‘Hundreds.’
‘How do you … I mean, what do you say to them?’ asked Crispin. ‘When I’m with the Princess my words all get muddled.’
‘I wouldn’t bother!’ grunted Sir Bigwart. ‘They don’t want to talk about anything interesting like horses or hunting. Princesses only want to talk about themselves.’
‘Do they?’
‘Oh yes. They want you to admire their eyes, their teeth, and so on.’
This was news to Crispin. ‘What about their teeth exactly?’ he said.
‘Oh, you know – they’re bright as the moon, they shine like the stars – that sort of drivel. If you really want to impress a princess, write her a poem. Poetry never fails.’
‘Really?’
‘Take it from me. Read them a poem and they practically fall into a swoon.’
Crispin was greatly cheered by this (though it didn’t occur to him that Sir Bigwart might not be the best person to ask). As it happened, Crispin had already written a number of poems about Princess Marigold. He made them up when he was chopping onions in the kitchen (onions always put him in the right mood). Perhaps, if he could pluck up the courage, he could recite one of his poems to Marigold.
The rain was falling steadily.
‘Come on,’ said Sir Bigwart. ‘Let’s go in before I rust away.’
Back inside, the Princess had blown out the candle on the table and was tucked up under Crispin’s cloak. Her red robe hung from a bookshelf to dry. Crispin helped his master out of his armour and left him curled up in the armchair to sleep. He could see Marigold’s hair tumbling loose over her pillow. Hidden in the darkness, he didn’t feel quite so shy.
‘Marigold!’ he whispered, creeping closer. ‘Marigold?’
The Princess mumbled something he didn’t catch.
‘It’s me. Crispin. I wondered if I could … well … read you one of my poems.’
No answer. He wasn’t sure if Marigold was actually awake.
‘It’s not very long. Actually, it’s only one verse.’
Silence again. Having got this far, Crispin decided it was now or never. He took a deep breath and began.
‘Ogres are big,
Giants are tall,
Witches are ugly
But you’re not at all.’
He waited for Marigold to swoon or sigh or at least turn her head and look at him, but she did none of these things. She had probably slept through the whole thing. Disappointed, he rose to his feet and turned away.
‘Crispin?’
‘Yes?’
‘Get some sleep,’ said Marigold.
‘Oh. Right. Good idea,’ replied Crispin. He crept away on tiptoe, feeling utterly ridiculous.
If the darkness hadn’t hidden Marigold’s face, he would have seen she was smiling.
Sir Bigwart was dreaming. In his dream he was battling heroically against a giant blackberry pie. The pie was growing bigger all the time and the only solution was for someone to eat it. Sir Bigwart’s sword sliced open the brown crust and blackberries oozed out. His enemy was making small, snuffling noises which seemed out of character for a fruit pie.
His eyes blinked open. Two small black eyes stared back at him from either side of a bristly snout. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, but he could feel warm breath on his face. The animal staring at him was covered in coarse, dark hair and had two savage-looking tusks. Suddenly it came to him: it was a boar – a wild boar – and it was deciding whether to eat him.
‘YAAAARGH!’ Sir Bigwart shot out of his chair as if he’d been stung by a hornet. The wild boar toppled backwards with a surprised squeal. It scrambled to its feet and gave him an offended look. Sir Bigwart seized the nearest weapon to hand, which happened to be one of his gauntlets. It wasn’t much use but at least he could poke it in the eye.
Crispin and Marigold had woken up and were both staring at the boar in amazement, partly because it was wearing a bottle-green velvet cloak tied round its neck. Waking up in the morning to find a wild boar on top of you is surprising enough, but what happened next was an even greater shock. The boar opened its mouth and spoke.
‘You’ll have to forgive the mess,’ it said. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
Chapter 6
An Odour of Ogres
Meanwhile, a few miles north, a castle was stirring into life …
It was built of grey stone which over the years had cracked and crumbled away. Parts of it had fallen into the green, foul-smelling slime that was the moat. Moss grew in the castle’s damp courtyards and ivy invaded the walls. The battlements looked out over Ghastly Fell where, even in spring, the fog was so thick that nothing could be seen but the ghostly shapes of trees. It was a place where the sun never shone and the birds never sang. People said that if anyone went into the castle, they never came out.
