by Peter Bently
Botolph saw a sudden gap between their legs. He tried to nip through, but the tumblers were too quick for him.
“Not so fast, sunshine!” One of the tumblers grabbed Botolph by the scruff of the neck, hoiked him into the air and swung him round his head as easily as a feather pillow.
“One–two–three… WHEEE!”
“Waargh!”
Nearby, some children were fishing for wooden fish in a large tub of water. They were rather startled when Botolph landed in their midst with a loud SPLASH!
I ran to help him out, but he shooed me away. “I’m fine, Master Cedric!” he cried. “You get on after that Sir Roland!”
I turned and resumed the chase with Patchcoat. But the tumblers were as solid as ever, and even further ahead. Meanwhile, Sir Roland was now dribbling the ball closer and closer to the church.
Patchcoat and I had just about given up hope when suddenly someone shot out of the crowd ahead of us. They barrelled into the line of tumblers, knocking them over like skittles.
It was Margaret!
“Any chance of a game, Master Cedric?” she hollered, as I caught her up. “I ’eard what ’appened from poor old Ham. Couldn’t stand by and let Sir Roland win, could I?”
“Thanks, Margaret!” I said. “I hereby declare you a substitute! Oh, and I’m sorry about your cake.”
“Eh? Cake’s fine, Master Cedric,” said Margaret. “Cherry fell off, that’s all. Come on. Let’s finish this match!”
The tumblers were soon back on their feet. As Margaret, Patchcoat and I charged after Sir Roland they caught us up and tried to tackle us. Before long, Patchcoat was rolling on the ground clutching his ankle. I stopped to help him up but he shook his head.
“I’ll live, Ced! You gotta keep going or we’ll lose the castle!” he said. “And don’t worry about the tumblers. I reckon Margaret’ll sort them out!”
Patchcoat was right. The tumblers soon discovered that tackling Margaret was a big mistake.
“OUCH!”
“AARGH!”
“A-YEE!”
I glanced over my shoulder to see the tumblers on the ground, too, clutching freshly walloped shins and stamped-on feet.
“That’ll learn ’em!” called Margaret.
I put on a burst of speed and finally caught up with Sir Roland, but getting the ball off him was another matter. Then I had an idea. I moved in closer, forcing him over towards the poles lining the course. Sir Roland stopped dribbling and gave the ball a powerful kick, only to see it hit one of the poles. The ball glanced off the pole in my direction. Seizing my chance, I picked it up and ran for my life.
“Why, you!” Sir Roland roared in frustration. “Come back here!”
I was running flat out, but Sir Roland soon began to gain on me. There was no way I’d reach the church before he caught up.
Just when Sir Roland was so close behind me I could actually hear his teeth gnashing, I saw a coach and horses hurtling at great speed up one of the roads to the village.
To my surprise, the coach slowed down right next to us. A little old lady leaned out of the door. She was richly dressed with sharp beady eyes. And, as it turned out, a sharp tongue.
“Roland!” she cried. “Leave that child alone, you big bully!”
Sir Roland stopped dead in amazement “Eh? But–but…”
As the coach began to move off again, I realized it was heading in the direction of the church. Clutching the football, I ran up to the coach door.
“Excuse me, madam,” I said breathlessly. “Could I hitch a lift to the church?”
“Certainly, young man!” said the lady. “Hold on tight!”
I hopped on the back as it began to pick up speed.
“Stop!” roared Sir Roland. “That’s cheating, ref!”
“Er, I’m afraid not, Your Honour,” said the referee. “Any means of moving the ball are allowed, remember?”
Leaving a fuming Sir Roland far behind, the coach drove on. It had to slow down again at the church because of all the fairgoers, so I had no trouble hopping off the back.
I spotted Ham at the front of the crowd, a bit unsteady on his feet, but punching both fists in the air and beaming from ear to ear. “Go, young master, go! Bravo!”
With the cheers of the crowd ringing in my ears, I ran triumphantly through the churchyard, kicking the ball as I went. Then, when I was almost at the porch, I skidded to a halt. A figure had just slipped out from behind a gravestone, giving me the fright of my life.
