Sleepless Knights (8 page)

“No. Hang on… yes. Got them,” said Sir Kay.

With my naked eye, I too could just make out the caravan on the horizon, the bike gaining on it by a series of reckless manoeuvres.

“Pellinore's up on the caravan roof,” said Sir Kay. “Looks like he's trying to hack it open with his knife. Gawain's overtaking vehicles at quite a lick on the bike… and… hmm. That's weird. There appear to be two serpents fighting each other in the sidecar.”

“Give me those.” Sir Perceval snatched the binoculars from Sir Kay and refocused. “Those are Lancelot's legs, you dolt. He must have landed in the sidecar upside down.”

Several cars had pulled over on the hard shoulder to avoid the bike. Angry drivers shouted into their mobile phones. “Can't see the caravan anymore,” Sir Perceval continued. “Gawain's almost at the top of the hill. He's in the fast lane, but the traffic's slowing him down. No, he's gone.”

By this time, Sir Lancelot had managed to right himself in the sidecar, and was later able to fill in the gaps in our version of events. Sir Gawain, frustrated by their lack of progress in the crowded fast lane, decided to cross the central reservation
via
a turning junction, driving directly into the face of the oncoming traffic on the other side of the carriageway. As we cleared the brow of the hill, it became immediately apparent that there would be little need for the binoculars. Firstly, because most of the cars ahead had pulled over to let the bike pass, leaving the downhill road open to our view. Secondly, there are some pictures that have a way of searing themselves instantly and permanently onto the retina. A bike speeding towards an oncoming oil tanker I would place firmly into this category.

Sir Gawain spurred on his steed, hell-bent on his wild shortcut, hunched forwards over the handlebars, while Sir Lancelot tried to wrestle back control of the vehicle. At the last possible second, the bike swerved to the left to avoid the tanker, knocking over some traffic cones in another central turning junction, but otherwise returning back to the correct side of the carriageway unscathed.

The oil tanker did not do so well out of the confrontation.

The driver swerved into the slow lane, applying the brakes hard to avoid the car in front of him. This sent the tanker into a sliding skid, from which it might have recovered, had it not been hit by a lorry travelling behind. The extra force of this impact sent the tanker careering over onto the wheels of its right-hand side towards the aforementioned turning junction in the centre of the carriageway, which it took at an angle of forty-five degrees before falling over.

It swung around on its side with a howl of screeching metal and came to a juddering halt, completely blocking the road ahead of us. Petrol poured from a gash in the tanker like blood from a wound. The dazed driver climbed down from his cab and staggered over to the side of the road, where he attempted to flag me down.

My instinctive response was to stop, convey him a safe distance from the stricken tanker and await the arrival of the emergency services. But I also knew that this would mean the sure and certain end of our quest. I therefore did the only other thing I could think of. I increased my speed and drove onto the hard shoulder, pushing the car as fast as it could go.

“Lucas! Have you lost your mind?” said Sir Kay.

“Sire, Lucas has gone mad! Tell him to stop the car!” said Sir Perceval.

But the Master had slipped into a catatonic state, his head lolling on his shoulder.

“I suggest you find something to hold on to,” I said. “I fancy this will be somewhat unorthodox.”

I edged the car onto the embankment at the side of the road, which got progressively steeper the closer we got to the tanker. Realising that I was not about to stop for him, or indeed his vehicle, the driver ran for the safety of the surrounding fields. Between the cab of the tanker and the side of the road there was a gap exactly half the width of the Jaguar. I took the last few metres of the embankment at top speed.

The car swung up onto its right side. The wheels left the ground, and we shot up and clear through the gap. The weight of the Grail on the roof turned us upside down in mid-air, and the momentum of the jump flipped us back round again in a perfect side roll. We landed upright on the road, on the other side of the tanker, just as its engine caught fire.

The world exploded.

The Jaguar was engulfed by the fireball. I kept my foot pressed firmly to the floor. The sheer force of the blast carried us through the inferno and out the other side. Naturally, as soon as we were safely clear of the blast zone, I reduced my speed to the legal limit.

