by Tony Davis
“I’m not dirty and I’m not poor,” said Roland, but his voice sounded small and shaky. Hector looked even bigger, stronger and uglier in the daylight than he had at supper. Roland could feel his knees knocking together.
Humphrey tried to help. “Please leave him alone, Hector, we are here to sword fight and have fun, sword fight and have fun.”
Hector let out a cruel laugh. “Shut up, Humphrey Humphrey.”
Hector turned back toward Roland. “Not poor? How many thousands of acres of land does your father have, s-s-s-s, how many horses, how many houses?”
“He has one house. Nobody needs more than—”
“Just as I thought—you’re a peasant. A lowly peasant. Just like your father and your father’s father, s-s-s-s, and your father’s father’s father before him.”
Roland’s knees weren’t knocking together anymore. He was too angry. “Go away! Get away from me, you ignoramus.”
Roland had no idea how the word “ignoramus” suddenly found its way into his sentence. It must have been one of the long words his father used. The word had just arrived from nowhere and seemed so right that Roland repeated it.
“Ignoramus! Go away!”
Humphrey and Morris gasped. Unlike Roland, they’d been to classes. They knew that “ignoramus” meant a stupid person, an idiot, a dunce, a complete dizzard. Nobody had ever talked to Hector like this before—and certainly not twice in two sentences.
“I’m not going anywhere,” snarled Hector, his blue eyes glittering. “I’m going to fight you now because I’m the oldest page. I will be a squire soon and, s-s-s-s, it’s my duty to give a thrashing to the new pages. It’s the only way to show them what a real page should be able to do.
“And it will give me great pleasure to thrash a little squirt with red hair, s-s-s-s. A squirt who is here only because his father bends old metal.”
“He doesn’t bend old metal,” said Roland. His voice was much stronger now. “My father is the finest armorer in the land, and he uses only the best steel. He can stamp By Royal Appointment on his armor because he saved the King’s life.”
Just as Roland said that, Hector rushed at him, swinging his wooden sword wildly, and talking and hissing at the same time, too.
“That’s rubbish, poor boy, s-s-s-s. It’s God who looks after the King. The King doesn’t need the help of peasants, and neither does a person like my father.”
Hector was stronger and faster than Roland expected. And because he was so much taller his sword seemed to be coming down from way above Roland’s head.
“You’ll be gone in a week, you squirt, s-s-s-s, just like Percival and Lucas and Gwayne and all those other silly little poor boys the King tried to improve. You can’t improve peasants. They’ll always be smelly and stupid.”
Between these words, Roland blocked—left, right, center—with such speed that even Hector was surprised. But when their swords were locked, Hector suddenly pushed his shield forward as hard as he could, whacking Roland right across the side of the face.
It was a horrible blow. Roland found himself lying on the ground. Hector’s sword was held on high, about to come crashing down.
Five
The Elephant
Hector’s sword fell hard and fast, but Roland somehow managed to slide out of the way and get back to his feet.
Hector started slicing at Roland’s head and body even more fiercely. But if there was one thing Roland could do, it was move his sword quickly. Back home he had practiced for hours by throwing an acorn against the side of the village well and swiping it with his sword no matter which way it bounced.
Now, with his bottom lip stuck out, his eyes locked in concentration and his face still throbbing from the blow with the shield, Roland lifted his weapon quickly as Hector swung left. Their swords smashed together.
Hector swung right but Roland had his sword in place again. And when Hector put all his strength into a stab toward Roland’s stomach, the brand-new page swiped down so quickly it stopped the sword on the spot and sent a shock wave right up Hector’s arm.
“Ouch!” cried Hector as his face crunched up in pain. “That was nothing to do with you, poor boy,” he quickly added. “I just twisted my ankle, s-s-s-s, in a rabbit hole.”
Roland knew he had to keep blocking or he would be horribly hurt. Hector was every bit as strong as he was nasty.
