Knight for a Day (4 page)

Erica is such
a
show-off.
Wiglaf thought. He hoped that Sir Lancelot was not impressed.

“Correct, Eric.” Master X nodded his hood. “Let’s have a little jabbing practice.”

Angus passed around a box filled with daggers. Everybody took one. Wiglaf hated to think of jabbing anything. But he took one, too.

“Who would like to demonstrate the short jab?” asked Master X.

“I might as well do it,” Sir Lancelot offered. “After all,” he went on, “no one else can wield a dagger as well as I.” He stood up. “I hold my dagger with the handle pressed against my well-shaped wrist, like so.” Sir Lancelot showed the class how he held it. “I start with my palm down. Then I lunge forward, twisting the dagger so my thumb ends up on top.” Sir Lancelot jabbed at the air.

“Excuse me, sir,” Erica said, once more looking puzzled. “Why do you hold the dagger in your left hand when you are right-handed?”

“Ah, why, indeed?” the perfect knight said with a small laugh. “You’re a lad who pays attention, aren’t you?”

Erica beamed at this praise.

Wiglaf slouched down in his seat.
Erica
is
getting all the attention,
he thought.

“You see,” Sir Lancelot said, “when I fight lesser knights—and what knight is not lesser than I?—I hold my weapon in my left hand. It gives others a fighting chance to beat me—though no one ever has.”

“Oh, you
are
kind, sir!” Erica cried.

“Yes,” Sir Lancelot agreed. “That I am.”

The class practiced jabbing then. Sir Lancelot helped Wiglaf with his jab.

“You’ve got it!” the knight said at last.

Wiglaf had never felt so proud. For once he was sorry to hear the bell ring.

“Class dismissed!” said Master X. “Drop your daggers in the box as you leave. Or I’ll decapitate you!” The ex-executioner laughed darkly as the students hurried away.

“Which class shall I grace next?” Sir Lancelot asked Wiglaf.

“Stalking,” Wiglaf said. “In the tower.”

“So we climb, eh?” said Sir Lancelot. And once more he clanked his way up the stairs.

Wiglaf, Erica, and Angus followed.

“Sir Lancelot?” Erica said. “Do you remember Sir Mort, your old teacher?”

“Of course I do!” exclaimed Sir Lancelot.

“I shall present you to him,” Erica added. “How happy he shall be to see you again.”

Wiglaf frowned. He had arranged for Erica to be near Sir Lancelot for the whole day. But he was the contest winner after all. He did not want Erica to take over his knight. At a bend in the stairs, he pulled her aside.

“I am Sir Lancelot’s host,” he said. “Maybe I should present him to Sir Mort.”

“All right,” Erica snapped. “Be that way.”

She climbed the rest of the way in silence.

“Come in, lads. Come in.” Old Sir Mort greeted his students at the doorway. “It’s a lovely day for stalking.”

“Sir Mort?” Wiglaf said. “May I present your former pupil, Sir Lancelot?”

Sir Mort looked closely at the visitor.

“I remember you!” he said at last. “The lad with the awful cough. Always hocking things up from the back of your throat.”

Wiglaf groaned. Oh, why had he not let Erica present Sir Lancelot to Sir Mort?

“No, no,” said Sir Lancelot. “It was Lance of the Field who had the cough. I am Lance of the Lake. I was never sick. I sat in the front row and answered every question.”

“That
Lance!” Sir Mort said. “Why didn’t
you say
so? Sit down, lads. Let’s begin.”

Wiglaf and Sir Lancelot found seats.

“Who would like to show me the Quick Stalk?” Sir Mort said.

Wiglaf raised his hand. If only Sir Mort would call on him! He could show Sir Lancelot that he was an excellent stalker.

“I shall,” Sir Lancelot offered. “For who could do it better than I?”

“Off with your boots, then,” said Sir Mort.

“Oh, but I stalk with my boots on,” said Sir Lancelot.

“Not in
my
class, you don’t!” cried Sir Mort. “I remember you now. You never listened. Always a big know-it-all.” He turned to Wiglaf. “You show us, lad.”

Wiglaf did not want to take Sir Lancelot’s place. But he did want to show off his stalking skill. He rose and kicked off his boots. He was glad he had worn his socks without holes today. He bent his knees. He began moving—left foot, right foot—silently across the room.

“Fine form, Wiglaf!” said Sir Mort.

Wiglaf thought he might burst with pride. At last, here was his moment to shine!

But what a brief moment it was.

For Erica raised her hand.

“Didn’t you ask for the Quick Stalk, sir?” she said. “Wiglaf is stalking very slowly.”

“Speed is important,” Sir Mort agreed. “But so is keeping your ears open. That’s the main thing, lads. Keep your ears open. Keep your eye to the ground. Keep your nose clean. And keep your cash in the heel of your boot. That’s where I keep mine.” Sir Mort gazed out at his students. “Any questions, lads?”

After Stalking Class, Wiglaf and Sir Lancelot walked down the stairs together.

“Sir Lancelot?” Wiglaf said. “Before rest hour begins, I have something to show you.”

“I hope it is something worth showing me, Wiglaf of Pinwick,” said Sir Lancelot.

“Oh, it is, sir,” Wiglaf said. He liked being called Wiglaf of Pinwick. It sounded far more grand than plain old Wiglaf. Maybe he would ask everyone to call him Wiglaf of Pinwick.

