Sleepless Knights (2 page)

The layout of this literary labyrinth had changed entirely since my last visit, and my progress was little helped by the few rays of sunlight strong enough to push through the grime-coated bay window. Gingerly, I extended my fingers into the gloom, only to find a dead end of heavy tomes. I was about to move the topmost of these volumes, when a voice sounded from somewhere within the warren.

“Leave it, Lucas,” it said. “It's bad enough being so late. For pity's sake don't compound matters by rearranging my entire library.” By this verbal marker I found my way to the desk, where the speaker was engaged in his daily toil.

“I would not dream of it, Sir Kay.”

“Well just don't, is all I'm saying.” I paused for him to continue. When it became clear he was not about to address the unconventional scene in his kitchen, I considered it prudent to broach the subject myself.

“Forgive me if I am stating the obvious, Sir Kay, but there appears to be a dead body in your kitchen.”

“Hm? Oh yes, that little bastard. He's ransacked three houses in the last month alone. Battered the old dear over the road black and blue for fifty quid and a
TV
set. Been watching me come and go all week, biding his time. Had the shock of his life when he ran into me last night, biding mine. See to the usual routine, would you Lucas?”

“Excuse me, Sir Kay?”

“Get rid of the body. Like you did last time.”

“Last time, Sir Kay, was just over a hundred years ago.”

“So?”

“Such matters are not as… straightforward as they once were.”

“It's straightforward enough to me. Direct application of the Eternal Quest! Protect the weak and fight evil-doers. Elsie over the road is your ‘weak.' That witless whelp cluttering up my kitchen is the ‘evil doer.' ”

“I understand what you are saying, Sir Kay. But I doubt the representatives of law enforcement will see it that way.”

“Then you'd better dig a bloody deep hole. Spade's in the shed. And next time, phone ahead before you turn up, will you?”

“I did consider it, but decided against interrupting your labours.”

“Well it didn't work. I couldn't settle on a single thing all morning for looking at my watch, wondering when you'd decide to roll on up.” He picked up a book and quickly placed it over a newspaper crossword.

“And how is your work, Sir Kay?”

“Don't ask.”

“Very well, Sir Kay.”

“I'm fed up with the lot of it, Lucas. Fed up with looking at it. Fed up with thinking about it. And certainly fed up with talking about it.”

“In that case, I shall —”

“Sometimes I wonder why I ever bothered putting pen to parchment in the first place. All it's ever brought me is anonymity, failure, penury and disappointment.”

“Come now, Sir Kay. I am not much of a reader myself —”

“Ha, you said it there.”

“— but I have always held your
History
in the highest esteem. As has the Master.”

“Yes, he would, wouldn't he? But what's the good of writing something so, so…”

“Clever?”

“It
is
clever, but that's not the word I'm after. So, so…”

“Influential?”

“Just let me think for a moment!” He clicked his fingers. “Seminal! What's the point of writing something so
seminal
as my
History
, when I'm never allowed to claim any credit for my, erm… seminality…”

“Seminalitude?”

“Damn it man, are you a butler or a thesaurus?”

“Sorry, Sir Kay.”

“Well, I suppose I should pack.”

“You have not already done so?”

“Of course I haven't! I've been too busy working. What kept you, anyway? You haven't been this late since — oh. Oh no. He isn't, is he?”

“If you are referring to one of the Master's delicate spells, then I am afraid you are correct.”

“Oh dear me, no. He could be gone for days. Weeks. Years! What are we going to do about tonight?”

“I am sure we will manage, Sir Kay.”

“But it's hardly ideal, is it?”

“No, it is not, Sir Kay. Which is why I would be most grateful if you would prepare for departure, and with a degree of haste.” I had taken out my pocket watch, and did not care for the expression on its face.

“Yes, yes, don't fuss, I was just about to.” Sir Kay began to select certain volumes from the library, carefully placing them into a large leather hold-all.

While he continued with his packing I set to work in the kitchen. I reattached and boarded up the back door, swept up the glass, and washed the worst of the blood from the floor. By the time Sir Kay was staggering to the car with the first of several suitcases, I had buried the body of the intruder and the murder weapon, the shallow grave easy to obscure thanks to a thick tangle of weeds in the untended vegetable patch.

