I opened the door and nearly fainted. It was a surprise all right. But not a delightful one. Oh no. I stepped aside as into the hall strode – Sir Roland the Rotten!

  Everyone stared at Sir Roland. Sir Roland glared at Sir Percy. Sir Percy looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. I gulped. How had my plan failed?

  “You made it after all!” boomed the king. “Good man!”

  Sir Roland bowed.

  “And how is your tummy?” said the queen.

  “My tummy, Your Majesty?” Sir Roland looked confused.

  “Sir Percy said you weren’t coming because you had a tummy bug,” said the king.

  Sir Roland looked fiercely at Sir Percy. “Oh, did he now?” he muttered. “Well, he’ll be delighted to know that I’m perfectly well, thanks very much.”

  “Good!” said the king. “I’d hate to catch a dose of the trots. I spend enough time on the throne as it is! Get it? The throne? As in the loo? Anybody?”

  Everyone laughed politely at the king’s joke.

  “Well, Sir Roland, now you’re here, help yourself to Sir Percy’s delicious banquet,” said the king. “And you’re just in time for a play!”

  “Oh! Ah! Y-your Majesty,” said Sir Percy hastily. “Perhaps we should have a few more – um – jokes first?”

  “Later, Sir Percy,” smiled the king. “I love a good play. Master Perkin, carry on!”

  As Perkin returned to the front of the stage, someone grabbed my arm and pulled me to one side. It was Walter Warthog, Sir Roland’s sneaky squire.

  “So, Fatbottom,” he sneered. “Perhaps you’d like to explain this?”

  He pulled a crumpled scroll of parchment out of his tunic. My heart sank. It was the leaflet for Botolph’s Bottom-Boil Balsam.

  “What is it?” I said, as innocently as I could.

  “Don’t try that with me, Fatbottom,” said Walter. “Sir Roland was out boar hunting yesterday and who should come riding by but Baron Fitztightly?”

  “Oh, really?” I said. “What a lucky coincidence.”

  “Yes,” spat Walter. “Very lucky. The baron told us all about the banquet. He also told us he was going to ask a peasant to take this so-called invitation –” he held up the scroll – “to Sir Roland. Of course, if he’d done that, we’d have thought it was just some kind of silly joke. And we’d never have known about the banquet.”

  “No, I suppose not,” I squirmed. “Good job you bumped into the baron, then.”

  “The thing is,” said Walter. “Someone must have swapped Sir Roland’s genuine invitation for this stupid leaflet. I wonder who that could have been, Fatbottom?”

  “N-no idea,” I said.

  Walter pressed his greasy face right up to mine. “Well, whoever it was had better watch out,” he hissed. “Because by the time Sir Roland has finished with him he’ll have such a sore bottom he’ll be needing a year’s supply of this stuff!”

  He crumpled up the scroll and stuffed it down my jerkin.

  “Shh, you two!” said the king. “The play is about to start! Sir Percy, where are you going? Sit down, man.”

  “Er – nowhere, Sire,” said Sir Percy, although it looked distinctly like he was trying to sneak out of the Great Hall. Given what was coming next, I wasn’t surprised.

  “Your Majesties, my noble knights and squires!” announced Perkin. “We proudly present – The Ruin of Sir Roland!”

  “WHAT THE—” snarled Sir Roland.

  “Shh!” hissed the queen, as Perkin began:

  “My name is Sir Percy, a brave

  gallant knight.

  I’ve challenged Sir Roland to

  have a big fight.

  Here he comes now! I’m afraid

  he’ll soon see

  That no one is tougher and

  braver than me!”

  The tubby actor playing Sir Roland lumbered on stage to a ripple of titters. He had a ridiculous false beard and several cushions stuffed up his costume to make him look even fatter. For the next half hour “Sir Roland” suffered a string of mishaps at the hands of the dashing “Sir Percy”. Finally “Sir Percy” knocked “Sir Roland” off the stage on to a pile of brown gloop. With a great howl “Sir Roland” declared:

  “Sir Percy is the best, it’s true!

  Alas, I’ve landed in the poo!”

  There was a great burst of laughter.

  “Brilliant! Bravo!” exclaimed the king, clapping loudly.

