Cows in Action 1

by Steve Cole

  “Neither!” said McMoo firmly. “Never mind that frog you thought was a witch – I am a powerful warlock. And if you lay just one warty finger on me, I’ll turn you into a farmyard animal!”

  “Yeah, sure you will,” scoffed the Terrible, Terrible Nigel.

  “You expect us to believe that?” added the guard captain.

  “I can see you need proof,” said McMoo. He turned to Pat, winked and tapped him on the end of his snout.

  Pat grinned. Suddenly he understood what McMoo was up to.

  The professor cleared his throat noisily and spoke in a spooky warble. “Alacazam, alacazow, turn this fine nobleman INTO A COW!”

  At that moment, Pat snatched the ringblender from his nose. Without its twenty-sixth-century powers, everyone could see him as he really was: a bullock in fancy dress!

  “EEK!” squeaked the Terrible, Terrible Nigel.

  “Who else would like to be turned into a quite dashing bullock, then?” McMoo enquired.

  “He really IS a warlock!” yelled the guard captain. “Get him, men! Now!” But his guards were too busy running about in a flap. One by one, they fainted with fright.

  Seizing his chance, with a major-league moo, Pat butted the guard captain with all his might.

  “YEEEEOWWWW!” The captain landed bottom-first in the boiling oil and shot straight out again! Hooting and honking and holding his bum, he tore around the torture chamber, crashing into the few guards still standing and knocking them down like skittles. Finally he ran headfirst into the iron maiden and conked himself out.

  “That takes care of them,” said McMoo. “But what happened to the Terrible Nigel?”

  “The Not Terribly Terrible, Totally Rubbish Nigel you mean, Professor,” said Pat, pointing with his horns. “He’s hiding over there.”

  “Stay back,” squawked the torturer. “I’m still in charge round here.” He had curled into a ball and locked himself away in a very small cage. “Look, tell you what, we’ll forget about pulling out your teeth and the molten-lead stuff for now, OK? How about I just whip you a bit?”

  “Oh, do shut up, you nasty little nit!” said McMoo. Then he turned to Pat. “Quick – put your ringblender back in. Let’s get to the Great Hall.”

  Pat nodded. “It can’t be long now till the royal wedding.”

  “We must show Henry he’s making a terrible mistake by marrying this terrible Miss Steak.” Professor McMoo bounded up the stairs. “Come on. The future of the whole world depends on us!”

  Chapter Eleven

  THE STEAKS ARE HIGH

  Professor McMoo flew through the palace corridors like a big beef missile, knocking aside anyone who got in his way. Pat followed close behind him. They had to stop the king’s weird wedding – not just for the C.I.A., but for cows and humans alike throughout future history.

  Luckily, McMoo had read about Hampton Court in his history books and knew the layout pretty well. Soon the two Cows in Action were nearing the splendid doors that led on to the Great Hall.

  “Should we knock, Professor?” panted Pat.

  But McMoo had already lowered his head and banged open the doors!

  The grand, spacious room was cluttered with important guests dressed in their finest clothes. They scattered in noisy alarm as McMoo and Pat burst inside, making their way towards the front of the hall – where King Henry was gazing happily into the eyes of a cow in a wedding dress, unaware of her “moo” nature. Molly and the ter-moo-nator hovered close by.

  “Stop, Your Majesty!” yelled McMoo. “You are being tricked!”

  “YOU AGAIN?” King Henry rose up to his full, formidable height. “Just who the devil are you, sir?”

  “A friend to the king and an enemy to his enemies!” McMoo declared. He pointed his hoof at the ter-moo-nator.

  “And that crummy courtier is your true enemy!”

  “Listen to the professor, Your Majesty,” cried Pat, pushing forward to join McMoo.

  “Don’t listen, sire!” Molly urged him.

  But King Henry was too furious to listen to anyone or anything. He turned to the nearest soldier. “Take these dogs away to the dungeons!”

  Molly cackled like a witch, and the ter-moo-nator gave a grating laugh. “Well said, sire,” he boomed.

  “We are not dogs” cried McMoo defiantly as the king’s guards charged towards him. “And that so-called woman in the wedding dress is not Anne of Cleves. She’s a crafty cow in disguise!”

