Rotten Luck!

by Peter Bently

  For Lucy, Theo and Tara – PB

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Meet the Characters

  Chapter 1

  Birthday Bash

  Chapter 2

  Banquet Bombshell

  Chapter 3

  Forest Fiasco

  Chapter 4

  Bear Scare

  Chapter 5

  The Ghost’s Gang

  Chapter 6

  Stocks Shock

  Chapter 7

  Mucking and Diving

  Chapter 8

  Royal Rescue

  Chapter 9

  Chopper Stopper

  Copyright

  FLASH! RUMBLE! CRRR-ASH!

  The thunderclap was so startling that Sir Percy jumped and I snapped off the button I was doing up on his evening tunic. Patchcoat the jester dropped all his juggling balls. (He was practising a new trick that seemed to involve throwing the balls into the air and not catching them.)

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  We all jumped again. It took us a moment to realize that it wasn’t the storm this time. Someone was knocking at the door of our cramped and smelly guest chamber. The knock came again and the door slowly opened with a creak.

  Standing in the doorway was a tall, heavily built man with a long scar on his cheek and a nose that looked like he’d had an argument with a battering ram.

  “The banquet’s about to be served,” he scowled. “’Urry up.” He turned and lumbered back out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. We heard him bashing on the doors of the other guest chambers as he went.

  “Charming chap, that deputy sheriff, isn’t he?” said Patchcoat.

  We had encountered him once before. He’d greeted us when we arrived that afternoon in the pouring rain. Well, I say “greeted” but he’d just pointed at the stairs and muttered, “Another lot fer the sheriff to feed? Top floor, third door along. Plenty o’ room fer the three of you. And mind yer don’t drip on the furniture.”

  “I jolly well won’t let him spoil my evening,” said Sir Percy. “I do love a royal birthday party! I wonder who else is coming? Sir Spencer I suppose. And probably Sir Roland, too. Oh well, never mind.”

  Even the thought of seeing his arch-enemy, Sir Roland the Rotten, didn’t sour Sir Percy’s mood. The king had invited all his knights and nobles to celebrate his birthday with a weekend of banquets and boar hunting in the forest of Grimwood. We were staying at Fleecingham Castle, on the far side of the forest, as guests of the new sheriff of Fleecingham – Earl Crawleigh de Creepes.

  Sir Percy had immediately ordered a load of fancy new gear. New boots and tights, a green velvet tunic, complete with hat, plus a plume and a fancy gold peacock brooch to hold it in place.

  I was almost as excited as my master. A weekend hunting with the king! I was bound to get a chance to do some of the proper knight stuff that Sir Percy was always forgetting to teach me. I couldn’t wait!

  “Righty-ho, chaps,” Sir Percy said, once I’d stitched his button back on. “Off we go! It’s party time!”

  We followed him out into the dark, chilly corridor. It was lit by a feeble candle that sputtered in the wind blowing through a large crack in the wall.

  “I hope the weather isn’t this bad tomorrow,” I said to Patchcoat. “I’d hate it if the king cancelled the hunt. And I don’t think I could bear spending all day in this miserable castle!”

  “Wasn’t always like this, you know,” said Patchcoat, who was practising his juggling trick as we walked along. “One of the stable lads told me it was a much more cheerful place when the last sheriff was around. Whoops!”

  “You mean the sheriff who wanted to overthrow the king?” I said, as Patchcoat stopped to pick up his balls. “The one who fled abroad before the king’s men could arrest him – Sir Edward Whatshisname?”

  “Worthington,” said Patchcoat. “That’s him, Ced. Very popular guy, apparently, despite being a traitor. Nice to the staff, threw lots of parties, that sort of thing. Castle was filled with colourful paintings and tapestries. But this new sheriff is a total skinflint. No more merry parties. Flogged off all the decorations. And he sacked half the staff and cut everyone else’s wages to pay for a load of new soldiers. The stable lad reckons he’s obsessed with catching some masked robber called the Ghost.”

  I was about to ask Patchcoat more about the robber when the door of another guest room opened and out stepped Sir Spencer with his squire, Algernon. They were dressed in matching turquoise and orange satin tunics plus cloaks of green velvet with a gold trim.