In the rear view mirror I could see Sir Kay and Sir Perceval staring at each other, open mouthed. They quickly let go of each other's hands and transferred their astonished gazes to the back of my head.

“How did you… did we… just…?” said Sir Kay.

“Nice driving, Lucas. I think,” said Sir Perceval.

The Master remained in his reverie, head slumped forwards. The magazine on his lap slid to the floor with a gentle flop.

†

Once again the bike party waited for us, this time in the car park of a fast food outlet just outside Carmarthen. Sir Lancelot had regained control of the vehicle. A black eye, thick lip and sullen silence from Sir Gawain testified to the struggle. To my enormous relief Sir Pellinore was in their custody, having been recovered from the caravan when it stopped at a roundabout, the owners continuing on their way blissfully unaware of the entire affair. A battalion of emergency vehicles sped past us towards the horizon, where black smoke besmirched the clear blue sky.

“How bad?” said Sir Lancelot.

“There was an incident, involving the fuel tanker Sir Gawain almost collided with. We emerged unscathed, but the damage in our wake is substantial.” I omitted the matter of my manoeuvres with the Jaguar, for in truth I was not at all sure what I had done, much less how I had managed to do it.

“And what about him? Is he still committed to this fool's quest?”

“I have received no alternative orders. Although, much of the Master's recent attention has been absorbed by a mild recurrence of his complaint.”

Sir Lancelot shook his head. “First, the police stop you. And now this.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I'm hardly one to talk given recent events, but we aren't doing a very good job of concealing our presence. I'm worried, Lucas.”

“Do not fear, Sir Lancelot. Once the Master has consulted Merlin, everything will be back to normal.”

“That's what worries me most of all. Come on, then. We'd better get going, and just pray that we haven't used up all our luck.”

“Very well, Sir Lancelot,” I said, and tried not to think about how much this whole matter of Merlin was worrying me, too.

 

The route to Cardigan was the kind of drive the Jaguar took to like a duck to water. Both the car and its driver relished the respite of wood-lined roads and tree-formed tunnels that filtered the midday heat down to a cool evergreen. So peaceful was the overall effect that our recent tribulations almost seemed to belong to the distant past.

“Through arteries of time, we flow back to the heart of things,” said Sir Kay, as if reading my thoughts.

“That's not bad, Kay. You should write it down,” said Sir Perceval.

“Not one of mine. Merlin, from his book of
Prophecies
.” He held up a very old volume, no more than a bundle of tied parchment, thick and brittle.

“I thought we were using the guidebook to find Merlin,” Sir Perceval said.

“The guidebook tells us where we might
find
his last resting place. But funnily enough, it's very quiet on the subject of ancient summoning spells. And that means magic.” Sir Kay thumped the book. I jumped at the wheel. The car wavered slightly on the road.

“Is it wise to cast such a spell?” I said. “Even you, Sir Kay, with your great reading, cannot claim to be well versed in the literature of enchantment.”

“How else do you suggest we recall Merlin? Dig through the cliffs with our bare hands, then shout down the hole and hope he pops out to tell us to keep the noise down?”

I confess I had been more concerned with where we seven were going to spend the night, and had given little thought to such matters. “Might there not be some form of written instruction on the cliff? Runes, perhaps?” I said.

“Yes, and a stone lever with a great big sign saying ‘In Case of Emergency, Release Wizard,' ” said Sir Kay. “This is magic, Lucas, not some tawdry seaside attraction.”

“Lucas. Are we there yet?” said the Master, roused from his deep slumber. Sir Pellinore, who had been somewhat sedate since the unsuccessful rescue of the dog, perked up at the sound of the Master's voice and pressed his nose against the window.

“We are going the wrong way!” he cried.

“At ease, Pellinore,” said Sir Kay.

“But this is not the best route.” His hands fumbled uselessly with the locked door handle, and he started to scrabble at the window-winder.

“Pellinore!” said Sir Perceval, trying to pull his hand away and getting an elbow in the cheek. “Kay, help me, he's going for his knife again, I think he wants to stab the seat.”

