Authors: Kate McMullan

Knight for a Day (2 page)

BOOK: Knight for a Day

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“Well?” Mordred glared at the students. “What is so important that you had to interrupt my morning count?”

“We have brought our essays, sir,” Erica said. “And here is the winner!” She proudly placed her stack of parchment on his desk.

“Ah, yes!” Mordred said. “The contest.”

Other students appeared at the door. They, too, laid their essays on Mordred’s desk. Then they hurried away. Wiglaf was the last to add his parchment to the stack.

Mordred stepped over to a window. He stuck out his head.

“Yorick!” he bellowed. He drew in his head. “Why is that blasted scout never around when I need him?” Mordred scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Humph. Yorick was in Toenail last week. I hope he hasn’t caught the plague. It would be just like him to drop dead and not let me know.”

Wiglaf hoped Mordred would not go on and on about the plague. Already he could feel his breakfast churning in his stomach.

There was a sudden knock at the door. “Enter!” Mordred bellowed.

The door swung open. At first Wiglaf saw no one. Then, on the floor, he saw a misshapen green lump. Wiglaf gasped. The lump was human! It could be only one thing-a victim of the deadly green plague!

Wiglaf drew back. The person’s skin was thick with green boils. And the poor fellow’s hands had turned into flippers! Mordred had not mentioned that hideous symptom.

“You bellowed, sir?” asked the lump.

“I did, Yorick,” the headmaster exclaimed.

Wiglaf went limp with relief. He realized that it was only Yorick wearing a disguise. The scout’s face was smeared with green goo. And what Wiglaf had taken for infected skin was a green polka-dotted toad suit.

“These are contest entries, Yorick,” Mordred said. He picked up the stack of parchment from his desk.

“Careful, sir!” Erica cautioned. “Keep my twenty-six pages together!”

Mordred handed the essays to Yorick. “Take these to Camelot,” he said. “They must arrive by midnight tonight.”

“Tonight?” Yorick said. “But I’ve got my card game tonight!”

“Yorick...” Mordred said in what Wiglaf recognized as a warning tone.

“Yes, sir.” Yorick sighed. “Ribbit, ribbit.” He rolled up the parchments. He stuck them into the leg of his toad suit. Then he hopped out the door.

“Don’t catch the green plague on the way there, Yorick!” Mordred called after him. Then he turned to his students. “Off to class with you now, boys,” he added. “Go on! Out of my sight! Shoo! Shoo! Go!”

Chapter 3

W
iglaf, Erica, and Angus hurried out of Mordred’s office. They raced up the East Tower staircase to Sir Mort’s class.

Sir Mort stood behind his desk. As always, the old knight wore a full suit of armor.

“Take your seats, lads,” Sir Mort called. “What I mean to say is, sit down in them.”

Erica always sat in the front row. But today she walked to the back of the room. She sat down in the last row. Wiglaf and Angus exchanged puzzled glances. Then they followed her, taking seats in the last row, too.

Wiglaf was about to ask Erica the meaning of her strange behavior. But Sir Mort began banging on his helmet with his sword, which was his way of quieting the class.

“Stalking a dragon is an art, lads,” the old knight said when the boys settled down. “Not everyone can do it. No, siree.”

Wiglaf listened eagerly. Stalking a Fire-Breather was his favorite class. He believed that he had a talent for stalking.

“A stalker needs a good ear to hear a dragon in the brush,” Sir Mort said.

Wiglaf smiled. He had excellent hearing.

“A stalker needs a good eye to follow tracks,” Sir Mort added. “And, once he spots a dragon, he must stalk it without a sound.”

Again Wiglaf smiled. Back home in Pinwick, he often walked very quietly so he would not be noticed by his twelve rough brothers.

“Armor clanks like a horse with bells on,” Sir Mort said. “So what is the first thing a stalker must do? Take off his boots.”

“P.U.!” Angus whispered to Wiglaf. “What is that awful smell?”

Wiglaf sniffed. Yuck! Had Sir Mort taken off his boots? No, that wasn’t it. Wiglaf glanced at Erica. She was rubbing the canteen from her tool belt with a soft cloth. Now Wiglaf recognized the smell: silver polish!

He watched as Erica held up her shiny canteen. Satisfied, she hooked it back onto her tool belt. Next she unclipped her collapsible goblet and began polishing it.

“That stinks!” Angus whispered to Erica. “Why are you polishing your tools now?”

“I have much to do before Sir Lancelot’s visit,” Erica replied. “My armor must shine like a mirror. I must sharpen my sword. I must reread A
Knight Like I
so that I will have every detail of Sir Lancelot’s life fresh—”

Wiglaf wanted to hear Sir Mort’s stalking lesson. But he couldn’t. Not with Erica going on and on about Sir Lancelot.

“Are there any questions?” Sir Mort asked.

Erica’s hand shot up.

“Sir Mort,” she said, “have you ever met Sir Lancelot?”

Wiglaf groaned. Not Sir Lancelot again!

“Lance was my student,” Sir Mort said. “It was long ago. I was teaching over at Dragon Stabbers’ Prep at the time. Or was it Knights Noble?” Sir Mort scratched his helmet, thinking. “In any case, he always sat in the front row, Lance did.”

