Foul Play!

by Peter Bently

  I hurried to tell my master it was safe to come out – only to hear sudden screams and yelps coming from the tent.

  “Help!” screeched a female voice. “There’s a bloomin’ peepin’ Tom in the May Queen Changing Tent! Fetch the stewards!”

  A second later Sir Percy scrambled out, followed by a pointy shoe that flew through the air and clanged off his helmet.

  “Oof! Ah, there you are, Cedric,” he said, speeding off into the crowd as fast as his armour would let him. “Might be best to – um – make ourselves scarce.”

  As he turned to speak to me, he didn’t look where he was going.

  “Watch out, Sir Percy!” I yelled.

  But it was too late.

  TWANG!

  BOOF!

  Sir Percy had tripped on a guy rope and hurtled headlong into a figure who now lay sprawled on his back in the dust. It was none other than his best friend, Sir Spencer the Splendid.

  “Just look at my outfit!” moaned Sir Spencer.

  His squire helped him up. “Don’t worry, Sir Spencer,” he simpered, pulling a brush from his pocket and sweeping the dust off his master. “I’ll soon have you looking spick and span!”

  “Thank you, Algernon,” said Sir Spencer, running his fingers through his long golden locks. “So, Perce, what’s the big rush? And what was that shouting all about?”

  “Er, nothing, Spence old bean,” smiled Sir Percy, with a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Just a slight – um – misunderstanding. What’s with the outfits?”

  Sir Spencer and Algernon were wearing smart new ankle boots, plus splendid gold and green velvet tabards and knee britches with matching stockings. The tabards bore Sir Spencer’s emblem of a blazing sun. Behind them were three other men, wearing the same outfits. I recognized two of them as servants of Sir Spencer’s, but the third man wasn’t familiar at all. Oddly, there seemed to be a faint smell of fish about him.

  “The football contest, of course, Perce!” said Sir Spencer. “We are the Spiffington Sunbursts. Cool kit, eh? Had it made especially. Coming to see us win?”

  “Football? Certainly not!” said Sir Percy sniffily. “Most unknightly. I’ve never liked the game.”

  “Really?” said Sir Spencer. Then I saw a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “But when we were squires you were a brilliant goalkeeper, I seem to remember,” he chuckled. “Or at least that’s what you told your master, eh, Perce? That’s why he put you in goal for the knights in that big match against the royal bodyguards. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

  Sir Percy looked distinctly uncomfortable. Something told me he remembered only too well. “Um – ah, yes,” he squirmed. “I really don’t think we need to – um – bore Cedric here with silly old stories…”

  But Sir Percy was wrong. After all his moaning about football, I was deeply interested.

  Sir Spencer grinned, flashing his brilliant, near-complete set of teeth. “Let me see, how many goals did you let in?” he went on. “Was it twenty-four or twenty-five? We squires called you ‘Butterfingers de Bombast’ for ages afterwards. Isn’t that right, Perce? Ha, ha, ha!”

  He clapped Sir Percy on the back so heartily that my master’s plume fell out. I managed to grab it before it fluttered into a cauldron of soup on a nearby food stall.

  “Hey, nice catch, Frederick!” laughed Sir Spencer. “Pity he wasn’t around for that match against the bodyguards, eh, Perce?”

  “Um – most amusing, Spence,” said Sir Percy through gritted teeth.

  “Anyway, we’d better get on,” said Sir Spencer. “Sure I can’t persuade you to come and watch?”

  “Er, no thanks, Spence,” said Sir Percy. “And by the way, what makes you so sure you’ll win?”

  “Piece of cake, Perce,” grinned Sir Spencer. “It’s a simple knockout contest. Whoever wins the match plays the next team, and so on. The team left at the end are the winners. We’re sure to face one bunch of weedy peasants after another. Besides, I have a secret weapon.”

  He tapped the side of his nose and nodded at the unfamiliar player. The player gave a rather goofy grin back.

  “His name’s Osbertino. Travelling smoked fish merchant by trade.” (That explained the fishy whiff.) “He came by Spiffington Manor yesterday, on his way to the fair. Doesn’t understand much of what you say to him, but I’m a dab hand at talking to these foreign chaps, Perce. Turns out he was top goalie in his own country. Eh, Osbertino? Best keeper?”

