Life Stinks!

by Peter Bently

  For Lucy, Theo and Tara

  (Team Bently Curtin) – PB

  For Clarey, Bonnie and Sonny

  (Team Blunt) – FB

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Meet the Characters

  Chapter 1

  A Scroll for Breakfast

  Chapter 2

  Sir Percy’s Underpants

  Chapter 3

  What the Apothecary Ordered

  Chapter 4

  The Road to the Palace

  Chapter 5

  An Unpleasant Peasant

  Chapter 6

  The Tower of Stink

  Chapter 7

  Walter Smells a Rat

  Chapter 8

  Palaver at the Palace

  Chapter 9

  Joust in Time

  Copyright

  “Cedric!”

  “Yes, Sir Percy?”

  “Have you groomed Prancelot?”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  “And polished my armour?”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  “And fluffed up my plumes?”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  “Splendid. Now where’s my breakfast?”

  “Coming, Sir Percy!”

  I entered the bedchamber and placed the breakfast tray on the bedside table. Then I went over to the window and pulled back the thick embroidered curtains.

  Sir Percy Piers Peregrine de Bluster de Bombast opened an eye and blinked in the bright sunlight.

  “So, what’s Margaret made for me this morning?” he said cheerfully.

  He sat up in bed and I placed the tray on his lap. “Porridge, Sir Percy.”

  His face fell at the sight of the lumpy, greenish gloop.

  “Again?”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  “Thank you, Cedric,” he groaned. “That will be all for now. Come back in half an hour and help me dress. Today I’m going for a ride in my new armour – to give it a bit of an airing before the tournament.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  I headed back down to the kitchen for my own breakfast dose of Mouldybun Margaret’s porridge.

  Yeucchh! I can’t blame Sir Percy for being disappointed. It looks EXACTLY like the stuff they were carting away when Sir Percy had the castle moat cleaned last week. Smells like it, too.

  Maybe I’d better start at the very beginning. My name is Cedric Thatchbottom and I’ve been working at Castle Bombast for a month now. I’m Sir Percy’s squire, which means one day I’ll be a KNIGHT like him and I’ll get to do to cool stuff like:

  1. Wear ARMOUR

  2. Have a SWORD

  3. Rescue DAMSELS IN DISTRESS

  (Whatever damsels are. Some kind of pet?)

  4. Defeat an entire army of BADDIES

  single-handedly and save the kingdom

  5. Boss around PEOPLE WHO LAUGH

  AT MY NAME (and my red hair)

  I’ve wanted to be a knight for as long as I can remember. But you can’t be a knight without being a squire first. One day I was out helping my dad (Ethelred Thatchbottom, builder to the gentry) when I spotted a sheet of parchment pinned to a tree:

  I nagged my mum and dad to let me try out for the job.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Dad. “Only toffs get to be squires and we ain’t toffs, Ced.”

  I nagged them some more and eventually they said there was no harm in trying but I shouldn’t get my hopes up.

  So I went to see Sir Percy, and to my amazement I got the job! Soon after that I came to live at Castle Bombast to look after Sir Percy and do all his chores.

  Sir Percy is always promising to teach me proper knight stuff, but he never seems to get round to it. Maybe he’s just too busy being a celebrity. People call him Sir Percy the Proud and he’s famous for being the bravest, kindest, cleverest and most handsome knight in the kingdom. It says so in The Song of Percy. Sir Percy wrote The Song of Percy, so I guess he should know.

  As I entered the kitchen, Mouldybun Margaret came bustling past me with a large steaming platter.

  “Clear some space on that bench,” she barked. “’Urry up, Carrot-top! These apple and pig’s liver cookies is ’ot!”

  I shoved a few things out of the way and Margaret plonked down the platter.

  “That’s better,” she said. She nodded at a battered old pot over the kitchen fire. “You can ’elp yerself to porridge. And keep yer thievin’ ’ands off my cookies. They’re for Sir Percy.”

  “Yikes! His poor tummy!” muttered Patchcoat the Jester, who was sitting at the long kitchen table.

