Sleepless Knights

SLEEPLESS KNIGHTS

Mark H Williams

Sleepless Knights
is, quite simply, a cracking good read. A cross between
The Remains of the Day
,
Le Morte d'Arthur
and
Harry Potter
, it's packed with charming characters, thrilling chases, intrigue and mystery. A glorious modern chapter of an age-old legend,
Sleepless Knights
introduces us to a distinctive and sympathetic new voice in fantasy writing.

—
Toby Whithouse
, writer for
Doctor Who
and creator of
Being Human

STARRED REVIEW
: Action and comedy duel for prominence in this brilliant debut novel about the knights of the Round Table. … Williams, an experienced playwright and television writer, has created a delightful addition to the Arthurian canon.

—
Publishers Weekly

Mark Williams' dazzling début shakes up Arthurian legend into a wildly inventive, roller coaster ride of thrills, hilarity, dark fantasy and brilliant characterisation all written with an exquisite elegance befitting the originality of the tale. Treat yourself.

—
Muriel Gray
, author of
The Trickster
,
Furnace
, and
The Ancient

Wonderful neo-chivalric highjinks. Williams gleefully takes the training wheels off the Arthurian cycle.

—
Mike Carey
, author of
The Unwritten
and the “Felix Castor” novels

Who would have thought that a mash-up between Jeeves and King Arthur would result in such a charmingly bonkers adventure?
Sleepless Knights
has the kind of silly energy that inspired Monty Python and
Time Bandits
, and plays out like a modern-day version of
The Sword in the Stone
. It's clearly the Arthurian epic PG Wodehouse never got around to writing. Grail-tastic fun for all ages.

—
Christopher Fowler
, author of
Film Freak
,
Hell Train
, and the “Bryant & May Mysteries”

One of the most imaginative and original books I have read in ages. This type of out there fiction is right up my street. Give me more!

—
Darren Craske
, author of
Before His Time
and the “Cornelius Quaint Chronicles”

Mark H Williams

Sleepless Knights

First Edition Paperback published August 2013:
ISBN
: 978–1–927609–01–9

First Edition eBook published August 2013,
ISBN
: 978–1–927609–02–6

The text in this novel is copyright © 2013, Mark H. Williams, who asserts his moral right to be established as the owner of this work.

Cover art & its design by and copyright © 2013,
Jimmy Broxton (or his representative)

Author's photo (rear cover) by Simon Gough
(
www.SimonGoughPhotography.com
)

Typeset in
Excelsior!
and Warnock

The “Atomic Fez Publishing” logo and the molecular headgear colophon is designed by, and copyright © 2009, Martin Butterworth of The Creative Partnership Pty, London,
UK
(
www.CreativePartnership.co.uk
).

PUBLISHER'S NOTE
:
This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real places or persons — living, dead, or possessing of eternal life by any known or unknown medical or magical means — is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

ATOMIC FEZ PUBLISHING
3766 Moscrop Street
Burnaby, British Columbia
V5G 2C8,
CANADA
WWW.ATOMICFEZ.COM

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Williams, Mark H., 1976-, author

Sleepless knights / Mark H. Williams
.

Issued in print and electronic formats
.
ISBN 978-1-927609-01-9 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927609-02-6 (ebook)

I. Title
.

PR6123.I438S54 2013      823'.92      C2013-904336-5

C2013-904337-3

Day One

Day Two

Yesterday One

Day Three

Day Four

Yesterday Two

Day Five

Yesterday Three

The Otherday

The Last Day

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For Sue, Dave and Lisa

SLEEPLESS KNIGHTS

 

There was no escaping it. The Master was not where he should have been, and that was most disturbing.

Today being Ritual Day, I rose an hour earlier than usual to pay particular attention to his morning routine. Piping hot water for the daily bath. A fresh razor blade for his shave, first taking care to satisfy its appetite for bites and nicks with my own light stubble. Two rounds of toast, cut into soldiers slim enough to dip into the egg soft-boiling on the hob. Tea leaves, spooned into a dry, pre-warmed pot, allowed no more infusion than the time it takes to ascend the stairs to his chamber, set the tray upon the bedside table, and pour the first cup.

This morning, however, my knock was not answered with the customary “Enter, Lucas.” Neither, after an appropriate interval, was a second, more vigorous rapping. Inclining my ear to the heavy oak door, I failed to discern any of the telltale sounds of sleep from within. With the tray growing ever more weighty in my hands and its contents in danger of crossing the perilously thin line separating brewed from stewed, I risked a peek through the keyhole.

