Cows in Action 1

by Steve Cole

  “Clodhopping clover clumps,” exclaimed Pat, trembling. “What is she doing here?”

  “That girl called her Molly,” Bo reminded him. “She must be, like, Bessie’s great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother or something.”

  “Bessie told us her ancestors mixed with royalty,” McMoo remembered. “But she never said they cleaned the palace sheets and wiped the royal bottoms!” He turned round. “Come on – let’s follow her to the main hall. I reckon the king will be the ter-moo-nators’ target – we must do whatever we can to keep him safe!”

  The cows trailed through the palace passageways, sticking to the shadows wherever they could. Eventually they found their way to a minstrel’s gallery overlooking the main hall. Servants, lords and ladies were starting to gather there. Molly was one of them. She had a face like a dog’s bottom.

  “This is a perfect place to hide,” said McMoo quietly. “From here we have a ringside seat for all the action!”

  “No sign of the ter-moo-nators yet,” Bo observed.

  Then a young man in doublet and stockings tooted a regal tune on a bugle. “All kneel for His Majesty!” he cried.

  A set of wooden double doors swung open at the back of the hall, and McMoo snorted with excitement. “I can’t believe we’re about to see the most famous king in English history. Us – cows! Imagine that!”

  A big, burly man in fine clothes strode into the hall. He had a huge head and a thick red beard, and he wore a flamboyant, fur-trimmed hat.

  “There he is!” Pat gasped, peeping over the top of the gallery. “Wow, this is amazing!”

  “That’s Henry the Eighth?” Bo seemed less impressed. “He wasn’t just fat, he was ugly too!”

  “I wonder what Anne of Cleves will look like,” said McMoo. “The history books say that Henry thought she looked like a horse …”

  “And now, Your Majesty,” announced the man with the bugle, “the woman you’ve been waiting for is here at last. She is, of course … Anne of Cleves!”

  There was much applause as two figures entered the hall. To human eyes they looked perfectly normal. But because they were cows, the C.I.A. agents saw the newcomers as they really were. One of them was wearing a garish green gown. The other was large and hunched and steel-grey, dressed in doublet and hose. Two spiky horns stuck out from his head. Both figures had pink snouts with rings through them.

  “That’s not Anne of Cleves,” said McMoo grimly. “It’s a clever heifer in a frock!”

  Bo tutted. “Not even a nice frock. Look at that nasty embroidery!”

  “Never mind that, look who’s beside her,” Pat spluttered. “It’s the ter-moo-nator!”

  Being unable to see through the F.B.I. ringblenders, King Henry noticed nothing unusual about his guests. Indeed, from the twinkle in his eyes as he gazed at “Anne”, he clearly thought he was face to face with a total babe. “Well, well, well,” he said, striding forward and taking her hand. “Aren’t you a beauty!”

  The cow gave a simpering giggle and allowed Henry to kiss her hoof.

  “The F.B.I. are a cunning bunch,” hissed McMoo. “They went back in time, intercepted the real Anne of Cleves and switched her for this impostor! She is the special F.B.I. agent Yak heard was being sent here …”

  “But why?” hissed Pat.

  “Isn’t it obvious!” cried McMoo. “If King Henry marries a cow, it will become the queen of England. And Henry will find himself with the F.B.I. as his royal advisors!”

  “England could become a power base for cows,” Pat realized.

  McMoo scowled. “And the history of the world would be changed for ever! Total chaos would result. The future as we know it would be destroyed.”

  “Oi!” Bo hissed. “Keep it down, Professor!”

  But if anything, the professor was getting louder still. “How long before evil cows are sneaking into other royal families all over Europe?” he boomed. “The F.B.I. is mucking up the past – and if you muck up the past, you muck up the present and the future as well. They’ve got to be stopped!”

  “Who goes there?” came an angry voice from down below. It belonged to the king himself! “Who’s that yelling up in the gallery?”

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Bo hissed.

  The gathered crowd gasped in shock and fear as King Henry pointed a fat finger up at the gallery. “Guards, capture those intruders,” he shouted. “No one may trespass here in my palace! If they try to resist – kill them!”

  Chapter Eight

  A DESPERATE PLAN

  “Run!” yelled Professor McMoo.

