Authors: Peter Bently
Life Stinks! (4 page)
“Ah. Then perhaps you would prefer me to use your own sword, Sir Percy?” smiled Dr Leechwell. “One swift strike should do the trick.”
Sir Percy pushed me forward. “C-Cedric, kindly show Dr Leechwell out,” he said. “My leg has made a miraculous recovery!”
“Are you
sure
?” said Dr Leechwell.
“
Quite
sure,” said Sir Percy.
“Can’t I cut off just a
little
bit?” asked the doctor.
“No!” squealed Sir Percy. “Go away!”
“Very well, Sir Percy,” sighed Dr Leechwell. “But let me know if it flares up again. Good day!”
The apothecary bowed politely. I held
the door open as he walked out of the room. As he passed me I could have sworn he
winked
. Weird.
But not as weird as what happened next. As soon as he was out of sight of Sir Percy, Dr Leechwell took off his eye-glasses – and his beard!
“Patchcoat!” I gasped.
“Phew, that’s better,” he said. “Those eye-glass things were pinching my nose. And I was sweating like a pig under all that fuzz!”
“But what – how…?” I spluttered.
“Shh!” Patchcoat grinned. “Keep your voice down, Ced! Now I’ve fixed Sir Percy I’d better head off to the Boar’s Bottom. I need to give Master Perkin his apothecary costume back!”
He scuttled off down the corridor and I hurried back to Sir Percy.
“I’m so pleased your leg is better, Sir Percy,” I said. “Now you’ll be able to go ahead with the joust. Shall I start to pack for the trip?”
Sir Percy whimpered.
“It’s just as well, Sir Percy,” I said. “I know it sounds silly, but if you’d said you were injured Sir Roland
might
have thought you were trying to get out of the fight. Er – not that you are, of course. But he might smell a rat.”
Sir Percy stopped whimpering. “What did you say, dear boy?”
“Not that you are,” I repeated.
“No, the next bit.”
“He might smell a rat, Sir Percy,” I said.
“Mmm, I wonder…” said Sir Percy. He suddenly bounded out of bed. “Cedric, come with me to the armoury. We must prepare for the tournament!”
I spent the rest of the day and the next morning packing Sir Percy’s clothes. He took so long choosing the plume to wear in his helmet that I had to remind him to pack a few weapons, too.
Once I’d finished loading up the mule cart that was carrying all our trunks, I helped Sir Percy into his armour.
It’s no easy matter strapping about thirty pieces of iron on to a master who’s a bit of a fidget
and
ticklish into the bargain. But at last we were ready to leave for the royal castle of Goldentowers.
As Sir Percy mounted his horse, Prancelot, I felt a great surge of pride. No knight could have looked more dashing than he did up there in the saddle. His armour gleamed, his sword glinted in its gold scabbard and his freshly fluffed-up plumes fluttered in the breeze.
“Right, Cedric,” he said. “Hop on the cart and we’ll be off.”
I climbed on to the mule cart next to Patchcoat.
As we rode out from Castle Bombast, the local villagers all ran out to wave us off.
“Hooray for Sir Percy!”
“Sir Percy for ever!”
“’E’s so ’andsome!”
“And brave!”
Sir Percy smiled graciously and waved at his admirers.
It was remarkable. He’d completely changed his tune about the joust. He even seemed to be looking forward to it. He was much more like the hero I’d read about in
The Song of Percy.
After an hour or so we came to a fork in the road. There was a signpost that pointed left to Goldentowers and right to Grimwood. To my surprise, Sir Percy took the road to Grimwood.
“But Sir Percy,” I said. “The king’s castle is the other way!”
“Ah, yes, dear boy,” he said. “I thought we’d take the – um – scenic route.”
“But won’t we have to go through Grimwood?” I shuddered. Grimwood is full of bears, wolves, robbers and other nasties. The forest stretches for miles and miles and there’s only one road through it. Anyone in their right mind avoids it like the plague. (There’s plague in Grimwood, too.)
“Oh no,” said Sir Percy cheerily. “We won’t be going as far as that. We’re just making a small detour.”
The sun was setting as we rattled and jolted our way down a gloomy valley between two rocky hills.
“Ouch!” I said as the mule cart bounced out of another muddy pothole. “At this rate I don’t think my bottom will survive the trip!”
On one of the hills, towering over a scruffy village, was a huge fortress. It was built of dark stone and looked black and grim against the darkening sky. Somewhere not far away a wolf started to howl.
“We’ll be stopping in that village for the night,” said Sir Percy.
“Yikes,” I said. “I hope we reach it before those wolves reach us!”
It was twilight as we rolled up to the village inn. “Oi!” came a shriek from inside. “Get yer blinkin’ claws out of me stew!”
A door opened and a scrawny cat shot out, followed by a woman with a filthy face and an even filthier apron.
“And
stay
out, you greedy fleabag!” cried the woman. “If you want a rat to eat, you can blinkin’ well catch yer
own
!” She hurled a wooden spoon at the cat but it missed by a mile and bounced off Sir Percy’s helmet with a CLANG!
“My good woman, do be careful,” said Sir Percy sternly. “You might damage my plumes.”
