by Peter Bently
“Got you!” I said. “Come on, Patchcoat, let’s get out of here!”
“Hold on, I’m almost done,” he said. “A dab here, a blob there… Right, that should do it!”
“What exactly are you up to?” I said.
“Oh, I’m just preparing a couple of teensy surprises for Sir Roland,” he grinned, holding up a pot of glue.
He stuffed the pot back in his jester’s bag and slung it over his shoulder – just as we heard footsteps heading straight for the Great Hall!
Patchcoat whipped off his jester’s cap and grabbed a pair of rusty old helmets. “It’s Walter!” he said. “Quick, put this on!”
Walter stopped outside the door. “That’s funny,” he muttered. “I’m sure this was closed ten minutes ago.” He entered the hall and sniffed. “And there’s that nasty smell again. Bloomin’ dogs. Now where’s that lump of cheese?”
Walter crossed the room to Bubo’s cage. Luckily he didn’t notice two figures in rusty old helmets standing as still as statues among the suits of armour. Bubo was wriggling like crazy in the leather bag. I was terrified he would start squeaking and give us away. As soon as Walter’s back was turned, Patchcoat gave me a nudge and, still wearing our helmets, we slunk swiftly and silently out on to the landing.
“Which way back to the tower?” I whispered.
“No idea,” said Patchcoat.
Just then, Walter screeched. “Aargh! The rat! The rat! Someone’s stolen the rat!”
There was no time to think.
“The kitchen stairs!” I hissed. Without saying another word we hurtled down the stairs.
Just like those at Castle Bombast, the kitchens of Blackstone Fort overlooked the main courtyard. We slipped out of the kitchen door and lurked in the shadows behind a pile of empty barrels opposite the main gates of the fort.
“Now where?” I panted. “The only way out is through the main gates. But there’s no chance of getting past the guards.”
Suddenly, Walter burst out of the fort. He stopped dead and stared straight at us. My heart sank and my legs turned to jelly. We were done for.
“You there!” he cried. “There’s an intruder in the fort! Search everywhere. I’ll call out the rest of the watch!”
I was too stunned to reply.
“It’s our helmets!” hissed Patchcoat. “He thinks we’re guards!”
“Well, don’t just stand there, you layabouts!” barked Walter, striding across to the guardroom. “Get a move on!”
“Yessir!” said Patchcoat. “Right away, sir!”
Walter banged on the door of the guardroom. “Open up! Open up!” he hollered.
“Ced,” whispered Patchcoat. “I’ve had an idea. Stay here and try to keep out of sight.”
Without another word, Patchcoat darted across the courtyard and up some steps leading to the battlements.
I quickly climbed into one of the barrels and was just wondering what on earth he was up to when Walter hurried from the guardroom. He was followed by the sergeant and half a dozen guards with swords and helmets just like the ones Patchcoat and I were wearing.
“Search the courtyard!” yelled Walter. “Check inside the fort! The intruders must still be here somewhere. They can’t have got past the gates!”
“Yes, sir!” replied the sergeant.
I ducked out of sight inside the barrel as guards started to run all over the courtyard. Bubo started to squeak and I hoped with all my might that nobody would hear him in the kerfuffle.
I was just starting to feel safe when, to my horror, Walter spoke again.
“Sergeant,” he said. “I’m going to check in those barrels.”
I heard him cross the courtyard and start searching the empty barrels one by one, muttering to himself as he went.
“This can’t be happening,” Walter said. “If Sir Roland refuses to fight that twerp Sir Percy it’ll be so humiliating. The sooner I catch the intruder and get that stupid rat back in its cage the better.”
He was two or three barrels away from me at the most. Bubo had gone quiet again but the game was definitely up. There was no escape. It was only a matter of seconds before Walter spotted me. And where was Patchcoat?
At that very instant someone cried, “I can see them, Sarge! I can see the intruders! They’re escaping!”
The commotion in the courtyard stopped abruptly. The voice was coming from the battlements.
“Where?” called the sergeant urgently. “Where are they?”
“They’ve just turned off the main road to the village,” came the reply. “They’re heading into the next valley!”
