Rotten Luck! (6 page)

But Maud spoke too soon. At that moment a horse and cart trundled out through the castle gates. It was laden to the brim with what looked like a week’s worth of poop from the castle stables. As the cart moved slowly over the drawbridge, I heard a horribly familiar voice.

“Blistering breastplates! As if it isn’t bad enough missing
another
day’s boar hunting, I have to get stuck behind a stinking stack of manure! Get a move on, dung-cart driver!”

My heart sank. Following the dung cart out of the castle were Sir Roland and Walter!

Chapter 7

Mucking and Diving

Walter squealed with glee. “Look, Sir Roland!” he cried. “It’s Sir Percy and Fatbottom!”

Uh-oh, here comes trouble
, I thought, as Sir Roland and Walter strode over to Lurk.

“What’s going on?” Sir Roland said. “The sheriff told me he’d caught the Ghost and his gang. So why’s that pompous twit
Sir Percy in the stocks?”

“Sir Percy
is
the Ghost, Yer Honour,” said Lurk. “He’s a dangerous villain!”

“Percy? A dangerous villain?” Sir Roland roared with laughter. “He’s about as dangerous as a bowl of porridge!”

(Actually that made Sir Percy sound pretty scary. Sir Roland had clearly never tried Mouldybun Margaret’s porridge.)

“Ooh no, Yer Honour,” said Lurk. “He’s had you fooled all along. He’s a
master o’ disguise,
yer see.”

“A master of disguise? Don’t be ridic—” Sir Roland suddenly stopped. “Hold on, though. He
did
sneak into a princess’s castle in disguise… Hmm. I’m not likely
to forget
that
little episode in a hurry.” He glowered at Sir Percy. “I don’t think I ever got you back for that, did I, Percy?”

Sir Percy smiled weakly. “Now, now, Roly old chap,” he said. “Let bygones be bygones, eh?”

“Can I throw a rotten cabbage at Fatbottom, Sir Roland?” asked Walter.

“A
cabbage
?” said Sir Roland, with a wicked twinkle in his eye. “Oh no, Walter. I’ve got a much better idea, hur-hur.” He turned and bawled across the square. “Hey you! Dung-cart driver! Wait!”

The dung merchant had stopped nearby to let a cartload of timber go past. He looked rather startled – but then Sir
Roland shouting at the top of his voice would probably have startled a statue.

Sir Roland grabbed an empty basket from a nearby stall and thrust it into Walter’s hands.

“Walter, take this to that dung cart and fill it up,” he ordered.

“Who
me
, Sir Roland?”

“Yes,
you
!”

“With
poo
?”

“Yes,
poo
!” said Sir Roland. “And be quick about it!”

Walter reluctantly took the basket to the dung cart. I couldn’t help laughing at the sight of him staggering back with a stinky basket of horse manure that he’d
just filled with his bare hands. But I wasn’t laughing for long.

“Right, Walter,” said Roland, scooping out a handful of manure. “Let ’em have it!”

“I say, Roland,” said Sir Percy in alarm. “Surely you’re not going to—
Aargh!
”

Sir Roland hurled a big dollop of doo-doo that hit my master in the face with a loud SPLAT!

“That’ll teach you to make a fool of me, Percy!” jeered Sir Roland.

“Your turn next, Fatbottom!” sneered Walter.

I tried to dodge out of the way, but it was impossible to move. SPLOP! – my nose took a direct hit.

“Hey, Percy, how are you doing?” laughed Sir Roland, landing another manky missile on my master’s head. “You look a bit pooped!”

They carried on pelting us with poo until the basket was empty. While Walter was off fetching another load, I saw that a cart of timber had stopped next to the stocks and the sheriff had returned with several workmen to unload it. They began
to build some sort of raised platform. It looked like the stage for a travelling show – until I saw two of the sheriff’s men lugging a fat wooden block off the back of the cart.

Uh-oh.
I’d seen one of those blocks before, all covered in cobwebs in the dungeons of Castle Bombast. It was a chopping block, and not the kind that Mouldybun Margaret uses for chopping up turnips. This chopping block was for
heads
!

While I was watching, another cart rolled up to the platform. It was carrying straw.

Lurk chuckled unpleasantly. “That’s ter soak up all the
blood
!” he said.

Yikes!

Then the sheriff came over to the stocks, carrying a sheet of parchment and a quill. “Lurk, why don’t you wun along and fetch your axe,” he said. “While I tick evewyone off my
chopping
list, heh, heh!”

“Yes, Yer Honour!” said Lurk and lumbered off.

“Lurk’s a good fellow,” said the sheriff. “You could say he’s a chip off the old
block
!”

“I wish the Ghost would hurry up and rescue us!” I whispered to Jack.

“Me, too,” said Jack. “I’m not sure I can take any more of the sheriff’s terrible jokes.”

Speaking of bad jokes, I wondered what
had happened to Patchcoat.

Just at that moment, Lurk returned with a large and rather nasty-looking axe. And to make things worse, Walter was on his way back with a fresh basketful of poop. But he was having a job pushing through the growing crowd of onlookers.

