Authors: Peter Bently
Damsel Disaster! (2 page)
“You can say that again,” snapped the young woman. “Put me down at once!” She pounded Sir Percy’s armour with her fists. “Help! Help! I’m being kidnapped! Help!”
“Do be careful, sweet damsel!” cried Sir Percy in alarm. “You’ll unbalance—
AAAAAARRGH
!”
Sir Percy lurched sideways to dodge a well-aimed kick from a pointy-toed shoe. Unfortunately he lurched a bit too far. With a loud wail he tumbled off Prancelot into the bushes – taking the young woman with him.
“Ooof!”
“Ouch!”
I leaped from my saddle.
“Gosh!” I said, pulling the young woman free. “Are you all right, miss?”
“
All right
, boy?” she yelled. “I’ve just been seized by a raving lunatic and dumped upside down in a bramble bush. Of course I’m not all right!”
Sir Percy struggled to his feet. “But sweet damsel—” he began.
“Oh, stop calling me that, you tin-covered twit!” she raged. “My dress is torn to shreds! At least
you’re
wearing armour.”
Sir Percy
did
look pretty unscathed. Except, alas, for his expensive new plume. The ostrich feathers were dangling down to his waist, all crumpled and bedraggled.
“Well, don’t just stand there, you metallic moron!” fumed the young woman. “I demand an explanation!”
Sir Percy stood frozen to the spot with his mouth open. But at last he managed to speak. “Well, sweet – er – dear lady,” he gabbled. “I – I – that is to say, um – um –
my squire
here saw you struggling in the
bushes. I – er – I mean
he
distinctly heard you crying out that you were
in distress
. Isn’t that right, Cedric?”
“Oh – er – yes,” I said.
You definitely owe me one, Sir Percy!
I thought.
“You see, my lady?” he continued. “And of course the moment he told me
that
, I rode to your aid at once like the dutiful knight that I am!”
“You pair of dunderbrains!” she cried. “I didn’t say anything about being
in distress
. I said, ‘I wish I hadn’t come out
in this dress
.’ I was cross because I’d caught it on the brambles. I thought you were coming to help me pull it free. But now you’ve
totally
ruined it, Sir – Sir—”
“Er –
Patrick
,” said Sir Percy. “My dear lady, you have been the victim of a most unfortunate error. I do hope you will accept—”
“The money for a new dress?” she said.
“Er –
my squire’s
apologies,” said Sir Percy.
I bowed and looked suitably sheepish. “Sorry, miss,” I said.
“My lady,” said Sir Percy. “Now that’s all cleared up I trust you will allow me to escort you home.”
“Home?” said the young woman. “Not likely. My home is many miles away and I don’t think I could put up with you for that long. However, you
can
escort me back to where I’m staying tonight. It’s a horrid little inn down the road. The Bear’s Bellybutton or something.”
“Oh, you mean the Boar’s Bottom?” I piped up.
“That’s the one,” she said with a shudder. “The whole place positively
reeks
of peasant. That’s why I nipped out in the first place. For a bit of fresh air.”
Sir Percy put his foot in one of Prancelot’s stirrups. But the young woman stood in his way.
“What are you doing?” she said. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to walk? I shall ride your horse, Sir Patrick.”
“But – but – what about me?” said Sir Percy.
“Well, I’m sure your squire won’t mind giving up his mount for his master.”
“But – but – my lady!” spluttered Sir Percy. “I can’t ride a
mule
.”
“Really?” said the young woman. “I’m sure it’s just the same as riding a horse.”
I tried not to smile.
“No, I mean – it’s – it’s terribly
undignified
,” said Sir Percy.
“Suit yourself,” said the young woman. “You’ll just have to run alongside me. I hope you can keep up!” She skilfully swung herself up on to Prancelot, who snorted in protest. “And I’ll have no moaning from you, you old nag. Giddy up!”
Prancelot reluctantly started to trot away. Sir Percy stood there, not sure what to do.
The woman swung round in the saddle. “Come along, Sir Patrick,” she barked.