  “Evening, Spencer,” said Sir Percy, eyeing his friend’s outfit rather enviously. “Looking forward to the party?”

  “Evening, Perce,” beamed Sir Spencer, shaking back his golden curls. “Couldn’t miss a chance to wish His Maj a happy birthday, could we, Algie?”

  Or show off your wardrobe, I thought.

  Before Algernon could answer, another door opened. This time it was the beefy, bearded figure of Sir Roland, along with his sneaky squire, Walter Warthog.

  “Well, well, well, look who it is,” said Sir Roland. “I might have known you two prancing peacocks wouldn’t miss a free banquet, eh, Walter? Hur-hur-hur!”

  “And a jolly good evening to you, too, Roland,” said Sir Percy. “At least we’ve made an effort with our clothes. Is that an egg stain on your tunic, by any chance?”

  “Why, you—” Sir Roland growled.

  “N-now, no arguing, chaps,” said Sir Spencer hastily, as we reached the stairs down to the great hall. “It wouldn’t do to arrive at the king’s birthday dinner making a scene, would it?”

  Sir Roland glared at Sir Percy, but held his tongue.

  “I say!” declared Sir Spencer suddenly. “Bagsy I sit next to the king!”

  “Oh yes, Sir Spencer,” simpered Algernon. “He’ll definitely want the most elegant knight sitting next to him.”

  “Rubbish!” said Walter. “The king’ll want the most fearless knight. And that’s my master!”

  “Well, I think it ought to be me,” said Sir Percy airily. “After all, who defeated Sir Roland in the king’s tournament?”

  Actually that would be me, I thought.

  The three knights stopped in their tracks. For a moment they just stood there, eyeing one another. And then, all of a sudden, they bolted.

  “Me first, losers!” hollered Sir Roland.

  “No, me!”

  “Me!”

  As the three knights charged down the stairs, Walter shoved past me and Patchcoat.

  “Outta my way, Fatbottom!” he yelled. “Go on, Sir Roland, you can do it!”

  “Watch out!” cried Patchcoat. His juggling balls flew out of his hands, and bounced down the stairs.

  It all happened in an instant.

  Sir Spencer slipped on a ball, squealed and grabbed Sir Percy. My master lost his balance, sending the two of them tumbling head first.

  “AARGH!”

  “WAAH!”

  “I win!” Sir Roland cackled gleefully, as he reached for the handle of the door. “I’m going to sit next to the king! Nah-nah-nee-nah-n-OOF!”

  Sir Spencer and Sir Percy slammed into Sir Roland, and the three of them barrelled through the door and rolled to a halt in a heap of tangled limbs.

  “You idiots!” roared Sir Roland. “You pair of total—”

  “Now, look here,” came the muffled voice of my master. “That was your silly squire’s fault, Roland. If he hadn’t—”

  “I’ve ripped my tunic!” wailed Sir Spencer.

  But before the three knights could start squabbling and bickering again, a voice said, “Ahem!”

  Standing over them, looking VERY cross, were King Fredbert and Queen Malicia. And that w
asn’t all. Seated at a long banqueting table was just about every lord, lady and knight for miles around.

  “Your Majesties!” grinned Sir Percy, freeing his face from Sir Roland’s armpit. “How simply splendid to see you both. And happy birthday, sire! I trust all is well with Your Majesty?”

  “Fine, thanks,” said the king. “Which is more than can be said for the sheriff.”

  “Oh dear, dear,” schmoozed Sir Percy.

  “I’m awfully sorry to hear that, Your Majesty. Has he been taken ill?”

  The queen frowned. “No,” she said. “You’re sitting on him.”

  There was a groan from underneath the knot of knights. They hastily untangled themselves to reveal a little man with a pointy beard and thin moustache. The deputy sheriff ran to help him up.

  “Thundewing thumbscwews!” shrieked the sheriff. “Of all the dimwitted, dunderheaded, dog-bwained—”

  “Sorry, sir,” grunted the deputy sheriff.

  “Not you, Lurk!” the sheriff snapped. He pointed at the three knights. “These fools. Why, I’ve a good mind to lock ’em all up and thwow away the key!”

