Sleepless Knights (6 page)

“Slim pickings there Luc,” he remarked, as I inspected a mouse-bitten travelling cape in the dawn light. “Unless you want them to look like they're off to a fancy dress party with a very broad theme.”

“I was hoping for a more muted effect,” I said, discarding a tunic of faded Lincoln green. Sir Lancelot picked it up and rubbed the material between his thumb and fingers, before tossing it back in the box.

“Lucas; a word,” he said. Sir Perceval, who had been on the point of leaving the room, suddenly found much to interest
him in the woodwork of the door frame. “In private,” added Sir Lancelot.

“Don't mind me, I've got no interest in your little schemes. Got stacks to do,” said Sir Perceval, and made a great show of bustling out of the room. Sir Lancelot closed the door firmly behind him. Whatever it was he had to say, I hoped it would not take long, for I had just discovered a jacket with leather patches on the elbows in the Master's size, and I was eager to match it with a pair of trousers. “Well? What do you think?” said Sir Lancelot.

“The collar has seen better days, but it will fit him well enough,” I replied.

Sir Lancelot made an impatient tutting sound. “Of his decision.”

“It is not my place to offer such an opinion, Sir Lancelot.” A grey cotton shirt had caught my eye, and I scrutinised it for moth bites.

“So you do
have
an opinion, at least?”

“The Master's decision is the Master's decision. That is the beginning and the end of it.”

“Oh come off it, Lucas; this is me you're talking to. It's a crazy idea! Even by his standards.”

“This conversation does not appear to be heading in a constructive direction.”

“And what's so constructive about what he's proposing? The only way to deal with this problem is face it, head on. You know that, Lucas. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“I am going to support the Master fully in his decision. A decision that was not taken lightly.”

That much, at least, I could say with confidence. After the ritual, we had retired to the main bar to discuss our options while the Master sat in deep deliberation. Throughout the long debate he remained silent. Only when our chatter
burned as low as the dwindling fire in the grate did he finally speak.

“We shall seek Merlin,” he said, rising from his chair. I stood up alongside him. “Only he can help us now. Lucas: attend to the matter of our departure.”

The five who remained seated looked at each other in amazement.

“Forgive me, sire, I'm tired,” said Sir Lancelot, “but I could have sworn I just heard you say ‘We shall seek Merlin.' ”

“He is the only one who can offer counsel on this matter. The only one who can, by his magical arts, protect the Eternal Quest from all that threatens to destroy it. We leave at first light.”

“But Merlin's dead,” said Sir Gawain.

“Merlin passed out of history. But he did not die. Did he, Sir Kay?”

“Well, I don't think so. Not exactly. That is to say, not technically, if the history is correct, but —”

“Your
History
, Kay?” said Sir Perceval.

“In part, yes. My book has a brief section concerning wizards. But there are other books in my collection, some of them attributed to Merlin himself, that speak in more detail of his final destiny.”

“So consult your books, and tell us exactly where to find him,” said the Master.

“It's not that straightforward,” said Sir Kay with mounting alarm. “These are not primary historical records. They're scraps of legend; rumour and hearsay. A patchwork quilt of prophecy and poetry, stitched together by bargain-basement bards.”

“Then you will simply have to unstitch them,” said the Master.

“But it's been so long, sire! Take my own
History
, for example. Even
I
find it hard these days to remember what is
true, and what was written to, well…” Sir Kay swallowed and twitched his cheeks, “…conceal the truth.”

“Calm down, Kay. It won't come to that,” said Sir Lancelot. The side of his mouth twisted upwards in a lopsided smile. “We won't be seeking Merlin, because that means going back west. And that is no easy journey. Isn't that right, sire?”

“Petty practicalities are not my concern, Lancelot!” shouted the Master. His hands gripped the back of his chair so tightly that it trembled audibly on the stone floor. “Merlin is my decision, and that is the end of it. Sir Kay, you have until dawn.”

“As you wish, sire,” said Sir Kay, and left to commence his research.

“Perceval. Is my bed here made up?” said the Master, letting go of the chair.

