Rotten Luck! (2 page)

Chapter 2

Banquet Bombshell

“Your Majesties!” grinned Sir Percy, freeing his face from Sir Roland’s armpit. “How simply
splendid
to see you both. And happy birthday, sire! I trust all is well with Your Majesty?”

“Fine, thanks,” said the king. “Which is more than can be said for the sheriff.”

“Oh dear, dear,” schmoozed Sir Percy.

“I’m
awfully
sorry to hear that, Your Majesty. Has he been taken ill?”

The queen frowned. “No,” she said. “You’re sitting on him.”

There was a groan from underneath the knot of knights. They hastily untangled themselves to reveal a little man with a pointy beard and thin moustache. The deputy sheriff ran to help him up.

“Thundewing thumbscwews!” shrieked the sheriff. “Of all the dimwitted, dunderheaded, dog-bwained—”

“Sorry, sir,” grunted the deputy sheriff.

“Not you, Lurk!” the sheriff snapped. He pointed at the three knights. “These fools. Why, I’ve a good mind to lock ’em all up and thwow away the key!”

The king laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come along, sheriff! We’d better sit down,” he said. “They’re about to serve dinner!”

“Vewy well, Your Majesty,” he said. “But these oafs haven’t heard the last of this!”

The sheriff strutted to his seat beside
the king’s throne with as much dignity as he could muster.

Queen Malicia turned to the knights. “And as for
you
three,” she hissed. “After that little scene, you can jolly well sit in the corner.”

She pointed to the end of the table furthest from the king. Sir Percy, Sir Spencer and Sir Roland sheepishly squeezed themselves on to the end of the bench next to a large baroness.

The queen took her throne beside the king. “Happy birthday, Fredbert dear!” she declared.

And then she led the whole hall in a rousing chorus:

“Thank you!” beamed the king, after all the cheering and clapping had died down. Then the kitchen door opened and in marched a procession of servants carrying a peacock pie, a whole roast boar and dozens of other steaming dishes.

I served up Sir Percy’s food and stood behind him while he cheerfully stuffed his face. Sir Roland was still sulking as he chewed noisily on a haunch of boar, while Sir Spencer just picked at his food and kept
whining to Algernon about his torn tunic. I’ll say one thing about my master, he never stays grumpy for long.

After the main course, there was another round of cheers as a magnificent birthday cake topped with a marzipan crown was brought in. I served Sir Percy a large slice. He had just stuffed in an enormous mouthful when the queen raised her hand for silence.

“My lords, ladies and knights,” she declared. “You may now give the king his presents!”

Sir Percy suddenly coughed and spluttered violently, spraying cake all over the tablecloth and the elderly earl sitting
opposite, who had dozed off with his mouth wide open.

Sir Percy covered his face with a napkin and turned to me with a look of pure panic.

“Cedric!” he whispered. “This is a disaster. I’ve forgotten to get the king a present! Why didn’t you remind me?”

I could have said, “Because I was too busy trying to remember all the things you’d got for yourself.” But that would have been a breach of the Squire’s Code about being sarky to your master.

All eyes had turned to our end of the table, where Sir Roland and Sir Spencer were already producing gifts from inside their tunics.

“Aha!” said the king brightly. “I see Sir Percy is
dying
to go first. Come on, then,
Percy, show us what’ve you brought me!”

“Ah, yes, well, sire, I – um – er…” my master gibbered. “You see, er, my
squire
here…”

Then I had a brainwave. Wherever Sir Percy went, he made sure I packed at least one signed copy of
The Song of Percy
, his best-selling book, to give to his admirers. It’s full of thrilling stories about his brave deeds. The only snag is that they are all ever so slightly made up.

“Um – I left it upstairs, Your Majesty,” I said quickly.

“You did?” said Sir Percy. “Um – I mean, he did, sire!”

“Silly boy!” said the king with a chuckle.
“You’d better go and fetch it then, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said.

“And I hope it’s not another signed copy of your book, Sir Percy,” said the king. “You’ve sent me ten already!”

Everyone roared with laughter. Yikes! Now what was I going to do? But before I could think of a Plan B there was a noise at the door and a breathless peasant came running into the hall.

