Cows In Action 6

by Steve Cole

  “Now then, where’s the magic mirror gone?” asked McMoo, hunting about. “You know, the special C.I.A. one that shows us how we’ll appear to human beings . . .”

  “Here’s some of it!” said Bo, pointing to a broken shard of glass on the ground.

  They all looked down. Pat saw himself transformed in the mirror as a young, blond-haired lad, Bo as a flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked maiden and McMoo was a wise, lordly looking man with a red beard.

  Pat felt uneasy. “Breaking a mirror is meant to bring seven years’ bad luck.”

  “Superstitious nonsense!” McMoo retorted, carefully picking up the piece of mirror – just as an arrow whistled through the air and shattered it! “Um, probably . . .”

  Pat whirled round to find two men in armour framed in the Time-Shed doorway. One sat astride a stocky stallion, holding a shield and a long spear. The other stood beside him, wielding a bow and arrow.

  Slowly, silently, they advanced on the unarmed cattle . . .

  Chapter Three

  THE CHRISTMAS CAMP

  McMoo grinned at the advancing soldiers. “Hello! How goes the day, my lords?”

  The two men stopped and looked at each other. Then, the one on horseback removed his helmet to reveal a puzzled, clean-shaven face. “He speaks French as we do, Tostain!”

  “So it would seem, Renouf,” said Tostain, the man on foot. He took his own helmet off to reveal a chubbier face and stared at McMoo, Pat and Bo with small suspicious eyes. “Are you Norman, as we are?”

  “Nah, his name is Angus,” Bo began, but Pat quickly nudged her in the ribs.

  “We’re all Normans,” said McMoo hastily. “I am Lord Angus of Burger, and my friends are Pat Partridge-Peartree and Bo of Bo-Jangles. Long live King William!”

  “Our conquering lord is not king yet,” said Renouf, the man on horseback. “William, Duke of Normandy, will be crowned on Christmas Day, two days from now.”

  “Hear that?” McMoo whispered to his friends. “It’s 23rd December, 1066, and we’re just in time for a medieval coronation.” He grinned. “Imagine that! If I only had a cup of tea and a mince pie in my hooves, life would be complete . . .”

  Pat noticed the Normans frown. “Er, Professor,” he hissed. “Perhaps this isn’t the best time to get over-excited!”

  “How did the three of you get here?” Tostain demanded.

  “Oh, we just sailed over from Normandy, nipped up the Thames and landed in London a couple of days ago,” said McMoo airily. “We didn’t want to miss William’s big moment.”

  Renouf looked thoughtful. “We rode out here today because we heard the Saxons planned to attack William’s camp beyond the hills,” he said. “But then we saw them running away screaming in terror about Norman witchcraft . . .”

  “That was down to the professor – er, Angus,” said Pat proudly.

  Bo rolled her eyes. “Yes, he can be very scary.”

  “Then we owe you our thanks,” said Tostain, smiling at last. “That band of surly Saxons is led by Ethelbad the ’Orrible – William’s sworn enemy.”

  Renouf nodded. “William will wish to thank you in person. Please, Angus, allow us to take you and your friends to our camp.”

  “Wa-heyy!” cheered McMoo, nearly knocking the Normans over as he scrambled for the shed’s doors. “Let’s go!”

  “What about the Time Shed?” Bo hissed.

  McMoo ran back. “I’ve told you, we’re stuck here till its energy banks recharge.” He pulled out a device, covered in little dials and lights, from inside his tunic. “Luckily I’ve invented a long-range Time-Power Sensor – it will tell me when the Time Shed is ready to rock. And in the meantime, since we’re not on a C.I.A. mission for once, we can enjoy being time-tourists!” He grinned at the Norman soldiers and dashed outside. “Up this hill, is it? Come on, don’t dawdle!”

  It was quite a trek to the conqueror’s camp. Renouf and Tostain – remembering that they were the new arrivals’ escorts, not their followers – hurried on ahead. It was bitterly cold, and Pat and Bo had put their Santa hats back on for extra warmth.

  “Er, Professor,” said Pat as they trudged up the hill. “Why do you want to meet William the Conqueror anyway? He doesn’t sound very nice, killing kings and invading countries.”