  “Funniest thing I’ve seen in ages!” the queen squealed in delight.

  Everyone except the real Sir Roland thought it was hilarious. With the king and queen there, all he could do was smile politely. But I noticed with alarm that he kept fiddling with the hilt of his sword, and turning a deeper and deeper shade of red.

  “Hey, I guess that’s why they call you Roland,” said Sir Spencer. “Because you rolled in the poop!”

  “Good one, Sir Spencer!” laughed the king. “Now, how about some pudding?”

  “Of course, Sire,” said Sir Percy. “But no cakes for Sir Roland, or his squire will have to roll him home!”

  Sir Roland finally snapped. He seized the nearest thing to hand – a jam tart – and hurled it at Sir Percy. Unfortunately, it was at the very moment that the king was leaning forward to take the jug of cream. With an explosion of pastry and jam, the tart hit the king on the side of the head.

  Everyone gasped. There was a deathly silence. Sir Roland stared in horror.

  “So,” said the king gravely, “you’d assault your king, would you, Sir Roland?”

  “Y-your Majesty – Sire – I-I…” Sir Roland started to mutter an apology.

  The king cut him short.

  “There is only one penalty for throwing a jam tart at the king,” he said in a dangerous voice. The tension was so thick you could cut the air with a knife. The king stood up. “Sir Roland, I hereby sentence you to – THIS!”

  In one swift move, the king picked up a large custard pie and lobbed it across the table. It hit Sir Roland in the face with a loud SPLAT!

  The king gave a great guffaw – and then everyone collapsed in fits of laughter.

  “I say!” said Sir Percy between giggles. “Sir Roland’s been remanded in custardy!”

  “What a terrible joke!” laughed the king. “You’re almost as bad as that jester of yours. Take that, Sir Percy!”

  He hurled an apple pie at Sir Percy – who promptly ducked. The pie exploded all over the queen’s crown.

  “My crown!” she yelped. “I’ll get you for that, Fredbert!”

  She flicked a ladleful of cream across the table, but the king skilfully dodged behind Sir Spencer, who took half of it in the left ear. The other half splattered all over Algernon.

  “My outfit!” they wailed together.

  “Missed!” said the king. “Come on everyone. Feast fight!”

  Within a few seconds there was utter mayhem as pies, cakes, tarts and puddings were flying all around the Great Hall. Soon even Perkin’s Players were hurling food, and all the actors gave a huge cheer when the baron tried to dodge Master Perkin’s cream puff and fell bottom-first into a giant trifle.

  Amid all the chaos I spotted Sir Roland creeping up behind Sir Percy with a large blackberry tart in one hand and a wobbling pink blancmange in the other. I was about to call, “Look out, Sir Percy!” but had to swerve to avoid a large dollop of custard thrown (complete with bowl) by Walter.

  “Percy!” roared Sir Roland. “This’ll teach you not to insult me!”

  Then, as Sir Roland ran past a suit of armour, a leg shot out and tripped him up. He gave a great “Whaaaaa!” and fell headlong, sending both his missiles high into the air. They landed one after another on Walter, who was aiming another bowl of custard at my head. Patchcoat slipped out from behind the armour and gave me a big thumbs up.

  “What fun!” said the king, clapping Sir Percy on the back. “I’ve never enjoyed myself so much in my life.”

  “Nor me,” said the queen. “This has been the best banquet ever. Thank you, Sir Percy!”

  “Nothing but the best for Your Majesties!” said Sir Percy with a bow. “It’s all down to my perfect party planning!”

  It was well after midnight when we saw the guests to bed. Tired, happy and covered from head to toe in dessert, the king and queen went up to Sir Percy’s chamber. Sir Roland had already ridden home, vowing revenge for the way Sir Percy had insulted him.

  “Saddle the horses, Walter,” he’d growled. “I don’t care how far it is, we’re going home.”

  “But it’s dark, Sir Roland!” whined Walter.

  “What? Are you saying I’m scared of the dark, Wimpface?” he roared. “The dark is scared of ME! I’m not staying another second under Percy’s roof!”

  Wimpface. Nice one, Sir Roland!