Right now thumps and bumps could be heard upstairs. It was just after noon and the ogres had risen from their beds. You might think that twin ogres would be fond of each other, but you’d be mistaken. Dungbean and Grimbeard could never be in the same room without squabbling and fighting. Sometimes they argued for hours, even for days at a time, roaring and stamping their giant feet so that anyone listening would imagine it was an earthquake. When they weren’t squabbling or sleeping, they were thinking about food. Ogres are not vegetarians – their favourite meal is red meat. Best of all, they like human flesh. Raw, roast, fried or boiled – it doesn’t matter to an ogre.
Grimbeard yawned and scratched his hairy armpit as he thumped downstairs. He was as ugly an ogre as you could wish to meet. His hair was matted and filthy while his beard was so gigantic it covered his mountainous belly. A beard as thick as a hedge can be useful and Grimbeard’s wasn’t just for show. Sometimes he would reach into it and pull out a titbit he’d been saving since breakfast. Over time his beard had become speckled and crusty with breadcrumbs, egg, bacon and jam, but Grimbeard didn’t notice – he still imagined he was as dazzling as a prince and certainly much better looking than his grisly brother.
Dungbean was waiting for him in the dining hall. If anything, he was more disgusting than his twin. When Dungbean opened his mouth to yawn, the air was filled with a repulsive stink. His breath was so bad it could strip the leaves off a tree, and this wasn’t surprising since he had never cleaned his teeth in his life. These teeth had rotted until they looked like a row of crooked tombstones; some were mossy green while others had dropped out altogether. Not that Dungbean cared a jot. If he smelled like a muckheap who cared? What is the point in scrubbing yourself with soap and water, he asked, when a good layer of dirt keeps you warm under your clothes? There was only one thing he did every morning, which was to shave his bristly chin with an axe. After all, he didn’t want to look like his ridiculous, fungus-faced brother.
‘What is for breakfast, bimstinkle?’ asked Grimbeard, sitting down. (The ogres hardly ever spoke to each other without sprinkling their conversation with insults.)
‘How is I to know, duncebungler?’ replied Dungbean scornfully. ‘Look in the pantry and see.’
‘Look yourself,’ grunted Grimbeard.
Dungbean got to his feet, grumbling, and went to the pantry. He came out holding a lump of cheese that had turned blue with mould. ‘Nothing but this!’ he said, shoving it under his brother’s nose.
‘What?’ thundered Grimbeard. ‘No breakfast? I is hungry as a whale!’
‘So is I!’ replied his twin. ‘My bellies has been gurgling like a drainpipe ever since I got up!’
‘Then why didn’t you set the trap last night like I is telling you?’ demanded Grimbeard.
‘What is you drivelling about? I did!’
‘Did? You never did!’
‘I is telling you, muckslop! Last night I was out there setting it.’
‘The trap?’
‘Are you dim as a dunghill? What is I just saying to you?’
This went on for some time since the ogres could turn the simplest conversation into a furio
us argument. They clenched their fists and furrowed their brows, trying to think of worse insults to call each other. Finally they remembered that they were hungry and there was no chance of any breakfast until they checked to see if they had caught anything in their traps.
The trap Dungbean had set was a simple one. (Ogres may be big but they are not famous for their intelligence.) It was a deep muddy hole in the ground and if anything fell into the hole it was trapped (as simple as that). You might think that a whopping great hole would be obvious to anyone, but the giants set their trap by covering it each night with Grimbeard’s hanky and a scattering of leaves. In any case, Ghastly Fell was so foggy that most days it was hard to see your nose in front of your face. Even the ogres had stepped in their own trap on many occasions. But today their luck was in. When Grimbeard peered into the trap, he saw two large brown eyes gazing up at him.
‘’Tis a milkmulcher!’ he said. The cow rolled its head and mooed pitifully.
‘Well, what is you waiting for? Pull it out!’ urged Dungbean.
Grimbeard got down on his knees and reached into the hole. The poor beast swung round dizzily as it was lifted into the air.
