And then I remembered one of the trips to Harlech Castle with Mrs Wendell-Jones. The garderobe was a little cupboard for the loo. So Galahad was trying to crawl down the … EIWWWW!!!!
‘Anyway, that’s not the important part,’ said Arthur, changing the subject so he wouldn’t have to talk about poo-covered knights. ‘We were going to be invaded so I asked Merlin for help and he got us all to speak words into a great cauldron. Nasty, mean words. Then Merlin cast a spell over them and told us to stand back.’
I leaned forward. This was the sort of story that Mrs Wendell-Jones would want to hear – ones with magic and battles. Definitely no weird killer chickens.
‘When Merlin spoke, silver shards flew out of the cauldron, over the battlements of the castle and towards the invaders. They were sharp and fast and they drove everyone away. Merlin said that it was the words. Words had the power to hurt and push people away more than any metal on earth. He said that words are more dangerous than swords.’
I thought about all the times that I’d wanted to run away when the Gruffudd twins were shouting mean things at me. Merlin wasn’t as daft as I’d thought.
Chapter Seven
Don’t take ancient kings to school, it just causes trouble
The next day Arthur insisted on coming to school with me. He didn’t want to sit in my wardrobe all day and he wanted to see some more of what he called, ‘This amazing world you live in.’
Amazing?
School?
I had to dress him up in one of my school uniforms. He was amazed that I had one big enough for him. Mum has this really annoying habit of buying me school uniforms for at least four years ahead and making me wear them when they’re HUGE so that I can ‘grow into them’. Then, just as soon as they are the right size, she takes them off me because they are getting a bit worn! Parents are mad. Still, it did mean that I had a uniform that would fit Arthur. Well, almost.
‘I look ridiculous in this,’ moaned Arthur.
‘You look fine,’ I lied, jamming a baseball hat on his head and pulling the brim down so that his face was half hidden. Without all his robes and scratchy cloaks and leather coats, Arthur wasn’t half as huge as I’d thought. He was a bit scrawny actually. He looked the way our cat did when we shaved all his fur off for an operation, with his legs and arms sticking out at odd angles.
I made sure we were at school early so that I could sneak him into my classroom. It felt a bit weird having someone sitting next to me and I really hoped that Mrs Wendell-Jones wouldn’t notice that she had an extra person in the class. Arthur was trying hard to make himself small, but he almost had to fold himself in two to fit into the seat. His knees were pressed against his chin and his feet stuck out in front of his desk.
Everyone at school pretty much ignores me so no one noticed Arthur. The Gruffudd twins were too busy fighting over something to even look at me, but Gwion did remember to slap me on the back of the head as he passed my seat.
‘Why do you let him do that?’ asked Arthur, shocked.
I shrugged. ‘Why do you let Galahad pick on you?’
Arthur frowned. He didn’t get a chance to answer because Mrs Wendell-Jones breezed into the classroom, beaming from ear to ear.
‘Children, I have some wonderful news!’ she cried.
Oh great! Mrs Wendell-Jones’ idea of wonderful news was always a bit different from our idea of wonderful news. I’ll give you an example. My idea of wonderful news is that Mr Jenkins gives us a whole week off school, I get to eat peanut butter chocolate spread sandwiches every day and the Gruffudd twins have to move to Australia. Mrs Wendell-Jones’ idea of wonderful news is that we get to walk round a boring old ruin, usually in the rain, while she tells us all about…
‘Arthur!’ Mrs Wendell-Jones announced.
‘Yes?’ Arthur said.
Mrs Wendell-Jones looked round in surprise.
‘Who said that?’ she asked.
Arthur stuck his hand in the air and waved at her. Mrs Wendell-Jones looked puzzled.
‘I didn’t think we had anyone new in our class’, she said.
Arthur smiled. ‘Ah,’ he began, ‘well I’m here because…’
‘It’s the school exchange!’ I blurted out. ‘With …urm … with that school in Caerleon.’
Mrs Wendell-Jones stared at me. ‘I don’t think I was told about this,’ she said.
