Damsel Disaster!

by Peter Bently

  “Funny,” said Patchcoat. “I’d heard the princess was a lot younger.”

  “Mind you, it doesn’t actually mention her age on the poster, does it?” I said.

  “Come, come now, Cedric,” said Sir Percy. “A true knight does not judge a lady by her age. He prefers nobler qualities such as intelligence and wit and – and…”

  A coffer full of cash, I thought.

  There was a slight bump as the sisters brought us in to the jetty.

  “Right, boys, out you get!” they hollered.

  The knights stepped out of the ferry first. They approached the aristocratic lady and removed their helmets.

  Sir Percy made a very elaborate bow. “Your Royal Highness,” he said. “Sir Percy the Proud, at your service!”

  The lady gave a start of surprise.

  “What?” she said. “I’m not the princess, you fool! Her Royal Highness is inside the castle. I am the Countess Sendham-Packing. But you may address me as High Steward.”

  “Hi, Stewart!” beamed Sir Spencer. “Cool name for a lady!”

  The countess glared at him so fiercely that he gave a little squeak.

  “You hare-brained clothes-horse!” she hissed. “I am the High Steward of Noman Castle. I look after Her Royal Highness and make sure everything runs smoothly. It is also my job to keep out revolting peasants and –” she looked at the three knights in turn – “other undesirables. Now, you’d better follow me and prepare yourselves.”

  “To meet the princess?” said Sir Roland. “About bloomin’ time!”

  “What?” snapped the High Steward. “Don’t be ridiculous. You read the poster. Before you meet Her Royal Highness you will all be put to the test. She is only interested in knights who are intelligent and brave.”

  “And handsome?” piped up Sir Spencer feebly. The High Steward shot him a look that could pierce a hole in armour.

  “Intelligent and brave,” the High Steward repeated. “Of course it’s easy for someone to say they’re brave and intelligent, isn’t it? But for all we know they might just be making it up.”

  Maybe it was a trick of the light, but I could have sworn that for a split second the High Steward glanced at Sir Percy. He smiled rather feebly.

  “Let us waste no more time,” the High Steward went on. “Knights, follow me and prepare to face your challenge!”

  The High Steward led the way. The castle was surrounded by trees except for a broad lawn next to the lake. In the centre stood a large pavilion.

  “D’you reckon Sir Percy’s all right, Ced?” asked Patchcoat. “He still looks a bit peaky.”

  “I know,” I said. “I don’t think the tummy potion has started working yet.”

  As if to prove it, Sir Percy’s tummy gave a very loud gloop.

  “Oh dear,” he grimaced. “I-I think I might need to visit the – er – you know, the – um – garderobe.”

  “Poor Percy-wercy needs a poop!” roared Sir Roland. “HUR-HUR … um, hur.”

  The High Steward silenced him with a glare. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sir Percy,” she snapped. “Why didn’t you go before you came?”

  “Um – as a matter of fact I did, Your Stewardship,” said Sir Percy. “Ooooh! I can’t … hold on … much longer!”

  “Oh, very well,” she sighed. “You can use the servants’ privy in the kitchens, through there.” She nodded to a small archway. “But you must NOT set foot anywhere else in the castle, is that clear? Any knight who enters the castle without permission will be instantly disqualified!”

  “Y-yes, Your Stewardship,” said Sir Percy. “Come along, Cedric, hurry!”

  “Me, Sir Percy?” I said.

  “Of course, dear boy!” he groaned, gripping his tummy. “I shall need you … oooh! … to help with my straps. Quickly— Oooh!”

  I sprinted ahead of Sir Percy. I reached the archway first, ran into the kitchen yard – and tripped over a large goat.

  “BEEEHH!”

  “Waah!”

  Luckily I had a soft (though rather smelly) landing in a large pile of vegetable peelings. But no sooner had I hauled myself to my knees than the grumpy goat went “BEEEHH!” again and gave me a sharp butt in the backside.

  “Ouch!” I cried, sprawling headlong back into the slippery heap.

  “Shoo, Stewie, shoo!” said a voice.

  I looked up to see a girl of about my age shoving the goat out of the way.

  “Sorry!” she giggled. “Stewie’s a sweetie really. It’s just that you’re lying on his dinner, see.”

