Rotten Luck! (8 page)
Authors: Peter Bently
“After them!” cried the queen.
“Blast that boar!” growled the king. “The next time I see it I jolly well hope it’s on my dinner plate! Sir Spencer, stay here and guard the outlaws.”
“M-me, sire?”
“Yes, you, you fool!” the king bellowed. “I’ll deal with them later!”
The king and queen rode off, leaving us alone with Sir Spencer and Algernon. Sir Spencer eyed us nervously.
Then he noticed me. “Why, it’s Percy’s squire! I almost didn’t recognize you under all that, er … muck. What are you doing here, young Frederick?”
“Cedric, Sir Spencer. It’s a long story,” I said. “But you have to help us. The sheriff is having Sir Percy executed at two o’clock!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Billy slipping back into the cave. A few moments later he returned carrying something under his arm and dived behind a bush.
“But the king ordered me to stay here, Eric,” Sir Spencer was saying. “I can’t—”
ROAR!
A bear came lumbering towards us!
“Quick, Sir Spencer!” said Patchcoat. “Make for the cave while we distract it!”
Sir Spencer squealed and dived into the cave, with Algernon hot on his heels. Once they were out of sight the bear stopped roaring, and took off its head!
Billy grinned. “That bear costume did the trick!”
“Well done, Billy!” said Maud. “Cedric and Patchcoat, take the horses, quickly! We’ll follow on foot.”
Taking a knight’s horse without permission is a total no-no, but this was an emergency. Within seconds I was riding
back down the track, with Patchcoat trotting behind on Algernon’s tubby pony.
We hadn’t gone far when we heard Sir Spencer calling, “Hey! Where is everybody? And where’s my horse?”
Explanations would have to wait. There was no time to lose. We had to save Sir Percy!
A boy on a knight’s warhorse looks rather suspicious, so Patchcoat and I dismounted well before the town gates and ran the last bit. We slipped through the gates among a crowd of peasants.
“You ’ere for the execution?” said an old man. “It’s a shame they caught the Ghost and all that. But seein’ how he’s
definitely a goner we might as well enjoy the show, eh?”
“There won’t
be
any show if I can help it,” I muttered. But how were we going to save Sir Percy? The church clock said ten to two.
“Programme, sonny?” croaked another peasant, thrusting a leaflet into my hand. “Only sixpence!”
Patchcoat and I glanced at the leaflet:
I glared at the peasant and handed it back.
“That’s terrible!” I said.
“Too right,” said Patchcoat. “Sixpence is a rip-off!”
We reached the front of the crowd but there was no chance of getting any nearer to Sir Percy. The sheriff’s men stood all around the platform, shoving back any onlookers who got too close. On the platform itself stood Sir Percy, guarded by two soldiers. Lurk was beside the chopping block, wearing a mask and sharpening his axe.
“Quite a big crowd, ain’t it, Sir Percy?” Lurk said. “Must be a
block
booking. Muh-huh! ’Ere, ’ow does a Chinese executioner eat
’is dinner? With chopsticks. Muh-huh-huh!”
A ripple of titters ran through the square. Lurk winked at the crowd.
“I say, this just isn’t on, you know,” said Sir Percy. “You can’t go chopping a chap’s head off without the king’s permission!”
“Well, the king ain’t ’ere, is he?” growled Lurk. “Sorry, Sir Percy, sheriff’s orders. It’s nuffink personal. I haven’t got an axe to grind. Except this one! Muh-huh! Now, no more arguing or I’ll knock yer block off. Oh, silly me, I forgot. I’m goin’ to knock yer block off anyway. Muh-huh-huh-huh!”
“We have to do something!” I said to Patchcoat. “And fast!”
Looking around the square in desperation, I noticed two things. First, the square was on a bit of a slope, with the castle at the higher end and the platform at the bottom. Second, all the castle guards had sneaked into the crowd to see the execution. The castle was totally unguarded. I had a sudden thought.
“Patchcoat, make for the castle!” I said.
“Eh?” said Patchcoat. “The king isn’t
there
, Ced!”
“But Sir Roland is!” I panted. “
He’ll
have to stop the execution! He can’t hate Sir Percy
that
much! Come on!”
We jostled our way out of the crowd and sprinted across the square. We were already on the drawbridge when I spotted the dung cart. The dung merchant was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in the crowd, too. I had a flash of inspiration.
“You go and find Sir Roland!” I said. “I’ve got an idea. Hurry!”
As Patchcoat scurried off into the castle I ran to the cartload of dung.
I reached the cart and fumbled frantically with the horse’s harness.
“Right, folks, it’s almost showtime!” bawled Lurk. “This one’s a real
block
buster, muh-huh-huh!”
“My good fellow, I insist that you release me at once,” said Sir Percy. “I shan’t ask you again!”