His bed was entirely unslept in, the quilt smooth and unruffled, pillows still plumped. I calmly put the tray down on the landing and started a methodical search.
There is nothing to be gained from undue alarm
, I thought, looking
under the bed and inside the wardrobe.
It is not as if this is the first time
, I told myself, scanning bathroom and airing cupboard.
I am leaping to false conclusions
, I reasoned, as I checked the cupboard under the stairs,
when in all likelihood he is exactly where I left him last night, sat in his favourite wicker chair in the conservatory
.

He was not in his favourite wicker chair in the conservatory.

The blanket I had covered him with before retiring for the night lay crumpled on the floor, a book spread-eagled beneath it. By now, my mild disquiet was threatening to blossom into moderate panic. A shrill peal cut through the morning air, and I realised that the egg had boiled dry and set off the smoke alarm. Dashing to the kitchen, I grabbed the pan and thrust it under the cold tap where it hissed at me, as if in rebuke. I opened the window to let out the acrid stench of burnt Bakelite handle and silence the alarm. It was then that I saw him.

The Master was sitting on the garden bench in his dressing gown and slippers, his vacant gaze fixed on a patch of crumbling brickwork on the cottage wall. He was chill and damp to the touch from the morning dew, but otherwise unscathed, the empty scabbard still fastened securely to his belt. A spider had spun a web between the tip of his ear and the edge of his shoulder. As I relocated the intrepid arachnid to the garden sundial, my happiness increased with the realisation that this particular episode had not been characterised by any more of the Master's wider wanderings. I lifted him up from the bench and eased his arm around my shoulder, carefully coaxing the basic motor functions that remained. In such a manner, I conveyed him to a wooden seat at the bottom of the stairs and went up into the bathroom.

As luck would have it, the level of the bathwater had just reached the overflow outlet. I pulled a lever on the side of the bath and diverted the excess water into the pipes that
powered the counterweighted stair lift. The Master's chair slowly ascended to the top of the stairs, where I undressed him and conveyed him to the waters, fastening the scabbard belt carefully around his neck. I then turned my attention to the matter of his wardrobe. I had spread out the numerous pieces of the Master's ceremonial armour on his dressing table the previous day in readiness. I regarded each item of elaborate clothing in turn. Then I looked at his dressing gown, draped over my arm. I took out my pocket watch and made a few swift calculations.

I pulled a suitcase out from under the bed and packed the armour inside.

 

My careless lack of foresight had squandered our early start, so it was late morning by the time we arrived at Hay-on-Wye. I drove the Jaguar into the yard at the side of the house, first moving the piles of junk that had accumulated there since my last visit and which prevented the access of anything wider than a bicycle. Through a series of deft manoeuvres I parked the car, before ensuring that the Master was safely secured in the back seat, his dressing gown pulled tight and the scabbard looped through the cord.

The back door was ajar. As I pushed against it, I noticed it had been forced open, and with some vigour. The door was barely attached to its hinges, its wooden panelling splintered, the glass of the upper window lying in shards on the kitchen floor. I propped the door against its battered frame as best as I could, then stopped in my tracks. Directly opposite the kitchen door, the dead body of a man sat slumped in a chair.

My heart skipped a beat. I was about to rush back to the car for the thermos flask, praying I was not too late to revive him, when a closer inspection revealed the man to be far younger than the owner of the house; in his early twenties, if that. His position made it appear as if he had simply nodded off, head lolling forward, forehead almost resting on the sword protruding from a wound in his heart. It was impossible to go any further without stepping in congealing
blood. My subsequent footsteps made the sticky tearing sound one creates when walking on linoleum that has not seen a mop for some time. A recently brewed pot of coffee popped and gurgled on the counter in cheerful ignorance of the corpse. The aroma wafted away through the half-open entrance to the study, and I followed it through the gap.

The door resisted against what I assumed to be a stack of books. It felt safe to assume this, given that the room before me contained very little else. Books of every shape and size were arranged in piles, some the size of a small hedge, others as high as monumental pillars. Bulging bookcases lined every inch of wall space, their shelves coated in dust as thick as midwinter snow. The entire haphazard library formed a miniature maze that I began to navigate toward the centre of.