by Peter Bently
For Lucy, Theo and Tara – PB
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Meet the Characters
Chapter 1: Flock Block
Chapter 2: Morris Malarkey
Chapter 3: Header Hoo-Ha
Chapter 4: A Twist of Fête
Chapter 5: Scream Team
Chapter 6: Kickabout Catastrophe
Chapter 7: Pre-Match Panic
Chapter 8: Match Mayhem
Chapter 9: Cattle Kerfuffle
Chapter 10: May Queen Mayhem
Copyright
HISS!
“Come along, Cedric. Hurry up and shift them!”
“I’m trying my best, Sir Percy!”
I flapped my arms at the flock of geese blocking the road. “Shoo! Shoo!”
The birds didn’t budge. They just stood there, eyeing me suspiciously.
A large crowd was building up on the road behind us. Then a bunch of youths, all wearing white and dark blue scarves, started chanting, “Why are we wai-ting? Why-y are we waiting?”
I glanced back at my master. “Er, you could always ride around the geese, Sir Percy,” I suggested. “We could catch up with you at the fair.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cedric,” said Sir Percy. “A knight cannot be seen arriving at a major public event without – um – an entourage. It simply isn’t done, dear boy.”
To most knights an entourage means an impressive following of smartly dressed soldiers, plus maybe a trumpeter and a page or two carrying banners with the knight’s coat of arms. To Sir Percy it meant me, Patchcoat the jester and Margaret the cook, riding on a rickety cart pulled by Gristle, the old mule.
We were on our way to the May Fair at Blodger’s Bottom – a village not far from Castle Bombast where the kingdom’s four main roads met. The May Fair was the biggest market of the year, and villagers and peasants came from all over the kingdom to sell their wares. Better still, Patchcoat had told me there were minstrels, morris dancers, a maypole, and all sorts of other fun and games – including the Mad Maze, which was so fiendishly difficult people got lost in it for hours on end.
Patchcoat said there was also a big five-a-side football tournament called the May Fair Trophy. I was really looking forward to that, as I used to love kicking a ball around with my friends before I came to work for Sir Percy. But my master said football was a horrid peasant pastime, so that was the end of that.
“Bother these geese,” said Sir Percy impatiently. “At this rate we won’t be at the fair until past lunchtime. And I’m feeling rather peckish.”
Just then, a peasant came shambling out of the crowd behind us. He was carrying a tray of shapeless brown lumps in little sackcloth pouches.
“Did I hear ’ee say ’ee was ’ungry, Yer Knightship?” he said, holding up the tray. “I’m just on me way to the fair. Care to try one o’ me snacks?”
“Excellent timing, my good man,” said Sir Percy. “Don’t mind if I do.” He leaned down from Prancelot and took a brownish lump from one of the little sacks. He popped it in his mouth and started to chew.
“Mmnnnhh – interesting,” he said. He swallowed his mouthful – and instantly burst into a violent fit of coughing.
“Are you all right, Sir Percy?” I asked in alarm.
“HACK! HACK! HACK! – I’m – HACK! HACK! – fine, dear boy – HACK!” he spluttered. His coughing fit finally died down and he shook his head vigorously. “Something seems to have tickled my throat, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’ll be the legs,” the peasant grinned, flashing his single tooth.
“Legs, my dear fellow?”
“Arrr,” said the peasant. “Best bit of a deep-fried cockroach, if ’ee asks me. Wanna buy a bagful, Yer Knightship?”
Sir Percy went green and swayed slightly in the saddle. “Er – no thank you, my good man.” Then he belched so loudly it startled the geese. They turned round and hissed.
“Suit yerself, Yer Knightship,” said the peasant, disappointed. He wandered back into the crowd, hollering, “Tasty snacks! Tasty snacks! Farthin’ a bag!” as he went.
“Deep-fried cockroaches?” snorted Margaret. “That’s disgusting!”
“Ew! Too right!” said Patchcoat.
“Yeah,” said Margaret. “They’re much better grilled.”