“’Ave mercy, Yer Knightliness, ’ave mercy!” the woman gasped, throwing herself to her knees and grabbing Sir Percy’s foot. “Please don’t fling me in them dungeons. Anything but that!”
“
Dungeons
, dear lady? Don’t be silly,” said Sir Percy. “It was an accident. If you
can find me a room for the night I’ll say no more about it.”
“A room? Of course, Yer Knightliness,” said the woman in delight, letting go of Sir Percy’s leg. “You’ve come to the right place. Mistress Slopp at your service. Welcome to the Mog and Muck!”
“Excellent,” said Sir Percy. “Prepare me your very best bedchamber.”
“Certainly, yer honour,” said Mistress Slopp. “You can have the deluxe. Sheets was cleaned last month. And you even get yer own chamber pot.”
“Splendid,” said Sir Percy, dismounting. “Cedric, come and see me after you’ve dealt with Prancelot and the trunks.”
“Stables is round the back,” said Mistress Slopp.
“Thanks,” I said. “And where will we be sleeping?”
“Like I said,” snapped Mistress Slopp. “Stables is round the back.”
“I’m sure you’ll be most comfortable, Cedric,” said Sir Percy. “Now what’s for dinner, dear lady? I’m starving.”
“Meat stoo,” said Mistress Slopp.
“What kind of meat?” asked Sir Percy.
“Er – fresh and local, yer honour,” said Mistress Slopp. “Caught this very afternoon. Only the best for our guests. ’Ere, don’t I recognize you? Your face looks familiar. Is you famous?”
But to my surprise Sir Percy said, “Famous? Oh no, no, no. You must be mistaken, my good woman. My name is – er – Sir Norman de Normal.”
Eh? What was all that about?
“Never ’eard of you,” said Mistress Slopp, disappointed.
Patchcoat and I went round to the stables. We unhitched the cart and tied up Prancelot and Gristle the mule next to an old skinny donkey.
“Well, so much for Sir Percy’s scenic route,” I said, unstrapping Prancelot’s saddle. “Why has he brought us to this
hovel? You’d think he’d prefer somewhere a bit posher.”
“And what’s with the false name?” asked Patchcoat. “It’s not like Sir Percy to deny being famous.”
“No idea,” I said. “Why wouldn’t he want people to know who he is?”
In one corner of the stable there was a pile of old sacks. “I suppose that’ll be our bed for the night,” I sighed.
“Look on the bright side,” said Patchcoat. “So far I haven’t seen any rats.”
“True,” I said. “I wonder why?”
“I dunno,” said Patchcoat. “But I think I’ll be giving Mistress Slopp’s meat stew a miss.”
By the time we’d finished sorting out the horses it was dark. As we crossed the yard back to the inn I nearly stepped in a dungheap covered in flies.
“Pooh!” I said. “I reckon this qualifies as the kingdom’s
smelliest
village.”
“Too right,” agreed Patchcoat. “And that castle has to be the creepiest this side
of Grimwood.”
Looming above the village, the gloomy fortress looked even scarier in the last of the evening light.
“Yes,” I shivered. “I wonder who lives there?”
“Don’t ’ee know?” grunted the dungheap.
Patchcoat and I both leaped with fright as the dungheap rose to its feet, sending up a cloud of flies. As our eyes got used to the dim light I realized it wasn’t a dungheap at all but a peasant. A shabby, ragged, filthy and
very
smelly peasant.
“That castle is the home of my boss,” said the peasant, his single tooth gleaming
in the dark. “’E owns this village and all the land around. And I ’ope that knight of yours has got permission to be ’ere, ’cos ’e don’t like trespassers, my master don’t. As an ’abit of chucking ’em in his dungeons and forgettin’ about ’em.”
The hairs on the back of my neck started to tingle. I was beginning to get a funny feeling about this whole place. A funny,
nasty
feeling.
“And who exactly
is
your boss?” I asked, trying not to breathe in the peasant’s foul stench.
“His name is Sir Roland the Rotten. And that,” he said, pointing up at the grim castle on the hill, “is Blackstone Fort.”
I left Patchcoat in the alehouse part of the inn, telling jokes to two old peasants and a dog, and dashed upstairs to Sir Percy’s room. He was sitting up in bed in his undershirt.
“Sir Percy,” I said. “We’re right next to Blackstone Fort!”
“Correct!” said Sir Percy. “Everywhere around here belongs to Sir Roland.”
“You mean – you
knew
, Sir Percy?” I gasped.
“Of course I knew,” he laughed. “It’s the very reason we’ve come to this horrible place.”
“But why?” I asked. “If Sir Roland finds out you’re here he could fling you into his dungeon and throw away the key!”
And me and Patchcoat with you,
I thought. But I kept that to myself.
Sir Percy seemed to find this terribly amusing. “But Cedric, he’s not going to find out,” he chuckled. “For one thing, I’ve cunningly used a false name.” (Well, that explained that one.) “And for another, we’ll be leaving here well before dawn. And when we do, we’ll have made sure Sir Roland won’t be taking part in the tournament.”
“Really, Sir Percy?” I said. “But how?”
