Sleepless Knights (20 page)

 

My initial wariness around this Megan was soon outweighed by the sheer depth and intensity of her concern. I had merely thought to ask if she knew of the whereabouts of Sir Kay, but she expressed such heartfelt interest in every aspect of our predicament that it was all I could do to keep up with her questions.

“Is it true what they're saying, in that castle, it's really him? The legendary King Arthur has returned? Along with his brave knights, of course?” She had taken me back inside the glass-fronted studio booth, where she made me a most welcome cup of tea.

“Indeed, madam,” I said.

“Call me Megan,” said Megan.

“The Master has sent us forth as his envoys, but I can assure you he is alive and well, and considering the best way to proceed.”

“And you're, what — time travellers? Immortals?”

“Immortal… after a fashion.”

“I'm sorry, that was unfair. The last thing I want to do is put you in a compromising position.”

“Not at all, madam. It is merely that events have moved so swiftly, and in such a short space of time. I am finding it difficult to maintain what you might call a party line. Forgive me if I seem over cautious.”

“No, no, not at all. I really admire you all. Living legends! Walking among us! It's just, there are so many things people are crying out to know about King Arthur. If only they could hear it from the man himself, then maybe they'd stop making things up.”

“Really? They are doing that?”

“Oh, the usual culprits in the press and online, saying the same old stuff:
Is he straight or gay? Messiah or anti-Christ
—”

“But Sir Lancelot —”

“Did a terrific job, didn't he? A natural born crowd-pleaser! But the thing is, it's no substitute for the real deal. ‘King Arthur speaks!', that kind of thing.”

“I see the good sense in what you are saying, madam,” I began.

“Megan.”

“But, as I said, the world will hear from the Master in due course.”

“The thing is… in a way, they already have. Unless he strikes while the iron's hot, he'll be yesterday's news. But of course, all this is a moot point. We'd never get past that sleeping force field thing.”

It was then that I saw, as clear as a well-buffed wine glass, exactly what needed to be done. A solution that would enable the Master to see for himself the trouble Sir Lancelot was taking to rectify the crisis in our affairs. One that would also provide King Arthur with a platform to represent himself, so that the world might see him as he truly was. Then, with our company reunited, we could find Merlin and restore the Eternal Quest.

“This ‘force field,' as you call it, may not be so much of a barrier as you fear,” I said.

“Really?” Megan's eyes glittered.

“We knights are able to pass through it unaffected. I am not one hundred per cent certain, but perhaps those accompanying us may do likewise.”

“That would be just brilliant. And we'd provide everything — cameras, portable studio, the works.”

“I will need to speak to the Master first, you understand. His disposition can be rather delicate.”

“Don't worry.” She clasped my hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “We'll take good care of him. Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go.”

“I should like to speak to Sir Kay before we leave, if that is possible. I understand he is currently being held by the police.”

“Afraid not. If we're going to get a military helicopter, we have to leave now.”

“Very well,” I said, and did my best to keep pace with her step, which was surprisingly fleet of foot.

†

The helicopter flew over a ruined city. Dragons swarmed above streets shrouded in smoke, swooping down to stoke up the numerous fires they had started, or ransack those few shops untouched by human looters. Only the stadium remained dragon-free. The beasts circled the protective military barrier, kept at bay by intermittent bursts of gunfire, but maintaining their orbit with a leisurely air, like sharks waiting for a water-treading swimmer to tire.

The helicopter gunship assigned to Megan and her colleagues was flanked by six others, three on either side, and we flew in a tight V formation. I assumed that our westerly progress would be hampered by dragon attacks. But aside from a few near misses they were content to leave us alone, drawn to the city by their instinct towards chaos and ruin.