  Together with Pat and Bo, he dashed from the gallery and charged headlong down a dark, shadowy passage. On and on they ran. Then, as they passed a large window, the professor skidded to a stop.

  Pat frowned. “What are you doing?”

  “Come on, Professor,” Bo complained. “While you catch your breath, the royal guards will catch us!”

  McMoo ignored them both, forcing open the window with a snort of effort. Two storeys below was another courtyard. A large black horse was standing there, waiting to be stabled.

  “Bo,” said the professor urgently, “you must get out of here and find the real Anne of Cleves.”

  “But she could be anywhere!” Bo protested.

  “So the sooner you start looking, the better!” He pointed down. “There’s a stallion down there. If you get away on horseback you will cover the ground more quickly.”

  Bo looked down on the courtyard from the window and gulped. It seemed a long way down. “If I don’t land on that horse, I really will cover the ground,” she said, “in little pieces!” But already she could hear the crashing of guards coming their way. “Oh well. I suppose there’s nothing else for it. Just look after yourselves, OK?”

  “We will,” said Pat, forcing a brave smile. “Good luck, sis.”

  Bo grabbed Pat in a clumsy hug, placed a kiss on McMoo’s snout – then jumped out through the window …

  “Geroni-mooooooooo!” she cried as she plummeted to the ground. But luckily, her enormous gown billowed out like a parachute, slowing her fall. She landed right on top of the horse, which gave a startled neigh and jumped forward at full gallop. “Woo hoo!” Bo shouted, grabbing the reins and riding out of the palace grounds past startled soldiers.

  “Your sister is quite a cow,” murmured McMoo.

  “She certainly is,” Pat agreed proudly. “She’ll find Anne, I know she will. But what are we going to do?”

  “Simple,” said McMoo. “When the guards come and find the window wide open and those soldiers milling about outside, they’ll think that all us intruders escaped in the same way. Now all we need to do is find a place to hide, wait till the fuss has died down, then go and sort out that ter-moo-nator!”

  “Is that all?” said Pat with a sigh.

  “Come on, Pat.” The thump and clatter of the angry guards was getting very loud now. “It’s time to make like there’s a matador coming to tea – and run!”

  Together, the two C.I.A. agents charged off down the corridor.

  An hour later, in the dark, deserted fields beyond Hampton Court, Little Bo slowed down her horse to give him a well-earned rest. She shivered with cold. How was she going to find the real Anne of Cleves? The silly woman could be anywhere.

  Then, in the silvery moonlight, she spotted something on the ground close by. Something dark, round and sinister.

  It was a large cowpat, still sticky and fresh.

  “Of course!” Bo realized. “If I follow the trail of pats that the ter-moo-nator and his girlfriend left behind, it should lead me to the place where they arrived. Perhaps they’re keeping Anne of Cleves there.” She gulped as an awful thought struck her. “Or perhaps they’ve already killed her!”

  The black horse looked at her oddly as if wondering why a cow in a gown was out in the cold, talking to itself in such a melodramatic fashion.

  She sighed. “Good question.” Swinging herself back into the saddle, ignorin
g the protesting neighs of her wobbly steed, Little Bo set off on the cow-turd trail. Was Anne of Cleves alive or was she pushing up daisies? Bo had to find out!

  Chapter Nine

  TRICKED, TRAPPED AND TER-MOO-NATED!

  Pat jumped awake as a cockerel crowed. He had been dreaming he was back in his cosy shed on the farm. But now he had to face up to reality: he was trapped almost 500 years in the past, squashed up in a washing basket in King Henry VIII’s laundry room.

  “Makes a change from most Monday mornings,” he mumbled.

  Peering out from his basket, Pat saw Professor McMoo emerge from beneath a pile of crumpled bedsheets. They had been sneaking around the palace for most of the night, avoiding guards and trying to find ter-moo-nators. Then the professor had decided to come to the laundry room and hide till morning.

  Pat yawned and stretched. “Shouldn’t we start looking for the ter-moo-nator and his cow again, Professor? That fake Anne must be stopped before it’s too late!”

  But suddenly the door was smashed open – and they were the ones to be found!