“Yer Majesties! Yer Majesties!” he panted, doffing his cap.

The sheriff shot to his feet. “What is the meaning of this outwage!” he cried. “How dare you intewwupt the
king’s birthday party! Lurk, thwow this wepulsive peasant out at once!”

“Yes, Yer Lordship,” grunted Lurk. He lumbered towards the peasant, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

“Hold on,” said the queen. “The poor fellow looks all hot and bothered. Perhaps we’d better hear what he has to say.”

“Quite right, Malicia, dear,” the king agreed. “It might be important. Do sit down, sheriff.”

The sheriff bowed stiffly and sat down, fiddling with his moustache and glowering at the peasant.

“I’ve been robbed!” the peasant began. “By bandits!”

“Bandits?” thundered the king. “Good heavens! Where?”

“On me way ’ome through the forest, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant. “I sold three goats an’ a goose in the market
today and made a nice little pile o’ cash. Them robbers took the ’ole blinkin’ lot!”

“What did they look like?” asked the queen.

“Dunno, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant. “Most of ’em had ’oods. And their leader was wearin’ a mask!”

“The Ghost of Gwimwood!” cried the sheriff. “I thought as much!”

“
Ghost
?” the king frowned. “Sheriff, are you seriously suggesting this man was robbed by a
ghost
?”

“No, sire,” replied the sheriff. “Not a ghost but
the
Ghost. The leader of a notowious band of outlaws who live in the fowest. They call him the Ghost because
he always vanishes without a twace. But I’ll catch him one day, sire. And when I do, ooh! What fun I’ll have!” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “We haven’t had a decent
execution
awound here for ages. The last shewiff was such a tewwible
softie
, you see…”

“Sir Edward Worthington, a softie?” said the king. “I’m surprised to hear that, sheriff.”

The sheriff looked a bit flummoxed. “Ah, well, yes of course Sir Edward was a dweadful
twaitor
, sire,” he said. “That letter I found pwoved it. But he didn’t like chopping people’s heads off. I shall change all that. Starting with the Ghost!”

“Um – beggin’ yer pardon, Yer
Majesty,” said the peasant. “But I don’t reckon it
were
the Ghost who robbed me.”

“What makes you so sure?” asked the king.

“For starters, the Ghost and his band
never
rob us peasants.” The peasant looked rather nervously round the hall. “He only robs – beggin’ everybody’s pardon – posh folks.”

There were gasps of alarm. Sir Spencer gave a little squeak.

“Good gracious,” said the king. “Do you mean to say we could all have been robbed on the way here? Why didn’t you warn us, sheriff?”

The sheriff shifted uneasily in his seat. “I –
er – didn’t want to
alarm
you, sire,” he said.

“Oh, the Ghost don’t rob
all
posh people, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant, trying not to catch the sheriff’s eye. “Only them that is good pals of the sheriff’s.”

The sheriff scowled but said nothing.

“And another thing,” the peasant went on. “The Ghost is always nice and polite, even when ’e’s robbin’ folks. The blokes that robbed me was rude an’ unfriendly. They even scoffed the pasty the wife made me as a snack. The Ghost would never do
anything
like that.”

“Wubbish!” snapped the sheriff. “Who else could it have been? Sire, I think we’ve heard enough!” He nodded
to Lurk, who seized the peasant and frogmarched him to the door. “If you ask me, these wotten peasants
deserve
to be wobbed. I’ve offered a fat weward but they do nothing to help me catch the Ghost! They wegard him as some kind of
hewo
! Perhaps if Your Majesty were to let me double their taxes? And maybe do a couple of
teensy-weensy
little
executions
? That would teach them a lesson!”

“Beg pardon, Yer Majesty,” said the peasant, as Lurk thrust him out of the hall. “We just can’t afford all these taxes the sheriff makes us pay. I know they say Sir Edward was a traitor, but at least he was fair!”

“The fellow’s right, sheriff,” said the king. “If you put taxes up any more we’ll have a rebellion on our hands. I can’t allow it.”

“Balderdash!” snarled the sheriff. “Tax ’em and axe ’em, I say!”