Sleepless Knights

by Mark Williams

  “No, wait,” I said, intending to go back for Sir Pellinore. But several other creatures had now emerged from various sides of the room and were dragging his body away like incompetent pall-bearers.

  “Leave him! There’s nothing you can do!” cried the voice of my rescuer, and I reluctantly ran alongside him as he sped between row-upon-row of the laden tables.

  Several of the creatures gave chase. My saviour pushed over stacks of plates as we ran past. I followed his example, sending cascades of crockery into the creatures’ path. At the end of the room, we flung ourselves against a pair of heavy wooden doors, pushing open a gap just big enough for us to squeeze through. The creatures had almost caught up with us. I could see their livid faces and caught the warm stench of rotting flesh as they loped out of the gloom. I shoved the doors shut and my rescuer wedged a timber of wood through the thick outer handles, forming a barrier that held fast as the doors buckled. The creatures’ pounding gradually ceased as they abandoned their thwarted chase.

  I gulped in a lungful of the cold outside air, only to immediately expel it again in an exclamation of surprise.

  “Sir Perceval!”

  “Lucas,” he said, flatly. I was disappointed my delight at seeing him was not mutual. But before I could say another word, I realised where I was standing. “That was the Great Hall!” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Camelot?”

  “Yes.”

  “My heavens.”

  “There’s no Heaven about it,” said Sir Perceval. “Welcome to Hell.”

  II

  We did not remain overlong in the ruins of Camelot and made our way out through the dilapidated rear gates. The road was uneven and unkempt, strewn with rubbish and clumps of weed. The light was failing, but enough of the surroundings were visible for me to see that the land surrounding Camelot had fallen into a similar state of barren neglect. A cold mist seeped up out of the ground and seemed to grasp at our feet.

  “Those creatures will come for you again. You can be sure of that,” said Sir Perceval. “What happened to you, Lucas? How did you die?”

  “I am not sure that I did, Sir Perceval.”

  “You must have. Those things go for all the dead, when they first arrive. They came for me. Showed me what I had to do. Lucky I found you when I did. I was only at Camelot because that’s where the Grail led me.”

  “The Grail! Then it is safe?”

  “As safe as anything can be, here. I’ve been seeking it since the moment I arrived.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “This way. I was about to follow it out of Camelot, and then I found you.”

  “What manner of creature are those things?” I said. Something about them reminded me of Morgan’s skeletal army, for they seemed to be neither living nor dead.

  “Whatever they are, they’re part of this place. Part of Hell. Part of Annwn.”

  “That cannot be so, Sir Perceval. Annwn is only one part of the Otherworld. It does not account for this wasteland. And in any case, it does not explain what Camelot is doing here. I do not understand.”

  “I don’t either, Lucas, and Lord knows I’ve had enough time to try.”

  “But you have only just arrived.”

  Sir Perceval shook his head. “It’s hard to keep track, but it feels like I’ve been here for years. And every day is the same. I catch a glimpse of the Grail, soon after I wake. I chase it for miles, until I can run no more, and sleep where I fall. Then I wake up cold and bone weary, see the Grail, and off I go again. Like I said: ‘Hell.’ ”

  “Come, Sir Perceval, there is hope yet. I came here in search of Merlin, and I intend to find him. To get him to put everything right, once and for all. And while there is strength left in my body, dead or otherwise, that is what I intend to do. Are you with me?”

  “There!” said Sir Perceval, pointing into the mist. “Did you see it?”

  “I saw nothing, Sir Perceval.”

  “Are you blind? The Grail was right there! Floating between the weeds, low to the ground.” He fixed me with a cold glare. “Don’t you dare follow me. It’s my quest this time. Mine!” And off he sprinted into the fog, leaving me alone on the path.

  †

  The track took me down to the outskirts of the Enchanted Forest. Here, too, the desolation had spread its curse. I quickly lost the path and became surrounded by a conspiracy of trees, hampering my progress with thick branches as if the forest were folding its arms against me. I wanted to call out for Sir Perceval, but had no desire to attract any more of those monsters from the Great Hall. In any case I was reluctant to disturb the complete silence of the forest; the kind of silence so intense it very nearly shouts.

  So I pushed on as best as I could, the brush of every branch like the grasping half-dead fingers of those pitiful creatures. But the more I struggled forwards, the more the forest seemed to tighten its grip. I stopped and forced myself to breathe deeply. What was I doing? A butler does not panic, no matter what the circumstances; and I was still a butler, even in Hell. I would just have to start thinking like one, for I was damned if I was going to be thwarted by foliage, infernal or otherwise.

  I lifted the branch directly blocking my face. Another dropped down to take its place. I lifted that one with my other hand, and yet another replaced it. But I found that by holding up the two branches, and ducking under a third, I could pass through, and by stepping over the low branches beyond these, I was on my way. By such methodical means my progress soon became, if not smooth, then certainly steady going. The fog started to thin out and so did the forest, my stride growing more confident. Until, that is, I took a step forward and lost my footing, tumbling down a steep bank and through several clumps of brambles before coming to a winded standstill.