There was something familiar about that voice from the battlements. I dared a quick peek from the barrel and in the darkness I could just make out a figure in a helmet. From where I was crouching he looked for all the world like one of the guards. But it wasn’t.
It was Patchcoat!
“Open the gates!” hollered Walter, making me jump. “After them. Hurry!”
“Yes, Master Walter,” said the sergeant. “All guards form pairs!”
The courtyard was soon alive with commotion again as guards hurried to the gates from all over the fort. Then I spotted someone trotting down the steps from the battlements and deftly weaving his way towards me through the crowd of soldiers.
“How did I do, Ced?” grinned Patchcoat. “Reckon I should join that acting troupe?”
“You were brilliant,” I said. “But I still don’t see how we’re going to get out of here.”
“Don’t worry,” said Patchcoat. “When I give the signal just follow me.”
The guards were steadily forming two lines before the open gates.
“Swords at the ready!” ordered the sergeant. “Quick march!”
The lines started to move out of the gate. As the pair of guards at the back were about to move off, Patchcoat whispered, “Got the rat?”
“Yes.”
“Come on then. Quick!”
He grabbed my sleeve and swiftly pulled me out of the shadows while the sergeant’s back was turned. A few seconds later we were marching along behind the last pair of guards.
As we crossed the courtyard I was a bundle of nerves. Although it was dark, our only disguise was our helmets, and I was a lot smaller than the rest of the guards. But as we passed through the gate I felt elated. Patchwork’s crazy plan had actually worked! Or so I thought…
“Hey, you two at the back!” cried Walter. “Where are your swords?”
Just then a window slammed open. “WALTER! Where the devil is my milk?”
Sir Roland!
“And what the blazes is going on down there? Where are those guards off to?”
“It’s really n-nothing to worry about, Sir Roland,” replied Walter. “It’s all under control.”
“It had better be!” roared Sir Roland. “Now bring me my milk RIGHT AWAY!”
By this time Patchcoat and I were across the drawbridge. We let the soldiers go on ahead, then flung off our helmets and legged it for dear life back to the inn.
When we got back to the Mog and Muck there was no time to wash, never mind change out of our stinky clothes. We had to wake Sir Percy, pack up our things and get the heck out of there. Even though Patchcoat had sent the search party off in the wrong direction, sooner or later someone from the fort was bound to come to the village asking questions. And we didn’t want to be around if that someone was Walter or even – eeek! – Sir Roland himself.
We headed back the way we had come and reached the turning for Goldentowers just as the first rays of sun were lighting up the sky. In spite of our frantic departure Sir Percy was in a jolly mood.
“Excellent work, Cedric!” he chirped. “Without his mascot Sir Roland probably won’t even show up today. D’you know, when we get home I might let you have a go on Prancelot.”
“Thanks, Sir Percy!” I said. I still didn’t like the idea of helping Sir Percy to cheat. But I guess if it meant I’d get to do some real knight stuff, maybe it was
worth it.
I turned to check on Bubo, who was now in a battered old cage that I’d spotted at the back of Mistress Slopp’s stables. As I lifted a corner of the old sack that I’d thrown over the cage to keep the rat out of sight, he peered up at me and bared his yellow teeth. I hastily pushed a piece of cheese through the bars and covered up the cage.
Patchcoat and I took it in turns to snooze as the cart bumped and lurched its way along. I was in the middle of a dream about being chased by a stuffed bear with the face of Walter Warthog when Patchcoat nudged me awake.
“We’re here, Ced,” he grinned. “Welcome to Goldentowers!”
I rubbed my eyes and gasped. Before me stood the biggest and most awesome building I had ever seen. The royal castle of Goldentowers gleamed in the sunshine, with bright banners hanging from its honey-coloured walls, and flags fluttering from its many turrets.
Beyond the gates to the castle grounds I could see a whole city of colourful tents and pavilions. The royal guards who lined the approach to the gates were holding back a crowd of peasants and townsfolk, who cheered and surged forward every time a knight and his entourage arrived.