  “Well, well, well!” boomed a familiar voice. Pat gulped to see Molly the chambermaid standing there like a big lumpy barrel with bad hair. “Seems I have a pair of lordly loons in my washing!”

  “Greetings, fair maiden,” said McMoo quickly. “I am Sir Angus McMoo of Milkbelly, and this is … um—”

  “Lord Pat of Luxembourg,” said Pat quickly.

  Molly frowned. “You look a bit like a cow, My Lord.”

  “As a child I was fed a lot of milk,” Pat said truthfully.

  “Well, whoever you are,” said Molly, “it sounds to me like the two of you have got it in for Anne of Cleves.”

  Pat swapped a worried glance with McMoo. “She must have heard us through the door!” he hissed.

  “Don’t worry, Your Lordship, I don’t like her neither.” She wrinkled up her big, blobby nose. “Do you know how many times I had to empty her privy in the night? Ten times! Disgusting mess every time!” She frowned. “Strange thing is, it’s more like a cow’s business than a queen’s, if you know what I mean.”

  McMoo jumped up, sending sheets flapping everywhere. “Molly, what would you say if I told you that Anne of Cleves is a cow,” he said. “A cow in a cunning disguise? And that the king is in deadly danger?”

  “Well really, My Lord!” Molly put a finger to her mouth. “I’d say – come with me and prove it! I don’t want to waste my time looking after no cow. She’s upstairs in her room now, still asleep.”

  Pat scrambled out of his basket. It was all he could do to contain an extra-loud moo. “Thanks, Molly! Lead the way!” He wished that Bessie Barmer could be so understanding and reasonable.

  He and McMoo followed Molly impatiently as she wheezed and puffed her way along the dingy corridors. At last, they reached the right room.

  “She’s in there,” Molly puffed. “See for yourself!”

  McMoo sneaked quietly inside the posh guest bedroom, and Pat followed right behind. A large figure lay in the bed, dressed in a big white nightie.

  “There she is, Pat,” breathed McMoo. Then he frowned. “But why would that miserable Molly be so helpful to a couple of unlikely lords she’s never seen before?”

  “Never mind barmy Barmer’s ancestor,” said Pat, pushing forward. “Let’s take out this cow’s ringblender and show the king who he’s really planning to marry …”

  But as he leaned over the figure, it turned to look at him. Its green eyes burned into his own.

  “Pulsating potatoes!” he cried in surprise. “It’s the TER-MOO-NATOR!”

  The fierce-looking creature grabbed Pat’s hooves in a crushing grip. “Got you,” it hissed. “Puny C.I.A. fool!”

  McMoo lowered his head, ready to charge. “Let Pat go!”

  “Stay back, Professor,” the ter-moo-nator warned him. “Or your young friend is history!”

  Pat gulped. “I suppose that’s a fitting fate for a time traveller!”

  McMoo glared at Molly in the doorway. “You tricked us!” he cried. “You allowed that ter-moo-nator to surprise us and gain the upper hoof!”

  “Sorry,” said Molly with a shrug. “But the foreign bloke with the funny eyes saw you sneak into the laundry room. He said he’d give me two sprouts and a bowl of beetroot if I got you up here. What a blag!” She held up her vegetable prizes with glee, then walked away. “So long, suckers!”

  McMoo snorted and turned back to the ter-moo-nator. “Why bother to replace Anne of Cleves?” he demanded. “What are you planning?”

  “Once our cow-queen has married Henry, the king will meet with a slight … accident.” The giant grey bull smiled, its eyes blazing. “This will leave the cow free to marry a bull – and their calves will be heirs to the throne.”

  Pat gasped. “And so England will be ruled by cows forever more!”

  “Correct,” said the ter-moo-nator.

  “But why lure us here?” asked McMoo. “Why didn’t you tell the guards to get us in the laundry room?”

  “You are clever. You might have talked your way out of trouble and convinced the king of the danger he is in.” The ter-moo-nator gave a robotic snigger. “But when the king finds you here in Anne of Cleve’s bedroom—”

  “He’ll be so angry he won’t listen to a word we say,” Pat groaned. “Professor, we’re beaten!”

  “Never say die, Pat,” said McMoo. “And let’s hope the king doesn’t say it either!”