  The king laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come along, sheriff! We’d better sit down,” he said. “They’re about to serve dinner!”

  “Vewy well, Your Majesty,” he said. “But these oafs haven’t heard the last of this!”

  The sheriff strutted to his seat beside the king’s throne with as much dignity as he could muster.

  Queen Malicia turned to the knights. “And as for you three,” she hissed. “After that little scene, you can jolly well sit in the corner.”

  She pointed to the end of the table furthest from the king. Sir Percy, Sir Spencer and Sir Roland sheepishly squeezed themselves on to the end of the bench next to a large baroness.

  The queen took her throne beside the king. “Happy birthday, Fredbert dear!” she declared.

  And then she led the whole hall in a rousing chorus:

  “For he’s a jolly good monarch!

  For he’s a jolly good monarch!

  For he’s a jolly good monarch!

  And so say all of us!”

  “Thank you!” beamed the king, after all the cheering and clapping had died down. Then the kitchen door opened and in marched a procession of servants carrying a peacock pie, a whole roast boar and dozens of other steaming dishes.

  I served up Sir Percy’s food and stood behind him while he cheerfully stuffed his face. Sir Roland was still sulking as he chewed noisily on a haunch of boar, while Sir Spencer just picked at his food and kept whining to Algernon about his torn tunic. I’ll say one thing about my master, he never stays grumpy for long.

  After the main course, there was another round of cheers as a magnificent birthday cake topped with a marzipan crown was brought in. I served Sir Percy a large slice. He had just stuffed in an enormous mouthful when the queen raised her hand for silence.

  “My lords, ladies and knights,” she declared. “You may now give the king his presents!”

  Sir Percy suddenly coughed and spluttered violently, spraying cake all over the tablecloth and the elderly earl sitting opposite, who had dozed off with his mouth wide open.

  Sir Percy covered his face with a napkin and turned to me with a look of pure panic.

  “Cedric!” he whispered. “This is a disaster. I’ve forgotten to get the king a present! Why didn’t you remind me?”

  I could have said, “Because I was too busy trying to remember all the things you’d got for yourself.” But that would have been a breach of the Squire’s Code about being sarky to your master.

  All eyes had turned to our end of the table, where Sir Roland and Sir Spencer were already producing gifts from inside their tunics.

  “Aha!” said the king brightly. “I see Sir Percy is dying to go first. Come on, then, Percy, show us what’ve you brought me!”

  “Ah, yes, well, sire, I – um – er…” my master gibbered. “You see, er, my squire here…”

  Then I had a brainwave. Wherever Sir Percy went, he made sure I packed at least one signed copy of The Song of Percy, his best-selling book, to give to his admirers. It’s full of thrilling stories about his brave deeds. The only snag is that they are all ever so slightly made up.

  “Um – I left it upstairs, Your Majesty,” I said quickly.

  “You did?” said Sir Percy. “Um – I mean, he did, sire!”

  “Silly boy!” said the king with a chuckle. “You’d better go and fetch it then, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I said.

  “And I hope it’s not another signed copy of your book, Sir Percy,” said the king. “You’ve sent me ten already!”

  Everyone roared with laughter. Yikes! Now what was I going to do? But before I could think of a Plan B there was a noise at the door and a breathless peasant came running into the hall.

  “Yer Majesties! Yer Majesties!” he panted, doffing his cap.

  The sheriff shot to his feet. “What is the meaning of this outwage!” he cried. “How dare you intewwupt the king’s birthday party! Lurk, thwow this wepulsive peasant out at once!”

  “Yes, Yer Lordship,” grunted Lurk. He lumbered towards the peasant, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

  “Hold on,” said the queen. “The poor fellow looks all hot and bothered. Perhaps we’d better hear what he has to say.”

  “Quite right, Malicia, dear,” the king agreed. “It might be important. Do sit down, sheriff.”

  The sheriff bowed stiffly and sat down, fiddling with his moustache and glowering at the peasant.

  “I’ve been robbed!” the peasant began. “By bandits!”

  “Bandits?” thundered the king. “Good heavens! Where?”