“Er – at once, my lady!” he replied. “Cedric, help me up.”
Gristle had no stirrups so I gave Sir Percy a leg-up into the saddle. The mule brayed grumpily at the extra weight.
“A knight on a mule! Oh, the humiliation!” muttered Sir Percy, grabbing the reins. “I only hope no one sees me. Thank goodness the inn isn’t far. Now gee up, or whatever it is one says to mules.”
Gristle’s idea of geeing up was to bray crossly and kick out his hind legs – nearly tipping off Sir Percy in the process. Then he started to walk
very
slowly. Sir Percy tried his best to look noble and dignified. Which wasn’t easy with a tattered plume flopping about his shoulders.
I watched until Sir Percy disappeared round the bend in the road. A couple of minutes later, a laughing crowd of peasants came past. It didn’t take long to find out what was so funny.
“Fancy seein’ Sir Percy on a mule!” said one.
“Arrr!” cackled another. “And what was that on ’is ’ead? Looked like a bunch o’ dead chickens!”
The crowd roared with laughter as they went off down the road. Then I spotted someone else coming round the corner, whistling. It was Patchcoat.
“Wotcher, Ced!” he called. “What’s going on? I was just leaving the shop with my new bell and saw Sir Percy outside the Boar’s Bottom. This tall posh lady was giving him a right old earful.”
I told Patchcoat what had happened.
“What a hoot!” he chortled. “Anyhow, talking of posh ladies, take a look at this poster. It was stuck on a tree near the inn.”
He took out a scroll of parchment from his jerkin and unrolled it.
“Isn’t Princess Astra-Fer-whatsit from the kingdom next door?” I asked. “She’s got a holiday castle not far from here. I think my dad went there once to fix a leaky roof.”
“That’s right,” said Patchcoat. “The castle’s on an island next to the town of Ladyburg, a few hours’ ride from here. I went to a joke contest there once – The
Ladyburg Jest Fest. It was a right hoot.” He sighed. “Didn’t win, mind.”
“Look, there’s a mistake in the poster,” I said. “Shouldn’t that be
Norman
Castle?”
Patchcoat shook his head. “Oh no, Ced. There’s no mistake,” he said. “Apparently it’s called Noman Castle because
no man
is allowed to set foot in it.”
“Gosh, Saturday’s tomorrow!” I said. “Anyway, I don’t know if Sir Percy even
wants
to get married. What makes you think he’d be interested?”
“Interested in what, dear boy?” said a voice.
We looked up. It was Sir Percy. He was back on Prancelot and leading
Gristle by the reins.
I showed him the poster.
“Pah!” huffed Sir Percy. “I’ve had quite enough of dealing with ladies for one day, thank you very much. The last thing I want to do is marry some bossy princess. Come along, Cedric. I’m going back to Castle Bombast for a lie-down.”
With that he began to ride on.
“Oh well, never mind,” sighed Patchcoat, turning to me. “Sir Percy’s right. She probably
is
a bit bossy. Fabulously rich princesses often are.”
Sir Percy stopped. He slowly turned in his saddle. A smile spread over his face. “On the other hand, dear boy…”
The next morning the castle clock was striking ten as Sir Percy, Patchcoat and I all set off for Noman Castle. As usual Sir Percy rode in front while Patchcoat and I followed in the cart pulled by Gristle. We were just heading through the castle gate when Mouldybun Margaret came running after us.
“Wait, Master Cedric!” she cried. “I’ve made Sir Percy a packed lunch. A lovely pie, fresh out the oven!” She handed me a cloth bundle tied up with string. It was warm and steaming and stank like a cross between boiled cabbage and a blocked drain. With a sort of fishy whiff thrown in.
“Thanks, Margaret,” I said. “What is it? It smells – um –
interesting
.”
“It’s one of me noo budget recipes,” said Margaret proudly. “Snake and kidney pie. I had to change it a bit, mind. The butcher swore them kidneys was only a week old, but it turns out they was off.”