“You know I’m only warming up, poor boy. And when I’m warmed up, s-s-s-s, I’ll have you chopped into little pieces.”
If Hector wasn’t already warmed up, Roland wondered why his face was bright red and why his bushy black hair was filled with sweat.
Hector slashed and swiped but he still couldn’t find a way through. Roland had now learned to stay away from the shield and he could sense that Hector was tiring and becoming slower.
Roland didn’t feel in danger anymore. Although he wasn’t as strong as Hector, he was quicker. Everything that Roland had picked up in days and weeks of sword fighting with his brother, Shelby, was now helping him. Roland was so glad he had an older brother.
But Roland was just as hot and tired as Hector and didn’t know what else to do except to keep blocking. There were a couple of moments when he saw a gap and could have attacked and struck Hector. But he was worried that beating Hector might make for even bigger problems. Roland had to keep defending instead and hope that something would happen to end the fight peacefully.
But the fight kept going on, and on, and on, and on. Roland and Hector slashed their wooden swords noisily and pushed each other forward and backward across the meadow, both growing more and more exhausted. All the other boys had stopped to watch—and to wonder how it was all going to finish.
Ding! Ding! A loud bell sounded from within the castle and suddenly Hector dropped his sword and shield. “That’s for me,” he said. “I have to help with the horses. I’ll beat you later, s-s-s-s, you little squirt. You’re not even worth the trouble now.”
Hector turned and walked away, though not before swinging his right boot and catching Roland just above the knee.
Roland fought back tears as he rubbed his thigh and watched Hector walk away. The other boys waited until Hector had disappeared around the corner of the castle wall before they ran up.
“Well done, Roland,” said one.
“I’ve never seen anyone move his sword so quickly,” added another.
“That showed him,” the boy with the helmet hair said. “He didn’t really have to help with the horses. That bell was for the guards.”
“If the King saw you fight like that,” Humphrey said, putting his hand on Roland’s shoulder, “he’d make you a knight, make you a knight, straightaway.”
“The only bad thing,” said Morris, “is that Hector is going to be really angry now. You’ve hurt his pride and so you’ll have to watch yourself very carefully. Let’s hope it’s a griffin that we see this afternoon—and that it eats him.”
When Roland walked back to his room, he leaned down under the bed.
“What a morning, Nudge. I knew it was going to be tough fitting in with the children of the rich and noble, but I didn’t know it would be this tough.”
Roland flipped the top of the box and lifted Nudge out. In the dampness of the room Roland suddenly let loose an enormous sneeze—all over Nudge.
“Sorry!”
“Yuck!” thought a very wet and sticky Nudge as Roland pushed him into his top pocket.
“If I take you with me to see the elephant—or whatever the mystery animal is—will you promise to be very still and quiet?”
“ ,” Nudge replied grumpily.
“You can’t dress like that, can’t dress like that, in front of the King,” Humphrey said, looking over Roland’s tatty clothes. “Wear this spare surcoat. Put it over your tunic, over your tunic. It’s even the right colors.”
It wasn’t a proper uniform, and it was a bit too big, but Roland still felt proud wearing the same red and blue squares as the other pages as they all
stood in the bailey waiting for the mystery creature.
“Here it is!” screamed the page with the helmet hair. Sure enough, soon they all could see a strange beast being marched across the drawbridge. A large man in a black leather coat carried a whip in one hand and a leash in the other. Tumblers and jugglers rolled head over heels and threw volleys of jingling balls high into the air. A minstrel dressed in almost every color Roland had ever seen, and with bells on his hat and shoes, plucked a small stringed instrument and sang a funny song in a high voice.
“A present, a present
King Notjohn of East
Has sent us a marvelous
Huge-normous beast.”
The animal was an elephant, not a griffin, though since Roland had never seen either, he had to take other people’s word for it. Whatever it was, it was the most extraordinary animal he had ever cast his eyes on.