“Simple,” said Sir Percy, though
something told me it probably wouldn’t be. “We’re going to kidnap his mascot.”
“His mascot? You mean Bubo the rat?” I said.
“Precisely!” grinned Sir Percy. “You gave me the idea yourself.”
“I did?”
“Yes, dear boy! When you went on about Sir Roland
smelling
a rat,” said Sir Percy. “If Sir Roland doesn’t have his rat, he will refuse to fight. Then, under the rules of the joust, I will automatically be declared the winner. Without so much as lifting a lance. It’s a foolproof plan!”
Sir Percy gave a great gleeful guffaw and slapped his knee.
“But Sir Percy, that’s cheating!” I blurted. “It’s totally forbidden by the Knight’s Code!”
Sir Percy’s smile froze. “Now look here, Cedric,” he said sharply. “The Knight’s Code is one thing. But you, dear boy, are bound by the
Squire’s
Code. And the Squire’s Code totally forbids you to be impudent to your master – meaning
me
.”
“Sorry, Sir Percy,” I said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It just seems, well, wrong. And what if Sir Roland catches you?”
“Oh, there’s no chance of Sir Roland catching me,” said Sir Percy. “Because I’m not the one who’ll be sneaking into Blackstone Fort. That, dear boy, is
your
job.”
“Me?” I gasped. “But … but…”
“No buts about it,” said Sir Percy. “Squire’s Code, remember – you must obey your master at all times. All you have to do is enter the fort, grab the rat and bring it back. Much easier for a small, inconspicuous boy to sneak in than for a tall, good-looking and easily recognizable celebrity, such as
moi
. Think of it as a valuable knighting
exercise. It’ll be excellent practice for entering an enemy castle under siege.”
I stood there opening and closing my mouth like a fish.
“Now, be a good chap and close the door on your way out.” Sir Percy yawned. “If we’re leaving before dawn I’d better grab a bit of beauty sleep.”
When I got back downstairs, the dog and one of the old peasants were snoring loudly. The other was nodding off to sleep.
“I’ve just got time for one more joke,” said Patchcoat. “Who invented King Arthur’s Round Table? Sir Cumference!”
The other old peasant shut his eyes and started to snore.
“You’ve been a great audience,” said Patchcoat. “Thank you and goodnight!”
While Patchcoat packed up his jester’s bag, I told him what Sir Percy had asked me to do.
“The cheating chiseller!” Patchcoat said. “He should do his own dirty work!”
“I know,” I said. “But maybe he’s right. It
might
be easy for me to slip in unnoticed.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Patchcoat. “You saw the fort. It’s surrounded by sheer cliffs. There’s only one way in and that’s across the drawbridge and through the front gate. There are bound to be guards.
You’ve as much chance of slipping in unnoticed as an elephant with bells on.”
“Maybe there’s another way in,” I said. “A secret passage or something…”
“Secret passage?” chuckled Patchcoat. “I think you’ve been reading too many fairy tales, Ced.”
“No, seriously,” I protested. “There’s a bit in
The Song of Percy
where Sir Percy finds a secret passage into an enemy castle and single-handedly defeats a whole army.”
“Just like I said, you’ve been reading too many fairy tales,” said Patchcoat. “But look, if there
is
another way into Blackstone Fort, there is someone who might know. That smelly peasant who works for Sir Roland.”
“Good idea!” I said. “But how will we find him?”
“Easy, just follow our noses!”
We found the smelly peasant snoozing in the yard under a window. I tapped him on the shoulder.
“Urrngh? Whassup?” he grunted. “It weren’t me, Sir Roland, honest!”
“It’s not Sir Roland,” I smiled. “We met earlier, remember?”
The peasant blinked and peered at us by the dim light from the window. “Oh aye,” he grunted. “You’s them as didn’t know about Blackstone Fort.”
“Unlike your good self,” said Patchcoat. “You said you worked there?”
“Aye. Well, I works at the fort, but not
in
the fort,” said the peasant. “I works in a bit of the fort that’s on the
outside
of the fort.”
“This bit where you work – can you get into the rest of the fort from there?”
The peasant scratched his chin. “I s’pose so,” he said. “You
could
work your way up from the bottom to the top. Or from the bottom to the
bottom
, if you’re unlucky. Hur-hur-hur!” He cackled so violently that several flies flew up into the air.
I didn’t have a clue what he was on about. I looked at Patchcoat and he gave me a shrug.
“So if I wanted to get into the fort that way, could you let me in?” I persisted.
“Well now, p’raps I could,” said the peasant. “That depends, don’t it?”
“Depends on what?” I asked.
But Patchcoat knew what he meant. He took a silver fourpenny piece out of his pouch. “Perhaps if I were to give you this?” he said, showing the coin.
The peasant fixed Patchcoat with a hard, beady stare. “Tuppence!” he said.
“A penny!” said Patchcoat.
“Ha’penny!” said the peasant. “And that’s me final offer.”
“Very well,” sighed Patchcoat. “It’s a deal. You drive a hard bargain, Mister…”
“Pugh,” said the filthy peasant. “Hugh Pugh. But you can call me Stinky, like everyone else.”