“No
way
,” said Patchcoat, pretending to sound surprised.
“Aye,” said Margaret, giving him a beady stare. “So I chucked in a few old fish heads to disguise the smell. Took me ages to find ’em. They was right at the bottom of the slop bucket.”
“Er, thanks, Margaret,” I said queasily. I stuffed the bundle into my saddlebag.
“Yum!” said Patchcoat, as we rode on. “Lucky Sir Percy!”
A couple of hours later we were riding up a long, wooded hill in a part of the country I didn’t know.
“Not much further now, chaps,” called Sir Percy cheerfully, as we passed a signpost that said LADYBURG 5 MILES.
I turned to Patchcoat. “I wonder what the challenge will be.”
“No idea,” said Patchcoat. “But I’m surprised Sir Percy sounds so jolly. If there’s a test of bravery you’d think he’d be getting a bit nervous by now. I wonder if he’s up to something.”
Hmm. It was true. Whatever it said in
The Song of Percy
, my master normally
tried to wriggle out of anything that was actually dangerous. Could he be planning to cheat? It didn’t take long to find out.
“Cedric,” said Sir Percy. “I trust you have
The Song of Percy
in your saddlebag?”
“Of course, Sir Percy,” I said.
“Excellent,” said Sir Percy. “The moment we meet the princess I will simply slip her my book. She will read it and see at once that I am the suitor for her. Although of course she probably has a copy already. Pass it here, would you, Cedric?”
I opened my saddlebag and took out the small leather-bound book. As I handed it over a sharp pong from inside the bag reminded me of Margaret’s pie.
“Oh, Sir Percy,” I said. “I forgot to mention – Margaret’s made you a pie.”
“Goody!” said Sir Percy. “Kindly pass it over. I’m ravenous!”
I gave Sir Percy the cloth bundle.
“Um – rather interesting
aroma
, Cedric,” he said, unwrapping the pie. “What’s in it?”
“It’s Margaret’s own – er – special recipe, Sir Percy,” I said.
Sir Percy hungrily wolfed down a huge chunk. As he swallowed it he went cross-eyed and gave a shudder. He tried to speak but all that came out was “
Whauugh!
” “
Eeeesh!
” and “
Gaaah!
”
“Are you all right, Sir Percy?” I asked.
He belched very loudly. A foul blast of cabbagey-sewery-fishy breath blew over me and Patchcoat.
“Pardon me!” gasped Sir Percy. “Gosh! Well, that’s – er – certainly cured my appetite, Cedric.” He passed me the pie. “Here. You’re – um – most welcome to finish it. One doesn’t like to be
greedy
.”
“Er – thanks, Sir Percy,” I said, stuffing what was left of the pie back in my saddlebag. “I’ll save it for later.”
As we neared the top of the hill, a rather ominous glooping and gurgling noise started to come from Sir Percy’s tummy. It got louder and louder. And then Sir Percy began making some
other
very loud noises, too. Let’s just say Patchcoat and I were glad the breeze was coming from behind us.
We reached the crest of the hill. About a mile ahead, down in a broad valley, a jumble of roofs and spires peeped up over the walls of a small town.
“That’s Ladyburg right in front of us!” called Patchcoat.
Ladyburg stood on the shores of a wide lake. From the island in the middle of the lake rose a castle. It was surrounded by trees and its six tall pointy towers glistened in the sunshine.
“And that must be Noman Castle,” I said.
“Marvellous!” said Sir Percy. “We should easily get there by midday.”
But as we headed down the hill we saw that the road in front of us was crowded with men all the way to the gates of the town.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” called Sir Percy, as we came to the back of the line. “Kindly let me past. I have – er
– important business at the castle.”
The man at the end of the line turned round. He was wearing a cracked old chamber pot on his head.
“The castle, eh?” he said. “Yer better join the queue then, mate, ’adn’t yer?”
“Queue?” Sir Percy puffed out his chest. “My dear sir, I will have you know that I am riding to see Her Royal Highness Princess Fel – Astral—
OOOH!
