Sleepless Knights Read online

  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?”

  “I have not had the pleasure,” I said, holding the headdress firmly behind my back.

  “Pity. Think you two would get on.”

  “I am sure we would.”

  “Well, I’d best be off. Westerly direction, isn’t it?”

  “East, Sir Pellinore,” I said, turning him around and watching him walk off down the narrow track, a fox cub trotting at his heels.

  I returned to the car to find Sir Kay exactly as I had left him, a clump of tin foil and a few crusts on the dashboard the only sign of movement. Unfortunately, it was not the only thing that had changed during my absence. I opened the back door. I checked on the floor. I looked under the car. I even opened the boot, just in case. But there was no mistaking it.

  The Master had gone.

  IV

  “I’m telling you, Lucas, the first I knew of it was when you returned,” said Sir Kay, “and if you hadn’t spent so long nymphing around in the woods with Pellinore, he’d still be here.” I drove along the forest road at a snail’s pace, scrutinising the trees for any sign of the Master. “What’s more, I’m not a bloody detective. I was engrossed in my work. He could’ve quietly opened the door at any time and slipped away without me noticing.”

  “In any case, Sir Kay, perhaps you might look for him now, while I keep my eyes on the road ahead?”

  Sir Kay closed his book with a reluctant thud. “There he is!” he said, pointing through the windscreen. “Look, up there!” We screeched to a halt.

  “Where?” I said, craning forwards.

  “Behind that tree,” said Sir Kay. “Not there — there! No… my mistake. That’s another tree. Sorry.”

  I engaged the handbrake and took stock of the situation. If the Master was suffering the sleepwalking variant of his condition, he could not have ventured far during the time I was away from the car. Additionally, there was a chance that instinct would lead him to our ultimate destination. If, on the other hand, he did not reach it of his own accord, then at the very least there would be more people available to form a search party. Cheered by this prospect, I drove with all legal speed to
The Once & Future Inn.

  †

  For a supposedly quiet pub, the main bar was remarkably busy. Unfortunately, the Master did not number among its many patrons. Neither did the member of our party who should have arrived at his regular table several hours ago. I left Sir Kay nursing a whisky on a bar stool next to where Sir Pellinore was already on his second pint. The landlord caught my eye as I approached the far end of the bar.

  “Lucas!” he beamed, punching me in the shoulder. “Pull up a pew. Will you join me in a nip of something?”

  “Thank you, Sir Perceval, but no.”

  “A bite, then?” Sir Perceval hollered over his shoulder towards the kitchen. “How are those chickens doing?”

  Through a gap in the door I caught a glimpse of the Grail, that curious Celtic cauldron. It hovered along a line of small baskets in which a succession of sizzling chicken quarters appeared from out of thin air. I decided to overlook the security breach posed by this misuse of the Master’s property, not to mention by the increasingly bustling bar, for more pressing concerns. “I have urgent need of your assistance, Sir Perceval. The Master is experiencing his old complaint.”

  “Oh Lordy. What set him off this time?”

  “It may have been a spot of crumbling brickwork on the cottage wall that bears a passing similarity to a certain someone.”

  “But we checked the wall last time I was over! There was nothing that looked even remotely like her.”

  “Apparently, we failed to account for the highly subjective influence of the Master’s imagination in these matters. It is a lesson I should have learnt after the cloud formations of 1976.”

  “Yes, you should.”

  “Unfortunately, while I was summoning Sir Pellinore this afternoon, the condition took a turn for the worse. He is now suffering from the wandering variation.”

  “But he hasn’t had one of those since the Middle Ages!”

  “Indeed, Sir Perceval. It is long overdue, and I should have been expecting it.”

  “Well, he can’t have got very far; there is that, I suppose.”

  “That was also my reasoning. I must depart immediately for De Troyes Manor. Before you prepare the Lower Room, perhaps you might assist Sir Kay and Sir Pellinore in a thorough search of the surrounding region?”

  “Consider it done.” Sir Perceval started to drain his tankard, before pausing mid-gulp. “Sorry, but you said something about preparing…?”

  “The Lower Room, Sir Perceval.”

  “No Luc, you’ve lost me now. Say again?”

  “Preparing the Lower Room. The basement. For tonight.”

  We had been talking loudly to compete with the general hullabaloo, and I was reluctant to raise my voice any higher. I cast a careful look over both shoulders and leaned in closer. “For the ritual,” I hissed.

  “The ritual!” Sir Perceval roared. “By the Giant’s cloak of beards, that’s never tonight?”

  I winced at the patch of sudden silence that always follows a loud and indiscrete public utterance. “Sir Perceval! A little delicacy, if you please.”

  “Sorry, of course, of course,” he said, tapping his nose conspiratorially and failing to lower his voice to anywhere near the level I would have preferred. “It’s not like me to forget. Wrote it down and everything.” He gestured at the wall behind him. On my last visit I had given him a calendar to prevent just such an eventuality as this. I could only suppose that beneath the patchwork quilt of IOU-S, recipes torn from magazines, and ribald messages from pub regulars, it was still there.

  “Surely you were reminded by Sir Gawain?” I said, glancing again at his empty table.

  “I promise you Lucas, he made no mention of the ritual when he was in earlier.”

