back on his feet and froze, a look of utter terror in his eyes as he saw something move in the trees. “Call it off! Call it off! I was about to set you free!” With shaking hands, Tom cut my bonds and removed the noose from my neck. I took his knife and released Sir Pellinore, and we stepped down from the barrels. “Herne, I beg you,” quailed Tom, “keep your foul Beast at bay!”
Seeing as the ruse had served its purpose, I was about to do just that when a mighty gust of wind shook the forest, as if my ‘Questing Beast’ were about to burst forth from the branches. Tom screamed and looked above him. Whatever he imagined he saw passed over his head, blocking the way back into the tavern. He uttered another chilling cry and ran headlong into the woods, the Beast apparently at his heels.
“That was decidedly more effective than I hoped,” I said, rather pleased with myself. “It is always gratifying when one can escape from a tight spot without resorting to swords and fisticuffs. Would you not agree, Sir Pellinore?”
Sir Pellinore was rubbing his chafed wrists, his eyes glazed over with a film of wonder. “Such quarry as I have never seen… Never dreamed to see, not in all my years of beast lore. A monster of many parts. What greater quest can there be for Pellinore?”
“Surely you did not — come now, Sir Pellinore, you jest! There was no actual beast, it was merely the power of my suggestion. A conjuring trick, if you will.”
Sir Pellinore ignored me. He started to jog towards the forest.
“Sir Pellinore, where are you going?”
“To hunt that Questing Beast,” he shouted. “I will master it. Or else I shall bleed of the best blood of my body!”
In a last flash of lightning, Sir Pellinore was absorbed by the trees.
†
“Stay where you are!” said Sir Kay. One step closer — just one step, Lucas — and I throw the whole damn lot into the fire!”
The storm was in full swing now, trying with all its might to get inside the small cottage. Lightning illuminated a trapped nerve pulsing in Sir Kay’s temple, as if a maggot were trying to force its way out from under his skin. I shivered at the image, and then from the cold, for the storm had soaked me to the marrow. The thought of Sir Pellinore running wild in such weather was most disturbing, but there was little I could do for the moment, especially when other pressing matters were at hand. I leaned forward into the roaring warmth of the fire.
“Keep back!” A strip of parchment slipped from the rope-tied bundle in Sir Kay’s arms, inches away from the hungry flames.
“Please, Sir Kay, if you would only move away from the fireplace and sit down, I will explain the reason for my visit.”
“No! I’ve had enough, Lucas. I’m at my wit’s end.”
“Then at least step forward a small pace. Your tunic is starting to smoulder.”
“Good! I shall burn myself, along with these infernal pages!”
“Come now, Sir Kay. You and I both know that would achieve little more than a temporary unpleasantness you would only regret in the morning. Along with your hangover.”
“Don’t care. And I’ll have you know I’ve had very drink to little. To drink. Very little to drink.”
Lightning flashed again, and I noticed that the room was in dire need of a thorough clean. Mercifully, Sir Kay took half a step down from the hearth, still holding the bundle of parchment close to his chest.
“I appreciate the enormous strain you are under,” I said. “If you would only take a seat —”
“There’s just no pleasing him! Never. I’ve spent years trying to get it right. Adding this and removing that. Tweaking here, revising there. And for what? Who ever hears The Chronicles of Sir Kay? No-one, because they’re secret! I’m the laughing stock of every tale-teller and minstrel from here to France.”
“I have been meaning to talk to you on this whole matter of minstrels. It seems that several of your songs are in wide circulation.
”
“Really? Are they?” Sir Kay perked up a touch. “I have been dabbling in ditties lately. More of a side-line, really, seeing as how I’m not allowed to tell any of my proper stories.”
“That is partly the reason for my visit, Sir Kay. Your ballads are creating an unhealthy atmosphere of tavern talk, in which the activities of the Eternal Quest are attracting undue attention.”
“And we can’t have that, can we?” said Sir Kay, but his smile spoke otherwise.
“The common mind is very impressionable on the matter of the Master’s return; even now, all these years later. I myself have had first hand experience of it, this very night.”
“You can’t blame me for the pot-valiant prattling of mead-muddled morons.”