”
Sir Percy groaned as his tummy gave its loudest grumble so far.
“Astra-Felicia, Sir Percy,” I said.
“Precisely, Cedric,” said Sir Percy, recovering. “And I’ll have you know, sir, that I have every intention of becoming
her husband!”
Chamber-pot man roared with laughter and several other men turned round.
They were also wearing pots and buckets on their heads.
“’Ear that, lads?” said chamber-pot man. “We’re all wastin’ our time! This joker reckons she’s already chosen
’im
!”
The men nearby tittered.
“Just cos ’e’s splashed out on a proper knight’s costoom,” jeered a man squinting out from a hole in the side of a rotten old bucket.
“How rude!” said Sir Percy. “Don’t you—
OOOH!
” He grimaced as his tummy gave an even louder grumble.
“Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”
Chamber-pot man screwed up his eyes and stared closely at Sir Percy. Then he grinned.
“Arrr! Of course!” he declared. “You’re that ratcatcher from up Little Piddlington way.”
“I –
ooooh!
– most certainly am not!” snorted Sir Percy. “My dear sir, I am a
real
knight. In fact, I am none other than Sir Percy the Proud!”
“Arr, me, too!” said a man sporting a battered old sieve with a leafy twig stuck in the top. “Do ’ee like me plume?”
“An’ I’m Sir Roland the Rotten!” said the man in the holey bucket. He lifted it to reveal a moustache made out of straw and tied under his nose with string.
“So yer see, mister, we’re
all
waiting to see the princess,” said chamber-pot man. “Yer’ll just have to join the queue.”
“Oh, Cedric, this is ridiculous!” said Sir Percy. “I refuse to be held up by a crowd
of peasants shamelessly pretending to be knights. It’s against the law, for one thing. It’s also jolly unfair. I do hate cheating.”
Yeah, right,
I thought.
“It’s nearly midday and they’re going to make me late. Cedric, please get rid of them and—
OOOOH! AAAAH!
Oh dear. I think I’m going to … I need… Oh no.
ARRRGH!
GET OUT OF MY WAY!”
In a flash Sir Percy slid off Prancelot and bolted into the woods, clutching his tummy.
“Where’s ’e off to then?” asked chamber-pot man.
“Oh, he’s given up and gone home,” said Patchcoat.
“Huh?” I began. But Patchcoat quickly dug me in the ribs.
“He knew that costume of his wouldn’t fool anyone,” Patchcoat went on. “You see, it’s only made of shiny paper.”
What on earth was Patchcoat playing at?
“Arr, I could tell!” said chamber-pot man. “Looks right cheap ’n’ nasty!”
“Yeah, doesn’t it?” chuckled Patchcoat. “Not like that helmet you’ve got there. That looks
really
fireproof.”
“Eh?” said chamber-pot man. “What d’yer mean, fireproof?”
“Well, it’ll be useful when you fight the dragon,” said Patchcoat.
“Dragon? What dragon?” said chamber-pot man.
Aha.
Now
I saw what Patchcoat was up to. But would they believe him?
At that moment there was a tremendous exploding noise from the nearby woods, accompanied by a wild, blood-curdling howl.
“WAAAARRGGGGH!!!”
The crowd shuffled nervously.
“
That
dragon,” said Patchcoat. “You know, the one the princess has got chained up in the woods.”
There was another thunderous explosion and an even more terrifying howl.
“’Ere – that there poster only says
there’ll be a challenge. It don’t say nothin’ about fightin’ no dragons!” said the man in the holey bucket.
There were murmurs of agreement.
Patchcoat hesitated.
“Um – of course not,” I piped up. “There’s no need.
Real
knights don’t mind what challenges they face. Fighting a terrifying fire-breathing dragon? That’s all in a day’s work for a
real
knight.”
“Er, yeah! That’s right,” smiled Patchcoat. “But don’t worry, lads. Those helmets of yours should last a good few seconds before you’re burned to a crisp.”