‘’Tis not much of a breakfast,’ grumbled Dungbean. ‘One swallop and it will be gone.’
‘’Tain’t enough for the both of us,’ agreed Grimbeard with a sly grin. ‘And as I catched it I should be the one to scoffle it.’
‘YOU, gobfungus?’ roared Dungbean. ‘I is the one that set the trap.’
‘But I is the one that told you to do it!’
‘Give it to me, duncebungler!’ growled Dungbean, trying to grab the cow.
‘Not on your bellies, hogbreath!’
Dungbean grabbed his brother by the beard. Grimbeard yelled and seized his twin by the hair. The ogres bellowed and struggled and grunted as they rolled over and over. Grimbeard forgot about the cow and dropped it. Scrambling to its feet, it trotted off looking rather dazed. It might have escaped if Dungbean hadn’t spotted it first.
‘Look! The squizzler is getting away!’ he roared.
Dungbean raised one of his feet and brought it down with a horrible squelch.
He bent down to look. ‘’Tis a bit flattened,’ he said. ‘It looks like a pancake.’
But his twin brother wasn’t listening. Grimbeard had got to his feet and was sniffing the air like a hound catching a scent.
‘Listen, I smells something,’ he leered with a horrible grin.
‘What?’
‘Whomans,’ replied Grimbeard.
Dungbean’s eyes lit up, the fight instantly forgotten. ‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Not far,’ said Grimbeard. ‘Set the trap, bimstinkle. Tonight we will catch us a supper worth the scoffling.’
Chapter 7
The Wizard Firkin
Back at the cottage, Sir Bigwart was staring open-mouthed at the wild boar.
‘Did I dream it or did it just speak?’ he asked.
‘Of course I spoke,’ replied the wild boar. It hopped on to the chair, blinking its small black eyes. ‘I suppose I must look a bit strange, but then I wasn’t expecting to come home and find you sleeping in my house.’
‘Your house? I thought hogs lived in the forest,’ said Princess Marigold.
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me a hog,’ said the wild boar peevishly. ‘My name is Firkin. The wizard Firkin.’ He attempted a dignified bow but since he was sitting on his velvet cloak he almost succeeded in throttling himself.
‘If you’re a wizard, why do you look like a pig?’ asked Marigold.
‘Ah,’ said Firkin. ‘That was an accident. I’m not actually qualified as a wizard, you see. I’m still what you’d call an apprentice. And sometimes spells don’t do what you’re expecting.’
He went on to explain what had happened, pausing every now and then to rub himself against the table. He lived alone in the wood where he was studying for his Advanced Spelling Test. That morning he had been practising a harmless sneezing spell on himself when he had somehow read the wrong page in his book of magic. The next thing he knew, he had grown four legs and a tail and was snuffling around on the floor.
‘But if you’re a wizard, why can’t you undo the spell?’ asked Crispin.
‘Alas,’ said Firkin, ‘I wish it was that simple, but as I said, I’m only an apprentice and I need help to break the spell. I went to my master’s house but he’s gone to visit the Wizard Mandrake and I’ve no idea when he’ll be back. Till then I’m stuck like this.’
Firkin sat down among his piles of books looking extremely sorry for himself.
Sir Bigwart reached for his helmet. ‘Well, I wish we could help but we really ought to be going.’
‘We can’t just leave him!’ protested Crispin. ‘Didn’t you say you can’t break the spell on your own?’
‘I can’t,’ agreed Firkin.
‘But someone else could help you?’
‘Only a princess, and I’m hardly likely to find one of those.’
Sir Bigwart laughed. ‘A princess? Why didn’t you say so before? You’re in luck! This is the Princess Marigold.’
‘Really?’ Firkin stared at Marigold. ‘She doesn’t look much like a princess!’
‘And you don’t look much like a wizard!’ sniffed Marigold.
‘Never mind that – how does she break the spell?’ said Crispin impatiently.
‘Oh, with a kiss. A kiss from a princess can break any enchantment.’
‘NO,’ said Marigold flatly. ‘I can’t and I won’t.’
‘It’s only one little kiss,’ said Crispin. ‘It’s the least we can do.’