Sir Percy!
“Um – I’ll take over from here, Cedric,” he said. (I noticed he was still wearing his armour. He wasn’t limping either.)
Before I could say anything, Sir Percy picked up the ball, strolled the last few metres to the church and plonked it in the middle of the porch – just as Sir Roland and the referee came running up.
“Hurrah! Goal to me!” my master declared. “I won! I won! I won!”
Sir Percy beamed in triumph as he signed autographs for his fans and generally took every ounce of credit for Team Bombast’s unlikely victory.
“Of course, it was all entirely down to my superior tactics,” he boasted. “I had the whole thing planned from the start.”
Patchcoat patted me sympathetically on the shoulder. “Never mind, Ced,” he said. “The main thing is, he won his stupid bet. At least we’ve still got a home to go to.”
“PERCY! I’d like a word with you!”
Sir Percy sputtered to a halt mid-boast and stared in disbelief. The sprightly little old lady from the coach was heading straight for him.
“Oh! A-a-aunt Hilda Matilda!” he gibbered. “How the dev— I mean, how delightful to see you!”
“Now then, Percy,” said Lady Hilda Matilda. “What’s all this nonsense about you betting your entire castle?”
“Betting my c-castle, dear Aunt?” winced Sir Percy. “I’m sure there must be some mistake?”
“Poppycock!” snapped his aunt. “Don’t try spinning me one of your ridiculous yarns, Percy. I’ve heard all about it from young Roland. And I’ve given him a good talking-to for taking your bet seriously.”
I glanced over at Sir Roland. To judge by the way he was rubbing his left ear, she’d given him more than just a talking-to.
“It’s been the same since you were both children,” sighed Lady Hilda Matilda. “Always boasting and bickering and trying to pinch each other’s toys.”
Sir Percy squirmed uncomfortably.
“Anyway, I called at Castle Bombast on my way here,” Lady Hilda Matilda went on.
“Really, Auntie?” said Sir Percy, mustering his most innocent grin.
“Indeed, Percy. That gardener fellow of yours told me you’d just left for the fair.” She gave my master a hard, beady stare. “In some haste, as it seems.”
Sir Percy blushed bright pink.
“Fortunately, I was heading to the fair myself,” the old lady said. “I am delighted to be this year’s guest of honour. Now, I would dearly love to have a smart and noble knight to escort me. But you’ll have to do. Come along!”
Sir Percy had no choice but to follow Lady Hilda Matilda as she strode off towards the middle of the fair. I saw the maypole ahead of us. The farmer had just untied his bull and was leading it away. Once he was sure it was safe, Walter slid down the pole.
“Ouch!” I heard him yelp. “I’ve got splinters in my bottom!”
I noticed that three more wooden thrones had been lined up at the trophy table, next to the guest of honour’s.
“Er, what exactly are we doing, Auntie?” Sir Percy said.
“Well, I am presenting you with the May Fair Trophy, for a start. Though I think your clever squire deserves it rather more than you do.”
I blushed. Sir Percy gave a fake laugh.
“Oh! Ha, ha, ha! Most amusing, Auntie. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Oh do be quiet, Percy,” snorted Lady Hilda Matilda. “I am also presenting the prize for the Great May Fair Bake Off. And finally I am judging the May Queen contest
,” she said. “Here come the contestants now!”
A line of brightly dressed young women was trooping into the open area of the green. The young women were looking over at my master. Too late, he realized why.
“’Ere! It’s that peepin’ Tom!” cried one of the women. “The one what sneaked into the Changin’ Tent earlier!”
My master went pale. He went even paler when who should come jingling along behind us but – the morris dancers.
“Hey! Look, lads! There he is!”
“Percy!” snapped his aunt. “What on earth is going on?”
“Ah – um – I shall explain later, Auntie dearest,” he said. “I, er, I think I’d better—”
“After ’im, lads!”
“After ’im, girls!”
Sir Percy spotted a gap between two pavilions and shot down it. I dived after him.
