by Peter Bently
“What’s that, Percy?” boomed a familiar voice.
Sir Percy leaped about a foot into the air as Sir Roland and Walter swaggered out of the crowd.
“Ah, h-h-hello Roland,” spluttered my master. “We were – um – just discussing – um – team tactics.”
“Oh yeah?” said Sir Roland. “Sounded more like you were trying to wriggle out of playing in the match. Well, that’s fine by me, Percy.”
“Er, really?” said my master.
“Sure,” Sir Roland went on. “Any team without the full five players at kick-off will be automatically disqualified. And you know what that means, eh, Percy? Bye-bye Castle Bombast! Hur-hur-hur!”
“Well, for your information, Roland, we do have a complete team,” said Sir Percy indignantly. “Isn’t that right, Cedric?”
There was no point in beating about the bush. I’d give him the full story later.
“Well, yes, Sir Percy,” I said. “But only if you play, too.”
Sir Percy’s face fell.
“In that case, you’d better get ready for the match,” said Sir Roland. “We’ve run out of teams to beat so it’s your turn next. Kick-off is at three o’clock outside the village church, just past the Mad Maze. You’ll find the rest of my team there, having a breather before we wipe out you lot. See you in half an hour, Percy! Hur-hur-hur!”
Guffawing loudly, Sir Roland stomped into the Refreshments Tent.
“See yah, Fatbottom,” sneered Walter, eyeing my makeshift football kit. “Or should I say Sackbottom, he-he! I’m so looking forward to moving into your old room. Once I’ve got rid of the smell, of course.”
Sniggering nastily, Walter disappeared after Sir Roland. I was thinking of something to shout after him when I had to step aside to make way for a pony ridden by a filthy, tattered urchin. He was leading a horse with a heap of rags slung over the back.
To my surprise, the heap of rags suddenly raised its head. “My clothes,” it whimpered. “My beautiful clothes!”
It was Sir Spencer. And the urchin was none other than Algernon.
“Spence, old boy!” gasped my master. “Wh-what happened?”
“We just lost to Sir Roland,” groaned Sir Spencer. “That’s what. If you think we look bad, you should see the rest of the team. What’s left of them.”
“But what about Osbertino, your star player?” said Sir Percy.
“Um – a minor misunderstanding. Turns out he wasn’t the best keeper in his own country. He just sold the best kippers. He’d never played football in his life!” Sir Spencer moaned. “I should have listened to you, Perce. No more football for me! Home, Algernon!”
“Yes, Sir Spencer,” croaked Algernon.
“Yikes,” I said, as they trotted off. “It looks like we’re really done for.”
“Indeed,” Sir Percy agreed glumly. “I can see no way out of this wretched match. Come along, chaps. I fear we must prepare to face the music.”
Patchcoat suddenly began racing ahead. “I’ll see you there,” he called. “Something Sir Roland said has just given me an idea.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you later, Ced,” grinned Patchcoat. “But if it works it might just save Castle Bombast!”
Team Bombast – minus Patchcoat – made its way to the church. Sir Percy tried to look as dignified as possible in Ham’s sack as he waved to the large crowd that had lined the avenue of flagpoles to watch the last match of the May Fair tournament. But he was still in a pretty gloomy mood.
He didn’t even cheer up when his female fans spotted him and started chanting.
As we reached the church porch a man stepped out to meet us. He was wearing a plain black tabard and carrying a football.
“Afternoon, Your Honour,” he said to Sir Percy. “You here for the final? I’m the referee. Just to remind you, the church porch is the goal. The ball must make one circuit around the fair and back. The team that gets the ball in the porch are the winners. All means of stopping your opponents are permissible, except one.”
“Whassat?” said Botolph.
“Killing them, of course, ha, ha!”
The referee was still laughing when the church clock struck a quarter to three.
“Kick off at three o’clock sharp,” he said. “As long as Sir Roland’s team is here, of course.”
Sir Roland and Walter appeared at that moment. A murmur of boos went around the crowd.
“Ready to lose your castle, Percy?” rumbled Sir Roland. “Hur-hur-hur!”