“Are you quite sure you will need so many books, Sir Kay?” I said, returning the spade to the shed. “We shall have you back by this time tomorrow.”

“Once again, Lucas,” he puffed, shoving in a large box on top of the cases, “you demonstrate your complete ignorance of the creative life. We writers thrive on books. They are our lifeblood. Speaking of which, you'll want to give the kitchen floor another clean. You missed a spot.”

 

According to my updated itinerary we remained within the margins of an acceptable time frame. Nevertheless, it was still something of a relief to leave Hay behind and head for the hills, the vintage car's suspension making only the mildest of complaints at the weight of Sir Kay's books. Their owner sat beside me in the passenger seat, absorbed in an ancient tome. The Master remained strapped into the back seat and gave no outward sign of waking in the immediate future. Sir Kay was correct in anticipating that this would make the evening's ritual difficult, but it was by no means impossible. What concerned me far more, as it always did, was the safe conveyance of all seven participants to our destination in plenty of time for the appointed hour. But, even the grandest banquet is served one course at a time, so I focused my attention upon the hills and forests ahead.

When we reached the right spot I pulled the Jaguar into a lay-by and switched off the engine. “I am going to get Sir Pellinore, Sir Kay,” I said. He did not look up from his book, but I took a barely audible grunt to indicate comprehension. “I anticipate I shall be no more than half an hour. Please pause in your reading from time to time, and check on the Master. His seatbelt is secure, but it is no substitute for a wary spirit and a watchful eye.” Another mumble came forth. “Should you require refreshment, you will find a selection
of ham sandwiches in a Tupperware box on the back seat. Those with mustard are wrapped in tin foil; those without, in cling film.” I paused until I received a final low murmur in the affirmative, and opened the boot of the car to retrieve the items essential for the summoning of Sir Pellinore.

First a large mouldering headdress, upon which the antlers of a stag were secured, like two frozen flashes of forked lightning. Next, a grey cloak, threadbare cousin to the headdress, which I wrapped about my shoulders. Finally, a walking staff, gnarled and stout, and a hunting horn small enough to fit in my trouser pocket. Thus equipped, I stepped over a low ditch, through a gap in the hedge, and into the forest.

I did not venture far before the cheerful brightness of the summer day vanished, with only an occasional dappling of sunlight penetrating the canopy of leaves. Unlike Sir Kay's study, however, this landscape was reassuringly consistent in its geography, and I had no fear of losing my way. Between the gathering of tall oaks; across the narrow trickle of a stream. Past the log stump that resembles Queen Victoria. Up a muddy embankment, along the moss-hugged ruins of a stone wall, and into a glade, agreed upon long ago as a suitable summoning spot. I took a moment to prepare myself, under the inquisitive eye of a local pheasant. With the horn ready in my hand I cleared my throat, tipped back my head and, in a faltering tenor, sang out

Questing Beast, Yelping Beast,
Yell Hound, Yelper, Hound of Doom!

I followed this with two long blows on the hunting horn. I allowed a full minute to pass, during which the only response was the coo of a distant dove and a bewildered tilting of the head from the pheasant. So I sang again, in a more forceful tone,

Questing Beast!
Yelping Beast!
Yell Hound! Yelper!
Hound of Doom!

Two further horn blasts were more than enough for the pheasant, who gave me a pitying look and returned to his foraging. But this time, I was answered by a faint yet clearly discernible baritone.

Beware the sword of Pellinore,
That seeks for thee by sun and moon!

I gave another blow on the horn. Into the prevailing stillness came the sound of a large form galumphing through the undergrowth. The baritone now took up the complete chorus by itself, as well as a verse I could not quite make out. I scanned the flora in front of me. Judging by the direction the sound seemed to be coming from, I calculated he would arrive through the bush to my left. I steadied myself in front of it. I trained my eyes upon it. I braced myself.

The bush to my right exploded in a flurry of foliage, to reveal the bounding form of Sir Pellinore. As usual, a misjudgement in momentum carried him into the centre of the glade and straight into me. As usual, he was dressed in full armour and greatcoat, all but obscured by a covering of bags, ropes, traps, weaponry and camping equipment. And, as usual, we tumbled to the ground in a seething jumble, from which I attempted to disentangle us.