  “There is no disguising your nincompoopiness, sir!” roared the king. “You shall rot in the Tower for such a gross insult!”

  The guards seized Pat and McMoo.

  “No!” said a shrill, female voice from the back of the hall. “Let them go, Your Majesty. Hear my words. The words of your true bride-to-be!”

  The wedding guests gasped. Several of them fainted. Molly shouted some very rude words.

  But Pat just mooed in delighted disbelief.

  Because the voice belonged to a beautiful woman in a slightly crumpled dress, sat on top of a very exhausted black stallion. She was accompanied by three courtiers and a gum-chewing cow in a muddy frock – Little Bo!

  King Henry peered through the crowd at these strange new arrivals. “And who might you be, madam?”

  “She’s the real Anne of Cleves, Your Fatness!” cried Bo.

  “Little Bo!” Pat beamed as she trotted up to hug him. “You’re all right!”

  “Well done, Bo.” The professor shrugged off his guards and joined in the group hug. “You found Anne – in the nick of time!”

  As the black horse finally collapsed, Anne jumped off nimbly. She led her courtiers through those few baffled guests who were still standing and squared up to the grim-faced ter-moo-nator. “This belligerent bull broke into my ship and left my courtiers and me tied up in a hut on Dover Beach,” she said. “He took my wedding dress and gave it to this heartless heifer.”

  “Your Majesty,” protested the ter-moo-nator. “Are you going to let these people insult your bride-to-be?”

  “It’s no insult – it’s the truth,” McMoo shouted. He marched up to the fake bride – and before anyone could stop him, he yanked the shiny nose ring from out of her snout.

  There was a moo of alarm. Suddenly everyone in the hall could see the bride for what she was – a crafty cow!

  A horrified gasp went up from those guests still conscious.

  “What trickery is this?” spluttered King Henry.

  “Don’t let the King lock me up, McMoo!” wailed the cow. “The F.B.I. made me do it! They twisted my hoof, honest they did! They said I would look good in a crown …”

  But McMoo only shook his head sadly. He couldn’t be seen to be talking to a cow. Now that her ringblender had been taken away, King Henry and his guests could not understand her words. They heard only a loud, pitiful “Moooooo”.

  Molly gasped, then groaned, then fell flat on her back in a dead faint. Pat and Bo cheered.

  “You did it, Professor!” said Pat. “You blew their cover and spoiled their plan!”

  “Nonsense,” said McMoo, pocketing the F.B.I. ringblender. “We did it. All three of us, together.”

  King Henry turned to the ter-moo-nator. “What do you have to say for yourself, sir?” he bellowed. “Before I execute you?”

  The ter-moo-nator simply scowled, pulled something like a silver platter from beneath his cloak and threw it on the floor. “Mission abort!” he mooed furiously. “One day, Professor McMoo, you shall pay for this.”

  “Tell me when,” McMoo jeered. “I’ll bring my credit card!”

  “Recall!” rasped the ter-moo-nator. “Recall!”

  He and his not-so-special cow agent jumped onto the silver disc – which suddenly vanished in a puff of dark smoke. The few wedding guests who hadn’t fainted finally managed to do so – along with the archbishop who’d been performing the wedding service.

  McMoo sighed. “The ter-moo-nator and his cow have escaped back to the future.”

&nb
sp; “But at least we’ve kept F.B.I. agents off the throne,” said Bo.

  Pat nodded. “I wonder what the king will make of all this.”

  As it happened, Henry had hardly noticed a thing.

  “Your beauty is blinding!” the king told Anne. “Truly, my dear, you are not a cow.”

  “Indeed I am not, sire,” said Anne. She smiled as she turned to McMoo and Pat. “But please, Your Majesty, won’t you pardon these loyal subjects? They are friends of the girl who freed me. I would never have reached you without her help.”

  “For you, my dear, anything.” King Henry smiled at Little Bo. “Very well. The pathetic ninnies may go free.”

  “Cheers, King!” said Bo.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said McMoo, and he and Pat bowed.

  “You have my apologies,” Henry went on. “And as I intend to marry this most marvellous un-mooish Anne of Cleves, you must all come to my wedding as my honoured guests.”

