Sleepless Knights (42 page)

And there was Beaumains. Not yet dead. Better still, not yet the living-dead. Full of life and fighting fit. I walked up to her, dodging a falling horse.

“Beaumains,” I said.

At the sound of my voice she turned, her opponent falling dead at her feet.

“Lucas?” she cried in disbelief. “What are you — where the hell have you been? Are you out of your mind?”

“I'm glad to see you,” I said.
With all your flesh intact
, I almost added, but felt it might ruin the moment. I took her free left hand, and held it in mine.

“You must be deranged to act like this in the middle of a battle — look out!” A knight hurled an axe at my head.

“What? Oh yes, that. Of course.” I held up my other hand.

The axe stopped. So did the rest of the battle. Every spear stood still and every arrow paused mid-flight. Every sword thrust ceased as every heartbeat froze, save for mine and the woman I loved, standing together centre stage in the theatre of war. Beaumains looked around us at the arrested conflict, amazed.

“What just happened?”

“It's magic.”

“You have changed.”

“Yes. It's rather difficult to explain. It involves the Grail.”

“No, I mean: you are holding my hand. You don't seriously mean to tell me you have strolled back into my life after seven years, slap bang into the middle of a war, and stopped the world turning, just to hold my hand?” She seemed more irritated than I had been expecting.

“Beaumains. I have spanned centuries, killed dragons and defeated witches, journeyed to Hell and back, died, been reborn, and torn apart the very seams of time. And all to get back to the deepest enchantment I have ever known on the good green earth.”

“On it, under it, above it, beyond it,” she said, testily. But then she smiled. “Well, better late than never, I suppose.” And she pulled me towards her, and kissed me.

Knowing that, if I wanted to, I could make such a kiss last forever, it took a supreme effort of will not to simply make it so. But, as soul-soaringly wonderful as the moment was, sooner or later we had a Last Battle to be getting on with. Still in each other's arms, we took in the scene around us. I told her how I had felt witnessing the conflict replayed in Hell; that indefinable offence to my professional sensibility, an inkling that the battle could somehow have been better managed.

“They are doing their best,” she said. “But they are not soldiers.”

“Of course. That's it!” I said, looking at the next page of my notebook. “They were never meant to be.”

I unfroze my staff. And I briefed them in the Last Staff Meeting.

†

So it was that when the Last Battle of Camlann recommenced, it was fought on decidedly different lines. Sir Gareth and his remaining forces found their numbers suddenly and mysteriously depleted, as those service staff who had fought alongside them only a moment ago appeared to have vanished. Of course, they hadn't really gone anywhere. They were still
in
the battle. They were just not
of
the battle. Indeed, if they were to be noticed by anyone, it would mean that they
were not doing their job properly. When in the midst of a fray, a servant must remain all but invisible until the precise moment their services are required.

As for the nature of such services, there is no challenge war can throw up that one has not already faced in the course of one's duties. A good butler has an eye fine-tuned to detail, down to the last speck of dust in a room. To this can be added his skill at drawing-up lists, plans and itineraries of every description. I have organised feasts more physically demanding than any military campaign. Likewise, I have experienced hospitality just as damaging to body and soul as any conflict. More importantly, a butler can keep his head while all around him are losing theirs, be it literally or metaphorically.

Consider: Sir Gareth fighting Sir Sagramour. Gareth drops his dagger, but soon it appears again at his side, freshly sharpened and cleaned of blood. He sustains a cut to the leg; moments later, a dollop of healing ointment stems the wound. Sir Marhalt is unhorsed; his steed is conveyed to a safe distance, fed, watered, re-saddled, and sent back to his master, who is still marvelling at the sudden appearance of a cup of water to soothe his own parched throat.

It has often been said that an army marches on its stomach. But it wins wars on its service industry.

And all of this occurred in the full application of Service Time. Each member of my staff found that they had exactly the right amount of time to complete their tasks. No sword was fast enough to catch us the slightest nick, no spear provided any occupational hazard. Thus did the remaining knights find themselves in a perpetual state of replenishment and refreshment, while their opponents, tired and wounded and confounded by the sight of the enemy's self-bandaging wounds and freshly polished shields, were soon on the retreat. Beaumains looked up to the east where the residual
light loosed from our return to the glade still blazed in the sky.

“Like a second sunrise,” she said. “A good omen?”

“I wonder,” said Sir Gareth, then noticed my presence for the first time. “Lucas!” he cried, clasping my shoulders. “So it
was
you I met on the road!”

“Indeed it was, Sir Gareth.”

A gust of wind swept down on us. We turned our eyes up to the north hill. There at the summit stood a second army, as numerous as the first, while up on the opposing hillside the first army had regrouped.

“That was not a retreat,” said Sir Gareth. “It was to prevent one of our own.”

Now Mordred appeared, among the number to the north. “Hemming us in on both sides,” said Guinevere. “A coward, but a cunning one.”

“Lucas,” whispered Sir Gareth. “What about the others? What about the King?”

“On their way. But though they move on swift hooves, we need to buy them a little more time.”

“What do you suggest?”

“With the support of my staff, you will last a good while longer. But when the enemy's numbers overwhelm us, we should lay down our weapons,” I said.

“Surrender?”

“Only a temporary one. In that, you will have to trust me.”

“Only a fool doesn't listen to his butler,” said Sir Gareth. “Curious to say,” he added, “this does not feel like the end.”

†

“They have archers!” said Sir Palomides.