  “The past is a bloodthirsty place,” McMoo agreed. “But William believed he had a true claim to the throne of England. He made the country a lot more organized. Many people found themselves better off than before.”

  “Well we’re a lot worse off,” said Bo grumpily. “I was all set for a cool future yule – I bet these Normans don’t even bother to celebrate Christmas.”

  Pat gasped as they reached the top of the hill. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that!”

  McMoo and Bo stood beside him and all three stared down in amazement. Pat had been expecting a bunch of tents. But there, nestling in a woodland clearing, was something that looked more like Santa’s grotto!

  Wooden posts had been placed around the camp, each one wrapped up in bushy golden tinsel. Large Christmas trees, with glittery baubles dangling from every branch, were dotted about and multicoloured fairy lights flashed and flickered on every tent.

  “We must be dreaming,” said Pat in a daze.

  “Welcome to the duke’s camp!” Renouf cried from his horse. “It is quite remarkable, no?”

  Bo nodded. “I have to admit, as festive camps go, it’s not bad.”

  “Not bad?” McMoo frowned. “It’s terrible!”

  “That’s a bit harsh.” Then Bo shrugged. “I mean, obviously they should also have a killer sound system pumping out Christmas hits, but—”

  “They didn’t have decorations like this a thousand years ago!” McMoo exploded. “How are these lights even working? There’s no electricity in 1066, so how can there be electric bulbs?”

  “Someone’s messing about with time,” Bo realized. “It must be the F.B.I. They tried to get rid of us with their booby trap – but instead we’ve turned up right on their doorstep. How lucky is that?”

  “Too lucky,” Pat muttered. “Perhaps they brought us here . . .”

  Bo frowned. “Don’t be dumb! They sent us whizzing off, out of control.”

  “And even if they hadn’t, Yak would have sent us here soon anyway to muck up their plans – so why bother?” McMoo looked deep in thought. “It is a strange coincidence, Pat. But perhaps when I made the emergency stop, the shed locked on to the nearest disturbance in time . . .”

  “Who cares how we got here?” Bo complained. “It’s time we sorted things out – with a few hoof sandwiches!”

  “Let’s try asking a few questions first, shall we?” McMoo suggested, marching up to Tostain and Renouf. “Tell me, you two – Where did these decorations come from? And what’s powering the lights?”

  “These Christmas trinkets are the invention of a remarkable Saxon maid,” Renouf informed him. “A fine woman who wishes to aid us.”

  McMoo raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’d very much like to meet her.”

  “Behold,” said Tostain, pointing to the camp gateway. “Here she comes now.”

  Pat stared in disbelief as an enormous woman wobbled out of the camp, carrying a small mountain of holly wreaths in her arms. She had hair like lank straw and piggy eyes the colour of poo. Her greasy, spotty face was so revolting it would make a dog sick – and it certainly had a big effect on the Cows in Action.

  “I should’ve known,” said McMoo.

  “Oh, no!” Bo groaned. “It can’t be . . .”

  “But it is,” said Pat, eyes wide. “It’s one of Bessie Barmer’s awful ancestors. She must be the one mucking about with time!”

  Chapter Four

  THE NORMAN COWQUEST

  “Hey, you!” McMoo charged down into the clearing to confront the woman. “What’s going on with these dire decorations? Where are your F.B.I. masters?”

  “What are you on about?” The woman frowned. “I am Bettie Barmas, local wise woman and
friend to all Normans.”

  “A likely story,” McMoo snorted.

  She shrugged. “If I’m not their friend, how come I bothered to learn their Norman language?”

  “It is true,” said Renouf, who had galloped up to join them. “Bettie is loyal to our cause and has made these marvellous, magical decorations for us. William is giving them to the people of London free of charge, to show that we Normans are not so bad after all.”

  “That’s right,” said Bettie. “I invented these clever things myself.”

  “Oh yes? How?” McMoo grabbed a garland. “This isn’t real holly, it’s plastic – and the first plastic wasn’t invented until the nineteenth century. Explain that!”

  “I do not understand your words, strange sir!” Bettie protested. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must go. William has approved my beautiful wreaths, so I must deliver them on his behalf. How the people of London will praise his kindness and cleverness . . .”