  “It would be our pleasure,” said Professor McMoo. “But perhaps you should postpone this happy event until your guests recover.” He checked a small history book he had stuffed in his pocket. “Um … How about 6 January at Greenwich Palace?”

  “I’m not washing my hair that day!” Anne of Cleves smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

  “And so it shall be,” said King Henry, taking Anne’s hand. Her courtiers clapped politely, and Bo performed a wild victory dance.

  “We did it!” Pat cried. “History is back on track!”

  Bo nodded. “Cows in Action: one hundred million; Fed-up Bull Institute: nil!”

  King Henry waddled up to them. “Now then, my new friends,” he said gruffly. “Is there any way I can make up for my hasty actions earlier?”

  “Well …” McMoo gave the king a big, broad bullish smile. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could murder a nice cup of tea!”

  Henry looked puzzled. “Cup of what?”

  “Oh dear, of course. How silly of me,” said McMoo. “Tea won’t be introduced to England until 1658.” Then he reached into the C.I.A. sash under his outfit, pulled out some tea bags and beamed. “Luckily I brought my own supply!”

  Pat grinned. “Professor, you are unbelievable!”

  “But never un-tea-leaf-able!” McMoo replied.

  Bo groaned. Anne of Cleves gave a puzzled smile. And King Henry grasped the tea bags in his big, clammy hands.

  “Tea all round!” Henry boomed. “And let this happy day be celebrated till the end of time!”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE END OF THE BEGINNING

  The king and Anne of Cleves enjoyed a quiet wedding in Greenwich followed by an enormous banquet. Little Bo had a quiet word with Anne and managed to get roast beef banned from the menu. And while the three unexpected guests from Luxembourg got some funny looks for eating so much grass, most of the lords and ladies were far too polite to say anything.

  One person who was unable to attend was Molly the chambermaid. She was spotted by the Royal Chef guzzling her ill-gotten beetroot – unaware that the wicked bull had stolen it from the king’s kitchens. Molly found herself blamed for the theft and, as punishment, she was sacked from her job as Royal Lady-in-Waiting – and told she had to clean all thirty toilets in the palace every day for a whole year.

  “Serves her right!” Pat said.

  And yet something was troubling Professor McMoo.

  “Why the long face?” asked Little Bo, plonking herself down beside him and Pat. “I’m the one who should be grumpy. I’ve still got a swollen udder from all that riding I had to do.”

  “I’m just a little worried,” McMoo replied. “In the history books, Henry thought Anne looked like a horse, remember? But she’s really nice, and he seems delighted with her.”

  Pat suddenly understood his concern. “And the king is meant to dump her in six months’ time, isn’t he? Ready for wife number five.”

  McMoo nodded glumly. “So, what if we haven’t saved history?” He looked over to where the king was sitting happily with a brimming flagon of wine and a chicken leg. There was an empty space beside him. “Where is Anne, anyway?”

  “Relax,” said Bo, a cheeky grin on her face. “She’s on her way. I left her in her bedchamber.”

  “What were you doing there?” asked Pat.

  “Since Molly’s been sacked, I decided to stand in as Anne’s lady-in-waiting.” Bo shrugged. “Anne likes my style, so she asked me to give her a makeover for her honeymoon. She’ll be down in a minute – wants to make a big entrance.”

  Pat clapped his hoof to his forehead. “A makeover?”

  McMoo started to smile. “What have you done, Little Bo?”

  Suddenly the doors to the banqueting hall swung open – to reveal a very strange sight. The room fell silent. The king choked on his chicken leg.

  It was Anne of Cleves – wearing brown and white spotted flares and what appeared to be a long horse-skin coat. She had a horse’s tail pinned to her hair, which was now dyed bright purple.

  “Hello, Henry,” she said brightly. “What do you think of my new look?”

  Pat grinned. “Not a lot, from the look on his face!”

  “My love,” croaked Henry. “You look like … like a horse! This is no way for the queen of England to dress.”

  “Oh, don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy,” said Anne crossly. “I think this outfit is fabulous. And it’s all the rage in Luxembourg!” She grinned over at Little Bo. “Just wait till you see what I’m wearing tomorrow – a skunk-skin jacket with a slashed pink T-shirt, topped off with a hat made from ladybird wings.”