“This is not the fastest way to Camelot!” Sir Pellinore wailed.

At the mention of this word in front of the Master, all fell silent. I slowed the car and looked over at him, prepared for the worst. “Hush, Pellinore,” said the Master. “This is the right road. It has merely been a long time since any of us have travelled it.” Sir Pellinore relaxed into peaceable silence. But as for the Master, it was as if by speaking the words he had performed an incantation of his own and transferred Sir Pellinore's anxiety to himself. He shifted in his seat and
stared out of the window as we passed over a small bridge, scratching absently at his chin.

The route to Merlin's Bay took us through the town that was now called Cardigan. We passed over the river Teifi, and there before us, on the edge of the town and commanding a view of the estuary, stood the remnants of the latest incarnation of the castle. Back then, this had merely been the Camelot gatehouse. Now, it was all that remained of our once glorious home. This was the part of the journey I had been most dreading on the Master's behalf, for I was not sure what the sight of it would do to him. For the moment, however, my fears were allayed, for he gave no indication of recognising our surroundings. This was hardly surprising. So reduced was it from its former state of magnificence, that I was only able to identify it myself when road works slowed our progress to a stand-still, and I was immensely relieved when the cars in front of us began to move again.

 

The car park overlooking the small sandy beach of Merlin's Bay was almost full, but we managed to find a place in the top corner. The Master and Sir Pellinore remained in the car. Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain pulled up alongside us on the bike as we attempted in vain to remove the Grail from the roof.

“Are all the ropes loose?” said Sir Perceval.

“Yes, I just checked them,” said Sir Kay.

“Well check them again!”

“I don't believe this. We're being delayed by kitchenware,” said Sir Kay.

“It definitely won't move now.”

“Oh, have I hurt the medieval microwave's feelings?”

“If the pair of you don't stop performing, I'll knock your heads together and pitch you over the cliff,” said Sir Gawain, taking off his helmet and goggles. Mercifully, the drive seemed to have sobered him up a little.

“Do you hear that, Perceval? I think we should apologise,” said Sir Kay. “When it comes to ‘performing' we've offended Sir Gawain's sense of scale. Perhaps I should set some cars on fire?”

“Good idea, Kay. And I could run down to the beach and start a fight with some families.”

“You'd get battered by the bairns before you set foot on the sand,” said Sir Gawain, and spat on the grass.

“What's the problem, Lucas?” said Sir Lancelot, stepping between Sir Gawain and Sir Perceval.

“The Grail, Sir Lancelot. It is highly reluctant to move.” Sir Lancelot placed both of his arms around the Grail and tried to lift it, but it remained clamped to the car roof like a limpet.

I considered our options. Merlin's Bay lay below us like a picture postcard. Our progress through the weekend traffic had been slow and sporadic, and it was now mid-afternoon. Sun-bathers still colonised the sand, and the rocks towards the inlet known as Merlin's Tomb were taken up by children with buckets and shrimping nets, as well as a couple of fishermen.

“Perhaps it is best to leave the Grail where it is for now, Sir Lancelot,” I said. “It is my belief that we should do nothing until the beach has cleared for the day.”

“I'm not so sure. The tide will be coming in by then. Kay, how long will this magic spell take?”

“I've found what I believe to be the incantation, and it's simple enough to perform,” Sir Kay replied.

“If there should be any magical fanfare, so to speak, it would be better if we were the only ones to witness it,” I said.

“Oh, it'll only be something minor if there is,” said Sir Kay.

“Are you quite certain, Sir Kay?” I said. “In my limited experience, the only thing one can successfully predict when it comes to magical matters is their unpredictability.”

There was that feeling again, the nausea that accompanied the incident in the nightclub and its aftermath. My palms were hot and itchy, and I wiped a sheen of sweat from my forehead.

“Relax, Lucas. As long as we go by the book, everything will be fine.” Sir Kay patted the
Prophecies of Merlin
under his arm.

“Very well,” said Sir Lancelot. “We wait here until the tide turns.”

†