Authors: Peter Bently
Feast Fight! (3 page)
“Are you sure someone’s stolen them?” I said.
“Course I am,” Margaret snapped. “Come and see for yerself.”
I sighed and followed her into the Great Hall, where Sir Percy’s family silver was kept in a chest for special occasions.
“See!” she said, pointing to the open chest. “There was twenty plates yesterday.
But I came in to polish ’em just now and there’s only fifteen.”
“You mean ten,” I said.
“Eh?” said Margaret. “You sayin’ I can’t count?”
“No, no,” I said hastily. “You’re brilliant at counting.”
As long as it isn’t over five
, I thought. “But there are definitely only ten plates. Look.”
Margaret counted them out on her fingers. She gasped. “Aargh!” she said. “That’s another five gorn!”
Margaret insisted that five more plates had just been stolen, in broad daylight, in the last ten minutes.
I felt sure she was mistaken. But in any case there wasn’t much we could do about it before Sir Percy came back. I might as well still go to the village and look for a peacock pie.
I left the hall and went to get Gristle – only to see Sir Percy coming out of the stables with Prancelot.
“Sir Percy!” I exclaimed. “It’s a good job I saw you. I thought you’d already left!”
“Oh, ah, I – er – forgot something,” he said. He swung himself up into the saddle. “Now I really must hurry. Urgent banquet business, you know. Toodle-pip!”
“But Sir Percy,” I said. “Margaret says there’s been a robbery!”
“What?” said Sir Percy. “In the castle? Good gracious! Not my new plumes, I hope?”
“It’s the silver plates, Sir Percy,” I said. “We need them for the banquet, but half of them have gone!”
Sir Percy was speechless. I wasn’t surprised. The plates were twice the size of normal plates and extremely valuable. They had been specially made for his grandfather, Sir Peregrine the Portly, so that he could have first and second helpings at the same time.
“Er – the silver plates?” he said, squirming in his saddle. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, Sir Percy,” I said. “Why don’t you come and—”
“Sorry, can’t stop!” said Sir Percy. “You deal with it, Cedric. I’m – er – I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation. Giddy up!”
Sir Percy dug in his heels and rode off, clutching his big leather sack. It clanked as Prancelot galloped towards the village.
I tied Gristle up at the Boar’s Bottom inn and wandered towards the village square. On the way I passed a shop with a gleaming new sign that said “Master Silas Stitchett. Tailor to the Gentry”.
I must remember to tell Sir Percy that there’s a new tailor in the village
, I thought.
The market was in full swing. There were stalls selling everything from cabbages and cakes to toad-eye tonic and earwax candles.
There were also several pongy pens where farmers were buying and selling sheep, goats and pigs. Not to mention cows – as I found out when I slipped on a freshly plopped cow pat and nearly fell over.
“Tell yer fortune, sonny?” croaked an old woman with no teeth, tugging at my sleeve. “You will meet a tall dark stranger. Or was it a stranger called Mark? No, hang on, a small park ranger…”
“No thanks,” I said. I shook her off and pushed through the crowd.
“
Luvverly pies! Luvverly pies! Come over ’ere and feast yer eyes!
” bawled a stallholder, as I walked by. “Afternoon, young master!” he said. “Simon the Pieman at your service. Can I interest you in one of my piping-hot pies?”
I stared in wonder at Simon the Pieman’s scrummy-looking pies and tarts and cakes and pastries. They looked and smelled delicious. And there, in the middle of the mouth-watering display, was a huge golden-crusted peacock pie.
Then I saw the price and my heart sank. I only had a few pennies in my money pouch.
“Sorry,” I said sadly. “That peacock pie looks amazing. But there’s no way I can afford it.”
A voice called, “Hey, Ced!” and I looked up to see Patchcoat. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “What are you up to, then?”
“Trying to buy food for the royal banquet,” I said ruefully. “But it’s a bit of a wasted trip. What about you?”
“Remember those travelling actors who called at the castle a few weeks back?” said Patchcoat. “Master Perkin’s Players?”
“Oh,
them
,” I said. Master Perkin had offered to perform a play about Sir Roland
bashing Sir Percy. I’d sent them packing pretty sharpish.
“Well, I heard they were still staying in the village,” said Patchcoat. “So I popped into the Boar’s Bottom to say hello.”
“But why did you want to see them?” I asked.
“The banquet, of course!” said Patchcoat. “A banquet isn’t a banquet without a bit of theatre, Ced. I’ve booked them to do a little play for Their Majesties tomorrow night. What do you reckon?”
I frowned. “Sir Percy won’t be pleased if it’s about him being walloped by Sir Roland.”
“Don’t worry,” chuckled Patchcoat. “After the tournament Perkin rewrote it,
so now it’s the other way round. It’ll give everyone a good laugh.
Especially
Sir Percy!”
“Well, I suppose it might cheer the king up, too,” I said. “He’s going to be cross when he doesn’t get his peacock pie.”
“Yeah, I dunno what he’ll say to Margaret’s crow and cabbage stew. Anyway, I need to get a new set of juggling balls. I’ll see you at the Boar’s Bottom in a bit. You can give me lift home on Gristle.”
On the way to the inn to wait for Patchcoat, I noticed a stall standing a bit apart from the others. A cluster of curious peasants crowded around it.
“’Oo’s this then?” said one. “Oi ain’t seen ’im afore.”
“Dunno,” said another. “’E’s noo.”
“Looks a bit foreign, if you ask me,” said a third.
“What’s ’e sellin’, anyhow?”
“No idea,” said the first, picking a bit of dried cow dung off his chin. “Oi don’t like the smell of it, that’s for certain.”
I edged to the front of the crowd. The stall was covered with an array of shiny brass bowls filled with exotic-smelling seeds and brightly coloured powders. The stallholder wore a long purple tunic fringed with gold and a bright red turban.
“Good afternoon, my friends,” he began. “My name is Ali. Please examine my wares. I bring you the finest spices from the East.”
“East of what?” said a peasant.
“Just the East, my friend,” said Ali. “You know, as in the Indies.”
“Undies?” croaked an old man, cupping his hand to one hairy ear. “’E says this stuff is from his undies!”
A rumble of disapproval went through the crowd.
“Ugh!” cried a man. “Oi ain’t touching nuffin’ what comes out of a foreigner’s undies!”
“Nor me, neither,” declared his wife, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “That’s disgustin’!”
Muttering and grumbling, the peasants all drifted away.
“Hello, young man,” sighed Ali. “I don’t suppose you want any paprika to pep up your pig’s liver pie? Or some cinnamon to spice up your suet pudding?”
Now there’s an idea
, I thought.
If I can’t afford a peacock pie, maybe I could just get Mouldybun Margaret’s food to taste a bit nicer?
“Do you have anything to make cabbage or turnip more interesting?” I asked.
Ali beamed and pointed to a small sack of yellowish-brown powder. “I have the very thing,” he said. “It’s called curry powder. A little bit of this will add crackle to the clammiest cabbage and terrificness to the most tasteless turnip!”
“Sounds ideal,” I said. “But how much is it? I haven’t got a lot of money.”
“It’s my newest spice,” said Ali. “But it’s not very popular. I’ll give you the whole sack for one penny.”
“Brilliant!” I said. I handed over a penny before he could change his mind.
“Remember, don’t use very much,” he smiled, tying up the sack of powder. “It’s very hot!”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the sack. It didn’t feel hot at all. To be honest it wasn’t even warm.
