Sleepless Knights (7 page)

Sir Perceval leaned over and hit him squarely across the head with a hefty book. “I stand corrected,” he said, as Sir Pellinore slumped unconscious into Sir Kay's lap. “Your library is proving its worth after all.” Sir Kay grimaced and hastily obscured Sir Pellinore with a blanket.

“What is it, Lucas, why have we stopped?” said the Master, waking from a doze.

“The police, sire.”

“What?”

“A routine check, I am sure.”

The Master went as white as a washday sheet, opened the car door, and proceeded to vomit on the grass, just as the officer reached the driver's window.

“What's up with him?” the policeman asked.

“Car sickness, officer. It will soon pass,” I said. The officer regarded the Master with a smirk, and I was struck by an overwhelming, but blessedly brief, impulse to reach for one of Sir Kay's books and wipe it from his face. He took out his notebook and shifted his attention to the Grail lashed to the roof.

“Bit precarious, that.”

“It is tied securely, I can assure you. Classic cars and roof racks do not good bedfellows make.”

“No, suppose not. Lovely vehicle. Nice colour. Cream and… maroon, is it?”

“Plum,” I said.

He inspected the protective rubber sheet beneath the Grail. “Play havoc with your paintwork.”

“Needs must, officer.”

“Where you taking it, then? Antique fair?”

“Yes,” I replied, grasping the unwitting lifeline with both hands. “That is indeed where we are heading, officer.”

“Should fetch a fair bit, I reckon.” He rapped the Grail with a knuckle, eliciting a hollow clang. I felt Sir Perceval tense up behind me and prayed for his continued restraint.

“Old, is it?”

“I am no expert, but I believe so.”

“Iron age?”

“Ancient Celtic, certainly.”

“Smashing piece. Tempted to make you an offer myself. You can read in the car then, can you?” This was directed at Sir Kay, who was attempting to obscure both his own face and the blanket-covered Sir Pellinore with a large leather-bound book.

“Sir — er, Kay,” I said. “The officer asked you a question.”

“Mmm,” replied Sir Kay.

“Don't know how you do it. I'd be chucking up my breakfast, like your mate here. What're you reading, then?”

With enormous reluctance Sir Kay lowered the tome to nose-level. “Research,” he said, and raised it again.

“Oh, I get it.” The officer winked. “Don't let them so-called antique experts put one over on you. Knowledge is power, like.”

“Never a truer word spoken, officer,” I said. “Will that be all?”

“Almost. 'Fraid I'm going to have to be a bit of a pest first, though. Ask you gents to step out of the car, so I can have a good look at you.”

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“No, no. No problem. Only, we're on the look out for a couple of men in connection with an incident in Cardiff last night. Quite a big fight, it was. Lot of damage to property, a lot of injuries. Two men were identified at the scene, maybe a third. Older men, like. About your age. One eyewitness put them leaving in a classic car. We're especially keen to speak to one in particular, name of De Troyes. You probably saw his picture on the news.”

“We do not have a television,” said the Master.

“Fair do's. Would you mind stepping outside the car anyway, sir? And you gents in the back? Won't take a minute.”

“This is ridiculous,” said the Master. “We've never heard of Lance De Troyes, so why can't we be on our way?”

The policeman paused, pencil poised above his notepad. “Now that's funny. Because I never said anything about his name being Lance, and yet there's you, saying you've got no telly…”

A bumble bee flew in through my window and out through the passenger door. Its buzzing sounded unnaturally
loud to my ears, perhaps because all five of us were holding our breath at the same time. The policeman fixed me with a penetrating stare. I held his gaze and stared back. Deep into his eyes.

“I think you will find that you did mention his full name,” I said, calmly and quietly. “You said you were keen to speak to a man by the name of Lance. Lance De Troyes.”

The officer opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, as if he were unsure of even the smallest syllable. “Did I?” he said at last.

“Yes, you did. But I am sorry to say we have never heard of him.”

“Oh. I… see,” he said, more confidently.