  Osbertino nodded eagerly. “Oh yes, señor sir! Best keeper in land!”

  Sir Spencer cocked an eyebrow. He looked very pleased with himself. “So, with a top-class footballer on our team we’re bound to end up champions, right?” he said smugly. “See you later, Perce!”

  Sir Spencer and his team strutted off. The five farmhands we’d seen earlier had looked anything but weedy to me, but hey, perhaps with Osbertino on their team the Spiffington Sunbursts really did stand a chance.

  Sir Percy bent down so I could fix his plume back on. As he stood up, a round muddy object suddenly came flying over the surrounding tents.

  “Duck, Sir Percy!” I cried.

  “A duck, Cedric?” said Sir Percy, straightening up. “Where? OOOF!”

  The round object walloped the top of Sir Percy’s helmet, crushing his plume before bouncing off into the crowd.

  “Aargh!” cried my master. “Help, Cedric! I’m being attacked by a vicious fowl!”

  “It’s all right, Sir Percy,” I said. “It was only a football.”

  “That does it!” spluttered Sir Percy. “I’m not spending another minute at this rotten fair. Cedric, we’re going home. But first of all I want you to confiscate that wretched ball.”

  “Yes, Sir Percy,” I sighed.

  “And while you’re about it, get me a cloth,” he said. “My armour is all splattered with mud. Ugh!”

  I soon found the ball. It had landed in the cauldron of soup. The stallholder stared at me, her face a dripping mask of greyish-green slop.

  “That your ball?” she grunted, nodding at the cauldron.

  “Er, well, yes,” I replied. “Sort of.”

  “Take it and clear off,” she said.

  “Er, thanks,” I said and gingerly fished the ball out of the slop. I thought the stallholder was being pretty reasonable, considering. But as I turned to go, she grabbed me by the collar.

  “That’ll be a penny,” she growled. “Fer the wasted soup.”

  I glumly handed over another chunk of my birthday cash.

  I still had to find Sir Percy a cloth. But it turned out he didn’t need one. He’d been recognized by some female fans, and several of them were dabbing the mud off his armour with their hankies. They were also bombarding him with questions. I craned my neck to listen.

  “Ooh, Sir Percy, we just saw you heading that football! Where did you learn to do that? It was brilliant!” asked one.

  “Eh? Oh, um – when I was training to be a knight,” Sir Percy replied. “As a squire I was renowned for my footballing – um – prowess.”

  That’s one way of putting it, I thought.

  “Ooh, why ain’t you playing today, Sir Percy?” said another lady.

  “Well, of course I’d love to,” my master said airily. “But it wouldn’t really be fair, would it? What with my footballing skills being so superior to everyone else’s.”

  Sir Percy was really going off on one. Which usually spelled trouble.

  As if on cue, someone yanked my arm sharply. “Well, well, well! I thought I could smell something,” sneered a horribly familiar voice. “It’s old Fatbottom. And he’s got our ball. Hand it over!”

  I turned to face Walter Warthog, the sneakiest squire in the kingdom. And if Walter was there, his master, Sir Roland the Rotten, couldn’t be far away. Sure enough, at that moment Sir Percy’s arch-enemy came barging through the crowd.

  “Walter, where’s that blasted ball?” growled Sir Roland. “We need to get on with our warm-up before the next match. If you don’
t find it I’ll use something else for kicking practice. Like your backside!”

  “It’s here, Sir Roland,” smarmed Walter, snatching the ball from my hands. “Fatbottom had it. I expect he was planning to steal it, Sir Roland.”

  “That’s not true!” I protested. “Sir Percy just told me to confisc—” I hesitated. If I told Walter and Sir Roland the whole story, my master would be a laughing stock. Now I just had to get Sir Percy to stop showing off.

  “Sir Percy!” I called, desperately trying to catch his eye. His fans stopped oohing and aahing, and turned to stare at me. Unfortunately, Sir Percy just carried on bragging, his eyes closed in rapture.

  “Of course, dear ladies, if I did play in the football tournament I’d win hands down,” he declared. “In fact, I would bet my whole castle that I could beat any team at the fair.”