This was just as well, as the closer we got to our destination, the thicker the air became with tooth and claw. Dark clouds massed on the western horizon. A flash of violet lightning burst from the cliff-side portal, a lurid cloth flicking at the dust-clumps of the clouds, the beam itself still pulsing steadily upwards into the sky. Eventually we saw Camelot, the solid outline of the fortified town standing in stark contrast to the Otherworldly light. Even from a distance of several miles it was a truly magnificent sight; a fairy tale ripped from the pages of a picture book and plastered onto the surface of the modern world.

For some time, my fingers had been worrying at the amulet's chain like a string of rosary beads. I stopped abruptly when I realised Megan was staring at me intently, her gaze only broken when the helicopter made a sudden dip in altitude. “The pilot won't risk flying any closer because of the force field,” she shouted to me. “But I've told him you'll come back when you've confirmed that you can get us safely inside.”

“Give me half an hour,” I said.

 

I materialised at the far side of the courtyard containing the Royal Tower, to discover that the Master had been nothing if not busy. He appeared to be engaged in a spring clean, similar to the one I had recently undertaken in my own quarters. But where my intention had been a methodical clearing of the deck, the contents of the Master's chambers at the top of the Royal Tower had been haphazardly thrown out of the window and into the courtyard below. This was an area of considerable size, yet barely an inch of it was not covered by his old possessions. I concealed myself in the shadow of a pillar at the opposite side of the courtyard to the tower. This was partly due to a degree of anxiety concerning the reception I would get, given my recent banishment. But it was also to see if closer observation would reveal any kind of logic in the Master's methods.

If there was any to be found, it was beyond my comprehension. Several more bundles rained down from the top window onto the sprawling pile on the ground below — the same spot where I had carefully stacked the fruits of my recent labours, now completely obscured by the Master's belongings. Winter cloaks of rare design were squashed beneath his carved oak dressing table. Ornate chests from his personal treasury formed a careless
tower, emeralds, rubies and sapphires spilling from their splintered sides.

Several minutes later, the Master himself appeared in the doorway, arms filled with yet more items which he deposited on the landslide. He surveyed the cluttered courtyard, pointing at certain patches — a pile of boots here, a rusty lance there — all the time mumbling and scratching his head as if he were making a complex calculation. Then he looked up at the sun, nodded his head, and, with the satisfied air of a man suddenly remembering exactly what he came into a room to look for, carefully selected a broken picture frame and a bag of jewels from the junk pile.

I suddenly realised he was heading in my direction and was sure to see me. I was struck by the irresistible urge to hide; not so much to prevent him from seeing me, but so he would not know that I had seen him. But if the Master did notice me, he made no outward sign, merely dropping his burden on the grass and arranging it next to a heap of torn curtains. I stood for a time, paralysed by indecision.

“Pass me that chair leg would you, Lucas?” said the Master.

“Sire?” I said.

“The broken chair leg. By the tapestry, there.”

“Sire?” was all I could manage by way of a follow-up.

“Look, are you going to stand there sire-ing all day, or are you going to help?”

“Forgive me, sire. My hesitation is on account of my recent banishment.”

“Who's been banished?”

“I have, sire.”

“Who on earth banished you?”

“You did, sire.”

“Did I? No, that doesn't sound like the sort of thing I'd do. Especially after you gave me such a brilliant idea.”

“Sire?”

“I presume it was you who stacked those things against the Royal Tower?”

“Indeed it was, but that was part of an orderly spring clean. This, if I may be so bold, is something else entirely.”

“Isn't it just,” said the Master, beaming bountifully. “I'm so glad you like it. A fitting monument, don't you agree?”

Again, I found myself lost for words. Here I must make a confession. To my shame, I had not been entirely honest with Megan. I knew full well that the helicopters would pass through the force field unscathed so long as I, as a representative of Camelot, remained with them. I could not say exactly how I knew this; only that the certainty came from the same instinctive place in one's mind that deals with such routine matters as blinking and sneezing. No, what really concerned me — my reason for wanting this advance audience with the Master — was to ascertain the state in which I would find him, and how it spoke of his potential reaction to uninvited guests.

