Knight for a Day

Table of Contents

 

 

 

Text copyright © 2003, 1999 by Kate McMullan. Illustrations copyright © 2003, 1999 by Bill Basso. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

 

 

McMullan, Kate.

Knight for a day/ by Kate McMullan; illustrated by Bill Basso.

p. cm. - (Dragon Slayers’ Academy 5)

Summary: Wiglaf wins a contest that brings Sir Lancelot to the Dragon Slayers’ Academy for a day, but when Wiglaf’s friend Erica suspects that Lancelot is not who he claims to be trouble ensues.

I. Basso, Bill, ill. II. Title. III. Series: McMullan, Kate. Dragon Slayers’ Academy 5.

PZ7.M47879Kn 1999

[Fic]-dc21

99-17124

CIP

eISBN : 978-1-101-14208-0

K L M N O P Q R S T

“P
ssst!” Wiglaf hissed at Erica. “Listen—footsteps ! Mordred is coming!”

Erica paid no attention. She dipped her quill into her ink pot. She kept writing.

Wiglaf’s eyes grew wide. How unlike Erica. She was a model student. She always won the Future Dragon Slayer of the Month medal.

“Hide your parchment!” warned Angus, who sat on Erica’s other side. “Quickly!”

But Erica wrote on.

Wiglaf shot Angus a glance. Both boys knew how stubborn Erica could be. But they also knew that there’d be trouble if Mordred caught Erica working on another project in his How to Find Dragon Gold Class. Why, the hot-tempered headmaster might throw her into the dungeon!

Yet Wiglaf knew that if Mordred had a clue who Erica
really
was, he’d never punish her. She was Princess Erica, daughter of Queen Barb and King Ken. Girls were not allowed at Dragon Slayers’ Academy, so Erica had disguised herself as a boy. Everyone there called her Eric. Wiglaf was the only DSA student who knew her secret.

The footsteps thundered closer. Then the big, bushy-haired headmaster of Dragon Slayers’ Academy burst through the door.

The students jumped to attention.

All except Erica. She kept scribbling away.

“At ease, boys,” Mordred said. “I bring terrible news! Twins were born last week in the village of Toenail. Twins! A bad omen, if there ever was one...er, I mean, two.” Mordred looked puzzled for a moment. “In any case,” he went on, “disaster has struck.” His violet eyes lit upon Erica, still writing furiously. He charged across the classroom and snatched up her parchment.

“Please, sir!” Erica cried. “Let me finish!”

Mordred studied the page. Then he glared at Erica. “What is this nonsense, boy?”

“‘Tis the ‘Win a Knight for a Day’ essay contest, sir,” Erica answered. “I shall win, for the topic is ‘Why I Want to Meet Sir Lancelot (The World’s Most Perfect Knight).’ I have hundreds of reasons!”

“Humph,” said Mordred. He began reading Erica’s essay aloud:

As Wiglaf listened, he couldn’t help but smile. Erica was crazy about Sir Lancelot. She had her Sir Lancelot Fan Club certificate nailed to the wall over her cot in the dorm. She had ordered her sword, her armor, her helmet-even her pajamas-from the Sir Lancelot Fan Club catalog.

Wiglaf had never really understood Erica’s fascination with Sir Lancelot. True, Lancelot was brave. He had killed many a wicked dragon. Often he battled several rogue knights at once. And he always left them lying in pools of their own blood.

Wiglaf shuddered. The very thought of blood made him feel sick to his stomach. Clearly he was not worthy of a personal visit from the famous knight. Yet Wiglaf longed to be a hero. In fact, he had already killed two dragons. Both times had been by accident, however. So no one thought of him as a hero. He did not look like a hero, either. He was small for his age. And he had bright carrot-colored hair. But Wiglaf still had hope.

At last Mordred looked up. “What would happen if you won this contest, Eric?”

“When
I win,” Erica said, “Sir Lancelot of the Lake, the most perfect knight of all—”

“Yes, yes,” said Mordred. “Get on with it.”

“Sir Lancelot will come to DSA and be my knight for a day,” Erica said. “He shall eat at my table. And go to class with me. And—”

“Do you think the contest winner might also get a cash prize?” the greedy headmaster cut in. “Some gold, perhaps?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Erica said. “A day with Sir Lancelot is prize enough. What need would there be for gold?”

“There is always need for gold,” Mordred muttered. “And yet...what fine publicity for my school if Lancelot were to come here. I could attract new students. I could raise the tuition. Yes! Lancelot must come!”

Angus groaned. “If Lancelot shows up,” he whispered to Wiglaf, “Uncle Mordred will make us scrub every inch of this old castle.”

Wiglaf nodded. Angus was Mordred’s nephew. But this status earned him no special treatment. Quite the opposite, in fact. Angus had to help his uncle in countless ways, most of which involved scrubbing.