  Wondering why it had suddenly gone quiet, Sir Percy opened an eye – and found himself staring straight at Sir Roland’s fiendish, hairy grin. It was only then that I noticed Sir Roland and Walter were both wearing knee-britches and tabards with Sir Roland’s boar’s-head emblem. So, too, were the three thick-set, rough-looking blokes who came jogging up behind them.

  And then there was that ball…

  Uh-oh.

  “Meet the Blackstone Fort football team,” Sir Roland chuckled. “Me, Walter and three of my toughest castle guards. Percy, I accept your bet. Castle Bombast is as good as mine! Hur-hur-hur!”

  Sir Percy had gone rather pale. “B-b-bet my castle?” he jabbered. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. I th-think you must have misheard me, Roly!”

  “Really, Percy?” said Sir Roland menacingly. “I could have sworn I heard you say you’d win hands down against any team. Isn’t that right, ladies?”

  “Oh yes!” said one of the ladies. “Sir Percy’s just teasing, Your Honour. He’s the best footballer in the kingdom!”

  “Eh?” Sir Roland snorted. “Who – him?”

  “That’s right!” said the lady. “He’s been telling us all about it. How many times did you lead the king’s own bodyguards to victory, Sir Percy?”

  “Er, my dear lady…” said Sir Percy.

  “Now don’t be so modest, Sir Percy,” said another fan. “Tell him about the record number of goals you scored!”

  “Most of them were headers, you know!” piped up another lady.

  “And he’s a champion goalie!” said another.

  My master looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him up. Sir Roland burst out laughing.

  “Well, well, well. So old Butterfingers de Bombast is a champion goalie, is he?” he cackled unpleasantly. “Oh, this match is going to be such fun! I hope you’ve brought the keys to Castle Bombast, Percy. I’ve always fancied a country cottage. Hur-hur-hur!”

  As he spoke, four forlorn figures dressed in filthy rags came staggering past us. One had a grubby bandage around his head. Another was limping along on a crutch. They were covered in cuts and bruises, though it was hard to tell under all the mud.

  “Poor beggars,” I said, opening my purse and taking out one of my last two pennies.

  “Don’t be stupid, Fatbottom,” sneered Walter. “They’re not beggars. That’s the team we’ve just defeated. Bunch of farmhands, apparently.”

  Farmhands? Yikes.

  “But there are only four of them,” I said. “Where’s the fifth?”

  In answer two stewards appeared carrying a man on a stretcher.

  “Foolish peasant knocked himself out,” said Walter. “Dived for the ball and landed head first on Sir Roland’s left boot. Terribly unlucky, don’t you think, Fatbottom?”

  “Walter!” bellowed Sir Roland. “Don’t just stand there or we’ll be late for our next match. Percy, you’d better get your team ready. We’ve won every match so far and we’re running out of opponents. Oh, and by the way,” he added, as he stomped off. “Don’t forget the Knight’s Code of Honour. If you don’t show up to play, you’ll be going back on your bet. And I’ll get your castle anyway! Hur-hur-hur!”

  As he turned to follow his master, Walter grinned nastily. “When we do move in I’ll make sure Sir Roland gets rid of that rotten cook of yours,” he hissed. “And that terrible jester. But don’t worry, Fatbottom, you won’t have to leave. We’ll still need someone to clean the toilets. He-he-he!”

  I glared at Walter’s retreating back. Then I looked at Sir Percy. He was staring into space with his mouth open, whimpering softly.

  “Sir Percy,” I said. “What are we going to do?”

  My master gave his head a vigorous shake. “Well, whatever happens, I have no intention of letting that lumbering oaf have my castle,” he said. “Cedric, you shall simply have to see that Sir Roland loses!”

  “Me, Sir Percy?”

  Uh-oh. I had a horrible feeling that this chat wasn’t going to end well.

  “Indeed,” said Sir Percy. “It will be an excellent opportunity to acquire some essential leadership skills.”

  “Er, what will be, Sir Percy?”

  “Leading Team Bombast to victory, of course,” he said. “I hereby appoint you team captain. It’s a great honour. Congratulations!”

  A great honour? I thought. A great way of ending up on a stretcher, more like.

