Sleepless Knights (31 page)

“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'?”

 

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 man 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.

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.