Life Stinks!

by Peter Bently

  I put my foot in the stirrup and tried to heave myself up, but I toppled flat on my back under the weight of the armour.

  Prancelot looked down at me and gave a snort.

  I struggled to my feet, took a deep breath and muttered, “Three-two-one–HUP!” This time I hauled myself up into the saddle – and almost toppled over the other side. I’d just managed to drag myself up when a man in grand robes appeared.

  “Baron Buskin Fitztightly,” he said with a nod. “Chief Herald of His Majesty the King. Sir Percy, it is time for your joust with Sir Roland. Allow me to lead you to the lists.”

  I gave Prancelot a gentle prod with my feet and held on tight as she headed for the jousting ground. It was tricky to keep my balance and hold Sir Percy’s lance. And to make things worse, it was starting to rain.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought. I can’t believe I’ve ended up with a knight who’s such a wuss.

  Ahead of me I saw the special tournament grandstand where all the top lords and ladies in the kingdom were waiting to watch the joust, sheltered from the rain. I was shaking with nerves so much that I was sure Sir Percy’s armour would start rattling.

  My heart leaped into my mouth as I entered the narrow track where the joust was to take place. I saw the faces of all the spectators turn towards me and knew there was no way I could wriggle out of this now.

  And then something weird happened.

  The aristocratic crowd began to applaud and cheer. Ladies cried, “We love you, Sir Percy!” and started throwing me flowers and ribbons and silk scarves. For a few amazing moments I forgot how terrified (and stupid) I was and felt what it was like to be a real knight.

  But only for a few moments. All of a sudden the crowd stopped cheering and went, “Ooooh!” as they looked away from me towards the other end of the jousting ground.

  Entering the lists directly opposite me was Sir Roland the Rotten. Wearing his best blood-red armour and a bronze boar’s head on his helmet, he looked even more terrifying than usual. In one hand he wielded a particularly sharp-looking lance. In the other was the black rat. It was wriggling a lot and Sir Roland seemed to be having a problem keeping it under control. A handful of people in the crowd cheered, “Go on, Sir Roland!” but most of them remained silent.

  Sir Roland’s visor was up. Mine, of course, was firmly shut.

  “Too scared to show your face, eh, Percy?” he boomed.

  His few fans tittered. The rat squirmed. The rain began to bucket down. It dripped into the slits in my visor and made it harder to see.

  Then several trumpets sounded a fanfare and the chief herald announced, “Pray silence for the king and queen!”

  I gasped. For the first time I looked properly at the figures seated on large thrones in the centre of the grandstand. They were both wearing crowns and I realized that not only was I about to look an utter idiot – and possibly a dead idiot at that – but I was going to do it in front of none other than the king and queen. As I had this thought the king stood up and the crowd fell completely silent.

  “Sir Percy and Sir Roland, I bid you welcome to the tournament,” the king boomed. He was a tall man with a red face and an impressive black beard with a big white streak in it. From the way he filled out his splendid purple and green royal robes, I’d definitely say he was fond of the odd roast boar or two.

  “Now then, chaps,” the king went on heartily. “I like nothing more than a jolly good joust, so I’m relying on you to give me and the queen here a tip-top afternoon’s entertainment, eh? Oh, if I were just a few years younger I’d be down there like a shot duelling with the pair of you. Just like at that tournament when—”

  “Ahem!” said the queen in a very loud whisper. “Do get on with it, Fredbert. The guests are getting peckish.”

  “Quite right, my dear. Mustn’t delay the after-joust banquet, eh?” the king guffawed. “Knights, let the joust begin!”

  The crowd held its breath. The only sound was the clunk! of Sir Roland’s visor as he slammed it shut.

  He lifted his lance and pointed it straight in my direction. Then he jabbed his horse with his heels and before I knew it a massive red mountain of metal was heading my way.

  Right, this is it. I thought to myself. Why did I ever agree to this crazy plan?

  Now Sir Roland was charging at full gallop, his horse’s hooves pounding the earth like thunder.