“Prepare your bows!” ordered Sir Gareth. A hail of arrows sped towards the knights, slowed, and then stopped,
suspended in Service Time. My staff quickly plucked them out of the air and placed them in the taut bows of the very men they were aimed at. Time resumed its normal flow. Astonishment filled the minds of the archers at the top of the north slope, shortly before their own arrows filled their bodies. At a signal from Mordred, the forces on the southern side of the valley charged down, but we held our ground and forced them back until not one of them was left standing. Mordred advanced to the very crest of the north hill, an army of hundreds still behind him.

He was about to order his final attack when he saw a man approaching him from within the ranks of the rebels, a single emissary limping up the valley slope, waving a white flag. Flanked by two guards, Mordred spurred his horse forwards to speak with him.

“Hello there,” said Geraint.

“Is that… the Gatekeeper?” said Mordred.

“That's me, buddy.”

“That's me,
sire
,” corrected one guard, darkly.

“You will address the King in the proper manner, rebel scum,” said the other.

“See now, there's a logical flaw to that. It doesn't make me much of a rebel if I acknowledge him as King, does it?”

“Do not bandy riddles with me, porter,” said Mordred.

“How about a coin trick, then?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I've come to announce our unconditional surrender.” Geraint waved his white flag to his comrades below. Every last one of them dropped their weapons. Mordred smiled a reedy smile.

“That,” he said, “was a mistake.”

“No,” said Geraint. “
That
was misdirection.”

A horn blast reverberated around the valley. From the eastern end, six knights on horseback galloped through the
stream and into Camlann, flying the banner of King Arthur. A cheer went up from the knights below and they took up their weapons again. Mordred's forces shifted uneasily, as news of King Arthur's return swept through their ranks like wildfire. Many at the back turned tail and fled, while those at the front broke ranks in fear and disarray.

“Yes,” said Geraint to Mordred, “in my experience, there's no better sign than a bright light in the east.” And I teleported him back to our side for the end of the Last Battle.

 

Well Gwion, the sun is shining and breakfast beckons, and I do not intend to start such a splendid day with eggs over-boiled. Besides, that was about all I can give to you by way of an introduction. The rest of it you will have to work out for yourself. I'm sorry I left in such a hurry. But, having instructed my staff and returned King Arthur and his greatest knights to their place in the Last Battle, I consulted my To Do list for the last time, and saw that my only remaining task was to leave them to work out the finer points of their destiny for themselves.

I do, however, keep up with my reading, and occasionally some volume of history or folklore will find its way out here, to the very back of beyond. My current favourite is a large tome called
The Chronicles of Godfrey of Wales
. It speaks of the Last Battle of Camlann as a time of heroes, but also as the inevitable end of the noble dream of Camelot. It says that such a Golden Age was never meant to be eternal. That to draw it out past its natural end would only diminish its potential to inspire all the generations to follow.

It tells of how Sir Gawain gave his life to save Sir Lancelot, of how Sir Lancelot died to save Guinevere, and how Guinevere died for her King. Of how King Arthur finally faced the traitor Mordred, and how they struck each other down at the last. Of how the King, sore-wounded, was
taken away by his surviving knights, his body and the sword Excalibur borne across the Enchanted Lake in the Enchanted Forest, off to the Otherworld, so some men say. And of how, of those six knights in shining armour who returned in the nick of time that day, none fought so finely or so fiercely as the brave and noble Sir Kay.

Of course, I know from experience not to take such tales on face value, for there have been many books written on the subject, and there will be many more, for as long as the world keeps turning. However, there is one matter on which this book and others like it remain curiously silent. And that concerns the fate of Sir Lucas the butler; or Sir Lucas the Merlin, as he was latterly known to only a few.

On that matter I might shed some light, but only a little, and for you alone, Gwion, for the destiny of wizards is not for the ears of all and sundry. But I can tell you at least of how Sir Lucas slipped away from the skirmish and returned to where he had tethered his trusty steed, hand-in-hand with the woman to whom his fate was so irresistibly bound. Of how they made their way down to the coast together, and from there set out at a full gallop for the Otherworld. Away into the west with the setting sun, across the wide green meadows of the sea.

The feedback, inspiration and advice provided by the following people was invaluable throughout the writing of
Sleepless Knights
. To detail the breadth and variety of their encouragement would require a new Eternal Quest. I hope this Round Table roll-call of knights and ladies of legend will suffice.

At the High Table: thanks to Laura Cotton for love and support in every adventure.

Hearty toasts of gratitude are due to the company of Camelot: Dinos Aristidou, Kym Bartlett, Rachel Benbow, Joanna Burnett, Phil Clark, Neil Cocker, Angharad Devonald, Charlotte Geeves, Emma & Simon Gough, Richard Hall, Llinos Harries, Sharlene Harvard-Young, James Hodgkins, Sue & Dave Hutchings, Mark Jones, Sarah Kent, Stephen Knight, Tim Lebbon, Lisa, Damien & Erin Murphy, Jessica Naish, Richard Nichols, Richard Parker, Kate Perridge, Pam & Mike Pickford, Ben Potter, William Rees, Jane Rawson, Derek Ritchie, Adam Strange, Granville Swan, Annabel Tremlett, Gareth & Hannah Williams, and Juliette Wood.

And last but by no means least, ballads and bumpers aplenty to Ian Alexander Martin, for his unending enthusiasm for this Chronicle.

Mark H Williams
is a playwright and scriptwriter. His work includes
Here Be Monsters
(Theatr Iolo, 2013) and a stage adaptation of
Jason & The Argonauts
(Courtyard Hereford, 2013).

He has written two UK-touring stage adaptations of Scholastic's “Horrible” series for The Birmingham Stage Company:
Horrible Histories: The Frightful First World War
(2009; nominated for a “
Manchester Evening News
Award”) and
Horrible Science
(2010 & 2013).