“Flaming catapults, Nudge,” Roland said to his top pocket. “You’ll have to stay hidden, but I can tell you it’s got a huge tail on its nose and another little one at the other end. And its front tail almost reaches the ground … and it has a mouth at the top of it … a mouth at the top of its tail!
“It has got skin like dry mud, too, and ears like huge leaves of gray lettuce, and there are two great big white spears sticking out the sides of its face. It’s not taller than a castle like Morris said, but it is still very, very big.…”
A flurry of trumpets sounded and two long rows of guards appeared. King John walked between them and up a set of stairs to a small stage. It was the first time Roland had seen the King. He was tall and bearded and looked very kingly in his red, blue and gold coat and with his large silver crown studded with jewels. The King greeted the crowd, and Roland decided that he sounded very kingly too.
“For many years we’ve heard about elephants,” King John said in a strong, regal voice. “The Romans brought many of them to Europe fifteen hundred years ago, but now there are only a few, and most of them are owned by kings. Like all of you today, I have only seen elephants in drawings, paintings and tapestries. It is a great pleasure and the cause of much excitement to see one in the flesh.”
There was not a sound made anywhere while the King spoke, except by the short, fat man who stood right next to him on the stage. This man kept producing little coughs as if he wanted to be noticed.
“I’m told this elephant weighs as much as fifty men,” explained the King, “and its long nose, which is called the trunk, can be used to pick things up, or to suck up liquids so that they can be pumped into the elephant’s mouth. The blades on its face are called tusks and are made of a beautiful material called ivory.”
As the King spoke, the elephant slowly folded its trunk back to wipe its eyes and scratch its neck. People gasped. It was like no living thing they had ever seen.
“And despite its size, I am told by my brother King Notjohn that it is a gentle animal, as long as it is given the right food—and plenty of it. It can eat five hundred pounds of grass, grain, fruits and nuts in a single day. That’s the weight of a small horse.”
When the King finished his speech he walked off the stage. Roland noticed that the short man followed the King very closely, almost step for step. The short man had a huge stomach and was expensively dressed. He wore a fancy armored breastplate featuring an elaborate coat of arms. He carried a knight’s sword on his belt.
“Maybe that’s Sir Flab, Nudge,” Roland whispered to his top pocket.
Everyone in the castle, including the King and “Sir Flab,” watched as the handler in the leather coat walked the elephant around the square. As it moved, everything swung from side to side—its trunk, its stomach, its ears and its tail.
After four laps of the bailey, the handler led the elephant toward a special pen that had been built for it. When the handler pulled the leash toward the pen and gave the elephant a couple of very gentle slaps with the whip, the animal lifted its trunk and let out a sound like a short blast from a hundred trumpets. Everyone grabbed their ears and wondered what would happen next, but the elephant slowly and peacefully moved into the pen.
The handler pulled a big wooden door across the front of the pen, slid an iron-covered beam in front of it, then dropped a small bolt into an eyelet at the top, so the beam couldn’t slide back out. The elephant looked back over the barrier with big, sad eyes.
Roland stood watching and daydreaming as the King left the bailey and the crowd began to break up. Roland was thinking of how lucky he was, and wishing he could share this moment with Shelby—and his father, whose cleverness had got him here in the first place.
Roland imagined King John walking up to the three of them, shaking their hands, thanking them for coming, and inviting them in for a special feast—with a cockentrice, of course. He imagined the King telling the whole royal household how clever and talented the Wrights were, and then making his father a baron. But halfway through the daydream, Roland was jostled from behind and heard a voice just near his left ear.
“You’ve been here yesterday and today, poor boy, s-s-s-s. That’s two days too many as far as I’m concerned. But I’ve worked it all out. You’ll be on your way home tomorrow, s-s-s-s.”
Six
Lord Urbunkum
Roland walked slowly across the bailey and leaned against the eastern wall. He was sweating and feeling quite uncomfortable.
“How am I going to deal with Hector?” he asked his top pocket. When he looked up, Roland saw “Sir Flab” walking toward him.