‘WE?’ cried Marigold. ‘Nobody’s asking you to kiss a smelly old pig.’
‘Please,’ begged Firkin. ‘I’d be very grateful. And if you’d rather close your eyes, I promise I won’t be offended.’ He hopped up on to the chair and presented his snout to be kissed. The Princess groaned.
Sir Bigwart and Crispin were trying not to laugh.
‘Swear you will never repeat this to anyone,’ said the Princess.
‘I promise,’ said Crispin.
‘Pig’s honour,’ nodded Sir Bigwart.
Marigold approached the boar waiting patiently on the chair. She leaned forward slowly with her eyes screwed shut until her lips brushed something warm and damp. It was Firkin’s snout. The next moment there was a flash of bright light and, instead of the boar, a young man with wild black hair sat there looking rather dazed.
Marigold jumped back and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
‘Ugh!’ she said. ‘I am never doing that again.’
Firkin inspected his hands and felt his nose to see if it was a snout. ‘It worked!’ he cried. ‘I’m back! Thank you, thank you, dear Princess!’ He threw his arms around Marigold and would have kissed her again if she hadn’t shoved him away from her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but you’ve no idea what a relief it is to be back to my old self. Tell me, is there anything I can do for you in return?’
‘Well,’ said Sir Bigwart, ‘we haven’t had any breakfast.’
Crispin had forgotten how hungry he was. None of them had eaten anything since yesterday afternoon when they’d finished the last of the honey cakes. But looking round, he couldn’t see what Firkin was planning to cook them. There was nothing in the house except piles of old books.
‘Princess,’ said Firkin, ‘what would you like? Name it – anything at all.’
‘Can you make porridge?’ asked Marigold. ‘Warm porridge with cream and nutmeg?’
Firkin bowed. ‘Nothing could be easier.’
‘Oh – and ham. With eggs if you happen to have some.’
‘Porridge, ham and eggs? Will that be all?’ smiled Firkin.
‘Quite all,’ said Marigold. ‘I’m not that hungry.’
Firkin turned to the large black iron pot, which was bubbling quietly to itself even though the fire had burned out. ‘Please stand well back,’ he warned. ‘Never get too clos
e when magic is at work.’
He stretched out his arms, spreading his cloak like a peacock’s feathers, and spoke in a loud voice.
‘Cooking pot, cooking pot,
Hear my request,
Ham, eggs and porridge
And only the best!’
No sooner had he finished speaking, than the black pot began to bubble and boil. Thick clouds of smoke rose from within, turning first blue then green then violet before their eyes. Finally the pot gave a great belch and something flew out. Firkin caught it neatly in his hands. It was a large bowl filled with steaming porridge and topped with a thick slice of ham and three poached eggs.
‘Ah,’ said Firkin. ‘Perhaps I should have ordered the porridge first.’
Sir Bigwart stared at the food in amazement. ‘By the stars!’ he said. ‘How did you do that?’
‘Magic,’ said Firkin, with a wave of his hand. ‘I told you I’m a wizard. The pot can cook you anything you desire. All you have to do is ask.’
The warm porridge filled their empty stomachs and no one left a scrap in the bowl. When they had all finished, Sir Bigwart rose to his feet and thanked their host and said they must be on their way.
‘We’ve a long way to go if we’re to reach the Castle of Fell,’ he said.
Firkin gave him a strange look. ‘The ogres’ castle?’
‘Yes. You’ve heard of it?’
‘Heard of it? It’s a few miles to the north – through the forest and across the moor. But why would anyone want to go there?’
‘We are on a quest,’ said Crispin. ‘My master has sworn to kill the ogres.’
Sir Bigwart coughed. ‘I wouldn’t say sworn exactly. And in any case, we’re not in any great hurry.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Marigold. ‘The sooner you slay these horrible ogres the sooner we can all go home!’
‘I must say I admire your courage,’ said Firkin. ‘Most people are terrified of ogres.’
‘Oh, an ogre or two is nothing to me,’ boasted Sir Bigwart. ‘I’ve fought giants ten times as big and killed them with one swipe of my sword. Isn’t that right, Crispin?’
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