“Just a moment, Sir Roland!” said the referee. “You can’t play with just the two of you, you know.”
“You trying to be funny?” snapped Sir Roland. “I told the other three to wait on that bench over… Eh?”
He stared at an empty bench at the side of the field.
“Well, they’re not there now, are they, Roly old bean?” said Sir Percy, suddenly perking up. “And you know the rules, eh? Let me see – if a whole team doesn’t show up at kick-off they are automatically disqualified. Isn’t that right, Mister Referee?”
“Ah, quite so, Your Honour, quite so!”
Sir Roland glared at Sir Percy. But he also looked rather worried. “Walter, go and find the others,” he barked. “They’ll get extra guard duty for this!”
“Yes, Sir Roland,” whined Walter, scuttling off. “Right away, Sir Roland.”
Patchcoat sidled up to me. “D’you know something, Ced?” he muttered. “I’ve got a hunch Walter won’t find the rest of his team in a hurry.”
“So that’s what you were up to!” I gasped. “How did you do it?”
“Easy, Ced,” grinned Patchcoat. “I told them that Sir Roland wanted to see them for an urgent meeting about tactics. In there.” He pointed to the circular wooden enclosure nearby.
“The Mad Maze!”
“Got it in one, Ced. I reckon they’ll find their way out in ooh, I dunno – a couple of hours? Oh, and one of them left these on the bench. Too small for me but they might be your size, Ced.”
From under his sack tunic he pulled out – a pair of proper football boots.
A smile crept across my face, as I pulled off my shoes and tried on the boots. Maybe Sir Percy wasn’t going to lose Castle Bombast after all!
By the time the church clock said five to three, Sir Percy was cheerfully signing autographs for his fans and bragging about his footballing skills.
“And of course I’m a demon dribbler,” he boasted. “Such a shame I shan’t be able to demonstrate. But Sir Roland’s team are obviously too terrified to turn up!”
Sir Roland’s glare could have demolished a castle. He looked even less pleased when Walter reappeared, apparently empty-handed.
“Dear, dear,” said my master, winking at his fans. “It rather looks as if Sir Roland will be disqualified. Very unsatisfactory to be declared champions without playing the match. Well, I suppose one must reluctantly accept the situation.”
Then a grin spread across Sir Roland’s face as Walter whispered something in his ear. Uh-oh.
“Not so fast, Percy,” he chuckled. “Walter here has found me some substitutes. Here they come now!”
My master’s face fell about a million miles as three athletic-looking guys pushed through the crowd. My heart sank. They looked all too familiar.
“I thought our chaps might be practising near the Baking Tent,” smirked Walter. “When I got there I bumped into some rather cross tumblers.”
Tumblers? Yikes!
“They volunteered to join our team,” Walter went on. “Something about getting their own back on a bunch of morons who couldn’t play football for toffee. Can’t think who they were talking about, can you, Sackbottom?”
Before I could answer, the referee glanced at the clock. Two minutes to three. “Right, chaps!” he declared. “Almost time to start. The new team gets to kick off. I take it from your fans that you’re the captain, Your Honour?”
The crowd fell silent as the referee plonked the ball at Sir Percy�
��s feet.
Sir Percy stared at it in dismay. But then his face switched to a strangely fixed grin. “Oh, ha, ha, ha! Silly me!” he laughed, pulling the sack off over his head. “I’ve just realized that it’s utterly ridiculous to try and run all the way round the fair in my armour. I shall just nip into the church and remove it.”
“Shall I help you, Sir Percy?” I said. “Otherwise you’ll miss the start of the match.”
“What? Oh! Ah! No, no, no, no, no,” he said. “No need, dear boy, no need. I shall, er, manage very well on my own. As deputy team captain, you can have the great honour of kicking off the match. But don’t worry! I shall catch up with you – um – er, shortly!”
With a quick wave at his fans, Sir Percy skipped up the steps into the church. Something told me I wouldn’t be seeing him again until after the match was well and truly over. I was just thinking, Thanks a million, Sir Percy, when the clock struck three and a loud cheer went up from the crowd lining the course.