  “What’s that?” snapped Margaret.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Patchcoat innocently. “I just said those cookies look yummy!”

  Margaret snorted and stomped off. I plopped a ladleful of porridge into a wooden bowl and sat next to Patchcoat. He’s been my best friend since I came to work here.

  “Here, Ced, I’ve got another new joke,” Patchcoat said. “Knock! Knock!”

  “Who’s there?” I mumbled, coming across something hard in my porridge. Ugh! I spat out a lump of gristly bone.

  “Armour,” said Patchcoat.

  “Armour who?” I sighed.

  “Armour getting outta here!” cried Patchcoat. He leaped out of his chair and ran from the kitchen, giggling. “I’m off to work. See ya later, Ced— OOF!”

  Patchcoat had bumped right into Walter Warthog, who had come into the castle without knocking.

  “Mind where you’re going, you oaf!” said Walter, pushing Patchcoat out of the way and marching into the kitchen.

  Walter is the squire of Sir Roland the Rotten, who is famous for being the nastiest knight in the kingdom. I’d met Sir Roland for the first time just a couple of days earlier, when Sir Percy was out hunting with his best mate, Sir Spencer the Splendid. (Guess who got to carry all the bows and arrows. And lunch.) This huge wild boar ran past us and Sir Percy cracked a joke that went something like, “What’s fat and bristly and grunts like a pig? Sir Roland the Rotten!” Then who should ride out of the bushes after the boar but Sir Roland himself! He gave Sir Percy a right rotten stare and galloped off without a word.

  I tried not to laugh as Patchcoat stuck his tongue out at Walter behind his back.

  Walter looked at me and sneered. “Morning, Squire Squirt!” he said. “Lazing about instead of working, I see. You’ll never be a knight at this rate!”

  (I HATE it when Walter calls me Squire Squirt. Just because I’m two years younger than him and my family aren’t posh.)

  “What do you want, Wartface?” I said.

  Walter thrust something under my nose. It was a scroll of parchment, rolled up tightly and sealed with a blob of red wax. The wax was stamped with a boar’s head and two crossed battleaxes – the badge of Sir Roland the Rotten.

  “Letter for Sir Percy the Pompous,” he said. “Whoops! I mean Percy the Proud.”

  I glared at him.

  “Why would Sir Roland be writing to Sir Percy?” I asked. “Is it something to do with the tournament?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” grinned Walter unpleasantly. “See you Thursday at the tournament, Fatbottom. That is, if they allow ginger peasants into the royal palace!”

  “Hey!” I said.

  But Walter had already marched out of the kitchen, sneaking one of Mouldybun Margaret’s cookies when she wasn’t looking.

  Wait till he tastes it, I thought. That’ll serve him right for being rude!

  I took the scroll up to Sir Percy. He was still in bed, picking at his half-eaten bowl of porridge.

  “Letter for you, Sir Percy,” I said, holding out the scroll.

  Sir Percy shot upright in bed and snatched it from my hand.

  “A fan letter!
” he beamed. “They’ll be asking for a signed copy of The Song of Percy. You must send them one at once. Dear me, at this rate I shall soon run out!”

  “It’s not a fan letter, Sir Percy—”

  “Ah,” said Sir Percy. A dreamy smile spread over his face. “Of course. It’ll be from a fair lady. Yet another proposal of marriage. Cedric, it’s a hard life being such a famous, brave and handsome knight! You shall have to write and turn her down, just like all the others! Unless – um – she happens to be a rich princess, in which case I suppose I might – um – consider—”

  “It’s from Sir Roland,” I said.

  Sir Percy’s dreamy smile vanished.

  “F-from Sir Roland?” he said. “Why would he be writing to me?”

  “No idea, Sir Percy,” I said. “I think it might be about the tournament.”

  He unrolled the scroll and read it.

  “Blithering battleaxes!” Sir Percy flopped back on to his pillows, dropping the scroll. He seemed to have gone a bit pale.

  “Are you feeling all right, Sir Percy?”

  I picked up the scroll and read it.