  The next moment, guards poured into the room, pointing their swords at the intruders. And worse than that, King Henry himself was right behind them – as angry as an ogre!

  “I dressed as Anne and took her place to flush out your enemies, sire,” said the ter-moo-nator quickly.

  “So, that ugly old chambermaid was right!” roared the towering monarch. “Two intruders, here to do harm to my beloved Anne and her courtiers.”

  “But your beloved Anne is a cow!” Pat cried.

  “How dare you?” the king thundered, his face turning redder than Molly’s beetroot. “You shall DIE for this!”

  “He said it.” McMoo sighed. “Your Majesty, please. I must meet with you alone on an urgent matter—”

  “Silence!” The king put his huge hands on his even huger hips. “The only person you will be meeting is the royal torturer – for an urgent splatter! And to avoid any further funny business, I shall marry my lovely Anne of Cleves in the Great Hall this very afternoon.”

  “But you can’t, Your Majesty,” cried McMoo. “You’re not meant to get married until January!”

  “A king waits for nothing!” Henry yelled. Then he looked at the ter-moo-nator. “You. Get out of that nightie, find Anne and arrange it.”

  “At once, Your Majesty,” said the ter-moo-nator with a delighted smile. He let go of Pat, who stumbled helplessly over to the professor.

  “Now, Guard Captain,” the king bellowed. “Take these two nincompoops to the dungeons.”

  Pat gulped and McMoo glowered at the smiling ter-moo-nator as the guards grabbed hold of them and dragged them away …

  Chapter Ten

  THE TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE TORTURER

  The dungeons were cold and smelly and slimy and dark. But Pat was quite glad there was no light. It meant he couldn’t see the rats skittering about, or the mouldy skeletons of other long-forgotten prisoners.

  “This is amazing,” McMoo enthused. “Just think, Pat – a real Tudor dungeon!”

  “I’m trying not to think about it,” said Pat with a shudder.

  “Don’t worry,” said McMoo soothingly. “They won’t leave us here long.”

  Pat brightened. “Really?”

  “Really.” McMoo chuckled. “They’ll take us to the torture chamber soon. A real Tudor torture chamber! Imagine that!”

  ‘I don’t want to imagine it,” Pat cried. “How come you’re so cheerful?”

  “Because I have a crafty escape plan,” McMoo explained. “I just hope they come sooner rather than l
ater – and that Bo can find the real Anne of Cleves.”

  “Before it’s too late,” Pat agreed. “For us – and for the whole country!”

  Finally, after what felt like for ever, a door opened with a noisy squeak and a chink of light spilled into the dungeon – along with half a dozen guards. They grabbed hold of Pat and McMoo and dragged them up a slippery stone staircase to a large, forbidding room.

  The torture chamber.

  Pat gulped. It was impossible to look anywhere without spying something horrible – a skeleton handcuffed to the wall, or a rusty thumb-screw, or an iron maiden lined with spikes. A large body-stretching rack stood beside a steaming cauldron of boiling oil in the middle of the room.

  “What an amazing torture chamber!” enthused McMoo, grinning at his guards. “It’s even nastier than I expected!”

  “I’m glad you like it,” came a scary, hissing voice from the shadows in one corner. “Because you may be staying here for some time …” The voice belonged to a stooped, ugly man, who now came shambling towards them. His face was a mass of festering boils, oozing warts and rotten teeth. “I am the master of your hideous fate!” the newcomer gurgled. “The designer of your despicable doom. Men call me … the Terrible Nigel!”

  “Nigel?” spluttered Pat. “What kind of name is that for a torturer?”

  “A terrible one,” McMoo remarked. “Which actually makes him the Terrible, Terrible Nigel.”

  “Hmm, I quite like that,” mused the Terrible, Terrible Nigel. “Sorry to leave you waiting, my friends, but I was up half the night torturing a frog suspected of being a witch.”

  “Did it talk?” asked Pat.

  “No,” said the Terrible, Terrible Nigel. “I’m afraid it croaked.”

  “Can we just get on with the torture please?” said the guard captain impatiently. His men eagerly nodded.

  “Fair enough.” The torturer rolled up his filthy sleeves. “Now, then. Would you like me to start by pulling out your teeth or by pouring molten lead into a boot and sticking your foot in it?”