I looked nervously from Team Bombast to our opponents. Apart from weedy Walter I was facing a monstrous mass of muscle. It looked like I wouldn’t have a castle to sleep in that night.
Oh well, I thought. Here goes!
I kicked the ball as hard as I could.
The match had begun!
The crowd roared as the ball sailed over Sir Roland’s head. It landed several metres behind him, and instantly Sir Roland and the tumblers were charging towards it. They definitely had the edge in size and power. But Botolph was surprisingly nippy, and I suddenly saw him streaking past me and dodging between Sir Roland and one of the tumblers.
“Yay! Go, Botty, go!” yelled Godwit.
Botolph had almost reached the ball when one of the tumblers grabbed him by the sack and yanked him off his feet. He fell on his bottom with a squawk.
“Unfair, ref!” I cried.
The referee shook his head. “Sorry, lad,” he said. “It’s not against the rules.”
Sir Roland charged into the gap and bent down to grab the ball. But then someone dodged under his great hairy mitts and managed to scoop it up. It was Patchcoat!
Sir Roland gave a roar and tried to seize hold of him, but Patchcoat sped off, with Sir Roland and his team in hot pursuit.
“Aargh!” yelped Patchcoat.
The crowd moaned “Oooh!” and “Shame!” as he sprawled on the ground. Walter had scuttled out of nowhere and tripped him up. With a cackle of glee, Wartface snatched the ball and shot off.
“That must be a foul this time, ref!” I cried. But the ref shook his head again.
“Play on!” he said.
“Don’t ’ee worry, Master Cedric, I’ll get ’im!” cried Godwit, who was huffing and puffing along some way behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see him stop at a nearby food stall.
“I’ll pay you later!” he said, grabbing a large custard pie.
“Hey! This is no time to stop for a snack!” I said crossly.
But Godwit didn’t eat the pie. He closed one eye, took careful aim and hurled it with all his might. It span through the air – and hit Walter on the head with a very satisfying SPLAT! Walter gave a loud squawk and dropped the ball.
“Crackin’ shot, Goddo!” cried Botolph.
“Wow!” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me you could throw?”
“’Ee never asked, Master Cedric,” said Godwit. “Back home I’m village pie-tossing champion!”
Patchcoat was back on his feet and had picked up the ball before Sir Roland and the tumblers could reach him. “Can’t catch me!” he laughed.
“That’s what you think, sunshine,” cried one of the tumblers. “Allay-OOP!”
There were gasps from the crowd as the tumbler leaped into the air, turned a somersault and landed perfectly in front of Patchcoat.
“Oof!”
Patchcoat careered straight into the tumbler and dropped the ball.
With his heel, the tumbler neatly tapped the ball sideways to Sir Roland. Sir Roland was preparing to give it an almighty kick when he spotted a short, round figure hurtling towards him at incredible speed – Godwit!
Sir Roland was so astonished he mistimed the kick and sent the ball too high. The crowd groaned as it landed on the roof of a tall and colourful pavilion, rolled down to the edge – and stayed there.
“Blimey,” I said. “Talk about putting a spurt on, Godwit. I’d never have guessed you could run so fast!”
“I’d never have guessed he could run at all,” chuckled Patchcoat.
“I had to,” said Godwit. “Sir Roland was about to tread on that bit o’ pie.”
He picked up a splattered lump of custard pie and popped it in his mouth. “No point in wastin’ it.”
“You there!” hollered Sir Roland. “Come and get the ball down!”
“But I can’t reach, Yer Honour!” said Godwit. “It’s too high up!”
“Sorry, son,” said the referee. “The player who loses a ball has to retrieve it.”
“But he didn’t lose it,” I pointed out. “Sir Roland did.”
Sir Roland glared at me.
I didn’t fancy getting into an argument with Sir Roland. But, to my surprise, his own team came to my rescue.
The three tumblers stood by the side of the pavilion and grasped one another’s hands to make a human cradle.