  “Indeed they will,” said Renouf, bowing his head to her. “Go in peace.”

  With a glare at McMoo, Bettie bundled off towards the nearby woods with her mysterious decorations – just as Pat and Bo arrived with Tostain.

  McMoo drew his friends to one side. “Pat, Bo. There’s something seriously dodgy going on round here. I’ll find out more here while you go after Bettie. Watch out for ter-moo-nators!”

  Pat’s tummy quivered at the thought. Ter-moo-nators were sinister F.B.I. agents – half-bull, half-robot, with super-sneaky computer minds. By dressing up and wearing ringblenders, they, like the C.I.A., could fool people into thinking they were human. But other cattle could see through the disguise . . . just as a ter-moo-nator would see through theirs.

  “We’ll be careful,” he muttered.

  “Right then!” Bo turned to Tostain and Renouf and blew them a kiss. “Just going for a quick walk in the woods. Give our love to Willy the Conk. Bye!” And before anyone could say another word, she and Pat dashed away.

  “Kids, eh?” said McMoo, smiling at his Norman escorts. “Where do they get their energy from?” He glanced up at the twinkling fairy lights. “And where do they get their energy from?”

  Suddenly, a large man with thick red hair strode out from a large tent, flanked by burly guards. His features were as fine and handsome as the clothes he wore. Tostain and Renouf quickly bowed down before him. “Your grace!” they chorused.

  McMoo gasped. “William the Conqueror!”

  “Well, my lords?” William demanded. “Does Ethelbad plot to attack us with his Saxon rabble?”

  “Indeed, that was his plan . . .” Tostain turned to McMoo. “But mighty Angus of Burger here scared him away! We saw Ethelbad’s men flee in terror.”

  McMoo smiled modestly. “I suppose you could say we surprised them.”

  “England is full of surprises, Angus,” said William, waving a hand at the tinsel and lights. “Have you ever seen such divine decorations?”

  “Not lately,” McMoo admitted. “But why would a warrior like you bother with a bunch of baubles?”

  William flung his arms in the air. “Because I’m fed up of fighting all the time!” he cried. “I won the Battle of Hastings on the 14th October and since then it’s been nothing but fights, scraps, tussles and massacres all the way to London. I’m sick of skewering Saxons! Bored with burning villages to prove I’m boss! Tired of attacking townspeople to show them who’s the daddy!” He sighed and sank to the ground, looking worn out. “Quite frankly, after two and a half months, my conquering has lost its conk. So I thought I’d show them my nice side for a change.”

  Tostain nodded quickly. “Giving the Saxons such delightful Christmas gifts is a sure way to impress them, your grace.”

  “Knowing how kind you are, they will welcome you to the throne on Christmas Day,” Renouf added.

  William nodded. “But sadly, my pressies haven’t won over that rotten rascal Ethelbad the ’Orrible. The swine wants to be king in my place. He will do anything in his power to stop me being crowned.” The conqueror smiled suddenly, “Still, he won’t dare attack me now, will he? Not with Angus around!”

  McMoo frowned. “Eh?”

  “If Ethelbad’s army shows up, we’ll simply send you out to scare them away again,” said William. “Single-handed!”

  “Well, I’m not sure I . . .” McMoo began. But he was quickly drowned out, first by the cheers of Renouf and Tostain, then the whoops of the nearby soldiers, and pretty soon the singing and dancing of the entire Norman camp.

  “Oh, dear,” sighed McMoo to himself. “I only hope I can solve the mystery of these out-of-time decorations before I run out of time myself!”

  While McMoo tangled with royalty at the camp, Pat and Bo were tangled up in bracken – trailing Bettie Barmas through the dark forest. The Saxon woman crashed through the undergrowth with her pile of plastic wreaths until she finally emerged into the city.

  But as the C.I.A. agents stepped out of the woods, they had to shield their eyes from the sudden glare. The noisy medieval street they stood in was completely covered with modern festive decorations!

  Dazzling bulbs of every hue dangled overhead from tatty thatched roofs. Illuminated plastic candy canes hung from the rickety houses’ wooden walls. As the sun sank, their merry glow lit the antics of Bettie Barmas as she handed out holly wreaths to everyone she passed. “Here you go!” she bellowed. “Another festive gift from William the Conqueror to celebrate his being crowned this Christmas. He wishes peace and joy to one and all!”