  The king buried his face in his hands.

  “Don’t worry, Henry,” said Anne. “I’m going to have a matching outfit made for you!”

  Henry’s groan of dismay echoed around the banqueting hall.

  “Huh!” said Anne. “Be like that then!” And she stormed out in a huff.

  “I can’t see this marriage lasting long now,” said Pat with glee.

  “Nah,” Bo agreed. “She’s way too cool for him!”

  “Nice work, Bo,” murmured McMoo. “She will split up with the king, but lead a long and happy life as a princess of England with her own castle.” He grinned. “And luckily, her funky fashion sense doesn’t catch on!”

  “I think it’s time we left, Professor,” said Pat as the king’s advisors started muttering among themselves and staring at Bo. “We don’t want to end up in the Tower of London for crimes against clothing!”

  Together, the three cows slipped away from the hall to where a coach and horses were waiting to take them back to Hampton Court – and the Time Shed.

  The moment they were inside, McMoo pulled the CHURN lever, transforming the empty shed back into an incredible time-craft in moments. And as the big computer screen swung down from the rafters, four familiar faces appeared there.

  “Madame Milkbelly!” gasped Pat. “Yak! Shetland, Holstein!”

  “What are you lot doing up there?” asked Bo.

  “We are sending you a message from our own time,” said Madame Milkbelly, looking down at them through her shades. “We want to congratulate you.”

  Holstein nodded happily, wearing his pointy hat at a jaunty angle. “Your mission was a success. The F.B.I.’s plan has been defeated, and history is safe.”

  “For now,” said Shetland ominously. His own hat was as straight as his face. “But the F.B.I. will keep trying.”

  Yak nodded. “There’s gonna be other dangerous missions for you to face, troops.”

  “Bring ’em on!” said Bo. “We’ll be ready for them.”

  “Too right!” added Pat.

  “But for now, you must return to your farm in your own time,” said Madame Milkbelly. “We will contact you again when we need you.”

  “Oh!” McMoo frowned. “But I wanted to escape the farm! I wanted to travel through time and never go back!”

  Shetland shook his head. “The twenty-first century still has need of you, Professor. Your
destiny awaits.”

  “See you soon,” said Holstein, raising his hat.

  Yak waved a hoof in farewell. “Ciao, cows.”

  “Moooooooo,” added Madame Milkbelly.

  Their pictures faded from the screen.

  “Oh well,” said McMoo with a sigh. “I suppose being the star secret agents in a secret organization of clever cows has its good points.”

  Bo nodded. “Getting to dress up in funky costumes, you mean?”

  “And defending the future like no other animal on Earth?” Pat added.

  “Well, yes, that too, of course,” McMoo agreed. “But in particular I was thinking about an inexhaustible supply of those amazing future tea bags!” He kicked away some hay to reveal a neat stack of perforated sachets. “Twenty-sixth-century tea is absolutely delicious. Stick the kettle on, Pat!”

  Bo rolled her eyes. “Well, Yak was right about there being other dangerous missions to face. For a start – how are you going to land this thing back on the farm without Bessie Barmer noticing?”

  “I’ll simply land a split-second after we left,” McMoo explained, throwing the switch that would take them home. “Barmer’s even stupider than her toilet-cleaning ancestor – she won’t notice a thing, just you wait.”

  The Time Shed rattled and hummed and buzzed and glowed – then shook as it landed with a thump.

  “Here, little cows …” Bessie Barmer was calling, just outside.

  “You did it, Professor!” cried Pat. “She still thinks the Prime Moo-vers are inside!”

  “Quick, Bo,” called McMoo. “The CHURN lever!”

  Bo backed into the bronze lever with her bottom and the controls disappeared back into the walls, floor and rafters. The Time Shed became an ordinary shed again just in time – as Bessie Barmer barged inside with a big fork and a carving knife.

  “Where are those stray cows?” she demanded.

  “Mooooo?” said McMoo innocently.

  “Moo,” said Bo.

  “Mooo-oo-ooo,” Pat added, chewing on a bit of hay.

  “And to think you’re supposed to be the cleverest ones,” grumbled Bessie. “Those strays must have slipped out somehow. Well, I’ll find them and bring them to the butcher’s – if it takes me all night!”