  Sir Percy had my bedroom, but Patchcoat said I could sleep in his small room off the kitchen. The baron and Sir Spencer – despite much grumbling – had to share the dusty bed in the Royal Suite, while Perkin’s Players made themselves as comfortable as they could in the Great Hall.

  I went to help Sir Percy out of his sticky, splattered clothes.

  “Just one more thing, Cedric,” yawned Sir Percy, as I tucked him up in my bed. I thought he was going to say something like, Thanks for all your help and If it hadn’t been for you I’d be off catching crocodiles. “Bring me some warm milk and honey, would you? And don’t forget to tidy up.”

  On the way down to the kitchen I looked into the Great Hall. The tapestry had fallen off the wall again during the food fight and the players were using it like a big blanket. Half of them were already snoring while others cracked jokes and helped themselves to all the leftovers.

  The clearing up would have to wait till the morning. But I thought I’d better just gather up Sir Percy’s silver plates – after all, that thief was still on the loose.

  I was on my way back to the kitchen with the plates when there was a knock at the castle door.

  Who can that be at this time of night? I thought wearily.

  It was a small man with a beard and eye-glasses. He was carrying a large bundle under one arm.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Evenin’,” said the man. “My name is Master Silas Stitchett.” I was sure I’d come across that name before. “Sir Percy’s new tailor.”

  “I didn’t even know Sir Percy had a new tailor,” I said. Most of the local tailors refused to work for him because they never got paid.

  “I haven’t been in the village long,” said Master Stitchett. He patted his bundle. “This is Sir Percy’s new velvet evening outfit. He came an’ ordered it yesterday and was supposed to collect it this morning. But he never showed up.”

  So that was Sir Percy’s “important business” in the village! He was making sure he had some posh new clothes – while I did all the hard work.

  “What a palaver!” Master Stitchett went on. “I’ve worked me fingers to the bone. First he comes along yesterday morning and pays me to make him a green and orange tunic. Wants it by tonight, he says, for some posh do. Then he comes back at lunchtime and changes his mind. Can I make him a gold and purple tunic instead? I says to him, gold and purple’s twice the price so you’ll have to pay double. He gets a bit stroppy, but in the end he agrees to bring me the other half of the payment this morning. And does he? No! But if he wants this here new tunic he’ll have to cough up.”

  I suddenly remembered where I’d seen Master Stitchett’s name. It was when I’d arrived at the market. And then later on, when I’d been chasing the thief. He’d disappeared into thin air close to Master Stitchett’s shop…

  Something went ker-plunk in my head. It was the sound of a penny dropping.

  “Hold on,” I said. “Exactly how has Sir Percy been paying you?”

  “Silver plates,” said Master Stitchett. “Just like them ones you’re holding. How many you got there? Five? Why, that’s exactly what he owes me! They’ll do very nicely, thanks.” He put the bundle at my feet and took the plates from me. I was too flabbergasted to say a word as he tucked them under his arm, nodded goodnight and set off in the moonlight back to the village.

  Sir Percy, I thought, you might not owe the tailor any more. But you owe me. Big time. Again.

  I went back to the kitchen to tell Patchcoat the whole story.

  “Hear that, Margaret?” he laughed. “That so-called thief of yours was the master all along!”

  “Easy mistake t’make, if you asks me,” tutted Margaret. Despite the late hour she was still up, stirring a pot of something over the fire. “What with ’im sneakin’ about all suspiciously like. Fancy sellin’ off his own silver!”

  “By the way,” I said to Patchcoat. “Thanks for helping with the entertainment.”

  “No probs, Ced,” smiled Patchcoat. “I reckon my jokes went down a treat with Their Majesties, don’t you? Now, anyone fancy some leftovers?”

  I suddenly realized that I’d been so busy all night I’d had no time to eat anything.

  “Yes please!” I said. “But I think Perkin’s Players have scoffed the lot.”

  “Leftovers?” said Margaret. “Who needs leftovers when I’ve made a nice big pot of special porridge?” She plonked two bowls down in front of us.

  “Er – thanks, Margaret,” I said.

  “So why is it special?” asked Patchcoat, eyeing the porridge warily.