Now, it would be a bit unkind to call Margaret the worst cook in the kingdom. So let’s just say she’s easily in the bottom two. As far as Margaret’s concerned, haute cuisine is just a fancy name for porridge.
At that moment another peasant appeared from behind a nearby bush, waving a staff with one hand and fastening his belt with the other.
“Sorry to keep ’ee waiting, Yer Knightliness,” he said cheerily. “Right, let’s get you girls off to the fair!” The peasant tapped the rearmost goose on the rump with his staff. It gave a HONK! and the whole flock instantly started to move.
“At last!” said Sir Percy. “On we go!”
I clambered back into the cart next to Patchcoat. He flicked Gristle’s reins and we rattled off after my master.
“I can’t wait to see the fair!” I said.
“Lucky that messenger showed up when he did, eh, Ced?” said Patchcoat.
“You bet!” I agreed. “Otherwise I’d have been stuck at the castle all day.”
Until that very morning Sir Percy had refused point blank to go to the fair. He claimed it was terribly undignified for knights to mix with a great mass of peasants. Patchcoat thought that sounded suspicious, because loads of knights and other posh folk went to the May Fair to join in the fun and pick up a few bargains from the stalls. Not even the idea of seeing morris dancers could change his mind – and I knew Sir Percy liked morris dancing because a travelling troupe had called at Castle Bombast a few weeks earlier. My master had merrily clapped along to the dance just like the rest of us.
The worst thing was that servants could have the day off for the May Fair. So Margaret and Patchcoat were allowed to go, but Sir Percy had insisted that squires didn’t count. After all, he said, someone had to stay behind to cook his meals and do all the chores.
I’d been feeling pretty glum when the others were all getting ready to leave that morning. But Patchcoat was just hitching up the mule cart when a messenger came galloping into the courtyard with an urgent scroll for Sir Percy. My master went as white as a sheet when he read it.
Whatever had put my master off the fair before, it was obviously nothing compared to a visit from his aunt. He suddenly realized that it would be most selfish of him to deprive so many peasants of the chance to see a famous knight. Half an hour later I’d strapped him into his best armour, saddled Prancelot, fetched the threepence my mum and dad had sent me for my birthday, and leaped into the mule cart beside the others.
As we carried on along the road to Blodger’s Bottom, we were joined by more and more people heading for the fair. It was slow going, but everyone was in jolly spirits. And I definitely wasn’t the only one looking forward to the football. The youths behind us started waving their scarves and singing loudly.
Little Piddling,
Little Piddling,
Little Piddling are the best!
We’ll be ta-king home the tro-phy
When we’ve beaten all the rest!
Beside us was a cart festooned with the red and white scarves and banners of a rival team. The five burly farmhands glowered and suddenly struck up the same tune, but with rather different words.
I’m a cowpat,
I’m a cowpat,
I’m a cowpat, yes I am!
But I’d rather be a cowpat
Than a Little Piddling fan!
A wave of raucous laughter ran through the crowd.
“Well, really!” huffed Sir Percy.
“Thank goodness we shan’t be going anywhere near that rowdy lot. Whatever happens, I shall certainly be steering clear of the football.”
My heart sank.
“Never mind, Ced,” Patchcoat muttered sympathetically. “There’s loads of other things to enjoy.”
As he spoke, we reached the top of a low hill. From there we could see four roads packed with people, all streaming into a small village next to a green. Not that you could see much of the green, because most of it was covered with a sea of tents and stalls and animal pens. In the middle of it all stood a maypole, its bright ribbons fluttering in the breeze.
“Welcome to Blodger’s Bottom!” grinned Patchcoat.
We had arrived at the fair.
What with the crowds heading into the village from all directions, it took us nearly half an hour to reach the green. The whole fairground was ringed by an avenue of poles from which colourful banners fluttered brightly. I assumed the poles were just for decoration, but when we reached the outer ring, our way was barred by a po-faced peasant with a little moustache and a big badge saying “Steward”. He had just waved through the cart with the five farmhands, who were still merrily singing their football chant.