My master ducked round the back of another tent – only to find his way barred by a large wicker basket marked “Costumes”.
“Excellent!” said Sir Percy. “I can hide in here.”
He flung open the lid, but the basket was full.
“Bother!” he said. “But never mind, Cedric, I shall wear one of these as a disguise.”
He pulled out a baggy bright green costume with what looked like wings attached to the back. Underneath it was some sort of grotesque green monster’s head. “Ah! The very thing. It will hide my face splendidly. Quick, help me out of my armour!”
I hastily unstrapped him. Then I helped him into the costume.
“Now I am in disguise I can slip back to Prancelot and, er, discreetly make my way home to the castle,” he said. “Once I’m well clear you can run along to my aunt and make my excuses.”
“But what shall I tell her, Sir Percy?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something, dear boy,” he said, pulling on the monster’s head. “Oh, and when you come home, don’t forget to bring my armour. And my trophy.”
Thanks a bunch, Sir Percy.
Checking the coast was clear, Sir Percy slipped out from behind the tent and headed off into the crowd, trying – and utterly failing – to look inconspicuous in the ridiculous monster costume. Once I’d lost sight of my master, I made my way back to the clearing around the maypole. As I pushed my way to the front of the crowd, there was a great round of clapping and cheering. I was just in time to see Lady Hilda Matilda placing the crown of silver flowers on the head of one of the May Queen contestants.
The new May Queen curtsied to the crowd and took her seat on one of the thrones at the guest of honour’s table. It was then I noticed that one of the other two thrones was already occupied. By Margaret. She was beaming broadly as she clutched the Bake Off trophy!
While I was still taking it in, Lady Hilda Matilda spotted me.
“Ah! You, boy!” she said. “Where’s that useless master of yours? He was supposed to be here to receive the football trophy. I’ve already had to delay the presentation twice.”
“Um – he said he hurt his ankle, my lady,” I said. Which was true. He had said it. About three hours ago. “And he’s gone to, er, to change his dressing.” Which was also true. Sort of.
“Humph,” she snorted. “A likely story. But never mind,” she said, with the hint of a twinkle in her eye. “If he’s not here, it can’t be helped. AHEM!”
She stood up and cleared her throat loudly. The crowd fell silent. “Ladies and gentlemen!” she announced. “I have great pleasure in presenting the May Fair Trophy to the winners. Kindly step forward and receive the trophy, er –” Margaret leaned over and whispered in her ear – “Master Cedric Thatchbottom and his team!”
I suddenly felt myself being pushed forward. I turned to see the beaming faces of Ham, Patchcoat, Godwit and Botolph.
“Go on, Ced!” said Patchcoat. “We’re right behind you!”
I took the trophy from Lady Hilda Matilda and raised it above my head. The crowd went wild.
“Now, Master Cedric, kindly take your seat in the remaining throne. We mustn’t delay the performance any longer.”
“Performance, my lady?”
“Indeed. The morris dancers are doing a special dance to celebrate the crowning of the May Queen.”
As she spoke, the morrismen jingled into view, accompanied by their musicians. I took my seat, with the rest of Team Bombast gathered around me, as the chief morrisman approached the table and bowed to the May Queen.
“My lady,” he declared. “We be proud to bring ’ee our traditional dance in honour o’ the May Queen. It depicts the triumph of summer over winter. We present – ‘The Battle of the Dragon’!”
There were cheers as the musicians struck up a jolly jig and the morrismen began their dance. First, the dancers came on dragging a – very reluctant – dragon. Even Lady Hilda Matilda giggled when the dragon kept trying to run off into the crowd. I guessed it was all part of the show, just like the dragon’s wails of “Wah!” and “Ouch!” and “Aargh!” as the dancers walloped it one by one with their cudgels. But then something occurred to me. That dragon costume … surely it couldn’t be…
At that moment a man ran out of the crowd, dressed from head to toe in a sort of protective undershirt padded with straw.
“Sorry I’m late, lads!” he panted. “Someone nicked me dragon costume!”
“Don’t worry, Seth,” grinned the chief morrisman. “We found it.”