  I was trembling so much that I lost my balance and had to dig my heels hard into Prancelot’s side to stop myself slipping out of the saddle.

  Unfortunately, she took this as a command to charge and moments later we were galloping headlong in the rain towards Sir Roland.

  “Go for it, Sir Percy!” cheered the crowd.

  It was all I could do to cling on for grim life, my heavy lance swaying all over the place as the gap between me and Sir Roland got narrower and narrower.

  Suddenly, we were almost level. I could see Sir Roland’s black rat scramble up on to his helmet as he aimed his lance right at my heart.

  I ducked just in the nick of time! I nearly fell off, but at least Sir Roland had missed me.

  Then I heard a metallic clunk and a great “oooh!” from the crowd. It was only when I heard the king declare, “One hit to Sir Percy!” that I turned to see what had happened. Sir Roland had removed his helmet and was inspecting it. He looked furious. I spotted the boar crest lying on the ground. By some fluke, my lance must have knocked it off!

  “You’ll pay for this, Percy!” fumed Sir Roland.

  “Knights, prepare for your second pass,” declared the king.

  I gulped. I doubted I’d be so lucky next time.

  And then I heard laughing, and someone shouted, “Look at Sir Roland!”

  I glanced up to see Sir Roland with something wet and furry attached to his face.

  “Gerroff!” he bellowed. “Blasted rat! Bit me on the nose! He’s never done that before!”

  He succeeded in detaching the rat from his nose. But where the rat had been there was now a large black stain. The spectators roared with laughter.

  “He’s got a black nose!”

  “Look at his armour!”

  “The rat’s leaking!”

  It was true. The rain was washing streaks of black dye off the rat and all over Sir Roland’s polished red armour!

  I gasped in astonishment. But that was nothing compared to Sir Roland’s reaction. Before his very eyes, the rat was turning from black to a very normal brown.

  “This isn’t Bubo!’ he roared. “I can’t possibly fight without Bubo. Walter!”

  The king stood up. “Sir Roland, will you please hurry up and begin the joust?”

  “I will, Your Majesty,” spluttered Roland. “Just as soon as I find my mascot. WALTER!”

  “Nonsense,” said the king. “I’m not hanging about in this rain while you hunt for some silly rat. I declare Sir Percy the winner!”

  He then nodded at me and said, “Well done, old chap. Tonight you shall have a place of honour at the royal table. Double helpings of peacock pie for you.”

  And with that, the king and queen swept from the royal box.

  The crowd cheered as I rode from the lists. The moment I reached our pavilion I dismounted and dived inside.

  Sir Percy was delighted when I told him what had happened.

  “Splendid!” he cried. “Now hurry up and get that armour off. I need you to help me dress for dinner. A victorious knight must look his best for his admirers!”

  “Yes, Sir Percy,” I said. “Otherwise they might think you hadn’t just won a joust.”

  Sir Percy, I thought, you owe me one. Big time.

  Just then Patchcoat came running in. He was covered in rotten fruit and vegetables.

  “Hello, Patchcoat,” I said. “I’m guessing you didn’t win the joke contest.”

  “Well, no,” said Patchcoat. “But I got a great reaction from the crowd.”

  “So Walter must have caught a normal brown rat and dyed it b
lack,” said Patchcoat. “Quite clever, really.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “If it hadn’t nearly got me half killed.”

  We were on the way back to Castle Bombast and just approaching the turn-off for Blackstone Fort. Patchcoat and I sat in the mule cart behind a beaming Sir Percy, while a royal herald trumpeted my master’s ‘victory’ in every village we passed through. Hmmph.

  “Mind you, I do feel just a teensy-weensy bit sorry for Walter,” said Patchcoat. “Sir Roland was SO cross with him for losing Bubo! One of the other jesters heard him giving Walter a month’s toilet-cleaning duty. Apparently he’ll be working with our old friend Stinky Pugh.”

  I took Bubo out of his bag and gave him a stroke. I was actually growing quite fond of the little feller.

  “Talking of Stinky Pugh,” I said. “I’m definitely having a bath as soon as we – OW!”