“Wait ’ere a minute, Yer Honour,” said the steward, holding up his hand.
“Wait?” said Sir Percy. “Don’t be absurd, my dear fellow. I am a knight of the realm. I may go where I please. Kindly step aside.”
The steward pursed his lips and frowned as Sir Percy rode a couple of metres past the outer ring of poles. Then, to our left, I noticed a dusty cloud in the middle of the avenue of poles. It was moving with great speed towards my master. Amid the dust I made out ten men, jostling, kicking and grabbing each other in an attempt to get control of – a football!
“Um – Sir Percy,” I said. “I think you’d better—”
Before I could finish there was a loud cheer and a THOCK! as one of the footballers got his boot to the ball and cannoned it right past the end of Prancelot’s nose.
With a whinny of alarm, Prancelot reared up, nearly tipping Sir Percy out of the saddle. His visor slammed shut, muffling his squawks as he desperately tried to regain his balance. He finally managed to yank himself upright and pull Prancelot back behind the line of poles, just as the footballers thundered past, followed by a handful of cheering supporters.
“I told ’ee to wait, Yer Honour,” said the steward smugly. “Them poles marks the football course. Now, let’s see yer permit.”
Sir Percy pushed up his visor. “Permit?” he said, flustered. “Now what are you going on about, man?”
“No ’orses an’ carts in the fair without a permit,” said the steward. “Too crowded, see.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” huffed Sir Percy. He pointed at the five farmhands in the cart, now disappearing into the crowd. “You let them in.”
“They’ve got a permit,” said the steward. “They’re playing in the football tournament. Those without permits ’as to park over there.” He nodded towards some specially erected railings nearby.
“Oh, very well,” sighed Sir Percy. “But this is most inconvenient.”
As the steward scuttled off to check the permit of a bloke driving a cartload of turnips, Sir Percy dismounted from Prancelot. He held out her reins to me.
“Off you trot, Cedric,” he said. “I shall wait for you here.”
“Yes, Sir Percy,” I said, clambering from the cart.
Patchcoat hopped down after me. “You may as well park the cart, too, Ced,” he grinned. “Seeing as you’re going anyway.”
“Cheers, Patchcoat,” I said. “By the way, what did the steward mean by a football course? Don’t they play on a proper pitch?”
“The May Fair Trophy is a bit different from other football tournaments,” said Patchcoat. “Each match is really more of a race. Can get a bit rough sometimes, but it’s very entertaining. Sorry you’ll miss the fun.”
“Me, too,” I said. “My chances of slipping off on my own are virtually zilch.”
“Anyway, I’ll see you later, Ced,” said Patchcoat. “I’m off to catch up with some of my jester mates. See if I can try out a few new jokes.”
“And I’m off to the Baking Tent,” said Margaret, climbing down from the back of the cart. “I reckon I’ve a good chance of winning that there competition.” She nodded at a hoarding advertising events at the fair. Among them was a big poster.
“Well, your baking will definitely make an impression on the judges, Margaret,” said Patchcoat, winking at me. “One way or another.”
“Oi! Less o’ your cheek, Master Patchcoat!” she glowered, shaking her fist.
“Time to go!” chuckled Patchcoat, heading off into the crowd. “See ya later, Ced!”
After tying up Prancelot and Gristle I hurried back to Sir Percy.
“I’ve parked the animals, Sir Percy,” I said politely. “I had to pay a farthing for each of them and another ha’penny for the cart. I don’t suppose you could pay me ba—”
“Later, dear boy, later,” Sir Percy said. “If we dawdle any longer, the fair will be over before we’ve even started. Now, what shall we see first?” I followed him as he strode over to the hoarding. “Aha! The very thing.”
To my delight he stopped right in front of a poster about the football tournament.
“I gather it is a most, er, fascinating tradition, Cedric,” Sir Percy said. “Ancient, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Er, the football, Sir Percy?” I said in surprise.
