Dog's Life!

by Peter Bently

  For Lucy, Theo and Tara – PB

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Meet the Characters

  Chapter 1: Royal Request

  Chapter 2: Kennel Kerfuffle

  Chapter 3: Cellar Snoop

  Chapter 4: Training Trouble

  Chapter 5: Battlement Brouhaha

  Chapter 6: Catapult Chaos

  Chapter 7: Nighttime Knockout

  Chapter 8: Tracker Cracker

  Chapter 9: Tunnel Tumult

  Chapter 10: Slinger Surprise

  Copyright

  SNIP!

  “Ouch! Careful, Cedric! You’re not supposed to cut off the whole dashed toe.”

  “Sorry, Sir Percy.”

  Clutching my master’s left foot in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, I had another go at trimming the little toenail.

  “How’s that, Sir Percy?”

  My master put down his spoon, stroked his stubbly chin and peered at his toenails. “Hmm. Almost there, Cedric. Just a smidgen more off the big toe. That should do the trick.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  He settled himself back on the pillows and scooped up another mouthful of his porridge. I stifled a sigh and snipped again.

  A large yellowish sliver of toenail nearly hit me in the eye. Before I could see where it landed, I heard hooves clattering in the courtyard.

  “Ah, that’ll be the post, Cedric. Off you go.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  I ran down to the castle courtyard to greet the rider. I expected it to be a regular messenger with the post, but it was one of the king’s heralds, looking rather bewildered.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I’m trying to find Castle Bombast, but I think I must be lost.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “This is Castle Bombast.”

  “Really?” said the herald. “As in Sir Percy the Proud’s place?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’m Sir Percy’s squire.”

  “Oh,” the herald said. He seemed taken aback. “Break time is it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Or perhaps they’re all out on patrol.”

  “Er, who are?” What was the herald going on about?

  “The castle garrison,” said the herald. “At the palace they told me Castle Bombast is ‘crawling with guards’. So I was a bit surprised to ride in without being challenged. Thought I’d got the wrong castle.”

  “Um – well…”

  Castle Bombast “crawling with guards”? I don’t know where he’d got that idea from. Sir Percy couldn’t afford any proper guards. The castle’s security was basically me making sure I locked the front gate every night.

  “Anyway, I can’t hang about chatting,” the herald went on. “Give this to your master.” He thrust a sealed scroll into my hand, turned his horse and rode off out of the gate. The seal bore the king’s coat of arms.

  I hurried back up to Sir Percy’s bedchamber, waving the scroll. “Urgent letter, Sir Percy,” I said. “From the king!”

  Sir Percy sat up.

  “The king?” he said. “How splendid! Perhaps it’s to do with that survey he sent out last week to all his knights. Do you remember, Cedric?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “His Majesty wanted to check that everyone’s looking after their castle properly. In case there’s ever a war. You replied by the next post.”

  “Indeed,” said Sir Percy. “I expect His Majesty wishes to thank me for answering so swiftly. Kindly read me the letter.”

  I tore open the seal and started to read.

  Now I understood what the messenger had been going on about! I looked at my master. He had a rather dazed expression on his face.

  “I think the king must be mistaken,” I said. “You didn’t really say we had loads of guards, did you, Sir Percy? Or a guard dog?”

  “Good gracious no, Cedric!” he spluttered. “That is to say, I mean, er, I suppose I may have hinted that my garrison was – um – a tad bigger than is currently the case. After all, one doesn’t want to, er, disappoint one’s monarch and all that.”

  My heart sank. Sir Percy had been boasting again. And this time he’d really landed himself in it.

  “I shall simply write back to His Majesty at once and explain that it’s all been a misunderstanding,” he went on. “By fast post the letter should reach him tonight. When did he say the baron was arriving? Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Sir Percy,” I said. “But it was yesterday’s tomorrow, if you see what I mean. The baron’s arriving today. He’s already on his way.”

  “Aargh!” Sir Percy whimpered, burrowing under his pillow. “What are we going to do, Cedric?”

  Uh-oh. That “we” spelled trouble. Luckily, I had an idea.