  I yelped as the rat sank its yellow teeth into my finger, then leaped off the cart and scuttled off in the direction of Blackstone Fort. As I watched, Bubo turned and gave me one last look.

  I could have sworn he was smiling.

  Take a peek at the first chapter of Cedric’s next adventure:

  SWISH!

  “Eeek!”

  THUNK! TWOINNNG!!!!

  “Ah, I think we’ll call that a warm-up shot, Cedric,” said Sir Percy, lowering his bow. “Now be a good fellow and fetch the arrow.”

  “Y-yes, Sir Percy.”

  I picked myself up out of the mud, walked shakily to the large oak tree and pulled out Sir Percy’s arrow. It was exactly where I’d been standing just a few seconds earlier.

  “Shift the target a bit to the left,” he said. “Those trees are spoiling my line of sight.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy,” I sighed. For the zillionth time that morning I lugged the target to a new spot. Sooner or later he might actually hit it. Just as long as he didn’t hit me first.

  “That’s better,” said Sir Percy. “And don’t stand so close to it. It puts me off my aim.”

  I hadn’t been standing close the last time. I’d been sheltering somewhere nice and safe – or so I’d thought. If I hadn’t dived out of the way, Sir Percy would have needed a new squire for the second time in three months.

  A knight is supposed to teach his squire proper knighting skills. But somehow my master – known to his many fans as Sir Percy the Proud – never quite gets round to it. Just like that morning, when he’d said he might let me have a go with the bow once he’d ‘warmed up’. Two hours of ‘warm-up shots’ later, I obviously wasn’t going to be firing my first arrow any time soon. I can safely say that Sir Percy couldn’t hit a castle gate if it was right in front of his nose. Actually, make that a castle.

  Could this really be the same famous knight who once shot a secret message tied to an arrow through the arrow-slit of a besieged castle? From half a mile away? At night? Blindfolded? It’s one of the best bits of The Song of Percy, Sir Percy’s wildly popular account of his knightly deeds. Hmmm. It wasn’t the first time I’d wondered whether The Song of Percy might be a bit … exaggerated.

  He notched another arrow to his bow and I quickly checked for a safe place to fling myself the moment he fired.

  “Ready, Cedric?”

  “Ready, Sir Percy.”

  All of a sudden I heard the sound of hooves among the trees. But before I could say anything, a gust of wind blew Sir Percy’s dashing new green and orange velvet hunting cap over his eyes.

  TWANGGG!

  “Bother!”

  Sir Percy fired blindly into the air. I leaped for cover but luckily his arrow flew high over the trees.

  “Blasted breeze!” said Sir Percy, pushing the cap off his eyes. “Ah well. No harm d—”

  “Aargh!!”

  There was a startled yell and a whinny. Then a grandly dressed man rode out of the trees looking alarmed – and very cross. Sir Percy’s arrow was sticking out of his saddle, right between his legs. A couple of inches the wrong way and … ouch!

  “This is an outrage!” roared the rider, who looked vaguely familiar. “Raining arrows on me! I could have been cut off in my prime!”

  “My sincerest apologies,” said Sir Percy. “It was the wind.”

  “I don’t care about your personal problems,” said the man. He yanked the arrow out of his saddle and flung it at Sir Percy’s feet. “Next time, mind where you’re shooting, you careless twerp!”

  “Now, look here,” scowled Sir Percy, puffing out his chest. “I will have you know that I, Sir Percy Piers Peregrine de Bluster de Bombast, will not be spoken to in that tone by the likes of-of—”

  “Fitztightly,” fumed the man. “Baron Buskin Fitztightly. Chief Herald of His Majesty the King.”

  Out in June!

  Copyright

  STRIPES PUBLISHING

  An imprint of Little Tiger Press

  1 The Coda Centre, 189 Munster Road,

  London SW6 6AW

  First published in Great Britain in 2014

  Text copyright © Peter Bently, 2014

  Illustrations copyright © Fred Blunt, 2014

  eISBN: 978–1–84715–536–8

  The right of Peter Bently and Fred Blunt to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any forms, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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