Sleepless Knights (5 page)

I dusted my hands, just as time resumed its normal flow. The alarm rang out and engaged the sprinkler system. Our immediate vicinity was filled with smoke, water, and the violent cries of men startled to discover they were punching
themselves in the face. I grabbed the flummoxed knights and ran with them through the nearest fire exit, out into an alleyway, and back to the Jaguar, sirens wailing ominously through the sultry night air.

 

An uneasy silence characterised our return journey to the Once & Future Inn. Sir Lancelot glowered in the passenger seat. Sir Gawain sulked in the back, taking frequent gulps from a hip flask. I was grateful for the time to gather my wits and soothe my senses, as my curious experience had left me feeling drained and confused. I gripped the steering wheel tightly to stop my hands from shaking, and by forcing myself to concentrate on the road ahead, returned to a satisfactory state of self-control. Nothing mattered now, save finding the Master and returning to the Inn before midnight.

“Do you intend to continue looking for him?” said Sir Lancelot, as if reading my thoughts.

“Yes, Sir Lancelot: Sir Kay, Sir Perceval, and Sir Pellinore are combing the vicinity for the Master as we speak.”

“Doesn't he know what night it is?” exclaimed Sir Gawain.

“In such matters he has no control over himself,” I replied.

“Unlike the rest of us, Gawain,” said Sir Lancelot.

“Oh belt up.”

“Lucas,” said Sir Lancelot, ignoring him, “are you saying you'll search for him until midnight and beyond? Even if it means forfeiting our lives?”

“Heavens, no. Only my own. Everybody else I will convey to the table beforehand.”

“Yes, I believe you would… You said he's suffering from the wandering variety of his condition. Where did you leave him last?”

“By the woodland, where Sir Pellinore makes his quest.”

“What time did he disappear?”

“I could not say precisely, but I would estimate between two and three o'clock this afternoon.”

Sir Lancelot ruminated awhile. “Tell me, Lucas. Do you ever wonder what would happen if any of us failed to drink from the Grail on Ritual Day?”

“On occasion, Sir Lancelot. Today being a good example of such an occasion.”

“And…?”

“I foresee a number of possible outcomes, should that unfortunate scenario come to pass. All of them are highly undesirable.”

“Hm.” Sir Lancelot ruminated a further while. “I think I know where we'll find him. An old road, now a fallow field. It's far enough for him to have exceeded the range of your search party, but close enough for him to stray there these past hours, if he had a mind to it.”

“Forgive me Sir Lancelot, but time
is
pressing hard — can you be sure?”

“Pretty sure. He's been there before, Lucas. We all have.”

†

I was sure that Sir Lancelot was mistaken, for there was nothing to distinguish this field from any of its neighbours, apart from a forest that bordered its easterly edge, stretching up and away over the hills. Indeed, so little did this neglected spot impress itself upon me that I hesitated as I straddled the wooden gate, looking back towards the car. Sir Lancelot merely flapped an exasperated hand towards the
field, so I climbed down to make a closer inspection of the waist-high weeds.

The cloudless sky and a full moon provided ample illumination, and my spirits rose when I saw a stretch of flattened grass in front of me, made by one who had recently shuffled their way up the field's incline towards the forest. Treading softly and scarcely daring to hope, I followed the track into a small clearing.

There, to my blessed relief, was the silhouette of the Master. He sat cross-legged and facing a tree trunk, his knife in his lap, surrounded by wood shavings. He had started to carve a picture in the bark, and sat in deep contemplation of his craftsmanship, tracing the outline of a woman's face with his finger. I rested my hand lightly upon the Master's shoulder.

“Sire?”

King Arthur looked startled, as if he were being addressed by a complete stranger. Then recognition spread across his face, banishing all bemusement. He yawned. “Lucas. There you are.”

“Yes, sire. Today is Midsummer's Day —”

“I know what day it is. You do not need to remind me of my own terms and conditions.”

“No, sire. But you had wandered, and went missing —”

“And now you have found me. And we have plenty of time. Come. Let us go.” I helped him to his feet, brushing off the shavings and supporting him as we walked down the flattened path back to the car.

†

The Once & Future Inn had rung last orders, but there was no sign of the landlord and his search party. I checked the basement to find it fully, if a little hastily, prepared. A table
had been created from several catering packs of mayonnaise, with seven beer barrels serving as chairs. Something in the corner moved at the sound of my feet on the cellar steps — the Grail, covered with an old sack. My pocket watch read ten minutes to midnight.

“Where are the rest of my knights?” said the Master from behind me. Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain followed him, closing the door.

“They formed a search party to find you earlier this evening, sire,” I said.

“Must we now venture out to seek
them
?”

“That's not the royal ‘we,' I'll bet,” muttered Sir Gawain.

“A few more minutes and we shall have to commence without them,” said the Master. Heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards above, sending small showers of dust sprinkling down upon us. The cellar door swung open to admit the breathless and bedraggled trio.

“Sire! Saints be praised!” said Sir Perceval. “And Sir Lancelot! Oh, and Sir Gawain! Alive; alive and unscathed! A miracle.”

“Had you reason to think otherwise?” said the Master, giving Sir Lancelot a quizzical look.

“Why, yes!” said Sir Perceval. “The televisual tidings, of course! Such carnage! Er, that is to say…” In response to the Master's darkening expression, Sir Perceval's face began to take on the crimson complexion I recognised from earlier in the evening.

“Sit down and catch your breath,” commanded the Master. “Kay. What are these ‘televisual tidings' of which he speaks?”

“Sire,” I said, “perhaps this particular tale would be better told
after
the ritual, given that we have less than eight minutes remaining?”

“Sir Kay? Now, if you please.”

