Sleepless Knights (26 page)

Sir Lancelot followed shortly after. His arrival coincided with that of the King through the door leading off to the Royal Chambers. The two regarded each other from opposite sides of the table.

“The Queen sends her deepest thanks, Lancelot. As do I,” said the King, indicating for him to sit. Sir Lancelot did so.

“Anyone would have done it.”

“But not anyone
could
have done it.”

“There was only one sword for the job.”

“And only one swordsman.”

“Your Majesty is too kind.”

I found Sir Lancelot's reluctance to accept the Master's praise strange. The manner in which he had earned it was so extraordinary, that even now I can scarcely take it in. Having made his somersault through the gap in the wall, Sir Pellinore wasted no time in subjecting the werewolf to a procedure he later described to me as the Manticore Manoeuvre. Thus, when I emerged from the Green Room some moments after him, I was greeted by a most uncommon sight. Sir Pellinore had clamped himself piggy-back fashion onto the werewolf, his arms looped around the beast's shoulders, his legs crossed about the hairy stomach. This tactic was not without its drawbacks. Firstly, as Sir Pellinore's huffing and puffing testified, an enormous amount of pressure was required on behalf of the immobiliser. Secondly, as the werewolf's howling and growling proved, it had a decidedly aggravating effect on the immobilisee. It was a temporary solution, and one that was not helped by the reaction of those in the immediate vicinity.

Most of the feasters had fled the Hall. The Knights of the Round Table remained behind. Half of them had rushed to the aid of the fallen, bleeding King and hysterical Queen. But as they surged around the Master, I saw that Excalibur's enchanted scabbard had already started its usual work, the blood from his wound pouring back up his neck and into the gaping bite marks that healed into smooth skin. The rest of the knights surrounded the stationary werewolf, but were prevented from advancing by Sir Gawain.

“Keep back! Keep back the lot of yer!” he said. “Death to the man who touches a hair on my brother's head! Or anywhere else on him, for that matter!”

“
KILL KING ARTHURRR! KILL! KILL
!” said the werewolf, and jumped a step forwards as Sir Pellinore involuntarily relaxed his grip.

“Don't be a fool Gawain, Gareth's as good as dead,” said Sir Bors.

“No,” said Sir Gawain. “Not if we cut out the lupine gland. Right, Pell?”

“Gnnnn-uh-huh.” Sir Pellinore nodded as best he could. “Need… sword. Faerie-forged.”

“Excalibur!” said Sir Gawain.

Everyone looked to the King, who was still down on the floor. His wounds were healing fast, but not fast enough. Even if he had enough strength to stand after such a mauling, it was doubtful he could perform the necessary operation.

“King Arthur's the only one who can wield an enchanted blade with the required skill,” said Sir Bors.

“Not the only one,” said Sir Gawain. “Lancelot can. I've seen him use one before. Not Excalibur, but a faerie-forged sword nonetheless.” Sir Gawain turned to where Knight X stood among the group who had rushed to the High Table.

“But Sir Lancelot is away questing,” I said.

“Is he now?” said Sir Gawain.

Sir Pellinore's grip slackened further. The werewolf lurched towards the fallen King. The Queen placed herself directly in its path.

“Don't you dare touch him!”

“
GRRRUINEVERRRE
!” said the werewolf. Sir Pellinore dropped from its back. A claw swung for the Queen's face. Knight X blocked it with his left arm and fetched a right hook to the wolf's jaw that sent it whimpering to the floor. “Quickly, hold him!” he said, his mask falling from his face, and I gasped in amazement to see Sir Lancelot beneath. In the blink of an eye he was at the King's side, taking up Excalibur.

The werewolf struggled against the combined efforts of Sirs Bors, Menaduke, Agravain and Accolon to pin it down. Knight X — that is to say, Sir Lancelot — extended the sword so that the point touched the space between the werewolf's neck and left shoulder blade. The wolf shrank from Excalibur, as if perceiving a light obscured to the rest of us. “Whatever happens, keep your grip,” said Sir Lancelot to the restraining knights. As if he were signing his alias, he made a deep incision in the shape of an X. The werewolf writhed and yowled in pain. The knights held him fast as the sword sliced through to uncover the lupine gland: a hairy black lump the size of a crab apple, malignant and mocking.