  “Forgive me, Sir Perceval. By your use of the word ‘earlier,’ am I to take it the aforementioned knight is no longer on the premises?”

  “Well, er…” Sir Perceval’s already ruddy face deepened to dark scarlet.

  “Then, where is he?”

  “He, er… um… That’s a good question.” Perspiration beaded his brow. “Do you know, I feel a funny turn coming on. I think it’s my heart.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “It being the weekend, he has gone south, naturally,” said Sir Perceval.

  “Not so ‘naturally,’ given that we are under orders not to stray from the immediate vicinity,” I said.

  Sir Perceval polished off his pint and swallowed hard, but the ale did little to diminish the fire in his cheeks. “Well, when I say south, what I really mean is —”

  “Sir Perceval. You need not temper your words. If Sir Gawain has ventured further than is strictly permissible, the Master does not need to be informed. Provided I can find our comrade in time for the ritual.”

  “He went to Cardiff for the night,” said Sir Perceval, with a sigh of relief. “But you didn’t hear that from me, Lucas.”

  “Of course, Sir Perceval.”

  V

  De Troyes Manor was situated en route to the city of Cardiff; no small blessing, for after picking up its owner I could enlist his help in the retrieval of Sir Gawain. But, as I noted the large number of vehicles parked along the length of the tree-lined drive, I began to suspect that the attention of Lance De Troyes might be otherwise engaged.

  Mr Crossley, Mr De Troyes’ head butler, confirmed as much when he met me at the door. “Tonight is the presentation dinner for the De Troyes Foundation’s Active Life Achiever of the Year, Mr Lucas,” said that fine footman, handing my coat to a subordinate. I glanced into the main hall, thronged with the county’s great and good. “The final course has just been cleared, but I could bring you a selection of cold cuts while you wait?”

  “Thank you, Mr Crossley, but time is in short supply. Please inform your master of my arrival, and the need for a swift departure, as soon as he has performed his duties.”

  “Forgive me, Mr Lucas, but he made no mention of leaving the Manor this evening.”

  “That is curious, Mr Crossley.”

  “That was my sentiment. He has set aside this night for yourself and the Old Boys every year that I have been in his service. However, perhaps the following message will illuminate his intentions. He wishes you to know that he is feeling ‘far from hale and hearty’ this evening. Are you quite alright, Mr Lucas? Your face has taken on a sudden anaemic hue.”

  “I wonder if you would be so kind as to fetch me a glass of water?”

  He did so. I drained it in one draught.

  “Thank you. Those were his exact words?” I said.

  “To the letter. Master De Troyes was adamant I convey the message just so.”

  “The message is well delivered, Mr Crossley,” I said. He nodded and returned to his duties. I positioned myself at the back of the main hall, centre to the stage where the man of the hour was preparing to make his speech.

  Lance De Troyes adjusted his microphone, observing his mature and immaculate audience until every eye was fixed on him alone. A crackle of anticipation charged the air, raising gooseflesh on the arms of every woman and several of the men. The chatter of the crowd dropped to a low susurrus.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to De Troyes Manor. Now, you all know I’m not one for long speeches. Not when the night is young and the wine is vintage.” He paused in a warm wash of laughter. “But of all the work undertaken by the De Troyes Foundation, the Active Life Achiever of the Year is closest to my heart. This year’s winner is an example to us all. I fully intend to follow her example — when I finally retire, that is.” He ran a hand through his lightly silvered hair. “But I digress. Tonight is not my night. Tonight belongs to a lady who sits on no less than five of the charity committees supported by the De Troyes Foundation. A lady who, when not sharing her expertise on the bowling green with disadvantaged teenagers, is keeping her fellow pensioners as fit as she is with her aqua yoga classes. A lady who considers any spare time to be wasted, if it is not spent at her sanctuary for abandoned dogs. And so,
without further ado, it gives me enormous pleasure to present the Active Life Achiever of the Year award to… Mrs Kathleen Bliss!”

  A twinkling septuagenarian took to the stage, to a round of envious applause. Lance kissed her on both cheeks, and presented her with a gold envelope and a magnum of champagne. “Ladies and gentlemen. Charge your glasses, and join me in a toast. To… er… To…” He patted his breast pocket absently. The audience fell silent, save for a solitary cough.

  This was it, then.

  “Join me, in raising your glasses to…” A murmur of concern passed through the crowd. I swiftly made my way to the front of the hall.

  “In raising a toast, to the charming and deserving…” Lance De Troyes loosened his tie. “Forgive me, friends,” he said, “but I feel far from hale and hearty this evening.”

  With that, he tottered on his feet and keeled forwards.

  The crowd’s murmur exploded into a full-blown gasp. The lectern was upturned — knocking over a side table and a jug of water — as Lance De Troyes fell like a cut oak. I caught him by the shoulders, mere inches before he hit the ground, and gently lowered him the rest of the way to the floor. Kathleen Bliss let out a curdling scream. The horror-struck crowd were about to press in upon us when Mr Crossley intervened. “Please, stand back, give us some room,” he said, crouching beside the body of his master and feeling for a pulse. “Mr Lucas. Is he —?”

  “Help me convey him to the drawing room,” I replied. His sentence was best finished behind closed doors. I wished to avoid the pandemonium that would undoubtedly ensue, should the crowd get wind of the fact that Lance De Troyes was dead.