  “Sir Roland’s challenged you to a joust!” I gasped.

  I read the letter again. Sir Roland the Rotten had challenged Sir Percy to a joust. And not just any old joust.

  “This is amazing, Sir Percy!” I said. “Sir Roland wants to joust with you at the tournament! Imagine his face when you knock him off his horse in front of all the other knights!”

  Sir Percy sank deeper into his pillows. “All the other knights…” he muttered. He really was looking very pale.

  “And in front of the king and queen!” I said.

  “Ohhh!” Sir Percy let out a little wail and pulled his covers up over his head.

  I don’t blame him. The excitement was almost too much for me, too.

  “Do you want me to write back to Sir Roland straight away, Sir Percy?” I said to the lump in the bedclothes. “I’ll tell him what it says in The Song of Percy. The bit that goes Sir Percy fears no mortal knight. He’s never lost a single fight! I can’t wait to see you in action!”

  “Stop!” Sir Percy sat up again. “My dear Cedric, I’d simply love to fight Sir Roland. But I’ve just realized I can’t!”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. “But why not, Sir Percy?”

  “It’s out of the question, dear boy,” said Sir Percy. “I can’t fight anyone with my bad leg, you know… Ooh! There it goes again!”

  “Bad leg?” I said. “I didn’t know you had a bad leg, Sir Percy.”

  Sir Percy winced. “Oh, didn’t I mention it?” he said. “Old battle injury, you know. You must have noticed my limp. Left leg flares up from time to time – ouch! – the pain! I can’t possibly fight Sir Roland in this condition. You’ll have to write him a note excusing me from the tournament.”

  Then I remembered something I’d read in The Song of Percy.

  “Sir Percy,” I cried. “Your pants!”

  “There’s no need to be rude, dear boy,” said Sir Percy.

  “No, I mean your magic pants,” I gabbled. “The pair that wizard gave you in The Song of Percy, remember? What was the spell again? However injured you may be, these pants will bring you victory!”

  Sir Percy sat there opening and closing his mouth like a fish. “Ah … yes,” he said eventually. “Those magic pants.”

  “I’ll fetch them,” I said. “They probably need an iron before Friday.”

  I dashed over to Sir Percy’s wardrobe, but Sir Percy called me back.

  “Wait, Cedric!” He smiled breezily. “Um – first go and fetch me a quill, ink and a sheet of parchment. I shall write to Sir Roland myself. Not only will I accept his silly challenge, I’ll also show him how much better my spelling is!”

  “Very good, Sir Percy,” I said.

  I hurried downstairs to Sir Percy’s study and grabbed his writing things. When I got back, he was standing in the enormous fireplace with his head up the chimney.

  “Sir Percy?” I said.

  For someone with a dodgy leg Sir Percy jumped out of the fireplace amazingly quickly.

  “Oh! There you are, Cedric,” said Sir Percy hastily. “I was just – um – checking to see if the chimney was blocked. Bit smoky in here, don’t you think?”

  It didn’t seem smoky at all to me. But I said, “Maybe I’d better let in a bit of fresh air, Sir Percy.” I opened a window, only to hear Patchcoat down below, trying out a new joke on Grunge the gardener.

  “Knock! Knock!” said Patchcoat.

  “Oo be there?” Grunge grunted.

  “Cows go!” said Patchcoat.

  “Cows go ’oo?” said Grunge.

  “No, they don’t, cows go moo!” cackled Patchcoat. “Get it?”

  “No,” said Grunge.

  I turned to Sir Percy, who had limped back into bed. (Despite what Sir Percy said, I’d never noticed his limp before.)

  “Ah, splendid, you brought the quill and parchment,” he said, plumping up his pillows. “Now, I’ll write to Sir Roland while you go and give my – um – magic underpants an iron. It’s the yellow spotty pair.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy!” I beamed. This was more like it. Sir Percy seemed to be back to his normal self. I went to the wardrobe and opened the drawer where Sir Percy kept all his underpants.

  It was empty!

  “Something the matter, Cedric?” said Sir Percy.