And then a little girl sitting on her father’s shoulders suddenly pointed at us and squealed, “There ’e is, Dad! It’s ’im! It’s Percy!” and the crowd started to chant:
“We all love Sir Per-cy!
We all love Sir Per-cy!
We all love Sir Per-cy!
And so say all of us!”
Sir Percy waved and nodded graciously to his fans and then, with the chants and cheers ringing in our ears, we passed across a stone bridge and through the gates into the castle grounds.
A royal herald bowed before us. “Greetings, Sir Percy!” he said. “On behalf of His Majesty the King may I welcome you to Goldentowers. Kindly allow me to show you to your own personal pavilion.”
“Splendid!” said Sir Percy, nodding to the herald. “Lead on!”
My heart swelled with pride as the herald blew a blast on his trumpet and declared, “Make way! Make way for Sir Percy Piers Peregrine de Bluster de Bombast!”
There were more cheers and applause as the herald led us through the brightly coloured tents. Fine ladies curtseyed and noblemen and other knights bowed as we passed. In my excitement I imagined that they were curtseying and bowing to me, Sir Cedric de Thatchbottom, as I set off on my noble steed to battle the enemies of the kingdom.
“Hey, Ced, why are you waving to that duchess?” grinned Patchcoat. “That’s Sir Percy’s job.”
“Sorry!” I blushed. “I was miles away.”
Sir Percy lapped it all up, cheerfully greeting his friends in between stopping to sign copies of The Song of Percy.
Sir Percy’s joust with Sir Roland was the talk of the tournament. And not everyone thought Sir Percy was going to win, either. While he wasn’t looking, I was pestered by various traders, who handed me leaflets advertising their services.
Eventually the herald led us to our pavilion. Patchcoat helped me to unpack the cart then went off to explore.
“I saw a sign for a jesters’ joke contest,” he said. “May as well go for it. See ya later, Ced!”
I began to help Sir Percy into his best armour. By the time I’d done up the last of his straps and plumped up the feathers of his best plume, a crowd of admirers had gathered outside the tent. The time for the joust was fast approaching and there was still no sign of Sir Roland.
“He’s terrified of me,” Sir Percy declared airily to a huddle of admiring ladies in trendy pointy hats. “He clearly prefers the dishonour of refusing to fight to the humiliation of being defeated!”
That was a bit rich coming from Sir Percy. But I kept that thought to myself.
“Perhaps he’s read The Song of Percy,” gushed one of the ladies. “And he knows how foolish it is to challenge such a brave and valiant knight as yourself!”
“Too kind, dear lady, too kind,” beamed Sir Percy. “You may well be right. But of course that’s assuming Sir Roland can read!”
Sir Percy laughed heartily at his own joke while the gaggle of ladies giggled helplessly.
“Unfortunately,” Sir Percy went on, clearly enjoying himself, “I rather fear that Sir Roland is more interested in eating than fighting. He’s definitely getting a bit podgy these days, wouldn’t you say, ladies? In fact, when Sir Roland and I were squires, do you know what we used to call him? Roly Poly! Ha, ha, ha!”
He laughed so loudly that it took him several seconds to notice that the ladies had stopped tittering.
“Um – Sir Percy?” I said, trying to catch his attention.
“Ha, ha, ha! Roly Poly! Oh really, Cedric, don’t interrupt. I’m just in the middle of—”
He looked up and suddenly went very pale indeed.
“WHAT did you just call me?” growled a familiar voice. There, red in the face, out of breath and VERY cross, stood Sir Roland the Rotten, with Walter behind him.
“Um – er – greetings, Sir Roland,” stammered Sir Percy. “I – we – were just – um – admiring your – er – splendid physique, weren’t we, ladies?”
Sir Percy turned round, but the ladies had all vanished.
“Oh yeah?” snarled Sir Roland. “Well, then maybe they’d like to hear what we called you when you were a squire. Percy the Plon—”
“Yes, yes, yes, never mind all that, Roland old chap!” interrupted Sir Percy. “I’m – er – delighted you could make it.”
“We nearly didn’t,” said Sir Roland. “Seems like we had intruders in the fort last night.”
“Intruders?” said Sir Percy. “How – um – unfortunate.”