  “Ugh!” I grimaced. I stood up and brushed off the worst of the muck.

  “Hello, I’m Peggy,” smiled the girl. “Who are you? We don’t get many boys round ’ere. Actually we don’t get any.”

  “Er, I’m Cedric,” I said. My face felt quite hot. Probably from all that running. “I’m with my master. He desperately needs—”

  And then Sir Percy himself hurtled into the yard, bent double and clutching his grumbling guts.

  “THE LOO, CEDRIC, THE LOO, QUICKLY! OOOOH!”

  “Gosh!” gasped Peggy. “A real knight! But men ain’t allowed in the castle!”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “The High Steward said he can use the servants’ privy.”

  “Oh, in that case follow me, sir.”

  Peggy led us inside and threw open a small door just off the kitchen. It was full of row upon row of expensive-looking dresses.

  “But … this isn’t … a looOOOOOH!” protested Sir Percy.

  “Yes ’tis, sir!” said Peggy. “Just go through. Loo’s at the far end.”

  Peggy waited outside while Sir Percy and I fumbled our way past the rows of dresses. The place certainly smelled like a loo. And there at the end of the room was a plank with a hole in it.

  “Thank goodness!” grimaced Sir Percy. “My armour, Cedric! Hurry! Oooh!”

  I hastily untied the straps of his leg armour.

  “Thank you,” he grunted. “Now GO!”

  I hurried out of the servants’ privy and shut the door just before a barrage of explosions.

  “Oo-er! Sounds bad!” said Peggy. “Whassamatter with your master?”

  “Something he ate,” I said. “So what’s with all the posh frocks in the privy?”

  “They’re Her Royal Highness’s best dresses,” said Peggy. “She reckons the smell keeps off the moths, so she keeps ’em in there. Much smellier than her own privy cos all us servants use it, see. Anyway, I’d best get back to work. I’ve got to pick some lemons for the princess’s lemonade. She always has lemonade in the afternoon. If old Stewie catches me chattin’ she’ll kill me!”

  “What?” I said. “Stewie the goat?”

  “No, Stewie the High Steward,” she sniggered. “Goat’s named after ’er. Don’t tell, will you?”

  “Course not!” I grinned.

  “Ta! Bye then, Cedric,” said Peggy. “See you later, I hope!”

  She smiled and gave me a little wave as she left the kitchen. My face felt hot again. Probably because of the kitchen fire. Yes, that’s it. Definitely the fire.

  After a while the explosions stopped and Sir Percy called me to help him put his armour back on. As I entered the privy I tried my hardest not to breathe. I won’t go into detail. Let’s just say there was no chance of the princess’s clothes being eaten by moths any time soon.

  We returned to Patchcoat and the others in the clearing by the lake. We were just in time to hear Sir Roland and Walter starting to chant, “Why are we waiting? Why-y are we waiting?”

  “Silence!” cried the High Steward. “There you are, Sir Percy. About time, too. Are you feeling better?”

  “Ah, yes, thank you, I—”

  “Good!” she cut him short. “Now, gentlemen, your challenge is to rescue a lady from captivity. Only those who pass the test will be permitted to meet the princess!”

  “Excellent, Cedric!” said Sir Percy. “A genuine damsel in distress. Splendid! This time you’ll really see how it’s d
one. So, Your Stewardship, where is this damsel? Tied up somewhere among these trees?”

  “No,” said the High Steward. “Up there.” She pointed to the tall, round tower behind her. Perched on the battlements, about thirty feet off the ground, were three stuffed dummies.

  “What?” protested Sir Roland. “Aren’t we going to rescue the real princess?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” snorted the High Steward. “Do you think Her Highness would be stupid enough to put herself at risk?”

  “Well, at least we won’t have to worry about any kicking and screaming,” said Sir Percy. “So all we have to do is run to the top of the tower, grab a dummy and run down. The fastest knight wins, isn’t that right, Your Stewardship? Good job I’m not on the porky side, eh, Cedric?” he smirked. “I reckon some people would have a job making it up all those stairs!”

  He glanced slyly at Sir Roland.

  Sir Roland glared back. “Right, Percy,” he growled. “Just you wait—”

  “Silence!” barked the High Steward. “Sir Percy, you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, you cloth-eared clot. I told you before that men are forbidden to go inside the castle. That includes the tower.”

