by Peter Bently
“A pot of what?” I said.
“An apothecary,” he grinned. “You know, someone who heals people. Where did you say those actors were staying?”
“The Boar’s Bottom,” I said. “Why? I told them we weren’t interested.”
“I’ve just had an idea,” chuckled Patchcoat. “I won’t be long. See you in a bit!”
Half an hour later there was a knock on the kitchen door. I opened it to see an old man in a long black robe carrying a large leather bag and a staff. His face was almost completely hidden beneath a white beard and a floppy black cap. A pair of newfangled eye-glasses perched on the end of his nose. They made his eyes look like pickled onions floating in a jar of vinegar.
“Can I help you?” I asked. “I told the guards not to let in any cold-callers.”
“Good day to you!” wheezed the man. “Doctor Bartholomew Leechwell at your service. Travelling apothecary to the gentry. Gashes, mashes and bashes a speciality. Somebody by the name of Patchcoat sent me here. I gather your master is unwell?”
“Oh right,” I said. “You’d better come in.”
I led Dr Leechwell upstairs to Sir Percy’s chamber and knocked on the door. There was an odd scurrying noise and then Sir Percy’s feeble voice said, “Enter!”
I went into the room and bowed.
Sir Percy was lying in bed. “What is it, Cedric?” he quavered.
“How’s your leg, Sir Percy?” I asked.
“Oooh, the agony!” he groaned.
“There’s really no way I can take part in the tournament.”
“I’ve brought someone to see you,” I said. “Come in, Dr Leechwell.”
The apothecary entered. “Good afternoon, Sir Percy,” he said. “Problem with your leg, eh?”
“Er – well – yes,” mumbled Sir Percy. “But it’s only an old battle wound, you know. There’s really no need to bother—”
“Ah! Such admirable courage,” interrupted Dr Leechwell cheerfully. “Just like a true knight! I have tended to the wounds of many knights and nobles. My cures are renowned all over the kingdom!”
“You mean all your patients have recovered?” I asked.
Dr Leechwell paused and scratched his beard. “Well, let’s just say that one way or another my patients are – ahem – no longer in pain,” he chuckled. “Now, let’s take a look at this leg.” He whipped off the bedclothes.
“Aargh!” squealed Sir Percy, quickly pulling down his nightshirt over his knobbly knees.
“Oh, don’t mind me, old chap!” cackled Dr Leechwell. “Seen it all before! So, which is the leg with the wound?”
“Er – the right one,” said Sir Percy.
(Funny, I was sure he’d said the left one before.)
Dr Leechwell peered at Sir Percy’s right leg. He tutted and slowly shook his head. “Dear me,” he said. “This is worse than I thought. Much worse.” He called me over to look. “What do you see there, lad?”
“Well – nothing, actually,” I answered truthfully.
“Precisely!” said Dr Leechwell. “The wound is invisible to the naked eye. The very worst type. It can mean only one thing. An evil spirit has entered Sir Percy’s leg. Nasty.”
“What?” said Sir Percy, sitting up. “But that’s imposs—” He suddenly glanced at me. “Um – I mean, er – are you sure, doctor?”
“No doubt about it!” said Dr Leechwell. “But not to worry, Sir Percy. I have the very cure!”
He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a small pottery jar. He opened the jar. Inside was a wriggling mass of slimy black things.
“Yeuch!” I said. “What are those?”
“Bloodsucking leeches,” smiled the apothecary. “They will suck the evil spirit from the wound. Apply two leeches three times a day, as required.”
“Nooo!” yelped Sir Percy. “Take them away!”
“But these are the very finest leeches,” said the doctor.
“I don’t care!” said Sir Percy. “I hate creepy-crawlies!”
(Which seemed a bit odd, considering he’d seen off a giant spider in The Song of Percy…)
“Very well,” said the apothecary. “I shall have to try another method.”
This time he fished a knife and a brass bowl out of his bag. He spat on the blade and rubbed it on his sleeve.
“Er – I say – what exactly are you going to do with that thing?” asked Sir Percy, shrinking back into his pillows.
“Oh, just open a vein or two in your leg, Sir Percy,” smiled Dr Leechwell. “A little bloodletting works wonders, you know. Master Cedric, if you would kindly hold the bowl to catch the blood.”
“No way!” wailed Sir Percy. “I can’t bear the sight of blood. Especially my own!”
(Which also seemed a bit strange for someone who had been in all those battles in The Song of Percy.)
“In that case, Sir Percy,” sighed Dr Leechwell. “There is only one other way to sort out your leg.” He rummaged in his bag and produced a small length of wood. “Now then. When I say ‘ready’, I want you to pop this in your mouth and bite down hard.”
“Ready?” said Sir Percy. “Ready for what?”
Dr Leechwell reached into his bag yet again. This time he pulled out a rusty saw. “Ready to cut off that nasty leg of yours!” he said brightly. “We’ll have you back on your feet in no time. Or should I say back on your foot. Ha! Just my little joke!”
“Aargh!” Sir Percy leaped out of bed and cowered behind me. “Cedric, get that man away from me!” he squawked. “He’s not coming anywhere near me with that saw!”
“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 thro
w 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.”