Walter glared in my direction.
I blushed and looked away.
“Yeah,” glowered Sir Roland. “They glued the visors shut on my best helmets. It took Walter here ages to unstick them all, didn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir Roland,” said Walter.
So that’s what Patchcoat was up to!
“But otherwise, no harm done,” said Sir Roland. “The intruders didn’t take anything.”
“Really?” said Sir Percy, with a surprised glance at me. “They took nothing? Nothing at all?”
“That’s right, Sir Percy,” Walter said smugly. He stepped forward and I saw that he was holding a gilded cage.
I gasped. Inside the cage was a black rat!
“See you at the joust, Percy,” laughed Sir Roland. “You’ll be a bucket of strawberry jam by the time I’ve finished with you! Walter, shift yourself. I want you to make sure my lance is extra sharp!”
With that, Sir Roland stomped off. Sir Percy stared after him, then staggered backwards into the pavilion and flopped on to a chair.
“Nice try, Fatbottom,” hissed Walter under his breath.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said as innocently as I could.
“Oh no?” sneered Walter. “Then perhaps you can explain this. I found it in the Great Hall.”
He put his hand into his tunic and pulled out Patchcoat’s cap. He flung it at my feet and turned to follow Sir Roland.
“And by the way, Stinkbottom,” he called over his shoulder. “You stink!”
I stood and gawped at Walter’s back as he strutted off, carrying the black rat with him.
“Cedric!” Sir Percy’s quavering voice interrupted my thoughts. “Kindly step inside. I’d like a quick word.”
“Well now, dear boy,” said Sir Percy. “It seems like you kidnapped the wrong rat.”
“But I did catch the right rat, honest, Sir Percy,” I said. I went into the corner of the pavilion where I had put Bubo safely out of sight, and lifted a corner of the old sack that covered the cage. “See? Walter must have found a replacement.”
But Sir Percy didn’t seem angry. To my surprise he had a big grin on his face. Maybe he was finally resigned to doing the honourable thing and actually fighting Sir Roland.
“Never mind, never mind. We all make mistakes,” he said. “However, I am a man of my
word, so I intend to keep my promise about letting you have some proper knighting experience.”
“Really?” I said in delight. “Can I ride Prancelot around Castle Bombast? Just once?”
“Oh, no need to wait until we get home, dear boy,” he smiled. “I am hereby giving you the honour of jousting against Sir Roland at this very tournament. Just keep your visor shut and no one will know it isn’t me.”
So that’s why he looked so happy. He had no intention of fighting at all!
“But Sir Percy,” I protested. “The Knight’s Code clearly states that anyone caught impersonating a knight will be banished from the kingdom!”
“And the Squire’s Code clearly states that a squire must never refuse a present from his knight,” said Sir Percy. “You know what they say – never look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?” He chuckled at his own joke. “Now let’s get this armour off me and on to you.”
“But Sir Percy, I’ve only ever ridden Gristle the mule,” I pleaded, reluctantly helping him to unstrap his breastplate. “And I don’t know how to fight!”
“Mule shmule,” grinned Sir Percy. “A horse is just the same. Sit on its back, hold on tight and off you go. Just point your lance at Sir Roland and try to knock him off his horse. Don’t worry if you miss. You get three goes.”
“Three goes?” I said.
“Yes, dear boy,” said Sir Percy. “Three goes with a lance, three with a sword and three with a mace. That’s all there is to it. All a bit of fun really. Think of it as an excellent way to acquire some top-notch knighting skills.”
Eeek! An excellent way to end up dead, more like.
Sir Percy’s armour was way too big for me. I stuffed it with several armfuls of hay, but I still rattled around in it like a pea in a dungeon.
“Right, now you’d better hurry up and get on Prancelot,” said Sir Percy. “I’d be delighted to give you a hand, but I have to stay out of sight. Good luck!”
Patchcoat was still off at the joke contest so I had to mount Prancelot on my own. It was only when I tried to get into the saddle that I realized quite how enormous she was. Gristle the mule was one thing, but a walloping great warhorse was something else entirely.