“Football, Cedric?” he replied. “That ruffianly game? Are you trying to be amusing? Certainly not! I am talking about the May Queen Parade.”
I followed his gaze and realized he wasn’t looking at the football poster at all. He was reading the one right next to it.
“Come along, Cedric,” Sir Percy said, striding off. “I think it would be most – um – educational for you to see it.”
Not to mention a perfect chance for you to show off in front of a bunch of damsels, I thought.
We jostled our way through the hustle and bustle of the fair, and finally reached the open area of the green by the maypole. A crowd of peasants was standing around expectantly. But there was no sign of any damsels. An empty throne-like chair, engraved with the words “Guest of Honour”, stood at a large table.
In the centre of the table was a shiny copper circlet decorated with silver flowers. To the left of this was an oversized spoon made out of polished brass and mounted on a wooden stand. I guessed they were the May Queen’s crown and the prize for the winner of the Great May Fair Bake Off. But it was the third object that really caught my eye. It was a handsome silver cup, engraved with a picture of what was unmistakably a football. The May Fair Trophy! I tried not to think about all the matches I would be missing that day.
“When does the May Queen contest start, my good man?” said Sir Percy to one of the stewards, interrupting my thoughts.
“Oh, not till teatime, Yer Knightship,” said the steward. “After the football.”
“Then what are all these people waiting for?” asked my master.
“’Ee’ll soon see, Yer Knightship,” said the steward. “’Ere they come now.” There was a jangling sound and a great cheer went up from the crowd. “Make way!” cried the steward. “Make way for the morrismen!”
“Um – morrismen?” Sir Percy went a little pale.
The crowd parted to let through a fiddler, a drummer and a bagpiper, followed by half a dozen guys wearing colourful costumes and bells on their sleeves and trousers. They were all carrying long cudgels.
“Oh look, Sir Percy!” I said. “It’s those morris dancers who came to play at Castle Bombast a few weeks back. They were really good!”
“Come on, Yer Knightship,” beamed the steward, dragging Sir Percy by the arm. “I’ll get ’ee a good spot.”
But Sir Percy seemed rather reluctant to go. “Ah – um – my good man, there’s really no need, I, er—”
Before my master
could protest any more, the steward had thrust us both right to the front of the crowd. Unfortunately, he thrust a bit too hard, because Sir Percy ended up flailing right into the path of the morris dancers. The chief dancer had to pull up short to avoid a collision.
“Careful, Yer Knightship!” exclaimed the morrisman. “I nearly— ’Ang on. Don’t I know ’ee?”
My master shook his head. “Good gracious me no, my dear fellow,” he said innocently. “I am one hundred per cent certain that I’ve never seen you before in my—”
The morrisman cut him off. “’Ere, lads!” he gasped. “It’s that knight! The one that never paid us! ’E owes us five shillin’s!”
So Patchcoat was right! There was another reason why Sir Percy had wanted to avoid the May Fair.
My master edged towards me. “Um – Cedric,” he hissed out of the side of his mouth. “I think perhaps we’d better, er, how can I put this … RUN!”
With that he swivelled round and barged back into the crowd at full pelt.
“After ’im, boys!” cried the chief morrisman.
“Oi! What about the dance?” said the steward, as the morrismen raised their cudgels and set off after my master.
“We’ll be back in a tick,” said the chief morrisman. “Just as soon as we’ve got our money out of this chiseller!”
“But what if ’e don’t cough up?” said the steward.
The chief morrisman grinned. “Well, in that case we’ll just ’ave to teach ’im a lesson ’e won’t forget,” he said. “Cudgels at the ready, lads!”
Yikes! I pushed my way through the crowd just in time to spot Sir Percy’s plume bobbing and weaving through the food stalls.
“There ’e is!” yelled one of the morrismen – and promptly ran into a passing peasant wheeling a handcart full of pots and pans. They all clattered to the ground. While the dancers helped to pick them up, I caught a glimpse of my master ducking under the flap of a nearby tent. A few moments later the morrismen were off again. They ran on past the tent and disappeared into the fair.