  “How about borrowing some guards off Sir Spencer?”

  Sir Spencer was Sir Percy’s best friend and his castle was fairly close by. He didn’t have many guards, but they would be better than none at all.

  Sir Percy sat up again. He looked aghast. “Good grief, no!” he said. “Borrowing another knight’s guards? The humiliation! Spencer would never let me live it down. You’ll have to come up with a better plan than that, Cedric.”

  “Er, me, Sir Percy?”

  “Yes, Cedric,” Sir Percy said. “All you have to do is make the baron believe this is a fantastically fortified stronghold. I’m sure you’ll think of something. It’s only for one night, after all. Consider it part of your knight training. It’ll be the perfect preparation for when you’re – um – er, under siege.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy,” I said, trying to sound convinced.

  “That’s the spirit!” my master beamed. “I’m relying on you, Cedric. If the baron twigs that the castle has no guards, he’ll tell the king and I shall be seriously in the doghouse. Which reminds me. It’s not just guards we need.”

  “Isn’t it, Sir Percy?”

  “Indeed not,” he replied. “We need a guard dog.”

  “A dog, Sir Percy?”

  “Precisely, Cedric.”

  “But where will you get a dog from before this evening, Sir Percy?”

  “Oh, I shan’t be getting one from anywhere, dear boy,” said my master. “You will. I remember Sir Spencer once purchased a very fine greyhound from a place near Stoke Bluster. You’d better go there immediately. After you’ve laid out my best tunic, of course. And my razor. Oh, and the new aftershave that I bought off that travelling apothecary.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy.”

  “Just this once I suppose I shall have to get dressed by myself,” my master sighed. “As soon as I’ve finished my breakfast.”

  As he scooped up the last dollop of porridge, I noticed something sticking out of the spoon. I opened my mouth to warn him, but it was too late. He downed the spoonful in one gulp.

  Toenail and all.

  “A dog? Just another bloomin’ mouth to feed, if you ask me.”

  Margaret the cook was not happy to learn that Sir Percy would have unexpected guests that evening. She was even less happy when I told her about Sir Percy needing a guard dog.

  “An’ where’s this mutt going to sleep, Master Cedric?” she grumbled, waggling a half-plucked starling in my direction. “Not in my kitchen, that’s for certain. It’ll eat everything in sight!”

  “That’ll teach it,” chuckled Patchcoat the jester, who was building a house of cards on the kitchen table.

  Margaret glowered at him. “I ’eard that, Master Patchcoat,” she said. “Any more o’ your cheek and it’s no starling stew fer you.”

  “Ooh, is that a promise?”

  Patchcoat ducked quickly to dodge a swipe from Margaret’s half-plucked bird.

  “I’m serious,” said Margaret. “There’s little eno
ugh food to go round as it is, what with the world and ’is wife turnin’ up out of the blue.”

  I would hardly have called Baron Fitztightly and a platoon of the king’s own soldiers “the world and his wife”, but I kept that to myself. I had bigger things to worry about. Like how to convince the baron that Castle Bombast was crawling with guards. Getting a guard dog was a start, but we still needed some actual guards.

  “Hmm. Tricky one, Ced,” said Patchcoat when I explained the problem. “Tell you what, I’ll have a think about it while you’re out buying this guard dog.”

  “Thanks, Patchcoat.”

  “No probs. And by the way, where do you find a dog with no legs?”

  “Um – I’ve no idea,” I said.

  Patchcoat grinned. “Exactly where you left it. See ya, Ced!”

  As I walked along the lane to Stoke Bluster, I seriously began to think Sir Percy must have got the wrong place. For half an hour I hadn’t seen a single human, never mind a dog. But then I spotted two merchants coming towards me on a pony cart piled high with rugs and blankets. It was a pretty warm day, but they were both wearing scarves and hats pulled down over their eyes.

  “Excuse me,” said one of the men, who was poring over what looked like a map. “Tell me, is this the way to Castle Bombast?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Straight on then next left and just keep going. But—”

  I was about to add that I worked at Castle Bombast and that we didn’t need any extra rugs, thanks, but the driver had already flicked the reins and started to ride on.