  She waddled along, fatter than Santa but a lot less jolly. Beggars and traders, pickpockets and rubbish rakers, even herders steering pigs through the grimy streets took her wreaths with a happy smile. Many of them already wore tinsel around their waists as belts.

  “This is crazy,” said Pat, studying the decorations closely. “These strings of lights are all exactly the same, even down to scratch marks on the cord and certain bulbs not working.”

  Bo looked all around. “They don’t seem to plug in anywhere either . . .” She sighed. “Why would the F.B.I. bother putting up a load of Christmas stuff?”

  “I don’t know.” Pat frowned. “Hey, where did Bettie go? She’s vanished!”

  “Maybe she ducked into one of these houses,” said Bo. “Let’s ask someone.”

  “Ask me if you like,” came a deep voice right behind them.

  Pat whirled round to find a huge burly man with dark staring eyes, a long blond beard and a very large axe. He wore a muddy helmet and a dirty suit made of sackcloth. Twenty or so grubby men armed with sticks and daggers had gathered around him. With a sinking feeling, Pat recognized them as the same Saxons they had accidentally scared when the Time Shed arrived on the hillside.

  “I’m Ethelbad the ’Orrible!” The big man smiled, showing a mouth full of broken teeth. “The sworn enemy of all Norman ninnies.”

  “Um, we’re Saxons,” said Pat, slapping a hoof over his sister’s mouth before she could say something he might regret.

  “Don’t think so.” Ethelbad guffawed. “My spies saw you walk out of that bewitched barn with two Norman lords, heading for William’s camp!”

  “Oh,” Pat gulped. “We were just, er, sightseeing!”

  “Hark my words, Norman scum,” sneered Ethelbad. “I will be crowned king on Christmas Day – not your stupid Duke William!”

  “I’m very happy for you,” said Pat politely. “Still, my sister and I had better be going—”

  “You’ll be going, all right – headfirst!” Ethelbad glanced back at his band of bruisers. “Men, get them!”

  Chapter Five

  THE DOMAIN OF DANGER

  Roaring and yelling, Ethelbad’s men charged forward, sticks and spears raised to attack.

  “Run!” Pat cried.

  Bo sprinted towards the Saxon mob.

  Pat groaned. “No, Bo, I meant run away!”

  “Now you tell me!” said Bo, whacking two men in the stomach with her front hooves. She turned and t
ail-whipped another, then spun about and squirted three more with a milk-blast from her udder. But one bruiser pushed past the spluttering trio and landed a lucky blow to Bo’s head. With a cry, she sank to the floor as four more men gathered around her, sticks in the air . . .

  “Get away from her!” Pat shouted, dodging a spear and shunting another Saxon aside. “Bo, get up, quick!”

  “Right you are!” Bo performed a perfect backflip and landed on her hooves, whacking two more Saxons aside as she did so. “Let’s get out of here!”

  But when they turned to run, Ethelbad jumped out to block their way. He was whirling a huge glowing net, made from several strings of Christmas lights, over his head – and moments later, the tangled web of multicoloured bulbs had covered Pat and Bo. The more they struggled to get free, the more trapped they became.

  Ethelbad gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Naughty, naughty, Normans,” he rasped. “You’ve made me and my friends angry . . .”

  “Use your head, Ethelbad,” said Pat, fighting to stay calm. “We are close personal friends of William the Conqueror.”

  Bo frowned. “We are?”

  “Of course we are,” said Pat, winking at her. “I’m the famous Norman, Pat Partridge-Peartree, and this is Bo of Bo-Jangles. I bet if you tell our pal Willy that you’re holding us prisoner, he’ll do anything you ask.”

  The huge hairy Saxon stared down at them in silence. Then he turned back to his men, who were still picking themselves up from the ground. “All right, boys. Take these Norman ninnies back to our camp. And send word to William that his lordly chums are in my power. If he wants to keep them alive, he must send food and ale – and that’s just for starters!”

  Ethelbad’s men laughed and cheered, and hauled Pat and Bo roughly away.

  “Nice one, Pat,” whispered Bo. “That was quick thinking.”