Everything of Sir Lancelot was concentrated upon the sword point. Excalibur danced in his hands in an absurdly dainty manner. The werewolf bucked and thrashed and foamed at the mouth. Sir Lancelot cut around the remainder of the gland and thrust beneath it. This time, the wolf's howl had an undertone that was reassuringly human. Sir Lancelot bent Excalibur in a lever-like motion. The gland was expelled with a wet pop and flipped up in the air like a tossed coin. I caught it in a bowl and passed it to Sir Pellinore, who threw it into the fire where it sizzled and writhed and seemed to
shriek with a woman's voice, before vanishing in a puff of blue smoke. The werewolf looked at Sir Lancelot with a hangdog expression, panting feebly, its tongue lolling and receding to human shape and size. The rest of its features did likewise, until Sir Gareth lay naked in a pool of blood, twitching and shivering in a grim parody of childbirth.

†

“That witch queen filth will pay for cursing an Orkney!” said Sir Gawain, slamming his empty cup down so hard it cracked in his hand.

“I propose something more than simple revenge,” said the King.

“Oh, there'll be nowt simple about it. I'll give her a curse alright. I'll give her a curse where the sun don't shine.”

“Peace, Gawain.”

“Don't give me ‘peace' after all she's done! And all to get to
you
.”

“I did not call this meeting to discuss my sister's desire to make me pay for the sins of my father,” said the King.

“How can you say that, sire? Every attempt on your life so far has been relatively manageable,” Sir Kay said. “But tonight — tonight was on another level! The people will demand we strike back.”

“And strike we shall. But if what happened to Sir Gareth is to have any positive effect, we must learn from it. The curse was not intended merely to kill me, although I do not doubt that was Morgan's preferred outcome. It was a warning.”

“Warning against what? Women with more loose upstairs than a rat-ridden hovel?” said Sir Gawain.

“A warning against questing for the Grail. Sir Perceval has seen it.”

Those who had not heard Sir Perceval's story now turned to him with undisguised awe. “It's true,” he said, his fervour subdued but no less potent. “I almost got it, but it was too well protected.”

“So Morgan likes her trinkets and she guards 'em well. Big deal,” said Sir Gawain.

“The Grail is more than a trinket,” said Sir Perceval.

“Much more,” said the King. “Merlin spoke to me of it once. The Grail has the power to do whatever the achiever wants it to. The ultimate treasure. I understand what you are all saying. The attacks on Camelot, on the kingdom, have been getting steadily worse, and yes, I am partly to blame for that. There have been… other things on my mind, besides wayward Giants and marauding dragons.” The King looked at Sir Lancelot.

“Your biggest problem is not from any beast, but from man,” said Sir Lancelot, unfazed. “I've been out there, I've seen it. The lawlessness. The mockery of Camelot justice. It would make you all weep. I do what I can, but I'm just one knight. The tide of violence is rising, and soon it will be lapping at the foot of your Royal Tower.”

“Then this is exactly the opportunity we need,” said the King, “to rouse us from our slumber! Perceval has shown us the way. We go to the Otherworld. We bring the fight into the realm of Annwn — right to Morgan's doorstep, Gawain — and we take away the Grail, her greatest treasure, for the glory of Camelot.
Now
do you see?”

“Ha! Let the brigands challenge Camelot justice when we have the Grail!” said Sir Pellinore.

“Just hang on a minute,” said Sir Lancelot. “Who exactly do you propose to send on this quest?”

“The inner circle; we seven,” said the King.

“And leave Camelot unguarded? No. I will stay.”

“I need my best knights by my side. There are many who are capable of keeping Camelot safe in our absence.”

“And many more again who would be delighted to see it fall. Some of them even sit on the Round Table.”

“We will only be gone for weeks, Lancelot; a month at most,” said the King. “And when we return triumphant with the Grail —”

“Which we will!” said Sir Perceval.