“Perhaps not, but there is also the matter of verity.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think Sir Lancelot would have a few things to say about the content of some of your ballads,” I said.
“I’m sure he would. But the preening of Lance Hood is no concern of mine, and it doesn’t make my complaint any less valid. The only person who ever pays any attention to my work is Arthur, and even then it’s only so he can pick holes in it. What’s the point of it all?”
“It is funny you should ask, Sir Kay —”
“I won’t make any more changes. I refuse. I’d sooner burn the whole lot of it.”
“Please, Sir Kay, if you would only sit —”
“And stop telling me to sit down!” Sir Kay stepped back up onto the hearth again. “It’s alright for you! You’re out there with the rest of the gang, having adventures, and, and, larks!”
“Larks?”
“Jolly larks! And all this so-called ‘Secret Historian’ gets to do is write about it. And even then, Arthur’s not happy! Well you can sit down for once, Lucas. Sit down and listen to my latest instalment. And after you’ve listened, you can go back and tell him it’s not changing. Not by one single word.”
I sighed, pulling up a chair and sitting down at the table.
“That’s better,” he said. “Now, pour yourself some wine.”
“I would really rather —”
“Pour it!”
I managed to find enough dregs in the several flagons on the table to passably fill a goblet. Sir Kay perched on the hearth, placing the pile of parchment beside him. He sniffed, and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes with a sleeve. “Now. Where did we get up to last time?”
“Your last rewrite concerned the Master seizing the Grail.”
“Ah yes. ‘The Escape from the Otherworld.’ Are you sitting comfortably?”
I pulled my chair closer to the fire. My clothes started to gently steam dry.
“Yes.”
Sir Kay picked up a squashed scroll from the top of the bundle and unrolled it. “Then I shall begin:
III
…and no sooner had King Arthur seized the Grail, than the air was rent by a piercing cry.
“Hark! Mermaidens!” said Pellinore.
Lancelot shook his head. “Le Fay. Sire, we must not tarry.” But though King Arthur knelt within an arm’s reach of Sir Lancelot, it was as if a vast distance stood between them.
“Sire, please,” said Sir Lucas the butler.
“Haste!” said Pellinore, laying a hand upon the King’s shoulder and breaking the spell.
“Yes, of course, we must fly,” said Arthur, getting to his feet. “To the Prydwen!” Whereupon the Grail did rise up into the air and follow behind King Arthur like a faithful hound.
They had scarcely gone ten paces when the cry of Morgan Le Fay rose to a shriek. As if at the bidding of this foul scream, the walls of the Glass Fortress splintered like winter ice pressed by a boot. The cracks widened, revealing soldiers made entirely of glass and with the heads of dogs (these heads were also made of glass, should any man have cause to wonder). These strange warriors blocked the way ahead and behind. Death most certain stared the four knights full in the face, as the dog soldiers advanced with their swords of crystal, snarling as if they had never been fed. “Now we are done for!” cried Sir Lancelot, with damsel-like distress.
But just then, when all hope seemed lost, the heads of a dozen of the dogs shattered into smithereens! With a mighty battle cry, Sir Kay arrived on the scene, felling twelve of the monsters in a single stroke. So thoroughly did he set upon them that Sir Gawain, who was following behind, was forced to cry, “Save some for me, Sir Kay!” Thanks to the timely inspiration afforded by this brave and bold hero, the six-strong company fought their way back into the entrance hall of the Glass Fortress.
Her warriors defeated, the unseen Morgan howled with rage. The shining walls darkened. The roof above the knights cracked and fell in a swift sharp blizzard. The company ran for the doorway, jumping and rolling and leaping through the raining shards, and not a single cut upon their heads did this deadly ice sustain. Once outside, the six and the Grail found themselves upon the coast, where a blessed sight met their eyes. King Arthur’s ship the Prydwen, moored beyond the surf with Sir Perceval standing on the deck, their small landing boat still beached and waiting on the shore. “Raise anchor!” King Arthur cried out to Perceval, as twelve hands pushed the landing boat into the waves, the Grail alighting in its stern.