“Just where
I
like to sit!” Erica beamed.

“Lance answered every question,” Sir Mort added. “The other lads never got much of a chance to shine. Not with Lance around.”

Erica sighed. “He sounds...perfect!”

“Sir Mort?” Wiglaf put in quickly. “Can you go on about dragon stalking now?”

“Of course I can, lad.” Sir Mort nodded. “I can go on and on about anything at all.”

As if to prove his point, he began going on and on about the time he stalked a family of dragons through a poison ivy patch.

Erica polished her goblet as she listened.

Wiglaf sighed. He knew that the stalking lesson was over for the day. Once Sir Mort got going on a story, there was no stopping him.

Over the next three days, Erica stepped up her preparations for Sir Lancelot’s visit. She placed her Sir Lancelot action figures in the display case in the DSA lobby. She talked all the students into washing their tunics in the moat. But when she tied feathers to the end of Wiglaf’s sword and sent him forth to rid the castle of cobwebs, Wiglaf could take no more. He sneaked off to see his pet pig.

“Daisy!” he called as he entered the henhouse where she lived. “Come to me, girl!”

Daisy trotted out to greet her master.

“Iglaf-way!” she cried happily.

Wiglaf had brought Daisy with him to DSA from Pinwick. On the way, a wizard had cast a spell on Daisy, giving her the power of speech. She now spoke perfect Pig Latin.

The two sat down together in a cozy corner of the henhouse for a long talk. Wiglaf often told Daisy things he could tell no one else.

“Erica polished her armor,” Wiglaf said. “Then she polished Sir Mort’s armor with him in it. The school stinks of silver polish.”

Daisy wrinkled her snout. “Ee-pay oo-yay!”

“Erica is working on a welcome cheer for Sir Lancelot,” Wiglaf went on. “She is forever chanting bits of it, trying to get it right.” He sighed. “And every night she reads aloud from Sir Lancelot’s memoir.”

“Ow-hay illing-thray!” Daisy exclaimed.

“But it is not thrilling,” Wiglaf said. “Sir Lancelot wins every battle. He slays every dragon. Every damsel falls madly in love with him. He is always so...”

“Erfect-pay,” Daisy suggested.

“Yes,” Wiglaf agreed. “Perfect.”

Wiglaf was sick of hearing about Sir Lancelot.
And yet,
he thought,
how very fine to be a perfect knight.

“You, carrot top.” Sir Mort pointed to Wiglaf the next day in Stalking Class. “Show the class the Stealth Stalk, lad.”

Wiglaf leaped to his feet. His heart thumped with joy. He quickly pulled off his boots. He stood by Sir Mort, ready to stalk.

“Here’s a sly way to go after a dragon,” Sir Mort told the class. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Wiglaf said. He bent his knees. He put his left foot in front of his right. He put his right foot in front of his left.

Suddenly a trumpet blast split the air. Everyone ran to the window-except for Wiglaf. He stood frozen to the spot, unsure whether to keep stalking.

“What is it, lads?” Sir Mort called.

“It’s a messenger,” Angus said. “He is riding toward the castle gate.”

“He is waving a white banner,” Torblad added. “It has a red letter C in the middle.”

“That’s the flag of Camelot!” cried Erica. “The messenger is coming to tell me that I have won the Sir Lancelot contest!”

“Class dismissed!” Sir Mort said.

With that, the students ran down the tower stairs, with Erica in the lead. Angus somehow managed to keep up with her. Wiglaf brought up the rear. He felt bad that his Stealth Stalk demonstration had been interrupted.

But once outside, Wiglaf couldn’t help catching the spirit of the day. Boys spilled out of every classroom into the castle yard talking excitedly. They ran toward the gatehouse.

Mordred was directing two student teachers who were cranking down the drawbridge. Erica pushed her way between them. She grabbed the badly rusted handle and began cranking, too. That sped things up quite a bit.

“The bridge is down!” Mordred called at last. “Throw open the castle gates!”

Wiglaf heard the sound of horse’s hooves on the wooden bridge. Then the messenger, his banner flying, galloped into the castle yard.

“Hear ye! Hear ye!” he called. “I bear good news for one lucky boy!”

“For me!” Erica cried. “Let’s have it!”

The messenger jumped off his horse. He pulled a parchment scroll from his saddlebag. He unrolled it and began to read: “Sir Lancelot, the world’s most perfect knight, shall spend the day here with the contest winner. He will arrive tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Erica gasped. “Zounds! I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”

“That means we won’t either,” Angus mumbled to Wiglaf.

“The winning essay,” the messenger went on, “was written by...” He stopped and looked around. Not a sound could be heard. The boys stood still as statues. The messenger glanced at his scroll. “By... Wiglaf of Pinwick!”

A stunned silence filled the castle yard.

“What?”
Erica cried when she found her voice. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

That has to be it,
Wiglaf thought.
A joke.

“Knights never joke,” the messenger said.

“But... but... but...” Erica sputtered. She was so undone she could hardly speak. “I saw what Wiglaf wrote. It was one sentence long!”

“That is true,” Wiglaf put in. He hoped this matter would get straightened out quickly. He did not like the look on Erica’s face.

“I deserve to win,” Erica growled. “My essay was twenty-six pages long!”

BOOK: Knight for a Day

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