“— it will be the start of a new Golden Age!”

“Like the old days, eh Artie?” said Sir Pellinore.

“That's the spirit, Pellinore. Just think of all the new
Chronicles
you can tell, Kay.”

“Lord knows, the bottom of the barrel won't take much more scraping,” Sir Kay smiled.

“Then it's decided. We leave at first light,” said the King, getting to his feet. “Pack lightly. Lucas, prepare the Prydwen.”

†

“And that is my dilemma,” I said to Beaumains. “After everything we have both seen today, how can I leave Camelot?”

Beaumains chewed her lip. “King Arthur suspects nothing of Mordred's schemes?”

“What he does notice, he sees with the same short-sighted eyes he always turns to his brother's activities. As for the things the Master does
not
see, I have always chosen to keep them from him, knowing the guilt he feels where his brother is concerned. Now, I wish that I had not.”

“It does not seem like the best time for Arthur to be going anywhere.”

“The Master's mind is made up. But I cannot go gallivanting off on a quest! My place is here.”

“Lucas. What is it, what's wrong?” she said.

“Nothing. It is just the dilemma. You know how I hate things being unresolved.”

“There is something else. Tell me.”

“I am fine,” I said, avoiding her eyes.

“You are not. You have not been yourself for months.”

“Please, Beaumains, it is late. I would prefer to talk about it some other time.”

“Ah, so you admit there
is
an ‘it.'”

“An ‘it' I insist you drop.”

“I am not going anywhere until you tell me.” She pulled a chair over to the doorway and sat down. “And neither are you.” She crossed her legs and folded her arms.

“You really are the most exasperating woman on the good green earth.”

“On it, under it, above it, beyond it.”

Defeated, I sat back down again. “It is hard to explain in words. At least, it is hard to explain it in plain words. To be a good butler here, to serve someone as great as the Master, one cannot lose one's head, even if — no,
especially
if — everything around one is magic and pageant. What this has always boiled down to for me is a domestic common sense — service sense, if you like. I have always maintained that such a quality is essential to the successful running of Camelot. Ideally, this means that one should be here, but also
not
here. A part of things, yes, but never too close to anything. It follows that I, above all people, do not merely set this standard, but exemplify it with every fibre of my being.”

“And you do it very well,” she said, but it did not sound entirely like a compliment.

“But recently, I have been feeling… like I did when I was a boy, waking up in the middle of the night with a vicious cramp in my legs. My mother would comfort me by telling me it was just my developing bones finding their feet, so to speak.”

“Growing pains.”

“Exactly. This feels like that, but inside my mind. Everything I know is being pushed around by unseen forces, pressing against the top of my head so that I find myself flummoxed by even the simplest task. More than that, I keep catching glimpses of something else, something that keeps trying to break through and make itself known to me.”

“What do you mean, ‘something?'”

“Words or sayings I have never heard before. Pictures sometimes, shimmering at the edge of my vision. Whatever it is, it comes from beyond me, I know that. Maybe from beyond this world. And I fear the effect it is having on my work. I am past my threescore years, I am reaching the end of my working life.”

“Rubbish.”

“But I do not fear the effect of it, half as much as I fear the thing itself. I do not want it. I will not have it. I will master it, Beaumains. It will not beat me.”

I realised to my shame that I was shaking, my hands clenched into tight fists, my back hunched and stiff. Beaumains put her hands over mine.

“Then, that settles it. You must go with them,” she said. Her touch was warm and soft and light.

“I cannot leave Camelot. Not after today. After I have prepared the ship, I will beg the King's leave to stay here.”

“But you said it yourself. The solution to what troubles you may lie beyond this world,” she said. I nodded weakly.

“But Mordred —”

“I am more than a match for Mordred. Come on. I will help you make a start with your packing.” Beaumains began to arrange a pile of my things on the bed.

I suddenly knew what had made me pause on stepping through the door, at the very start of our evening meeting. It was not the feeling that I was witnessing such moments of
domestic tranquillity for the first time. But that I was seeing them for the last.