“Herne the Hunter, as I live and breathe!” he cried, clasping me about the shoulders as we got to our feet.

“Greetings, Sir Pellinore,” I replied, steadying my antlers and trying to stay in character, “how goes the quest?”

He patted a dozen pockets, handing me a clump of moss, a catapult, and a dozing field mouse before he found what he was looking for. “Feast your eyes!” A handful of pungent droppings were thrust under my nose. “From the Wild Boar of Wales.”

“Indeed, Sir Pellinore?” I said, holding my breath.

“Indeed ‘indeed,' Herne boy bach. And you know what
that
means!”

“I am sure I do, Sir Pellinore,” I said, turning aside for a gulp of air. “But in the event that I am mistaken, I would be grateful if you could remind me.”

He leaned in, close enough for me to remove several of the twigs stuck in his hair. “The Beast is abroad, Herne.” A brisk movement beneath the layers surrounding his legs suggested a hop of glee. “Wherever the Wild Boar is found, the Questing Beast is never far behind! Mortal enemies, the pair of 'em. Destined to hunt each other down to the bitter bloody end, or 'til time itself runs dry.” He drew closer. “Caught the trail just once, this twelvemonth. Last Boxing Day, it was. I was snatching a nap under a tree when I was woken by its sound — that yapping and baying of sixty hounds, coming from the belly of the Beast. Then I saw it, through the morning mist! Just a glimpse, mind, but long enough to hold each other, eye to eye. Head of a snake. Body of a leopard. Feet of a stag, and a lion's arse. Or was it the feet of a lion, and a stag's arse? It was dashed foggy…

“But, here's the thing, Herne — I was not alone in the hunt! A gang of brigands on horseback joined the chase, hullabalooing and dressed in red like a pack of sore thumbs. Spoiling the quest, damn their eyes!
My
quest, the quest of Pellinore or his next of kin! I told them as much. At least, I tried to. They galloped screaming for the hills at the first sight of me. Tch! Amateurs. I picked up the trail, but the Beast had long since scarpered. Too fast for Pellinore. But not too fast
for Pellinore
and
Herne! The kill is mine, of course. But I could use a nose like yours. Not to mention that magic stuff you do so well. What say you, Herne? Will you join me on the gallivant?”

Sir Pellinore sneezed ferociously and a shower of droplets flew from his moustache. Quite how it had got so waterlogged on a dry summer's day was a mystery, though it probably had something to do with the fronds of pondweed that I brushed from his shoulders.

“It is a tempting offer, Sir Pellinore,” I said, choosing Herne's words with care, for lengthening shadows in the glade told me the sun was entering its afternoon wane. “But before we discuss terms and conditions, I have a message from the Master. He summons you to the ritual.”

“Flying Squids of Atlantis! Is it that time already?”

“It is, Sir Pellinore.”

“It can't have been a year since the last one?”

“It has, Sir Pellinore.”

“Well I'll be a badger's aunt.”

“If you must, Sir Pellinore.”

“Right-o. Point me at my horse.”

“Transport will have to be on foot, Sir Pellinore,” I said, recalling his last encounter with a car. “Sir Lucas the butler awaits you on the path.”

“Lucas! That old cove! Mind you, Herne,” he said with a series of exaggerated winks, “not a word to him about the Questing Beast. Not exactly official business, if you catch my drift?”

“As ever, your secret is safe with me, Sir Pellinore.”

“That's m'Herne.”

“This way, Sir Pellinore.”

I guided him out of the glade, gathering up his rope as we walked and liberating several small animals caught in its coils. We had almost reached the forest path when he insisted
on checking some traps he had set outside a rabbit burrow. I took advantage of the interlude to remove my antlers, and not without relief, for prolonged wearing of the headdress produces a chafing about my forehead.

“Ah, Lucas! There you are.”

“Good afternoon, Sir Pellinore.”

“You were right, Herne — Herne?” He swung around, goggling. “Funny. He was here a second ago. You haven't seen a huntsman mooching about, Lucas? About your height? Antlers? Answers to the name of Herne?”