“Always, sire.”

“Then I shall retire.”

“What a brilliant idea,” said Sir Lancelot.

The Master turned to look at him for a moment. There was that smile again; Sir Lancelot's dark amusement at a private joke.

“Wake me when we are ready to depart, Lucas,” said the Master, and went to his room.

†

My fingers alighted on a black, clip-on tie in the bottom of the lost property box. “I believe that the Master has the best interests of the Eternal Quest at heart,” I said, fumbling with the rusty clasp.

“And that's your final word on the matter?” said Sir Lancelot. The mechanism was stuck tight, but it came loose with some cajoling.

“A crude invention, but it serves its purpose well enough,” I said, holding the tie against the shirt so he could see the match. But Sir Lancelot was already at the door. He opened it with some force, disturbing Sir Perceval, who just happened to be passing at keyhole level in a low crouch and straightened up suddenly, pulling a muscle in his back.

 

The question of transportation was, at heart, one of mathematics. On one side of the equation: seven knights, plus luggage and one cauldron of the approximate height and circumference of a well-fed middle-aged stomach. On the other side: two means of transportation. The Jaguar would take five of us. Another two would have to use the only other vehicle in Sir Perceval's garage: a motorbike and sidecar, left to the landlord in the will of an eccentric regular to settle a thirty year bar tab.

The finer details were sorted out by means of a little logic, and a lot of cajoling. As to the logic, the Jaguar would lead, with myself as the most experienced driver taking the wheel. Sir Kay, bag-eyed and belligerent from his nocturnal studies, insisted he could only navigate from the passenger seat; however, there was no question of the Master agreeing to travel in the back. Sir Perceval's cauldron-like proportions ruled him out as far as the bike was concerned, and the very thought of Sir Pellinore travelling in such an unsupervised manner made my mouth dry up like a stale biscuit.

This left Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain as the bike party; an arrangement which provided the additional benefit of helmet and goggles to disguise the two of us who were, thanks to their recent television appearance, the most recognisable of our company. Of these two, Sir Lancelot was the more
experienced rider, and had spent decidedly less time than Sir Gawain in Sir Perceval's wine cellar over the past twelve hours. Thus, he was given the task of driving the bike and dealing with Sir Gawain's many objections. I left him to it, and turned my attention to the matter of the cajoling.

“Books be buggered, Kay! The Grail takes priority!” said Sir Perceval.

“Fine. We'll see if that perishing pot can find Merlin. Perhaps it will conjure us a compass from a crouton?”

“May I suggest, Sir Kay,” I attempted, “that you leave behind those volumes you have already consulted these past few hours?”

“Out of the question! I need to cross-reference
en route
. Besides, I've already agreed to give up the front seat. Maybe I should give up the back seat too, hm? Cram myself in the boot? How would you like that?”

“Very much indeed,” said Sir Perceval.

“Fine. I'll just stay here and rot with Sir Hosis of the liver.” Sir Kay strode over to where Sir Gawain was resisting Sir Lancelot's attempt to exchange his tankard for a mug of black coffee.

“Sorry, Lucas,” said Sir Perceval, folding his arms and resting them on his belly. “But if the Grail's not going, then neither am I.”

At that moment the Grail, which had been resting on top of a toolbox, floated up into the air and hovered above the car, whereupon it conjured a protective rubber mat and several ropes from within its interior, tying itself securely into place on the roof through the open windows. As it did so, I could have sworn I heard it utter a weary sigh.

If only Sir Pellinore had been so compliant. From the moment we had gathered in the garage he had been jittery and aloof, as if he were afraid the car might rear up on its hind wheels and attack him. He sat in the corner of the
garage furthest from the Jaguar, clad in the
T
-shirt, jeans and leather jacket I had selected, muttering to himself and drawing patterns with his hunting knife in a patch of oil on the floor. On closer inspection these revealed themselves to be anatomical sketches of the car, complete with notes speculating about its diet, behaviour and habits.