“In fact, none of the gentlemen in this car know who he is. So, you can inform your colleagues to mark our vehicle off their lists, and not to stop us if we are seen again.”

“I'll do that, sir. Yes. I'll be sure to do that.”

“What is more, if they should see two gentlemen riding a 1940s motorbike and sidecar, there is no need to stop them, either. They cannot help with your enquiries.”

“Right you are. I understand,” he said.

“We should probably be going,” I said, a little faster and a little louder.

“Of course.” The officer seemed to perk up. “Don't let me keep you.” He checked the rooftop ropes again with a brisk tug. “Seems secure enough. Just drive careful mind. Keep her under thirty, I would.”

“Thank you, officer.”

“No worries. All the best.”

“And to you.”

I watched him walk back to his car, scarcely believing my own powers of persuasion, and fully expecting the others to express equal amazement at what had transpired, as soon as the policeman was out of earshot. But they merely sat waiting
for the off, as if nothing untoward had occurred, and so I put the car into gear and drove back onto the road.

 

The bike party were not too far ahead, and our little convoy reformed in a lay-by half a mile away. Once I had informed Sir Lancelot of the reason for the delay, we resumed our westerly progress. Before long our route necessitated more substantial highways, and thus we would soon require a more specific destination. After several miles I bowed to the inevitable, handling my words with the degree of care one would reserve for a nest of hibernating hornets found in one's attic.

“Sir Kay… I wonder if you have decided on our final destination?” I said.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied, closing his book and removing his spectacles.

“Oh. Have you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Splendid. So where in the west are we heading?”

“Carmarthen.”

“Carmarthen it is,” I said.

“Or, Cardigan,” he added.

“I see. Well —”

“With an outside bet on Haverfordwest.”

“Forgive me, Sir Kay, but is that not
three
possible destinations?”

“Yes, and it's three more than anyone else has come up with. So unless they have any better ideas, I suggest they keep their big fat mouth shut,” he said, for the benefit of the smirking Sir Perceval.

“I am not criticising your efforts, Sir Kay,” I said. “But searching three separate locations is highly impractical, not to mention unwise, given our recent brush with the law. Is there any way you could narrow it down?”

Sir Kay sighed. He opened his book, and pushed his glasses back onto his nose.

“I wish I could. When considering Merlin's last resting place, it's a hellish job remembering what's truth and what's fiction. See, here. One book, based on my original
History
, says it's Carmarthen, the town of his birth, where Merlin rests beneath a hawthorn tree. Another, claiming to pre-date my
History
, says ‘Merlin's Bridge' is so-called because the wizard sleeps there in the stone. A third book, a collection of prophecies
attributed
to Merlin, suggests Cardigan, as that's the name men now give to —” Sir Kay dropped his voice to a low whisper “—
you-know-where
. But precisely where at
you-know-where
, it doesn't say.”

A thought surfaced, like a bubble in a drink.

“He is at Cardigan,” I said.

“Maybe he is, yes, but —”

“I know it,” I said. And somehow, I did. “That is where we will find him.”

“It's as good a place as any, I suppose. But
where
in Cardigan?” said Sir Kay.

“Perhaps, in this matter, we should do what everybody else does,” I said.

†

The Tourist Information kiosk was part of a motorway service station, which also provided fuel for the petrol-hungry bike. Sir Lancelot steered into the petrol station on the lower forecourt, while I parked the Jaguar on the upper level. The Master immediately made for the conveniences and I followed at a discreet distance, lest he remain inside too long and lapse into another reverie. Sir Kay began a grudging search for a guidebook to Cardigan, and Sir Perceval was entrusted with Sir Pellinore in case he awoke from his enforced sleep.

My hunch proved its worth. Sir Kay was not long in finding exactly what we needed, and read aloud from the appropriate page of
Warren's Guide to West Wales Wanderings
as the Master and I rejoined him in the glass-fronted kiosk.