The evil enchantress rose up from out of her dark castle, in the land of Annwn that lies behind the Glass Fortress. Full wroth was she at the raiding of the Otherworld’s greatest treasure. “Do not look back!” said Sir Lancelot. Only the heart of Sir Kay was stout enough not to heed his warning. Glancing o’er his manly shoulder, he saw the form of Le Fay filling the sky, tall as a tower, churning up the earth as if the land itself had turned to ocean. A torrent of rocks and sand crashed into the sea. But fortune smiled upon the fleeing knights, for instead of capsizing their small vessel, the rising wave carried them past the breakers and out to the waiting Prydwen, where Perceval pulled them safely aboard.
Seeing the advantage her rash rage had afforded her foes, Le Fay’s mood blackened a hundredfold. Mustering all her magic, she summoned forth a wild tempest that tore up the water around the Prydwen. The sea writhed as if it were a nest of angry serpents, and lo, it was indeed full of serpents, and angry ones at that. They champed their pin-like teeth in the ship’s wake, crunching up the wooden deck of the boat beneath the knights’ feet. The elements united in the service of the Dark Queen, pouring down on the seven with all their might. The blasting wind battered mast and sail. Rods of rain beat down on the deck. The Prydwen rolled on a gathering wave, pitching up a mountain of water into the death-dark sky.
“Secure the Grail!” said King Arthur, and Perceval and Lucas lashed it fast to the mast, while the rest of the knights turned their hands to tiller and sail.
“The ship will be torn apart!” howled Perceval.
“Sturdy is the vessel that brought us to the Otherworld shore,” said King Arthur. “And sound the sail that outran the Flying Squids of Atlantis. By my soul, she will not fail us now!”
The Prydwen bared its teeth into the eye of the storm, the gigantic wave rising ever higher, until the ship sat near upright on its rear. Barrels slid down the deck and down into the sea, swallowed up by the champing serpents. The knights grabbed for hand-holds, hanging tight with all their might. All save Perceval, who could not secure a grip fast enough, pawing and clutching in vain at the slippery deck. A serpent bit through the stern and opened wide its jaws to welcome him. With a desperate cry, Perceval fell head-first down the length of the ship. But swift and strong was the arm of Sir Kay, who caught the plummeting Perceval by the foot and held him fast, a hair’s breadth from the snapping teeth, until the serpent slid back into the deep.
Up and up the Prydwen climbed, till it seemed as if her prow would puncture the roof of the world. Then, with a sad groan, the deck of the ship began to break apart. At this, King Arthur at the mast fell to his knees before his new-won treasure.
“Deliver us,” he said to the Grail, and his voice, though s
till and small, came clear to the ears of every knight in the midst of that squall. “Deliver us back to our own sweet shore.” At his words the Grail did seem to glow like the first light of dawn. All turned their eyes to the heavens and lo, there indeed was the dawn — shining down over the crest of the wave, a small patch of blessed light caressing the blighted deck.
Morgan Le Fay poured the last of her powers into the seething sea, which snatched at the ship with watery fingers, pulling at its sides, ripping down the sail and sousing the deck so that the knights knew not if they were on the water or under it. But the Prydwen heeded her not, pressing on to the peak of the wave, where it seemed to pass briefly through a doorway. There, all of a sudden, the foul malevolence of the maelstrom fell away. And Morgan Le Fay was no longer in the water and the air, but somewhere back in the depths of her realm. There was a sound like a door being slammed with a thooming thud. The scream of the witch was replaced by the keening cry of sea birds. The Prydwen, still atop the giant wave, was thrust out into the cold fresh air of a summer morn.
Bold now was the light, bold and bright, warming each knight to his bones and causing him to laugh aloud with the brimming joy in his breast. The Prydwen soared high above the wide green meadows of the sea, like a swan, like a ship of the sky. And it seemed to all seven souls as if they were sailing a course into the very heart of the sun…
†
…Well? What do you think?” said Sir Kay.
The front of my tunic had dried out nicely but my cloak still clung to my back, cold and clammy. “Most entertaining, Sir Kay,” I said.
“As requested, I’ve toned down my own role a lot since the last draft,” he said.
“It is much improved in that respect, Sir Kay. Though, if memory serves, was it not the Master who saved Sir Perceval from the sea serpent’s jaws?”
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”
“I believe in the current draft it was you who performed that heroic function.”
Sleepless Knights Page 24