Yes! It was time for a change. It was time Wiglaf of Pinwick started getting a little respect around here.

“W
e’ve been waiting for you, sir,” said Squire Knuckle. He stood beside Squire Squint at the bottom of the tower stairs. “We’ve set up for your book signing at the fair.”

Wiglaf stared at the squires. There was something so familiar about them!

“Wiglaf says he has something to show me,” Sir Lancelot said. He turned to Wiglaf. “Perhaps my squires could come along?”

“Of course,” Wiglaf said. He had hoped to be alone with the great knight. But he hid his disappointment as he led the way outside.

“What’s this?” said Squire Knuckle when they reached the henhouse. “A chicken coop?”

“Yes, sir,” Wiglaf said. They went inside. The hens sat on their nests clucking happily.

“Tell me, lad,” said Knuckle. “Which side of a chicken has the most feathers?”

“That’s hard to say, sir,” Wiglaf answered.

“The outside!” cried Knuckle.

The squires laughed loudly.

Wiglaf rolled his eyes. In truth, these squires told
worse
jokes than his father.

“Daisy!” Wiglaf called. “Come, girl!”

Wiglaf heard the patter of hooves. Daisy rounded the corner—and skidded to a stop. Her eyes grew wide with fear.

Wiglaf put his arm around Daisy’s neck. “Sir Lancelot,” he said, “this is Daisy.”

“What a fine pig,” said the knight.

“Nice and fat,” commented Squire Knuckle.

“Yummy!” said Squire Squint.

Daisy gave a little squeal.

“You mustn’t say things like that,” Wiglaf said quickly. “Daisy is no ordinary pig. She is my best friend. And she can talk.” He gave Daisy a pat. “Say hello, girl.”

Daisy kept her terrified eyes on Wiglaf. She kept her mouth firmly closed.

“Go on,” Wiglaf urged. “Say something.”

“Speak up, porky!” said Squire Squint.

“Daisy, please!” Wiglaf begged.

“Oink-yay,” Daisy said at last.

Wiglaf looked over at Lancelot. The world’s most perfect knight did not look impressed.

Wiglaf managed a small laugh. “Speak, Daisy. Talk to Sir Lancelot.”

But Daisy scooted out from under Wiglaf’s arm and ran to the back of the henhouse.

“’Bye-’bye, bacon!” Squint called after her.

“Really, she can speak,” Wiglaf said.

“If you say so,” the knight said. But he winked at his squires.

Wiglaf groaned. Clearly Sir Lancelot did not believe him. He felt like a fool!

Wiglaf lay on his cot at rest hour. He didn’t blame Daisy for not talking. Not after the squires’ rude remarks. Maybe if he brought Sir Lancelot to the henhouse by himself, Daisy would speak. That would impress Sir Lancelot. And Wiglaf very much wanted to impress the famous knight.

The end-of-rest-hour bell rang. The students jumped up from their cots.

“It is time for the Sir Lancelot Fair!” Erica cried. “Come! Let us be off!”

Wiglaf, Erica, and Angus ran down the stairs and out to the castle yard. They stopped, amazed. Long tables had been set up and draped in gay colors. Every table was piled high with official Sir Lancelot products.

“I am glad that I saved every cent Uncle Mordred has paid me for working these last three years!” Angus exclaimed. He opened his hand. In it lay three copper pennies.

“Boys! Over here!” called Squire Squint.

They hurried over to his table.

“Look,” said the squire. He held up a small wooden whistle. “The official Sir Lancelot duck call. Only two pennies.”

Erica looked puzzled. “I don’t remember that in the catalog,” she said. “When would Sir Lancelot ever want to call ducks?”

“When he has soup and wants some quackers!” cried Squire Squint. He slapped his knee, laughing. “All right,” he went on. “Who wants a jar of Sir Lancelot elephant repellant?”

“But there isn’t an elephant within miles of DSA!” Angus exclaimed.

“See? It works!” cried Squint. “Here, lad. Buy this pair of Sir Lancelot fuzzy dice!”

He handed Wiglaf a string that held two big furry red dice with white spots.

“Just six pennies!” the squire added.

“I have never seen fuzzy dice in the Sir Lancelot catalog, either,” Erica remarked.

“They’re new!” Squint said. “Tie them to your sword for luck. Or to ward off the green plague. Who wants the dice?”

“I should like to have them,” Wiglaf said. “I have no pennies, but—”

Squint quickly grabbed the dice back. He dangled them in front of Angus.

Angus looked down at his three pennies.

Squint, too, eyed the pennies.

“For you,” he said, “half price.”

“Oh, thank you, Squire!” Angus exclaimed.

Squint quickly pocketed Angus’s pennies.

He turned to Erica. “And for you? How about a nice Sir Lancelot souvenir tunic?”

He held up a white tunic. Black letters on it spelled out:
My brother met Sir Lancelot and all I got was this lousy tunic.

“No, thanks,” Erica muttered. “Not even with my ten-percent discount.” She turned to Wiglaf and Angus. “Come on, let’s go.”

The three walked all around the fair. They passed student teachers selling Sir Lancelot mead mugs. They saw Squire Knuckle selling bottles of Sir Lancelot Sure-Thing Wart Cure. Beside him was a stack of Sir Lancelot cart bumper stickers. They said: “I
Sir Lancelot!”