  “But my dear lady,” said Sir Percy. “If we can’t use the stairs how can we rescue the dummies?”

  “Simple,” said the High Steward. “From the outside.”

  The tower had no windows or ledges and just a few arrow slits near the top. Its stone sides looked as smooth as glass. It would be impossible to climb them unaided.

  Sir Percy went rather pale. Sir Spencer, on the other hand, turned positively green.

  “W-whaaat?” he squeaked. “You don’t mean – c-climb up there?”

  “Of course,” said the High Steward. “This is a test of bravery. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights, Sir Spencer?”

  “This isn’t terribly fair, you know,” said Sir Percy. “None of us have brought any equipment. We can hardly climb up with our bare hands, can we?”

  “Of course not,” snapped the High Steward. “There’s plenty of equipment in the pavilion. You can use whatever you like as long as no other knight has chosen it. You will have one attempt only. So what you choose and how you use it will be an excellent test of your intelligence.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then,” said Sir Percy. “Cedric, there’s bound to be a ladder. You can hold it steady while I nip up and rescue—”

  “Wait!” said the High Steward. “Each knight must perform the challenge alone. Anyone helped by his squire will be instantly disqualified! Now, gentlemen, let’s see who’s going first. Pick a ball.”

  She took a silk pouch from her belt and held it open. Each knight put in his hand and took out a little silver ball with a number on it. Sir Roland chose the number one, Sir Spencer two and Sir Percy three.

  “Sir Roland, you’re first,” said the High Steward. “Choose your equipment.”

  “Good luck, Sir Roland,” smarmed Walter.

  “Luck? I don’t need luck to prove who’s the best knight around here!”

  Sir Roland went into the pavilion. He came out carrying a rope with a heavy three-pronged hook on the end.

  “This will do the job,” he said. “Stand back!”

  We all scuttled away to a safe distance as Sir Roland started to swing the hook round his head. Then, with a mighty roar, he let go of the rope. The hook hurtled to the top of the tower, caught the edge of the battlements – and stayed there.

  “Right, up we go!” laughed Sir Roland. After a quick tug to check the hook was secure, he shinned up the rope like a squirrel up a tree. We watched in awe as he reached the battlements, slung the dummy over his shoulder and shinned down the rope again at incredible speed.

  Sir Roland jumped the last few feet to the ground.

  “Hur-hur! I haven’t had this much fun since my last siege!” He laughed and flung the dummy to the floor.

  “Really, Sir Roland!” snapped the High Steward. “Is that any way to treat a lady? I shall bear that in mind in the event of a tie.”

  Sir Roland looked a bit sheepish.

  “Don’t worry, Sir Roland, you’re still bound to win,” said Walter. He turned to me and hissed, “I’d like to see your useless master do better than that, Fatbottom!”

  “Yikes,” I whispered to Patchcoat. “Walter’s right. Sir Roland’s going to take some beating!”

  “Sir Spencer,” said the High Steward. “Your turn next!”

  Sir Spencer looked frantically around as if he was trying to find a way to escape.

  “Come along, Sir Spencer!” barked the High Steward. “We haven’t got all day!”

  Sir Spencer smiled feebly and finally entered the pavilion. We heard him give a cry of surprise. A few seconds later he came out, dragging a very long ladder behind him.

  “Look what I found!” he said. “A siege ladder! You missed a trick there, Roly. Surprised you didn’t spot it! This is by far the easiest way to climb a tower, eh, Algie?”

  “Oh, well done, Sir Spencer!” beamed Algernon. “You are clever!”

  I was sure Sir Roland would say something rude. But to my surprise he just smiled.

  “Yeah, really well done, Spencer,” he said. “How very silly of me not to use the ladder, eh?”

  He sounded sincere – which instantly made me suspicious. Had Sir Roland done something to the ladder?

  With much grunting, Sir Spencer lifted the ladder against the tower. It reached just to the battlements.

  “Right,” he said. “Here goes!”

  He muttered something about being fine as long as he didn’t look down. Then, slowly and nervously, he began to climb.