“You must be the new page,” the man said. He had a strange voice. It was loud and high-pitched and it echoed, as if an even smaller man was inside him shouting to be heard. “Son of an armorer?”
“Yes, son of Oliver Wright. I’m Roland.” The man really did have adjustable leather straps on the back of his fancy breastplate.
“You must be very pleased to meet me,” said the man. “I’m sure you know I’m Urbunkum—Lord Urbunkum. But feel free to call me ‘Your Most Gracious and Worthy Honor.’ ”
“Yes, er, Your Most Gracious and Worthy Honor.” Roland was very pleased the man had given his name. Otherwise he might have said “You must be Sir Flab.”
Lord Urbunkum had small eyes that were far apart and a round red face covered with blotches. He had only a tiny amount of hair, just a little clump above each ear and a third clump on top of his forehead. He said in a very serious voice, “I suppose you are wondering what a man as important as me does, page boy.”
“Well, I wasn’t,” replied Roland. “But I will now, Sir … Lord … Gracious Honor … Mister … Urbunkum.”
“I train the knights, that’s what I do,” the short man yelped with pride. “I sit them down and tell them all the ways they can be better in battles and jousts and every other part of their lives.”
“Flaming catapults,” said Roland. He was now very excited, having almost forgotten about the Hector problem. “You teach the other knights how to fight! You must be so clever. … You must be the greatest knight. You must have won huge jousting competitions and fought in great battles, and won them all.”
“No, no,” said Lord Urbunkum in a slightly lower tone, as if Roland had said something very silly. “I’ve never fought anyone and, luckily, I’ve never been in battles. Awful things, battles. No, Master Wright, I’m instead what we call an expert.”
Roland was confused. “But why would someone who fights in battles need to be told how to do it by someone who doesn’t fight in battles?”
“Oh, dear, dear, dear,” said Lord Urbunkum in the same tone, as if Roland had again said something silly. Or trodden in something smelly.
“It is very important, Master Wright, that an expert like myself has no practical experience of any kind. That way he can look at a problem from a fair and neutral point of view, and come up with a series of easy-to-remember slogans about the best way to solve it.”
Roland was still confused. He put his hand over his chest, just in case Lord Urbunkum saw Nudge moving.
<
br /> “Can you read, Master Wright?”
“No,” Roland replied. “Not yet. But I will learn.”
“If you want to become a great knight, you must learn to read. Otherwise you won’t be able to study my books. There’s You Can Be a Winner: The Seven Secrets of Sword Fighting, for a start, and Damsel in Distress: A Rescuer’s Guide. I’ve just finished one about dragons.”
“You’ve seen a dragon?” Roland yelled with amazement. “Flaming cata—Well, fry my gizzards, that’s so incredible. What do they—”
“Don’t be silly, boy,” Lord Urbunkum replied with a voice that made Roland again worry that he’d trodden in something. “Very few people have ever seen a dragon, and none of them have my expert background. But if you ever see a dragon, Master Wright, you’ll do well to have read my book first.
“His Majesty King John thinks Slay a Dragon a Day is such a useful book he is paying the monks to write out a second copy. Maybe even a third, so that more knights can read it at the same time. I’m working with the monks on some new pictures so we can show exactly what a dragon looks like and how best to smite it.”
Just as Lord Urbunkum said the words “smite it,” there was a giant scream from the other side of the bailey.
The scream was followed by shouting and yelling, then the crashes and thuds of big things being knocked over. It sounded like a battle, or at least what Roland imagined a battle would sound like. Maybe there was a siege at last!
“Don’t panic, don’t panic,” a man yelled over the din. But even he was panicking. And so was everyone else.
Roland was pleased he was standing next to an expert, someone who would know exactly what to do. He looked carefully at His Most Gracious and Worthy Honor. Lord Urbunkum’s eyes seemed to become even smaller and farther apart. His red skin became redder, the blotches on his face turned whiter.