Sir Kay glanced at me for assistance, but I could give none, for the Master had spoken. “Well, sire. Picture the scene. The moon is high in the velvet black sky; as round and full as a well-turned cheese. Sir Perceval, his voice ringing as clear as a smithy's hammer on anvil, strides out 'pon the bracken-strewn forest floor, proclaiming —”

“Cut to the meat,” growled Sir Gawain.

“I can hardly do the tale justice without setting the scene.”

“Consider it set,” said the Master. “This is not the time for
Chronicles
.”

“Oh, very well. We divided ourselves in two, myself to search the immediate area, while Perceval and Pellinore made a foray into the next valley.”

“I'm on good terms with the landlord of the Horse & Hound,” said Sir Perceval. “I hoped one of his patrons might have seen you on your wanderings, sire, and could provide me with information.”

“By the time I arrived, the only thing he'd provided you with was half his cellar,” said Sir Kay.

“Information harvesting is thirsty work. I noticed
you
wasted no time getting a drink.”

“What was left of it, after you'd finished.”

The Master cleared his throat sharply and Sir Kay continued. “While partaking of a small, well-earned measure of fortifying spirit, sire, I chanced to view the pub's television set. There we saw a sight most doleful. A picture of Sir Lancelot, struck stone dead!” The Master's expression had taken on the colour of burnt toast, but Sir Lancelot did not bat an eyelid. “It seemed that he expired in front of a large audience of onlookers at a charity dinner, and was pronounced deceased at the scene. Quite, quite dead.” Sir Kay paused to look at Sir Lancelot, as if to verify his status among the living.

“Get to the skirmish!” said Sir Perceval.

“I'm coming to that. The news programme went on to say, in so many words, that it was curious how Lancelot — though they called him by some other name, Lance somebody —”

“De Troyes,” said Sir Lancelot.

“That it was curious how this ‘Lance De Troyes' was dead, given that corpses are not usually in the habit of starting large scale brawls. Someone matching his exact description had been identified at the scene of a violent quarrel in the city centre, at a popular nightclub —”

“This being a cross between a tavern and a banqueting hall, for dancing, assorted revelry and suchlike,” said Sir Perceval.

“Yes, thank you, Perceval. The scale of this conflict, sire, was conveyed via some hazy black and white pictures of Sir Lancelot engaged in combat against tremendous odds —”

“Oh aye,” said Sir Gawain, sitting up. “Hog the glory, why don't yer!”

“— and emphasised by a roving newsman, reporting from the scene, which was one of great devastation, with many wounded. This herald implored witnesses to come forward, offering a reward for information that might aid the authorities in pursuing the perpetrator and his accomplices, and bringing them to justice.”

My watch read four minutes to midnight.

“The very existence of the Eternal Quest has been placed in jeopardy,” said the Master.

“The fault was mine, sire,” I began.

“No, Lucas,” said Sir Lancelot. “If there is any blame, it's mine to bear.”

“Ours,” said Sir Gawain.

“As you wish, Gawain. Ours.”

“There's no cause for panic,” said Sir Perceval. “We'll just do what we always do. Move on and lay low, until all this blows over.”

Suddenly, from somewhere outside the pub there came the sound of a high-pitched wailing. Sir Pellinore shot bolt upright, wide-eyed. “Banshees!” he cried.

“No,” said Sir Kay. “Those are sirens.”

“Mermaidens? On land? Never!”

“
Police
sirens, Pellinore,” said Sir Kay.

“Kay, please tell me you remembered to switch the lights off,” said Sir Perceval.

“It's
your
pub!”

“But you were the last one down —”

“Quiet!” said the Master. Having reached a crescendo, however, the caterwauling quickly subsided into the night, and each knight breathed a sigh of relief.

“Did you hear that, Lancelot?” said the Master. “They will not rest until they have found you. Until they have found me.”

“Let them come,” said Sir Lancelot. “I am ready for the spin of Fortune's wheel.”

“Your confidence is misplaced.”

“We'll see.”

“No, Sir Lancelot. We shall not. First, we partake of the Grail. Then, I will decide how to preserve the Eternal Quest, which you are so willing to sacrifice to feed your lust for fame and glory.”

My watch read two minutes to midnight, as each knight took his place around the small table. By small increments I squeezed between the Master and Sir Perceval's ample girth. At a word from King Arthur, the Grail rose up from under the sacking and moved towards him, filled with a dark foaming liquid that bubbled and smoked like a broth. The Master held the Grail and drank deeply, then passed it along to Sir Lancelot. In this manner did each knight sup in his turn — Sir Gawain, Sir Pellinore, Sir Kay, Sir Perceval and myself. Each man yawned and stretched, feeling his life renewed to his very bones. Sir Kay once described the
experience of drinking from the Grail as “like rubbing sleep from the corners of your soul,” but to me it has always tasted like medicine of the bitterest kind.

When all had partaken, we stood at the Master's command to recite the vow, the tallest stooping to avoid hitting their heads on the low rafters.

“I, Knight of the Round Table, swear loyalty to my fellow Knights, and to uphold the code of our glorious and Eternal Quest. An eye for unrest. A sword to the tyrant. A shield for the weak. To never lack in courage, mercy, generosity and grace. In the name of Almighty God and the King.”

My pocket watch reached the stroke of midnight.

 

There was much to be done once the Master's decision had been made. Indeed, I was so absorbed in preparing for our departure, Sir Lancelot may have interpreted my industrious manner as somewhat brusque. He approached me as I was seeking appropriate clothing in which to dress the Master and Sir Pellinore for contact with the wider world. The latter's full hunting garb would act as something of a beacon, while the former would be no less conspicuous if he remained in his nightwear and dressing gown. A return to the cottage, however brief, was out of the question. So was the ceremonial armour I had hastily packed for the ritual. I therefore had to content myself with the items in Sir Perceval's lost property box.