“I have it!” Mordred cried suddenly. “You
all
shall enter the contest! That way, one of you surely will win!”

“But
I
shall win, sir!” Erica called out.

Mordred paid no attention. “Start writing now, boys. Copy out of books if you have to. Do whatever it takes to win the prize!”

Erica rolled her eyes. But Wiglaf didn’t think she looked worried. After all, who could compete with her? Erica always had a small copy of
The Sir Lancelot Handbook
with her for quick reference. She had read Sir Lancelot’s memoir,
A Knight Like I,
dozens of times. Wiglaf was sure that Erica knew more about Lancelot than the knight’s own mother.

Mordred turned to Erica. “When is the contest deadline?”

“All entries must be in Camelot by midnight tomorrow,” Erica said.

“Bring your essays to my office first thing in the morning,” Mordred told the class. “I’ll have Yorick run them over to Camelot.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Ha! Sir Lancelot is going to make me a rich man!”

“Sir?” called a tall, skinny boy named Torblad. “What news did you have about Toenail? I come from there, you know.”

Mordred’s smile faded. “The green plague has broken out in Toenail. Last time the green plague struck, boys here came down with it left and right. I had dozens of parents writing me for tuition refunds. Well, I can’t have that happening again! So, boys,
DO NOT GET THE PLAGUE.
Do I make myself clear?”

“But, sir,” said Torblad in a shaky voice. “How will we know if we have it?”

“First your tongue swells up and turns green,” Mordred said.

Wiglaf tried not to think about that. “Then,” Mordred continued, “your eyes crust over with green ooze.”

Wiglaf began to feel sick to his stomach.

“Your skin gets covered with green boils, and you spew whatever’s in your stomach—”

That did it. Wiglaf’s stomach lurched. He clapped his hand to his mouth and ran for the classroom door.

“Boy!” Mordred bellowed as Wiglaf ran by him. “Have you gone and caught the plague after I told you not to?”

“I
s it green?” Wiglaf stuck out his tongue.

Angus shook his head. “Trust me, Wiglaf,” he said. “You don’t have the green plague.”

Wiglaf slumped down on his cot. He was glad he didn’t have the plague. But he wished he had some excuse for running out of Mordred’s class that morning. His face still burned hot with shame when he thought of it. How could he ever hope to be a hero if the mention of a few plague boils made him lose his lunch?

Wiglaf glanced down at the blank piece of parchment on his cot. He had not started his essay. And any minute, Frypot, who was on Night Patrol for the week, would be in to put out the torches.

“There!” exclaimed Erica from her cot on the far side of the room. “Finished!” She smiled. “I’ve written twenty-six brilliant pages!” She hopped up and ran over to Wiglaf and Angus. She held out her essay. “Who wants to read it first?” she asked.

“Go ahead, Wiglaf,” Angus offered.

“Oh, no, you first,” Wiglaf said quickly.

“My conclusion is especially good.” Erica sat down on Wiglaf’s cot. “I don’t understand why Mordred is wasting time having the rest of you write essays. Mine has winner written all over it.”

Erica glanced at Wiglaf’s blank parchment. “Zounds, Wiggie!” she exclaimed. “You have not written a word! Here, let me help you.”

“No, I can do it.” Wiglaf turned away from Erica. He dipped his quill into his ink pot. He wrote his name at the top of the parchment:
Wiglaf of Pinwick.
Then he wrote:
I should like to meet Sir Lancelot, the world’s most perfect knight, as I, myself, am very far from perfect.

“You
are
very truthful,” Erica said, reading over Wiglaf’s shoulder. “However, in an essay, you must—”

“Nighty-night!” Frypot called from the doorway. “Into your cots, boys. Be quick about it!”

Frypot began snuffing the torches. Wiglaf put the top on his ink pot. He was glad to stop writing, for he had nothing more to say about Sir Lancelot.

The next morning, Wiglaf, Angus, and Erica hurried to the headmaster’s office to turn in their essays.

Angus knocked on Mordred’s door.

There was no answer.

He cracked open the door. He stuck his head in. “Uncle?” he called.

“Quiet, boy!” Mordred snapped. “Can’t you see I’m counting?”

Angus opened the door wider.

Wiglaf saw that Mordred was counting tall stacks of gold coins.

“Fifty-six, sixty-eight,” Mordred muttered. “Oh, jester’s bells! Now I shall have to start all over!” He scooped up his gold and dumped it into a big sack. He carried the sack to his safe. “Don’t look, boys!” he growled. “No one knows the combination to my safe. And I want to keep it that way.”

Wiglaf turned away. He heard clicking sounds as Mordred opened his safe. A thud told him the bag of coins had landed on the safe floor. Then the heavy door slammed shut.