Seeing him now, my conclusions were twofold. Firstly, given the full range of possibilities, his current condition of erratic cleaner was by no means the worst. Secondly, even if unexpected visitors were a bitter pill to swallow, it would do his spirits the power of good, once he knew of their good intentions. “I will return shortly, sire,” I said, passing him the chair leg he had asked me for.

“Splendid,” said the Master. He dropped the chair leg at a random angle on the ground, looking enormously pleased with himself.

†

It was my intention to direct the helicopters to the main outer courtyard, so as not to disturb the Master unduly, making a subtle approach on foot. But Megan was adamant
we land as close to him as possible, time being of the essence, and so despite my better judgement we made a beeline for the Royal Tower. Only when we passed over the inner walls did I realise the true nature of the Master's work.

Those domestic sundries which I assumed to be haphazardly scattered were in fact painstakingly arranged to create a picture; one that was only properly visible from the aerial vantage point afforded by our descending helicopter. A line of torn robes formed the curve of a cheek. Apparently random piles of dark rubies became glittering eyes. Like the hillside etchings of some anonymous Neanderthal worshipper, the Master had carefully sculpted a tribute to his lost deity. The female face was visible for only a few seconds, before the helicopter rotor blades whipped away the long black hair and broke an oaken nose beneath its landing gear.

All the while the Master had stood on the balcony outside his chamber window. I expected him to come rushing down in alarm, waving his arms in a futile attempt to redirect our landing. But he simply stood there and watched, mute and powerless, as the portrait disintegrated before his eyes.

Entirely unaware of their desecration, the passengers disembarked and began to unload equipment, trampling back and forth until every last nuance of the Master's subtle design was covered by cameras, cables and monitor screens. I was momentarily taken aback to see General Barber and several other high ranking officials, for I had presumed they would be back at the stadium for the imminent start of ‘Operation: Hostile Takedown.' But then, given the content of his press conference, it was only natural that the General would want to inspect ‘Ground Zero' for himself.

Up on the balcony, the Master stepped back inside his room. His movement did not go unobserved by Megan, who was directing her team, sending them scurrying into every nook and cranny. “Unit One, find a base to set up the studio.
Unit Two, locate the nearest electrical outlet, run cables from the town if you have to. I want to be broadcast-ready in one hour.”

“Excuse me, Megan — I think it is best that I speak to the Master first,” I said.

“Haven't you just done that?”

“Yes, but —”

“We'll handle it from here. Unit Three, you're with me.” Accompanied by two men and another woman, and followed by General Barber and his troops, Megan marched towards the Royal Tower.

It would have been a simple matter for me to reach the Master ahead of them, even without the amulet. I could have passed through the hidden doorway in the tower wall, stepped into the lift, and been in his room and at his side before they had got even half way up the stairs. But perhaps they could get through to the Master in a way that I had so far failed to do. Besides, a consultation of my pocket watch told me there were less than ten minutes remaining until six o'clock, the appointed hour for the start of ‘Operation: Hostile Takedown.' I muttered up a quick prayer to providence and took my leave of Camelot.

 

I had been away from the stadium for a matter of hours, but in my absence it had undergone a considerable transformation. Various elements had been fused together to create a strange hybrid of sports ground and military compound. Advertising hoardings, many featuring Sir Lancelot, lined the bottom of the spectator stands. The seats were rapidly filling with an enthusiastic audience, and I was appalled nobody had informed the spectators of the life-threatening scenes that would shortly take place in front of them. Then I realised that this, of course, was exactly what
had
brought them here.

Transparent protective barriers, presumably fire resistant, enclosed the stands. At either end of the pitch, large screens counted down the minutes until the retracting of the stadium roof. Below the screens were anti-aircraft guns and several battalions armed in the modern manner. The message they spelled out was clear: Sir Lancelot's traditional methods might result in less collateral damage, but it couldn't hurt to have a little back up, should those methods prove less effective in reality.