“Step in, lad,” one of them said. “We’ll give you a leg up.”
They bent down to let Godwit step on their hands. It was then that I noticed the tumblers winking at Sir Roland.
“Wait!” I began. But it was too late.
“Three, two, one – hup!”
“Waaah!”
The tumblers catapulted Godwit high into the air. He turned a perfect somersault, then plummeted feet first into the top of the pavilion with a resounding RRRRIP!
The impact dislodged the ball, which dropped straight into the waiting arms of Sir Roland. With a “Hur-hur!” of triumph he bolted in the direction of the livestock pens, followed by the tumblers.
“So long, sucker!” cried Walter, running off after them.
A woman pulled back the flap and poked her head out of the pavilion. She wore a bright red headscarf and big gold earrings.
“What’s goin’ on?” she demanded. “How am I supposed to concentrate on me crystal ball with two fat legs dangling over me?”
Godwit was wedged firmly up to his middle in the roof of the pavilion. “Don’t ’ee worry, Master Cedric!” he said. “I’ll explain everything. Get on after that ball!”
The three remaining members of Team Bombast ran around the outside of the fair, past stalls and sideshows, duck pens and donkey rides. The spectators lining the course cheered us on, including the farmhands Sir Roland had defeated earlier. Swathed in plasters and bandages, they struck up a new version of their chant.
I’m a cowpat,
I’m a cowpat,
I’m a cowpat, yes I am!
But I’d rather be a cowpat
Than rotten Roland’s fan!
Before long, most of the crowd were joining in. The chanting was encouraging, but we were more than halfway around the fair before we spotted our opponents again.
“That’s funny,” I said. “They seem to have stopped.”
We soon found out why. A peasant was herding a bunch of cows right across their path.
“Blithering bludgeons!” barked Sir Roland. “Can’t your pesky animals go any faster? I’ve got a castle to win!”
Walter snatched the cowherd’s stick and started prodding a particularly big animal right at the back of the herd.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Wartface,” I said.
“Oh do shut up, Fatbottom,” sneered Walter. “Just because you know we’re going to win. Move it, you stupid cow!” He gave the animal an extra hard prod.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, but that ain’t a cow,” said the peasant. “That’s Buster. Me prize bull.”
The beast turned and fixed Walter with an angry stare.
“Er, I hate to say I told you so, Walter,” I said. “But – I told you so.”
MURRRRRR!
The bull gave a great bellow and pawed the ground. And then it started to move towards Walter.
“Eek!” he squealed, backing off. “Help! N-nice b-bull. I didn’t m-mean to…”
But the bull only bellowed again, lowered its head and charged.
I have never seen anyone move so fast. The crowds following the match parted as Walter fled in terror from a ton of furious beef.
Luckily for him there was a clear path to the maypole. With a yelp of terror, Walter reached the pole and shimmied up it just in time to avoid a sharp pair of horns in the hindquarters. Walter didn’t stop climbing until he was right at the top, just as the cowherd came up and deftly ran a rope through the bull’s nose ring.
“Take that horrid beast away!” whinged Walter.
“Oh, I will, young master,” said the cowherd. “When he’s calmed down a little. Poor Buster’s had a bit of a nasty shock, what with all that proddin’!”
“He’s had a nasty shock?” wailed Walter. “What about me?”
Ignoring him, the cowherd tied the rope to the maypole then strolled back to the rest of his herd.
“Come back!” cried Walter. “You can’t leave me up here!”
“I just did,” called the cowherd.
Patchcoat and I fell about in stitches. But our laughter was interrupted by the referee crying, “Play on!”
Sir Roland swiped the ball off one of the tumblers, who had been idly spinning it on his finger. Then, with the way ahead now clear, he drop-kicked it in the direction of the church.
“Castle Bombast, here I come, hur-hur!” he roared.
The tumblers sped off after Sir Roland. Patchcoat, Botolph and I raced after them, but try as we might, we just couldn’t break through the tumblers. Each time we tried to outflank them, they swerved as a pack right in our way. It was like chasing a large, moving brick wall.