  “But Sir Percy,” I asked, as politely as I could, “isn’t there one slight snag? We don’t have a team.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, dear boy,” he said. “There’s you and Patchcoat for starters. Find another three fellows and you’re in business.”

  “Don’t you mean two, Sir Percy?” I said. “There are already three of us. Including you.”

  Sir Percy suddenly screwed up his face and gasped. “Aargh! My ankle!” He put out a hand to steady himself against a neighbouring stall. “Ooh! Must’ve twisted it when I, er, when I tripped over that guy rope.”

  Yeah, right. Funny how he hadn’t mentioned twisting his ankle till now. I guessed what was coming.

  “My – ooh! – dear – ah! – Cedric!” Sir Percy went on. “I fear – ooh! – it is highly unlikely I can – ouch! – take part in the match.” (Yup. Got it in one.) “Of course I shall – aaaah! – be very sorry to disappoint all those ladies. Cedric, as captain you will also be responsible for finding the team some kit to wear. I shall take charge of important matters such as – um – strategy, tactics and – and…”

  But before he could think of anything else we heard a sound nearby.

  Jingling.

  “There he is, lads! Oi, you! Armour-features!”

  It was the morrismen!

  “Er, kindly deal with those gentlemen, would you, Cedric?” Sir Percy said with a look of alarm. “I really ought to go to the, er, First-Aid Tent and – um – get this ankle seen to!”

  Luckily for Sir Percy, the morrismen found their way blocked by a passing peasant pushing a handcart piled high with brass chamber pots. Sir Percy crouched behind the handcart and scuttled off out of sight – just in the nick of time.

  “Right, where’s that blinkin’ master of yours?” said the chief morrisman, running up and shaking his fist under my nose.

  “S-sorry, gents,” I said nervously. “Y-you just missed him. He went – that way!”

  I pointed in the opposite direction from the handcart. (Mind you, after the way Sir Percy had just landed me in it, I was sorely tempted to send them straight after him.)

  “Bother,” said the chief morrisman, eyeing me suspiciously. “Right, sonny. We’ve got to go and do a show. But when you see yer master, tell ’im ’e’s not goin’ to escape a third time. Is that clear?”

  “Er, yes, very clear!” I said.

  “Good,” said the chief morrisman. “Right, come on, lads!”

  As the morrismen turned and headed back in the direction of the maypole, I spotted Sir Percy dashing from the cover of the handcart straight into a large pavilion. I’d never seen anyone with a twisted ankle (and wearing a suit of armour) move with such incredible speed. And, for that matter, I’d never come across a Firs
t-Aid Tent with a big sign outside saying “Refreshments”.

  “He did WHAT?” Patchcoat almost dropped the pasty he was eating.

  “It’s true,” I said. “And if he backs out of the bet he’ll be disgraced.”

  “But we’ll be massacred!” said Patchcoat. “And we’ll end up homeless into the bargain. Nice one, Sir Percy!”

  I’d found Patchcoat sitting on a bench in front of a makeshift stage where one jester after another was getting up and telling their latest gags.

  “Oi, shh, will you?” said the man next to us. “I’ll miss the punchline!”

  Patchcoat and I stopped talking while the jester onstage cracked his next joke.

  “I say, I say, I say!” he said. “What do you call a man with a plank of wood on his ’ead? Edward!”

  There were a few titters.

  “And what do you call a man with two planks on his ’ead? I dunno – but Edward would! Geddit?”

  The audience cracked up. But I wasn’t in much of a mood for laughing.

  “Hold on,” said Patchcoat suddenly. “It’s a knockout contest, right?”

  I nodded.

  “That means we only have to play Sir Roland if his team keeps winning, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So what if someone beats him before we have to play?”

  “What, like Sir Spencer?” I said. “Maybe. He’s got some top foreign player on his team. But Sir Roland’s lot will be a tough team to beat.”

  I described what had happened to the farmhands.

  “Hmm. Good point,” said Patchcoat. “But cheer up, Ced. I’m sure we’ll think of something. In the meantime, there’s no point sitting around here moping.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I sighed. “If we don’t show up at all then Sir Percy will lose his bet anyway. But I have no idea where we’re going to find three more players and get some football kit before the match!”