Somewhere, in some small city farm, a cock crowed.
And a million children slept on.
36
They buried Kay a week later at a small Norman church on the Kent coast. It sat on a cliff overlooking the still and silent sea. White-winged seagulls circled against the sharp blue sky. Percy, Berrant and Balin had been buried in London, but Billi wanted something special for Kay.
He’ll like the view, she thought.
No family, and the stone just had his name, birth and death, and a brief epitaph:
A Poor Soldier.
Elaine stood at the head of the grave. Billi had thought Arthur would give the eulogy, but knew Elaine had been a mentor to Kay in a way her warrior father never had.
‘We’re all poor soldiers,’ said Elaine. ‘What’s life but bitter struggle, and pain? You have to be a soldier to bear it. To bear witness to what life brings: loss, despair, defeat. Our victories are few, and fleeting.’ Billi watched the tears sparkle on the woman’s wrinkled cheeks, sliding down the deep grooves. Elaine continued. ‘We have to have faith. Faith that something good comes out of our sacrifices. I think we can say Kay proved just that.’ Billi took her dad’s hand, and he gave it a brief squeeze.
‘Kay wasn’t a warrior. But when he was called he was not found wanting.’ Elaine’s hands covered her eyes. ‘We can only hope that his reward is a just one.’
The sun shone on the polished oak coffin lid as the other knights lowered it into the grave. They were all there. The Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. The Knights Templar.
Four weary men and her.
Bors and Pelleas stood one side of the coffin while Gwaine and Arthur stood on the other, holding the ropes slung under it. Her dad was sweating, grimacing from the pain of his stitches, as centimetre by centimetre they lowered Kay to his final resting place. Billi closed her eyes, and saw the lingering ghosts of Percy, Balin and Berrant.
And Kay.
Billi felt hollow. This morning her heart had leapt when she’d seen a tall, skinny blond boy. For a fraction Kay was alive, but the boy turned, and it wasn’t him.
Kay is gone. The thought shrivelled her inside. How could he be gone so quickly? She’d cried in the morning, shocked she couldn’t remember everything about him. She couldn’t bear to think her memories might fade so she forced herself to recall every single feature. His pale skin, the silvery hair, the soft bristles of his beard, just gathered around his chin. And his eyes. They were the one thing she’d never forget.
Blue, they were very blue.
The coffin scraped the bottom of the pit. The knights reeled in the ropes.
Don’t leave me, Kay.
The others lined up and each paused by the grave, giving a silent prayer, a final farewell. Then it was Billi’s turn.
I can’t do this.
Arthur stopped and looked at her. She blushed with shame. He’d buried his wife, and it hadn’t stopped him.
How could she do less? And what else would Kay expect of her?
‘Say goodbye, sweetheart,’ Arthur said.
But she couldn’t move. She stared at the coffin. A tiny patter of loose earth dropped on to the lid.
Don’t go.
Billi.
She jolted, glancing around, heart suddenly pounding hard and rapid.
‘Billi.’ Arthur touched her shoulder. ‘Let him rest.’ Then he walked away down the green slope. She looked into the dark hole and undid her crucifix chain. She held it over the edge, then it slipped and clattered on his coffin.
The others queued along the gate as she walked. She looked at each, and one by one they nodded in greeting. This was where she belonged. Arthur stood last. He put his arms round her and pressed her close to his heart. She heard it beating fiercely against hers. Her father kissed her tear-stained cheeks and whispered softly:
‘Welcome to the Knights Templar.’
Sarwat Chadda