  I had fallen into a small valley with a stream running through it. On the opposite bank was the beginning of a large camp. Tents and marquees, men, women and horses, lights and voices. And fire. The sight of it reminded me how cold I was. Such a camp did not seem to be the kind of gathering the creatures would make, and so I crossed the stream to take a closer look.

  †

  It was not merely a camp, but an encampment. And one I well recognised, for half of Camelot were among its number! I walked towards them in a daze, but still keeping to the shadows, not yet daring to make my presence known. In a large main marquee, a group of knights talked of tactics. I glimpsed Sir Palomides holding up one of his maps and arguing with Sir Dagonet over lines of attack. Sir Accolon and Sir Marhalt stood in the awning, issuing instructions to Owen the armourer as he sharpened their swords outside. I could not fathom it. Had my passage through the forest taken me out of the Otherworld, and back in time? Did this explain what Camelot was doing here? But the explanation did not suffice, for the main marquee did not fly the Master’s emblem — the red flag of Pendragon which signified his residence. But of course, that was it. He was not here; none of us were. This was the valley of Camlann. I stroked my upper lip, recalling a moss moustache and the words of Sir Gareth. So this was the eve of battle. Or at least, not far from it.

  It was then that I heard a woman’s voice, soft and low, coming from a small tent to the side of the main marquee. A voice that was passing familiar, giving instructions to a young man outside her tent. My spirits lifted. It was a voice I had given up hope of ever hearing again. Beaumains bid the page adieu and went back inside. I sank into despair. What on earth was I going to say to her? There were so many things to speak of. It would take me a lifetime to give voice to them all. If this was indeed the time and place I thought it was, then I had been away on the Grail Quest for seven years. I could not simply walk back in there with nothing but a wave and a ‘how was your day?’

  Perhaps I would ask the young man walking towards me. As he came closer I saw that he was none other than young Gwion. Why, this was a homecoming and a half! “Gwion!” I said, but he heard me not. Indeed, before I could move out of his way, he passed straight through me as if
I were a ghost. Emboldened by the shock, I ran into the tent after Beaumains.

  She was making her bed with those deft swift movements I knew so well. “Beaumains,” I said. Then again, louder this time. But just like Gwion she carried on, unheeding. I dithered in the tent as she went about her work, torn between the desire to make her see me and guilt at invading her privacy. I was loath to leave her, for now that I had found her again there was nowhere else I would rather be. More than anything, I wanted to hear her voice. Perhaps she talked to herself when she was alone. Perhaps she talked in her sleep. I had no right to such intimate details, yet somehow that only deepened my desire to know them. I turned my back as she undressed, then sat by her bedside. As she lay there, restless and full of care, I had the fanciful notion that, although she could not tell me about her day, there was nothing to stop me telling her about mine. And so I started to talk.

  After a while she seemed to relax, for all the world as if she were being soothed by my voice. So I kept going, thinking that perhaps my story might mingle with her dreams and cause her to mumble back some words of her own. I told her about my week; of all that had transpired since first setting off from the cottage with the Master on Ritual Day. And, as she eventually drifted into a deep sleep, I told her of the Eternal Quest. Of the sacrifices one must make in the service of one’s master. Of a working life without her by my side. Of how such a life, and such sacrifices, might stretch tight the skin of a man’s heart and hollow out its insides like a drum, so that its every beat strikes out a deep thud of resounding solitude.

  She did not make a sound all night, but I kept my vigil into the small hours, maintaining my ghostly monologue, just in case. Eventually, crushed into silence by the weight of my one-sided conversation, I thought about how right Sir Perceval had been: in stumbling away from that cursed Great Hall and into this time and place, I had not left Hell behind me at all, only fallen deeper into its depths.

  III

  At some point I must have drifted off myself, for I awoke to find Beaumains up and about, her bed put away and the tent full of familiar faces. About fifty of my former domestic staff were gathered in exactly the same manner as they would have been for a team briefing at Camelot. Upon waking, I instinctively cleared my throat and, in my befuddled state, was preparing to address them, when Beaumains spoke.

  “Good morning everybody, thank you for your attendance,” she said. To hear that voice say even such commonplace words gave me the sustenance of a thousand breakfasts. Fortified and curious, I took advantage of my invisibility to walk among my old friends and colleagues.

  They were dressed in armour, most of it old and ill-fitting. Likewise their hands, accustomed to wielding mops and platters, looked clumsy and awkward holding swords and shields. Again, the words of Sir Gareth came back to me, and I saw the full reality of the situation. My staff were going to war.

  “I would like to start with a reminder that you are under no obligation to stay,” said Beaumains. “Nobody would think any worse of you, if you wanted to leave.”

  “Never,” said Bedwyr.

  “I’ll stand and fight as long as I can grip me sword, ma’am,” said Enid.

  “Thank you, Enid. But in that case, please belt it to your left side, not the right. Like we practised, remember?”

  “Oops. Silly me. Forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

  “Mordred’s the one who’ll be missing a head, if I’ve got anything to do with it,” said Owen. “When I think of all the hours I’ve wasted sharpening and smelting for the likes of him… well, it’s payback time.” He swiped his sword, narrowly missing Bedwyr’s ear.