  “Your underpants!” I gasped. “They’re not here!”

  “Really?” said Sir Percy. “Good gracious, I wonder how on earth that can have happened.”

  “Perhaps they’ve been stolen, Sir Percy!” I spluttered.

  “Stolen, eh?” Sir Percy shook his head slowly and tutted. “I daresay you’re right, dear boy. Well, well, well. Stolen. Oh dear.”

  “You must organize a search!” I said. “You must catch the thief!”

  “A search?” Sir Percy smiled. “Oh no, my dear Cedric. The thief is probably miles away by now!” He sighed. “Well, with this leg of mine – ouch! – a joust is absolutely out of the question if I don’t have my magic pants. How sad. You’d better write that note to Sir Roland after all.”

  Then I remembered something else. The most important thing of all.

  “But Sir Percy!” I said. “You have to fight Sir Roland.”

  “Have to, Cedric?” guffawed Sir Percy. “You are forgetting that I am a knight! A knight doesn’t have to do anything, my dear boy.”

  “But it’s in the Knight’s Code of Honour, Sir Percy,” I reminded him. “A knight who refuses a challenge shall suffer eternal shame and dishonour.”

  Sir Percy stopped laughing. He seemed to have gone rather pale again.

  “Are you all right, Sir Percy?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m – er – fine, dear boy,” he shivered. “Just a tad – um – chilly.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ll put another log on the fire.”

  I stepped over to the fireplace, but Sir Percy suddenly leaped out of bed.

  “No, no!” he said, grabbing my arm. “There’s no need! Honestly, I’m quite warm enough!”

  But I wasn’t really listening. I had just noticed something. A little way up the chimney there’s a ledge where I put Sir Percy’s late-night mug of spiced milk and honey to keep warm. Something had been stuffed into a corner of the ledge. I gave it a tug and into the fireplace tumbled a great heap of – underpants!

  “Look!” I gasped, pulling a yellow and spotty pair out of the heap and shaking off a bit of soot. “It’s your magic pants! I wonder how they got up the chimney?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Percy. “I wonder.”

  “Maybe the thief was disturbed and hid them there before he escaped,” I suggested.

  “Yes, yes … maybe,” groaned Sir Percy.

  “Sir Percy, this is brilliant!” I said. “Now you’ve got your magic underpants back, Sir Roland doesn’t stand a chance! It’s going to be such an amazing joust. I can’t wait till Thursday!”


  But I don’t think Sir Percy heard me. He seemed to have fainted.

  I know this sounds ridiculous, but it was almost as if he didn’t want to fight Sir Roland. If I didn’t know any better I’d almost say he was… But no, that’s impossible. The hero of The Song of Percy could never, ever be scared. Could he?

  It didn’t take long for news of the joust to spread. Walter must have boasted about it to everyone he met on the way back to Blackstone Fort. I know this because at lunchtime on Tuesday a troupe of travelling players in a big covered wagon called at the castle.

  “Good day, young master!” said the troupe leader, with an elaborate bow. “Perkin’s the name, entertainment’s the game! Can I interest you in our play?”

  “Sure!” I said. “What are you doing? Saint George and the Dragon?”

  “Nah,” said Perkin. “We’re working on a brand-new play. We met a chap on the road who told us about a joust between his master and some useless knight called Sir Percy. Here, take a look.”

  He handed me a piece of parchment.

  “Right,” I frowned. “I’m not interested, thanks.”

  “Ah well, suit yourself,” said Perkin. “We’re staying at the Boar’s Bottom if you change your mind.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “But thanks, anyway.”

  By teatime I was starting to get really worried. Sir Percy was still refusing to get out of bed, complaining about his old leg wound, and we were supposed to be leaving for the palace the next day. So far, all I’d packed were his lucky underpants. But which suit of armour was he going to wear? How many helmets should I pack? Would he prefer the red plume or the yellow one?

  “Maybe he’s really sick,” I said to Patchcoat in the kitchen.

  “Well, there’s one way to find out,” said Patchcoat. “What we need is an apothecary.”