‘I … urm …. well Mr Jenkins organised it,’ I lied, ‘because of Caerleon being so important, you know … urm … Arthur.’
Mrs Wendell-Jones smiled.
‘Well, it’s always nice to have visitors,’ she said. ‘You must tell us all about Caerleon. How lucky to live in the place where dear Arthur sleeps.’
Arthur looked puzzled and said, ‘Tomos’ wardrobe?’
‘Shhhh!’ I hissed, but luckily Mrs Wendell-Jones had started to tell us all her big surprise. As well as the jousting tournament and the usual poetry competitions at the Eisteddfod there would be a special competition for the best Camelot costume. ‘You can all dress up as knights if you like, although I’m sure some of you would like to dress up as Arthur himself,’ she cooed.
They wouldn’t if they knew what he smelled like, I thought! Hundreds of years underground does not make you smell great.
Mrs Wendell-Jones droned on for a bit, then she tried to teach us long division (which is really hard and I bet I never have to use it ever again). Then she collected up all our essays. I gave her a big smile as I handed mine over. I was sure I was finally going to get a good grade, with all the stuff that Arthur had given me. They were really good stories. I knew that Mrs Wendell-Jones would be impressed.
‘What a lot you’ve written this time, Tomos,’ she said. ‘Our trip to Caerleon must have left a lasting impression.’
‘Yeah, of Tomos’ bottom in the hillside,’ shouted Gwion.
I was trying to think of something to say back at him (and as usual I couldn’t) and then the bell went and everyone got up for morning break. This was my chance to show Arthur the jousting lane, so I waited till everyone had left and then I dragged him off towards the gym.
We must have looked quite a sight, Arthur trying to bend himself in two so that he wouldn’t look like an overgrown ten year old, me trying my best to look, what was that word Miss Hywel taught us — nonchalant. It means something like ‘not caring and definitely NOT up to anything’.
Suddenly Arthur grabbed my arm so tight that I yelped.
‘That hurts!’ I complained.
Arthur didn’t say anything. He was pointing at the Sports and Arts Trophy Cabinet and he was making these odd little burbling sounds.
‘That’s … that’s … my… How dare they!’
I looked over at the trophy cabinet to see what he was so upset about. There were the sports day trophies for ‘Best Sprinter’, ‘Best Team’, ‘Best Field Sport’ and ‘Best Trier’. I never won any of them, even Best Trier. I’m so bad at sports that even when I do try I somehow make it look like I’m not bothering. It’s not my fault. It’s just that my legs won’t talk to each other.
It wasn’t the sports trophies that were upsetting him, though. In the middle of all the ‘Ooh, we’re so good at sports and can run really fast unlike you losers’ prizes (as I like to call them) was the Eisteddfod crown. It had the best place in the cabinet, on a stand, with a long list of all the people who had won it over the years for writing brilliant poetry. Soppy’s name was on the list four times running.
Arthur pointed straight at it, his hand trembling.
‘That’s my crown!’ he said.
Chapter Eight
Poetry can get you into trouble
‘But why can’t I just take it? It belongs to me!’
Arthur nagged me all break time about his stupid crown. At first he thought that I could open up the cabinet and just hand it over. I told him the cabinet had an alarm on it, which meant that I then had to explain what an alarm was. I didn’t want him going on about magic again, so I said that there
was a parrot that watched the cabinet and if anyone tried to get into it he would squawk really loudly. It’s sort of how alarms work, I guess.
Then he came up with all sorts of ways that we could break into the cabinet. Most of them involved rocks.
‘That’s not going to work, Arthur.’
Arthur started to sulk. ‘It’s my crown. It belongs to me.’
And then I said it.
I really shouldn’t have said it, but it just came out without me thinking.
‘Well, you’ll just have to win it back in the Eisteddfod.’
There it was.
Out there.
The most stupid thing I have ever said.
Arthur looked at me. ‘The Eisteddfod? The gathering of the great bards? Is that what your teacher was talking about?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, there’s a huge poetry competition. My sister keeps winning it.’