  The lane was barely wide enough for the cart to pass down it. I was just wondering why they hadn’t taken the main road when I spotted a sign in the hedge, half hidden by leaves.

  I followed the sign and, sure enough, I soon came to a tidy-looking farmhouse next to a yard full of kennels. Tied up outside were dozens of dogs of different shapes and sizes.

  A man in an apron came out of the farmhouse carrying a bucket of meaty mush with a few large bones poking out. The dogs all sat up smartly and wagged their tails.

  “Master Simnel?” I said.

  “That’s me, sonny,” said the man. “Can I help you?”

  “My master’s sent me to buy a dog.”

  “A dog, eh?” said Simnel. “You’ve come to the right place. All my dogs are trained to the highest standards. Watch this.” Simnel nodded to a well groomed spaniel. “Fifi, hup!”

  Fifi jumped into the air and turned a perfect backwards somersault.

  “Good girl,” said Simnel proudly, ladling an extra dollop of dog food into the spaniel’s bowl.

  “Impressive!” I said. “But my master’s actually looking for a guard dog. Do you have something a bit … bigger?”

  “Ah, I see,” said Simnel. “Perhaps something like Sir Roland? Follow me!”

  As Simnel led the way across the yard, I smiled at the idea of some mutt being named after Sir Percy’s arch-rival. But when I saw the dog, I couldn’t have thought of a better name. Sir Roland was a huge mastiff with a thick spiked collar. He was almost as tall as me. And he definitely had more muscles.

  “’Ere you go, Roly,” smiled Simnel, giving the mastiff a huge bone out of the bucket. “’E’s a big softie, isn’t you, Roly dear?”

  Sir Roland crunched the bone in two with a single bite and eyed me with a look that said “dessert”. Simnel patted his head and scratched him behind his ears. “One of my best, is Roly,” he said. “Any knight would be glad to have him. A snip at ten shillings.”

  Ten shillings! Yikes, that was expensive. It was then that I realized Sir Percy hadn’t given me any cash at all. I tipped my money pouch into my hand. A few measly coins fell out.

  “That all you’ve got?” frowned Simnel. “For a pedigree guard dog? Is your master having a laugh?”

  “Er…”

  “WOOF!”

  I just had time to glimpse a brown shape hurtling through the gate before I was knocked flat on my back.

  Then a woman’s voice shrieked, “Come ’ere, you no-good, sausage-eatin’ fleabag!”

  The next thing I knew I was being licked by a large slobbery tongue.

  “Aargh! Gerroff! Help!”

  The tongue belonged to a big, gangly, goofy-looking dog.

  “Sorry ’bout that, lad,” said Simnel. He grabbed the chewed stump of rope attached to the dog’s collar and pulled the pooch off me. A plump woman came puffing up. She wagged a stubby finger at Simnel.

  “Chewed through his lead again!” she scolded. “Then he sniffed out a whole string o’ sausages in the cupboard. That’s the third lot this week. And I had them in a box where I thought he couldn’t find ’em. Husband, I ain’t puttin’ up with it no more. Either this useless mutt goes or I do.”

  She strode off into the farmhouse.

  There didn’t seem much point hanging around any longer. I didn’t have enough money to buy a guard dog and that was that.

  “Oh well,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’d better be going. Sorry to waste your time, Master Simnel.”

  “Hold on, sonny,” said Simnel, as I turned to leave. “I suppose I do have one dog you might be able to afford.”

  “Really?” I said. “Where?”

  He nodded at the animal sitting at his feet, his tongue lolling daftly out of the side of his mouth.

  “Hercules here.”

  “Er, and he’s definitely a pedigree dog?” I asked.

  Whatever breed Hercules was, it wasn’t one I recognized. He had the wiry fur of a terrier, the long lolloping legs of a wolfhound, and the floppy ears of a retriever. And, if his gormless grin was anything to go by, the brains of a pigeon.