“ ‘The landscape of Cardigan Bay is rife with myth and mystery, and is rumoured to be one of the locations of the legendary court of' — well, I don't need to read that bit, er, let me see now… ah yes. ‘The cliffs of Merlin's Bay (pictured) are said to be the last resting place of the famous wizard, imprisoned in the rock by Viviane, the Lady of the Lake. If they listen carefully, visitors to the cave known as Merlin's Tomb (below, inset) might be able to hear the magician snoring in his eternal sleep.' ” Sir Kay snapped the book shut. “Hackwork of the deepest dye. I say we check Carmarthen first, just to be on the safe side.”

“I feel it prudent that we make for Cardigan immediately. We have been blessed thus far with a relatively uneventful journey. It would not do to tempt fate, Sir Kay. Sir Kay? What is it? What is wrong?”

I followed the direction of his appalled gaze; a look I had previously only ever seen him use in bookshops, when witnessing a purchase he did not approve of.

The scene that presented itself through the window of the Tourist Information kiosk was, indeed, stupefying in the extreme. It ran as follows. Sir Perceval's stomach had
overruled my request to stay in the car with Sir Pellinore. He was queuing at a nearby burger stand, and so absorbed in the menu that he failed to see what we did — a bleary-eyed Sir Pellinore stepping out of the car and walking the life back into his legs, wobbling like a fawn.

At the same time, in the parking space directly opposite the Jaguar, an elderly couple had returned to their vehicle and were placing their pet poodle into the caravan hitched behind it. The animal was voicing loud protests at the travel arrangement, struggling wildly under the old woman's arm. To Sir Pellinore's befuddled senses, an innocent canine was being sacrificed to appease the caravan's blood lust and buy the humans' safe passage in its interior. We were standing well out of earshot, but I suspect the gist of his resultant cry involved a pledge to rescue the pup from its pagan captors, or die in the trying. To that end, he drew his knife and made a successful running jump at the back of the departing caravan, which then sped away with Sir Pellinore dangling from its rear roof ladder.

Sir Pellinore's exodus did not go unnoticed by Sir Gawain on the lower forecourt. Sir Lancelot had refuelled the bike and was waiting to pay for his petrol inside the shop. Sir Gawain, conducting his own refuelling
via
his ever-present hipflask, quickly transferred himself from the sidecar and onto the saddle. He kick-started the bike, and zig-zagged off towards the dual carriageway roundabout in hot pursuit of the caravan.

Sir Lancelot returned to the empty space where the bike had been only moments before. His response was as immediate as it was awe-inspiring. Scrambling up the grassy bank separating the service station from the carriageway, he sprinted along the verge, carefully judged his moment, and took a flying somersault onto the main road, falling beyond our sight and into the arms of a fate unknown.

†

“Sir Kay. Under the passenger seat you will find a pair of binoculars. I would be grateful if you would assume the role of look-out.”

“At least we're still heading west,” said Sir Perceval between mouthfuls of hamburger. “We should look on the bright side.”

“Bright side?” said Sir Kay, removing his spectacles and focusing the binoculars. “This is a total debacle!”

“At least it's a debacle going in the right direction.”

“Can't this museum piece go any faster?”

“It is a classic car, Sir Kay, and a severely overloaded one at that.”

“And we know who to blame for that, don't we, Perceval.”

“No, we don't. Perhaps you can look it up in your new guidebook, Mr I Need To Pack My Entire Bloody Library?”

“Sir Kay, please, the binoculars,” I tried again.

The Master stirred in the passenger seat next to me. He had responded to the recent spectacle and its implications with a remarkable degree of composure. A magazine was open on his lap at a picture of a fetching female film star, and his gaze had taken on the rheumy-eyed appearance that characterised the onset of another trance.

“Where are we? What are we doing?” he asked.

“We are
en route
to our destination, sire, attempting to retrieve Sir Pellinore.”

“Ah, Pellinore! That good knight! Forged on ahead, has he?”

“In a manner of speaking, sire.”

The Master smiled like a wistful uncle. “Pellinore the beast slayer. Did I ever tell you about the time we fought the Wild Boar of Wales?”

“Perhaps later, sire. Sir Kay, can you see anything?”

The road started to rise into a gradual incline, the dual carriageway full of traffic moving in both directions.