‘And the prize is my crown?’ Arthur asked. I nodded.
He stood up very tall and pulled his beard out of his shirt. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Tomos. I must get to work at once,’ and he started to walk off.
I ran after him. Where on earth was he going?
‘If a poem will get my crown back, then I must write one,’ he said, striding towards the school gates.
Hang on, he was meant to be helping me! This wasn’t fair!
‘But we’ve got to work on my jousting!’ I said. ‘We were going to look at the lane in the gym. You promised me you would help…’
He waved a hand in the air.
‘My crown is calling me, young Tomos,’ he said, not even looking at me (which is VERY RUDE) and he carried on walking. Of all the times to start acting like a King and throwing his weight around, he chose now! He had much longer legs than me, so I had to run to keep up with him. He got out of the gate and I was just about to reach him when…
‘TOMOS! Where on EARTH do you think you are going?’
Mrs Wendell-Jones had seen me.
Chapter Nine
It turns out my sister is NOT the worst poet in the world
I was furious with Arthur all day. Mrs Wendell-Jones gave me a huge telling off and I thought she was going to keep me back after school and make me write something stupid like ‘I must not leave school without permission’ fifty times on a piece of paper till my hand ached.
I was wrong, though.
It was something worse.
The BIG ESSAY DISASTER.
Mrs Wendell-Jones handed out all our essays at the end of the day. She normally leaves little messages on them, like ‘Excellent work, well done’ (I never get that), or ‘More work needed’ (I’ve had that a few times), and sometimes ‘See Me!’ which means that you’re going to get told off BIG TIME.
My essay had
‘SEE ME!’
written on it.
In capitals.
In red ink.
Underlined.
When the bell went at the end of the day, instead of going home, I went up to Mrs Wendell-Jones’ desk.
She looked at me very sternly and waited till everyone had left before she started telling me off.
‘What on earth were you thinking, Tomos?’ she said. She looked very angry.
‘Miss, it was a really good essay,’ I said. Well, I DID think it was a great essay. I’d put all the stuff that Arthur had told me into it, and if anyone knew about life at Camelot it was Arthur.
But I couldn’t tell Mrs Wendell-Jones that.
‘A melon, Tomos?’ she raged. ‘The great Excalibur pulled out of a melon?’
‘It was, Miss.’
‘Bickering knights? Merlin fighting with barnyard animals? Knights crawling through the toilet?’
She was starting to do that odd ‘breathing noisily through her nose’ thing again.
I looked down at my paper. I had got an E minus. Hardly anyone gets an E minus. It’s the worst grade it’s possible to get. Mrs Wendell-Jones won’t give out Fs because she says she doesn’t believe in making us feel like failures. This just means that everyone knows that an E minus is really an F in disguise.
Not a very good disguise.
‘Tomos,’ Mrs Wendell-Jones said, looking really angry with me, ‘the knights of the Round Table were noble, brave men. They didn’t bicker or bully each other. Can’t you see how ridiculous all the stories you have put in this essay must sound?’
This was stupid. My essay was the truth. It had to be. I couldn’t argue, though, so I just nodded. Teachers are always right.
Even when they’re not.
‘Yes, miss,’ I muttered.
Arthur was lying on my bed when I got home. There were bits of scrumpled-up paper all over the floor and he was frantically scribbling on a writing pad. When I walked into my room he glared at what he had written, tore it off the pad, scrunched it up and threw it across the room without looking.
It hit me in the eye.
‘Ow!’
‘Ah, Tomos. I’m glad you’re back,’ he said, sitting up. He waved the writing pad in the air. ‘This is trickier than I thought.’
I glared at him. ‘You walked off. I had no idea where you’d gone.’
Arthur looked hurt. ‘I have to win my crown back, Tomos. Poems take ages to write, you know.’
So that was what he was doing – writing poetry. Well, I guessed it couldn’t be any worse than Soppy’s.
Wrong!