  “On me way ’ome through the forest, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant. “I sold three goats an’ a goose in the market today and made a nice little pile o’ cash. Them robbers took the ’ole blinkin’ lot!”

  “What did they look like?” asked the queen.

  “Dunno, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant. “Most of ’em had ’oods. And their leader was wearin’ a mask!”

  “The Ghost of Gwimwood!” cried the sheriff. “I thought as much!”

  “Ghost?” the king frowned. “Sheriff, are you seriously suggesting this man was robbed by a ghost?”

  “No, sire,” replied the sheriff. “Not a ghost but the Ghost. The leader of a notowious band of outlaws who live in the fowest. They call him the Ghost because he always vanishes without a twace. But I’ll catch him one day, sire. And when I do, ooh! What fun I’ll have!” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “We haven’t had a decent execution awound here for ages. The last shewiff was such a tewwible softie, you see…”

  “Sir Edward Worthington, a softie?” said the king. “I’m surprised to hear that, sheriff.”

  The sheriff looked a bit flummoxed. “Ah, well, yes of course Sir Edward was a dweadful twaitor, sire,” he said. “That letter I found pwoved it. But he didn’t like chopping people’s heads off. I shall change all that. Starting with the Ghost!”

  “Um – beggin’ yer pardon, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant. “But I don’t reckon it were the Ghost who robbed me.”

  “What makes you so sure?” asked the king.

  “For starters, the Ghost and his band never rob us peasants.” The peasant looked rather nervously round the hall. “He only robs – beggin’ everybody’s pardon – posh folks.”

  There were gasps of alarm. Sir Spencer gave a little squeak.

  “Good gracious,” said the king. “Do you mean to say we could all have been robbed on the way here? Why didn’t you warn us, sheriff?”

  The sheriff shifted uneasily in his seat. “I – er – didn’t want to alarm you, sire,” he said.

  “Oh, the Ghost don’t rob all posh people, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant, trying not to catch the sheriff’s eye. “Only them that is good pals of the sheriff’s.”

  The sheriff scowled but said nothing.

  “An
d another thing,” the peasant went on. “The Ghost is always nice and polite, even when ’e’s robbin’ folks. The blokes that robbed me was rude an’ unfriendly. They even scoffed the pasty the wife made me as a snack. The Ghost would never do anything like that.”

  “Wubbish!” snapped the sheriff. “Who else could it have been? Sire, I think we’ve heard enough!” He nodded to Lurk, who seized the peasant and frogmarched him to the door. “If you ask me, these wotten peasants deserve to be wobbed. I’ve offered a fat weward but they do nothing to help me catch the Ghost! They wegard him as some kind of hewo! Perhaps if Your Majesty were to let me double their taxes? And maybe do a couple of teensy-weensy little executions? That would teach them a lesson!”

  “Beg pardon, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant, as Lurk thrust him out of the hall. “We just can’t afford all these taxes the sheriff makes us pay. I know they say Sir Edward was a traitor, but at least he was fair!”

  “The fellow’s right, sheriff,” said the king. “If you put taxes up any more we’ll have a rebellion on our hands. I can’t allow it.”

  “Balderdash!” snarled the sheriff. “Tax ’em and axe ’em, I say!”

  “Calm down, sheriff,” said the king. “I can’t be doing with rebellious peasants. And I certainly don’t want any more robberies in the forest. There’s only one thing for it. If you can’t catch this Ghost chappie yourself, my brave knights will have to do it. Tomorrow one of them can miss the boar hunt and search for the Ghost of Grimwood instead.”

  “Wh-what?” said Sir Spencer. “You mean ride into the f-forest alone, sire?”

  “Precisely, Sir Spencer,” said the king. His eyes swept around the table. “Now, who’s going to volunteer, eh? Kindly stand up!”

  There was an awkward silence. Sir Percy was suddenly fascinated by the carved gargoyles on the ceiling. Sir Spencer became engrossed with a tiny bit of fluff on his sleeve.

  I can’t say I blamed them. Grimwood is big and dark and scary. If the Ghost and his outlaws lived there, they must be a pretty terrifying bunch.