  Gradually Sir Spencer got closer and closer to the top. Only a few rungs to go and he’d be within reach of the dummy. But suddenly the ladder gave an ominous creak. Sir Spencer squealed.

  “Go on, Sir Spencer,” bleated Algernon. “You can do it!”

  Sir Spencer grinned faintly. He carefully put his foot on the next rung and hauled himself up.

  CRACK!

  The rung snapped in two. Sir Spencer’s legs flailed about in mid-air as he clung on for dear life. The ladder wobbled horribly.

  “Waaah!” Sir Spencer wailed in terror.

  “Hey, Spencer,” called Sir Roland. “I forgot to mention why I didn’t choose the ladder. It’s riddled with woodworm! Hur-hur-hur!”

  At last the ladder stopped wobbling. Very slowly, Sir Spencer began to climb the last couple of rungs to the battlements.

  We watched with bated breath.

  Algernon was so nervous he started jiggling up and down like he desperately needed a wee.

  At last Sir Spencer reached the top. He clung on to the ladder with one hand and quickly grabbed a dummy with the other.

  “Oh, bravo, Sir Spencer!” cried Algernon. “I knew you’d do it!’

  “N-no problemo!” Sir Spencer called. “B-back in a jiffy!”

  He was holding the dummy rather awkwardly round the waist and, as he climbed down, the dummy’s head walloped each rung with a thonk. Before long I noticed a small white cloud around Sir Spencer.

  “Are those feathers?” I said, turning to Patchcoat.

  “Looks like it,” he replied. “I think the stuffing’s coming out of the dummy.”

  Sir Spencer suddenly stopped.

  “Bother!” he called. “I think I’m going to snee-ee-ee-ah-ah-A-TISHOO!”

  With the force of the sneeze Sir Spencer flew backwards, yanking the ladder away from the wall again so that it stood dead upright. At the same time, there was a horrible splitting and cracking sound as Sir Spencer slid down several rungs, snapping each one as he went.

  The ladder swayed. It teetered. It tottered. For a few seconds it looked like it would just drop back against the wall. But no. We gasped as it began to tilt in the direction of … the lake!

  “Algie!” wailed Sir Spencer. “Do something!”

  Algernon ran to the ladder and desperately tried to hold it.
But it was no use.

  “Help! Help!” hollered Sir Spencer. “Aaaaaarrgh! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  The ladder, the dummy and Sir Spencer plummeted into the water with a tremendous SPLASH!

  Algernon ran to help Sir Spencer out of the lake. As Sir Spencer sloshed on to the bank he seemed unharmed. But he was covered from head to toe in slime and mud.

  “My new cloak!” he howled, spitting out a mouthful of frogspawn. “It’s ruined!”

  The High Steward cried “Disqualified!” but we hardly heard her above Sir Roland’s roars of laughter. We had a hard job not laughing ourselves. “You failed on three counts,” she went on. “One, bashing the lady’s head on the rungs. Two, failure to bring the lady back safely. And three, receiving assistance from your squire. Sir Spencer, kindly leave the castle!”

  “Bad luck, old bean!” said Sir Percy, trying not to grin.

  “Hey, Spencer, that was epic!” guffawed Sir Roland. “An epic FAIL! Hur-hur-hur!”

  The High Steward escorted the squelching Sir Spencer back to the boat. “Right, Sir Percy!” she said. “Your turn!”

  In a split second Sir Percy’s face switched from a smirk to a look of sheer panic.

  “Come along!” said the High Steward impatiently. “We haven’t got all day!”

  Sir Percy sighed and slipped into the pavilion. After a minute or two I heard him cry, “Splendid! The very thing!” He then emerged with what looked like a sort of round table tucked under his arm.

  “What’s that, Sir Percy?” I asked. Peering more closely I saw that it was basically a wide metal hoop on four legs, with tough leather stretched tightly across the top. “Is it some kind of drum?”

  “This is a battle-bouncer,” smiled Sir Percy, placing it on the ground near the bottom of the tower. “A brand-new invention. I’ve seen them advertised in Horse and Helm. They save you the bother of scaling a castle wall. Instead you simply bounce up to the battlements. Neat, eh? Here goes! Three, two, one – Way-HAY!”

  He leaped with both feet on to the battle-bouncer.

  BOINGGGGG!