‘Let me read you something I wrote earlier,’ he said, searching through a pile of paper littered all over my bed. He seized one piece and waved it in the air. ‘Here it is! Listen to this!’
I sat down and waited for him to start.
‘I use my sword to fight my foes
I hit them on the head.
I slash them till their arms fall off
And pretty soon they’re dead.’
He beamed at me. ‘What do you think?’
Oh dear.
Something told me that Arthur’s poetry was not going to win many prizes. This could get very awkward. I didn’t like to think what Arthur might do if someone else won his crown – he might chop their arms off. It would be great if it was the Gruffudd twins, of course. I wouldn’t mind him chopping their arms off. Then they wouldn’t be able to pinch my lunch. But it wasn’t likely to be the Gruffudd twins. It was more likely to be my awful sister. And she is awful but…
I didn’t have time to think about his awful poetry now, though.
‘You still haven’t taught me to joust,’ I said.
Arthur frowned. ‘But my poems…’
‘If you don’t help me to learn to joust, I won’t help you either,’ I said, folding my arms and glaring at him. ‘You can go back to your cave and you’ll never have your crown ever again! So there!’
Arthur put down the paper and pulled himself off the bed. He looked a bit hurt and I felt bad.
‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘But when I get my crown back you won’t be allowed to shout at me ever again!’
He followed me into the back garden, grumbling loudly all the way.
Are all Kings this whiney?
Chapter Ten
There is only one thing worse than having one knight in your house
‘You said you’d help!’ I said.
I’d spent an hour cycling up and down the path trying to knock a hat off Arthur’s head as he passed by. He was meant to be stopping me, but I could tell he wasn’t trying. I had managed to knock his hat off every time, even though I was wobbling all over the place and had fallen over seven times.
The main thing I was learning about jousting was it’s hard.
Really hard.
You have to ride your bicycle in a straight line holding the handlebars with one hand and a long wobbly swimming noodle in the other. You might as well ask me to juggle with jelly blindfolded on a unicycle. There was no way I was ever going to be good at this. It’s sports. I’m rubbish at sports. If there was a medal for ‘being a bit pants at sports’ then I’d get gold every single ye
ar.
I could imagine myself standing in front of the Queen while she knighted me for ‘services to falling over, coming last and generally being a bit rubbish.’ Mum and Dad would wipe away proud tears and say to Soppy, ‘If only you’d tried a little less, dear, you could be as terrible as your brother. Think how proud we’d be of you then.’
This never happens.
What actually happens if you are rubbish at sports is that the other kids laugh at you and Mr Deacon, the games teacher, just looks disappointed and says things like, ‘I wish you’d try a little harder, Tomos.’
Is he joking? Has he no idea how utterly appalling I’d be if I stopped even trying?
What I mean is that I’m bad at games, and here was Arthur, who was a King, even if he was turning out to be a bit of a rubbish one, losing every single joust even though I was obviously Sir Terrible-can’t-joust-for-toffee. I didn’t think he was bothering.
‘Does anything rhyme with chopped off?’ he asked.
‘Yes, plenty. Lopped off, for example,’ I said. ‘Why do you want to know tha… Are you writing!!!’
He looked a bit sheepish and tried to tuck a piece of paper into his shirt, but it was too late, I had seen it.
‘You’re meant to be helping me!’ I said. ‘All you can do is write your stupid poems. It’s not fair!’
Arthur wasn’t listening to me. He was staring over my shoulder at something at the end of the garden.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he muttered.
I ignored him. ‘You’ll never win, you know,’ I snapped. ‘Your poetry is even worse than my soppy sister’s! Who on earth wants to hear about how you chop people’s heads off? I bet you didn’t. I bet you just hid while everyone else did the brave stuff!’
Arthur looked really hurt but I was so angry I didn’t care. I just kept on yelling at him.
‘Do you think that people really want to hear poems about your stupid knights being horrid to everyone, or about how you couldn’t get them to do anything, or about how no one liked you?’ I yelled. ‘Let’s see what your latest one is about, shall we?’
Arthur and Me Page 3