  “I made it with sugar,” said Margaret. “Go on, taste it.”

  “Sugar’s expensive,” I said. “Did you get it from the market?” I had to admit that for once the porridge didn’t look too bad. I hungrily swallowed a big mouthful.

  “Oh no,” grinned Margaret. “I found it. Over there, behind the logs. In a sack. Must’ve forgotten we had some!”

  Uh-oh.

  “Um, I don’t think that was sugar, Margaret,” I said. “I think it was cur— AAAARRGHH!!!!”

  Toot! Toot-TOOT!

  Toot! Toot-TOOOOT!

  “Ah, there’s the post!” said Sir Percy. “Splendid! Run along and fetch it, Cedric.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  I quickly finished strapping the last bit of armour to my master’s leg and hurried out of the stables to the castle gate.

  “Mornin’, Master Cedric,” said the messenger, tucking his post horn back into his belt. “Fair bit of post for Sir Percy today.”

  He handed over a pile of parchment scrolls. A few looked suspiciously like fan mail from Sir Percy’s female admirers. One was tied up with pink ribbons. Another had little red love hearts drawn all over it (bleurgh). But most of them were bills with things like PAY NOW! and FINAL DEMAND – THIS TIME I REALLY MEAN IT! on them in big red letters.

  “Thanks,” I said, turning to go.

  “Wait, Master Cedric!” the messenger said. “There’s this box an’ all.” He untied a long, polished wooden box from his saddle.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Search me,” said the messenger. “Posh box, though, innit?”

  I piled the scrolls on top of the box and staggered back to the stables, where my master and I had been preparing to ride off on a tour of the manor. Sir Percy said it was important for a knight to show his face to the locals every now and then. But I reckon he just wanted an excuse to show off his best armour. Especially after I’d spent most of the morning polishing it.

  “Letters for you, Sir Percy!” I said. “Plus this box.”

  “Excellent!” said Sir Percy. He carefully picked out the fan mail and then brushed all the bills on to the ground with a majestic sweep of his arm. “I shall – er – deal with these later,” he said airily.

  I watched as Sir Percy eagerly undid the catch on the box. Was it a new sword? Unlikely. The last thing Sir Percy ever spent money on – when he had any – was weapons.

  He opened the lid to reveal something long, white and fluffy.

  “Look, Cedric!” beamed Sir Percy, taking it out. “It’s my new plume! Magnificent, is it not?”

  “A plume, Sir Percy?” I said. “You mean those are – feathers?”

  “Indeed!” said Sir Percy. “They are from a giant bird called an ostrich. Terribly rare beast, you know. A sort of cross between a chicken and a giraffe.”

  While Sir Percy was admiring his plume I spotted a sheet of parchment in the bottom of the box. At the top of the sheet it said Pierre de Pompom’s Prime Plumes. Underneath were the words FOR IMMEDIATE PAYMENT next to a very large number.

  “How fortunate that this should arrive just before our little tour, eh, Cedric?” Sir Percy plucked the plume out of his helmet and fitted the new one. “There.” He handed me the old plume. “Kindly return this to my collection.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  I returned the plume to Sir Percy’s special plume shelf in the Great Hall. As I headed back across the courtyard to the stables, I bumped into Patchcoat the jester.

  “Morning, Ced!” he chirped. “Where’s Sir Percy off to, then? And why is he wearing an extra-large feather duster on his head?”

  I explained about the new plume.

  “Ostrich?” said Patchcoat. “Blimey. I bet that cost a bit.”

  I told him the price on the bill.

  Patchcoat whistled in amazement. “Phew!” he gasped. “For that price I reckon they should’ve chucked in the whole ostrich! Well, I dunno how Sir Percy’s going to pay for it. Margaret’s already moaning about how little he gives her for food.”

  Mouldybun Margaret is the castle cook. And possibly the worst cook in the kingdom, too, though no one would dare tell her that.

  “Anyway,” said Patchcoat. “I’d better be off. I’m going for a tinkle.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” I said.

  “Not that kind of tinkle,” chuckled Patchcoat. “I’ve lost a bell from my cap. I’m nipping to the village for a new one. See ya later, Ced. Have a good tour!”

  Copyright

 

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