“Funny you should say that,” grinned Lurk.
“That’s it, Lurk, keep ’em coming!” I mumbled. Every joke he cracked gave me a few extra seconds to save my master.
At last I freed the horse from its harness and shooed it in the direction of a pile of juicy carrots on a nearby stall.
“What’s up, Sir Percy?” quipped Lurk. “You look a bit pale. Got a headache? Don’t worry, I’ve got the perfect cure! Muh-huh-huh!”
I ran to the back of the cart and gave it a shove. It didn’t budge. My heart stopped as I saw the guards seizing Sir Percy by the arms.
I tried again. “One, two, three… HEAVE!”
At last the heavy cart began to move – slowly at first, then gathering speed as it trundled downhill.
The church clock struck two.
The dung cart was now hurtling out of control. Someone yelled, “Watch out!” and
then there was mayhem as people dived out of the way.
“Right. Time to get yer head down, Sir Percy,” said Lurk, running his thumb along the blade of his axe. “Before you know it you’ll be droppin’ off! Muh-huh-h… Eh? What? ’Ere! STOP THAT CART!”
But it was too late. Lurk could only stand there gawping as the crowd parted, the guards leaped for cover, and the dung cart crashed into the platform with an almighty CRRR-UNCH!
“Aargh!”
The cart shed its load and sent an avalanche of steaming manure flying over Lurk. I’d done it!
A moment later, there was another kerfuffle nearby and the royal hunting party rode into the square, with the sheriff and his henchmen as prisoners.
“Shivering shield-straps!” bellowed the king, seeing the platform. “Has someone ordered an execution? I can’t stand executions. I’ll have someone’s head for this!”
Just then, Patchcoat came out of the castle accompanied by Sir Roland.
“Where are all the guards, Sir Roland?” demanded the queen. “You were supposed to be in charge of the castle while we were out hunting!”
“And you were supposed to keep order!” said the king, riding up. “The place is in chaos!”
“Er, well, I, er…” Sir Roland burbled sheepishly.
“The sheriff!” I cried. “He’s getting away!”
While the guards had been distracted by the commotion in the square, the sheriff had managed to break free.
“I’m off!” he cackled and sprinted for the town gates.
“You bumbling bunch of beetle-brains!” seethed the king. “Somebody stop him!”
It looked like the sheriff would escape again, but then I spotted something.
“Up there, Your Majesties!” I shouted. “On the battlements!”
A figure was running along the top of the town walls towards the gates. It looked like the dung merchant. Except for
one thing. He was wearing a mask.
“It’s the Ghost of Grimwood!” said Patchcoat. “And look, here comes his gang!”
It was true. Hurrying through the town gates were Maud, Billy and Jack.
“Ahoy there, gang!” called the Ghost. “Don’t let the sheriff escape!”
At once Jack and Billy ran back to the gates and heaved them shut.
“Blast and bothewation!” cried the sheriff.
He fled into the market stalls with his cloak flapping behind him. But he wasn’t fast enough for Billy.
SWISH! THUNK!
A second later, one of Billy’s arrows pinned the sheriff’s cloak to a large barrel of apples.
“Good shot, Billy!” I cheered.
But in a trice the sheriff wriggled free of his cloak and sped off towards a nearby sewer. This was basically a large (and VERY smelly) trench that ran out of the town through a low arch in the walls.
“You fools!” he cackled, jumping into the sewer and splashing his way towards the arch. “I’m not finished yet!”
But neither was the Ghost.
The crowd
ooh
-ed and
aah
-ed as the Ghost leaped from the battlements on to the roof of a house, skated skilfully down
the thatch, then somersaulted neatly on to a horse that was waiting to be hitched to a cartload of turnips.
“Yah!” cried the Ghost. “Go get’im, girl!”
The horse reared up, whinnied and galloped after the sheriff.
Riding with no hands, the Ghost unwound a rope from his waist, tied one end in a loop, swung it round his head, and neatly slipped it over the fleeing sheriff.
“Waah!” wailed the sheriff, as the loop tightened around his waist and arms. “Dwat and double-dwat!”
In one smooth move, the Ghost hauled the sheriff out of the sewer and on to the horse. Then he calmly trotted up to the king.
“Special delivery, sire,” he said. “One rather stinky sheriff!”
“S-sire!” blustered the sheriff. “I can explain everything!”
But at that moment a poop-covered figure ran past us, making for the gates. It was Lurk.
“The deputy sheriff!” I said. “He’s getting away!”
“Stop that man!” ordered the king.
Lurk had a head start on the royal guards. But he hadn’t reckoned with Maud.
“Not so fast, sunshine!” she cried, and started bombarding him with apples from the barrel that still had the sheriff’s cloak pinned to it.