  “Well,” said Simnel. “He’s er, a – a terrier-retriever-hound. Egyptian. Yes, that’s it.”

  “An Egyptian terrier-retriever-hound?” I said. “I’ve never heard of one of those before.”

  “Er, let’s just say that he’s the first of his breed,” said Simnel. “Which is why I’m offerin’ him at the special price of … sixpence.”

  I counted the coins in my fist. “I’ve only got tuppence ha’penny,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “That’ll do,” said Simnel, swiping the coins. “He’s all yours. You’ve got yourself a bargain there, sonny! He may not be much to look at, but he’s got an amazing sense of smell. Oh, just one thing. He hates aniseed. You know, that stuff they use to make liquorice.”

  “But I thought all dogs loved aniseed?”

  “Not this one. Fell in a vat of the stuff as a puppy. It’s the only thing that drives him round the bend. Anyway, I’d better finish feedin’ the dogs. Good luck!”

  He handed me the stump of rope and strode off. I had just bought a dog.

  I led Hercules back to Castle Bombast. Or rather, Hercules led me. When he wasn’t barking gleefully at fields of cows and sheep, the pesky pooch kept dragging me off to chase birds, or to give passers-by a great slobbery greeting. And when there were no sheep, cows, birds or people to run after, Hercules stopped to sniff out some new scent he’d discovered. That’s when he wasn’t cocking his leg on just about every tree in sight.

  It was lunchtime when we finally got back to the castle. Patchcoat was practising some juggling in the courtyard.

  “Whoops!” he cried, as one of the balls he was juggling came flying our way. Hercules barked with glee, sprang free from my grip and snatched it from the air. To my horror he instantly chewed it to bits and swallowed it in one gulp.

  “Bad dog!” I cried, running up and grabbing Hercules by the rope. “I’m really sorry, Patchcoat. I’ll get you another ball.”

  Patchcoat laughed. “Don’t worry, Ced. It was only a stale roll I found in the kitchen,” he said. “Good catch, boy!”

  Hercules jumped up and gave Patchcoat a soggy lick. “Well, he’s a big chap all right,” he said, ruffling the dog’s head. “But don’t you think he’s a bit friendly for a guard dog?”

  “I know,” I agreed, struggling to keep a tight grip on Hercules’s rope. �
��But he’s all I could afford. Did you think of any bright ideas to make the castle look well-guarded?”

  Patchcoat shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “What about hiring a few soldiers?” I said. But then I sighed. “No, that’s no good. It would mean getting money out of Sir Percy.”

  “Yeah,” chuckled Patchcoat. “Which is about as likely as sailing across the world without falling off the edge. At this rate we’ll have to dress up as guards ourselves.”

  “Actually, Patchcoat, that’s not a bad idea,” I said. “If the baron sees two guards standing at the gate with Hercules, he might not notice that the rest of the castle isn’t guarded.”

  “D’you know, that could just work, Ced. But we’d have to look the part or the baron might recognize us.”

  It was true. We’d met Baron Fitztightly several times before.

  “So we’d need proper uniforms,” I sighed. “Helmets and chain mail and stuff.”

  “We could try the castle cellars,” said Patchcoat.

  “Really?” I said. “Isn’t it just a big empty room?”

  “Nah. There’s tons of old junk down there, just wait and see,” said Patchcoat.

  We headed into the castle. The cellar door was just off the Great Hall, right next to the kitchen. While Patchcoat popped in for a candle, I waited outside the door with Hercules. The pooch snuffled and scratched at the door, but I didn’t dare let him in with Margaret about. I was relieved when Patchcoat came out with a lighted candle.

  A flight of stone steps led from the cellar door down into a large, bare and chilly chamber. When Sir Percy had visitors, this was where their servants slept. There was nothing in the room apart from a dozen straw mattresses, which I kept neatly made up with old pillows and blankets. So I was NOT pleased when Hercules pounced on one of the mattresses, grabbed a pillow in his jaws and started to shake it madly.

  “No, Hercules!” I said, trying to pull it out of his mouth. But he just held on even tighter, growling playfully.