“Help!” wailed the dragon again, as the dancers gave it one final wallop with their cudgels all at once. “Help! Cedric!”
Cedric? Oh dear.
“So you see, the judges had to give me the Bake Off prize,” said Margaret, chopping a turnip in half with a single blow of her knife. “On account of my cake being the only one that survived your little practice session, Master Cedric.”
“Oh well,” I said. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”
I filled the wooden pail I was carrying with hot water from a large cauldron hanging over the kitchen fire.
“Eh?” said Margaret sharply. “You saying I wouldn’t have won otherwise, Master Cedric?”
“No, of course not!” I said hastily. “Your Showstopper was by far the most, er, remarkable.”
“Ced’s right, Margaret,” grinned Patchcoat, who was sitting at the kitchen table. “Your cake was an absolute knockout. Just ask your brother!”
Margaret glared at him. “You watch your step, Master Patchcoat,” she said. “Or I’ll be addin’ a couple more bruises to the ones Sir Roland’s lot gave you.”
“Talking of bruises,” said Patchcoat, changing the subject. “I wonder how Sir Percy’s doing after his morris-dancing escapade?”
“A bit on the sore side, I reckon,” said Margaret. “Can’t think why else he’d want a bath only three months after his last one. Bloomin’ waste o’ water, if you ask me.” She peered into the cauldron, which was almost empty.
The Knight’s Code of Honour says that every knight has to take a bath twice a year, whether he needs one or not. And it’s the squire’s job to fill the bath. Which was why I’d already carried twenty pails upstairs to my master.
“Right, I’d better get back,” I said. “Otherwise Sir Percy will start moaning about the water getting cold.”
I heaved the pail upstairs to Sir Percy’s chamber, where he was soaking in a large wooden bathtub.
“Ah, there you are, Cedric,” he said. “I wondered where you’d got to.”
“Sorry, Sir Percy,” I said, as I tipped the pail of hot water into the tub.
“Aah! That’s better,” he sighed. “A hot bath is just the thing after a day of, er, strenuous sport.”
“Yes, Sir Percy.” Strenuous sport? That was one way of putting it. My master sank deeper into the bath, wincing as he went. Probably something to do with the big purple bruises all over his arms, legs and shoulders.
“Gosh, those morrismen certainly gave you a good walloping, didn’t they, Sir Percy?”
“A walloping, dear boy?” he said. “They were the
gentlest of taps. I was delighted when those gentlemen, er, asked me to join their fascinating traditional dance. I’m sure you’ll agree I entered fully into the spirit of the occasion.”
“Er, yes, Sir Percy.” Asked? Dragged you kicking and screaming more like.
“Sheet, please, Cedric,” said Sir Percy, carefully hauling himself out of the bath with more winces and groans. “Help me to dress and then you can empty the bath.”
Once my master was dry and dressed, I filled up the pail with water and carried it downstairs – the first of many trips. Margaret was just tipping a heap of chopped vegetables into the cauldron.
“Just leave that here, Master Cedric,” she said. “I’ll empty it while you takes that spare pail by the door. It’ll be quicker that way. Sooner you finishes, the sooner we can all have our supper.”
“Thanks, Margaret,” I said, putting down the pail. “What is for supper, by the way?”
“Turnip ’n’ cabbage soup,” she said. “Me special recipe. We normally only has it twice a year.”
“Really?” I said. “What makes it so special?”
“It’s all down to the tasty stock,” she said. She picked up the pail of Sir Percy’s bathwater and poured it into the cauldron. “Waste not, want not, I always say, Master Cedric!”
Copyright
STRIPES PUBLISHING
An imprint of Little Tiger Press
1 The Coda Centre, 189 Munster Road,
London SW6 6AW
First published as an ebook by Stripes Publishing in 2015
Text copyright © Peter Bently, 2015
Cover illustrations copyright © Fred Blunt, 2015
Illustrations copyright © Artful Doodlers, 2015
eISBN: 9781-84715-669-3
The right of Peter Bently, Fred Blunt and Artful Doodlers to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.