“That beast, Lucas. I have seen one before,” he said. I watched him warily, having witnessed the occasion in question. It had taken a large amount of sweet-talking and an even larger cheque to persuade the owner of the vehicle not to involve the police. “At night, their eyes light up like dragons, and they roam the highways for prey. Wasteful, too. Once they've killed they barely eat a morsel, leaving the carcass for the crows and flies. Hedgehog they go for mostly, sometimes fox, or a bit of dog. Occasionally… a human.”

Unfortunately, Sir Perceval chose this moment to begin his lengthy manoeuvre into the back seat. His preferred angle of rear-end first, and his red-faced, reluctant demeanour, gave him the appearance of a forest creature being swallowed by a substantial serpent. Sir Pellinore sprang forward with a yelp of alarm, knife aloft, and was inches away from slashing the front tyres when he was grabbed by Sir Lancelot.

“Bloody hell!” said Sir Perceval. “What's bitten Pellinore?”

“You're the one being bitten! Eaten alive, dammit! Unhand me, yellow knight!” he shouted, thrashing to remove Sir Lancelot and continue his rescue. I glanced at his anatomical drawing, and a solution occurred.

“It is a form of symbiosis, Sir Pellinore,” I said.

“Foul Symbiosis! Have at thee, and be gone!” said Sir Pellinore, still struggling.

“No, Sir Pellinore, we knights, and the car, we —”

“We live together in intimate association, to our mutual benefit,” said Sir Kay, cottoning on in spirit, if not in brevity.

“You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours,” added Sir Lancelot.

“G-n-will-you-let-go-of — Ah! Aha. Now then.” He stopped squirming. “You mean, like the Kraken and the Merfolk, who pick fish bones out of its mighty teeth in exchange for safe passage to warm seas?”

“It is almost exactly like that,” I said. This seemed to allay his fears, and Sir Lancelot released him. Sir Pellinore took one last look at his drawing as if committing it to memory, then approached the car cautiously, keeping his hand on the hilt of his hunting knife in case the Jaguar decided to go back on its part of the bargain.

 

My heart was in my mouth as our little convoy set out along the narrow roads surrounding the Once & Future Inn. The tension came partly from the importance of not attracting any undue attention to our progress. But it was more than that. The simple act of sitting behind the steering wheel was an unpleasant reminder of the unsettling occurrence in the nightclub.

Now that some time had elapsed, I was plagued by a nagging sensation of
déjà vu
. The explanation for it, however, lay beyond my grasp, and in reaching even tentatively for the memory I experienced intense waves of nausea, so I resolved to focus on the more tangible concerns of the present.

I decided it would be safer to drive slowly along the back roads as much as possible. As well as making us less conspicuous, this would give Sir Kay more time to research our final destination, for although I knew we had to head west, we would soon have to commit to a more specific direction.

We had scarcely gone five miles, however, when a police vehicle pulled out from a junction, separating us from Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain, who had been keeping a close but cautious distance behind the Jaguar. As alarming as this was, I tried to remain calm. In the event of any separation, we had arranged that the forward party would continue west,
pulling in at the nearest suitable spot to wait for the others to catch up. Besides, we were doing nothing wrong, and there was no reason to think that the police car's presence on such a quiet country road was anything other than a coincidence.

Until, that is, the driver switched on his lights and siren.

“Lucas? What's going on? What does he want?” said Sir Perceval.

“At this moment, your guess is as good as mine, Sir Perceval,” I said, praying that the Jaguar had not been identified leaving Cardiff city centre, or that the body of Sir Kay's intruder had not been discovered in his back garden.

“Well, this is just fantastic,” said Sir Kay as I pulled over onto a grass verge. Sir Lancelot gave me a barely perceptible nod as he and Sir Gawain passed us on the bike. This made me feel slightly better, but there was still the unfortunate matter of Sir Pellinore, wriggling with delight at the prospect of quizzing the officer on the science of automobile biology.

“This flashing, wailing species disgorges its passenger with ease,” he said, squinting through the back window at the officer getting out of his car. “I'll ask him what manner of symbiosis he shares with
his
host, and see if it compares with our —”