  “Owen, be careful,” said Beaumains. “And Bedwyr, for heaven’s sake, look to your reflexes! You did not bat an eyelid just then.”

  “I like that, Owen, ‘It’s payback time’. Might use that as a battle cry,” said Bedwyr.

  “Get your own.”

  “Aw, go on.”

  “Alright. But don’t wear it out.”

  “Bedwyr,” said Beaumains, her smooth voice wrinkling with exasperation, “you will not last five minutes on the battlefield if you do not pay attention to what is happening around you.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, I was distracted by Geraint.”

  The former Gatekeeper was engaged in a separate huddle with Gwion, who was highly amused at the demonstration of a coin trick that Geraint kept getting wrong, then insisting his mistake was intentional.

  “Geraint?”

  “Yes, Miss B!”

  “Am I keeping you from some important conjuring engagement?”

  “No, Miss B. Just showing Gwion how to do the old three-coin-switcheroo.”

  “Badly,” grinned Gwion.

  “Watch it, lad.”

  “Can you imagine any situation where the demonstration of a coin trick would help in combat?” sighed Beaumains.

  “Could come in handy as a spot of misdirection? Someone comes charging at you with an axe, it’s the last thing they’d expect.”

  “Please, Geraint, be serious. This might well be our last stand. Don’t you want to make it one they will remember?”

  “I dunno, Miss B, if you ask me all these so-called Last Stands are getting to be a bit much. Seems like you can’t have so much as a small scuffle these days without it being Final Battle this or Overwhelming Odds that. It’s the all or nothing of it that narks me.”

  Beaumains ran a hand through her hair, the black flecked with grey. It would have suited her, had she not looked so tired. She sighed with her whole body and seemed on the verge of a colourful outburst, when Sir Gareth entered the tent and beckoned in her direction. I followed her outside, leaving the infantry, such as they were, to their preparations.

  †

  Back outside, most of the camp had been packed away. Armoured knights circled on horseback, arranging men into fighting units. Some practised sword moves on foot, while others kneeled and prayed. Dark clouds gathered in the west, but above the camp and over to the east it was a bright midsummer’s day. Sir Gareth drew Beaumains as far away from the army as possible, over to the stream that ran through the valley. I followed them, fast becoming accustomed to my role of impotent eavesdropper.

  “Any news?” she said, when Sir Gareth was confident it was safe to stop.

  “A curious encounter. I dare not think of it as news of either good or ill, but I cannot help wondering.”

  “Go on.”

  “The only men I met on the eastern road were a wandering knight who gave his name as Sir Howard, and his manservant. ‘Strangers to this land,’ or so they said. And a strange sight they were, the pair of them, for they had made an attempt to hide their features.”

  “But you recognised them?”

  “Take away seven years, and a disguise that would shame a child, and I would swear they were Sir Kay and Sir Lucas.”

  Beaumains swayed as if Sir Gareth had just struck her across the cheek. “You are sure?”

  “Yes. Especially Lucas. He had a bit of moss stuck to his lip. I think he was hoping it might pass for a moustache.”

  “But, this means that King Arthur —”

  “I don’t know what it means. And neither do you. That is why it must go no further.”

  “But if there is hope, why should we let our comrades think there is none?”

  “Because false hope can be worse than no hope at all.”

  Beaumains shook her head.

  “Listen to me,” said Sir Gareth. “If they are coming, they will return from the east. I told them the place and the hour of our fight. The rest is up to them. Take such inspiration from that as you can, let it give you strength to lead your staff. I have seen them train. They need every advantage they can get.” Sir Gareth smiled, not unkindly.

  “A moss moustache,” said Beaumains, and tried to smile back. “Without their aid, it will be a massacre.”

  “No,” I said, pointlessly.

  “I have to get back,” said Sir Gareth. “It is almost noon.
Take heart Beaumains. We may yet —”

  The sudden blast of a horn rang out through the valley, shattering the stillness of the battle-ready camp. A single horseman came galloping down the hill to the south west, not far from the forest through which I had travelled. The knights jumped to arms and all eyes were fixed on the valley slope, for this was the approach from Camelot. But the rider was alone and bore only a white flag that flowed out behind him like the plume of a jet plane.

  “A peace offering? From Mordred?” said Beaumains.

  “I doubt it. Go to your staff. Prepare to ride.” Beaumains hurried back to the camp. I longed to follow her, but knew there was nothing to be gained from it. Whereas learning the nature of this stranger’s arrival might at least provide me with more information. I took a last look at my deputy running across the grass, and followed Sir Gareth to intercept the horseman.

  †

  At the bottom of the valley slope, Sir Gareth and his invisible shadow were met by a most surprising sight. The rider removed a helmet to reveal the long black hair of Queen Guinevere.

  “My lady,” said Sir Gareth, kneeling.

  “Don’t kneel for me,” she said, dismounting. “I lost the right to that courtesy a long time ago.”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned, ma’am,” said Sir Gareth.

  “I doubt King Mordred would agree. Especially after I stabbed him in the leg.”

  “My lady?”

  “One drunken grope too many,” she said. “The straw that broke the donkey’s back, and caused it to sever its master’s tendon.”