Among them was the short peasant with the hood pulled over his eyes, who had called out earlier. I watched as he sidled over to a big heap of straw that had just been unloaded from the cart. Checking to see no one was looking, he quickly took something out of his pocket and knelt beside the heap. After a few seconds he disappeared back into the crowd.

The sheriff was still ticking us off his list. “Wight then, who’s necks?” he said. “Geddit?
Necks
? Heh, heh, heh!”

“FIRE! FIRE!” one of the sheriff’s guards suddenly cried out.

Flames licked at the heap of straw. Within seconds the crowd started running to get away from the great clouds of smoke that filled the air.

“Well, don’t just stand there, you mowons!” the sheriff barked to his guards. “Put it out before it spweads to the platform! Lurk, give those fools a hand to fetch water. And move that blasted stwaw cart before the whole lot catches!”

“Yes, Yer Honour!” said Lurk. Still
clutching his axe, he ran off – and barged straight into the hooded peasant. They both tumbled to the ground.

“Idiot!” grunted Lurk, getting to his feet. “Mind where you’re goin’!”

“Beg pardon!” said the peasant.

As Lurk lurched off into the smoke, I was surprised when the peasant ran up to
me
. But not half as surprised as I was when he pushed back his hood to reveal…

“Patchcoat!”

“At your service, Ced,” he grinned. “I thought I’d create a little distraction. Lucky I still had my tinderbox, eh? Now let’s get you all out of these stocks.”

“But how?” I said. “Lurk has got the keys!”

Patchcoat chuckled. “Not any more, he hasn’t!” he said, holding up a fat bunch of keys.

“Patchcoat, you’re a genius!” I said, as he fumbled through the keys for the one that fitted my padlock. Within seconds I was free. My wrists and neck were a bit stiff but there was no time to lose.

Under the cover of the smoke, we released the others one by one, while Patchcoat quickly explained how he’d slipped behind a tree when the sheriff had turned up. He’d found his way back to the road by following us at a distance.

Sir Percy was the last out of the stocks.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, Cedric, kindly fetch a handful of straw to wipe all this muck off my armour.”

“No time for that, Sir Percy!” said Maud. “We need to get out of here!”

Even as she spoke, the smoke cleared for a moment and a voice hollered, “Sheriff, the prisoners are escaping!”

“Run!” I yelled. “Lurk’s spotted us!”

“Head for the city gate!” called Maud, as we bolted across the market square, dodging through stalls and peasants hurrying the other way with buckets of water.

“Stop them!” roared the sheriff.

We weren’t far from the gates, but we still had to get past the guards on duty, and the sheriff’s men were catching up fast. Then I spotted the straw cart. The driver was nowhere to be seen – he’d probably gone to help put out the blaze. An idea flashed into my head.

“I know!” I said. “Hide in the straw cart!”

“Good thinking, lad!” said Maud. “Jack, you drive.”

We clambered on to the cart and dived under the straw. My plan was working brilliantly. But hold on – where was Sir Percy?

I heard a sudden cry nearby and popped up from the straw to see my master sprawling in a collapsed pile of baskets. He obviously hadn’t spotted the basket-seller’s stall in the smoke.

“Over here, Sir Percy!” I shouted. “Hurry!”

Sir Percy got up and tried to run for it. But he had a basket stuck on his head and the basket seller wasn’t keen to part with it.

“Stop! Thief! ’E’s nicking one o’ me baskets!” she hollered. She did an impressive dive and clasped Sir Percy’s left leg.

“My good woman, kindly let go!”

“Not until you gimme back that basket!”

A cloud of smoke hid them from view. And then I heard a horribly familiar whiny voice.

“Fatbottom!” It was Walter, still carrying his basket of poop. “Trying to escape, eh? We’ll soon see about that!” He plonked down the basket and jumped on to the cart.

“Gerroff, Wartface!” I cried, as he grabbed hold of me.

Jack was already in the driver’s seat and saw what was happening. With a crack of the reins he cried, “Giddy up,
Dobbin!” and the cart lurched forward.

Walter lost his balance and loosened his grip just enough for me to give him a well-aimed kick in the shoulder.

“Waah!” he wailed, disappearing over the side of the cart.

I quickly checked to make sure he wasn’t going to try again. I needn’t have worried. He had tumbled off the cart head first into his basket of poop.
Ew.

I dived back under the straw and we all lay very still as the cart trundled through the town gates, just as the church clock struck midday.

Close by, I heard the sheriff shouting to his men. “What do you mean,
vanished
?”
he raged. “Impossible! Search the town, you bwainless boobies!”

Tee-hee!
I thought.
We did it!

But then the sheriff spoke again. “At least they didn’t all escape. We still have the most important pwisoner – the Ghost!”

I’d forgotten about Sir Percy! I dared to peek out of the straw one last time. There was my master, standing by the basket-seller’s stall, his arms firmly held by two guards. He still had the basket on his head.

“That widiculous attempt at a disguise didn’t fool anyone, Sir Percy!” snarled the sheriff. “Even if we can’t catch the others, at two o’clock you will be executed!”