Roland's Castle (22 page)

Roland promised, reluctantly, and
Sir Nigel nodded his assent.

Sir Filbert led them through the
maze of brightly coloured pavilions toward the centre of the lists
and the fancy castle. Here there was an area that was roped off
with a dais within it. Off to the sides there were various tents
which were fitted out for maintaining weapons and armour as well as
horses and their livery.

“This is The Count’s arena, where
the results of the tourney are announced,” explained Sir Filbert.
He asked a page where the count could be found. The page indicated
one of the tents at the far side and they headed for it.

As they approached the tent they
could hear coming from it the sounds of metal being bashed,
together with the most dreadful curses and the occasional grunt and
groan. As they entered they beheld a most strange sight. A very
tall knight in armour was kneeling down in front of an anvil. His
head was in a helmet that was laid on the anvil. Blacksmiths were
bashing and pulling at the helmet with hammers and tongs. Several
knights were standing around enjoying the spectacle. The head in
the helmet was doing the cursing. “For blazes sake get this cussed
thing off of me!”

“What has happened?” Sir Filbert
asked.

One of the knights explained. “The
Count has suffered the most terrible misfortune. His head is jammed
in his helmet and we cannot get it out…. It was caused by a most
ferocious blow delivered by an opponent. He was lucky not to lose
his head entirely…”

“I heard that!” The head in the
helmet on the anvil yelled “It wasn’t by luck! It was pure skill!
It was he who struck me who had the luck, and when I get out of
this I will show him who is better with a sword!”

“Right now you had better just keep
your head down my lord,” said another of the knights, as another
blow clanged against the helmet.

“Owww!” yelled The Count. Another
blow landed with a clang, “I’m a Count, not a bell!”

One of the other smiths stuck the
tongs into the front of the helmet, trying to get a better grip on
it.

“Dowww! Dat boz by doze!” Yelled
The Count, “I’ll have all of you for this!

“We’ll have to heat it up,” said
the smith, “it might expand enough to slip off. Bring him over to
the fire…”

“What! Are you mad!” yelled The
Count in a panic. “You’re not roasting my head! Help!
HELP
!”

“Excuse me, but plenty of lard’s
what you really need,” said Botherworth.

The men turned to look at the
newcomers.

“You have experience in such
matters?” one of the knights asked.

“Let’s put it this way,”
Botherworth said, “there was once a boy, and there was once a
bucket. The boy was curious about what was at the bottom of the
bucket. He found out – trouble! I had to use lard and a ton of
elbow grease.”

“I’m not sure we have any elbow
grease…Where do we get it?” The knight asked.

“You’ll have a long
weight
before you get hold of any of that,” Botherworth chortled, “Come
on, get some lard and let me have a go.”

A bucket of lard was brought and
Botherworth stuck his fingers right in it as if he enjoyed the feel
of it. Roland suspected he actually did.

“Oooh! This is nice and gooey and
greasy," Botherworth said, "Good stuff!" I think we’re onto a
winner here!”

If Botherworth enjoyed sticking his
fingers into the lard he enjoyed the next bit even more. He started
to press the lard into the helmet through all the gaps he could
find, especially at the neck and through the grill in the
faceplate.

“What’s going o-urrrgggh
blurp-blurp-blurple!” The Count protested.

“It’s the ears you’ve got to watch
for – get plenty of grease behind the ears,” Botherworth informed
the onlookers whilst he carried on, oblivious of The Count’s
protests. He was clearly pleased to be in charge of operations.

“Now,” Botherworth directed,
“Brother Goodwill, I am sure you can find a positive way to help me
– grab his legs in an optimistic way whilst I pull and twist the
helmet.”

Botherworth
was
enjoying
himself. He grabbed The Count’s helmet whilst Brother Goodwill
grabbed The Count’s legs. Botherworth started to twist and pull the
helmet alarmingly. Understandably, The Count protested – or at
least, he tried to protest, “Nnnngghhhhrrrr nnnggghmmmm!”

Botherworth put his full weight
into pulling on the helmet. Unfortunately the outside of the helmet
had also become covered in lard and his fingers slipped. He fell
over backwards. He got up again and shook himself, “I need a cloth
with some spirit.”

It was brought and he wiped the
helmet and started again. This time Roland and Oliver helped
Goodwill with the count’s legs whilst Savitri pushed the helmet
from the neck. Slowly it started to give, until, finally, with a
mighty rush, it came off and Botherworth once more staggered
backwards and fell on his rump, this time clutching the helmet in
his lap.

The Count stood up immediately. His
head was covered in lard and his hair was all spiky and looked like
the bristles of a brush. He looked very fierce, “Who has done
this!” he roared.

The knights all quickly pointed at
Botherworth, who looked as if he wanted to quickly pass the helmet
on to someone else.

The Count rushed over to him and
pulled him up off the floor. He grabbed the helmet and threw it
aside, then shook Botherworth’s hand vigorously with both of his
own, “I would like to thank you very much! Thank you very much
indeed! These fools were going to roast me, but you – you saw
sense! You saw the way to help me out of my predicament without
cooking my head like dinner
!” and he cast an accusing,
withering stare at the knights.

“It was good lard,” Botherworth
said, modestly.

The Count licked some of the lard
off his lips. “It is good lard!” he cried, “I never knew it could
be so sweet! But then it has done good service!”

“I had a bit of help,” Botherworth
admitted, pointing to Roland and the others.

“These are your friends?”
Og-dra-gob asked.

“Well… Yeah, alright, I suppose
they are, really…”

“Fine! Good! You will all be my
guests!”

Sir Herbert
stepped forwards, “My Lord, these people are captives of Sir Nigel
le Faire, paly bendy, or sable, a bend sinister erminois, and are
on parole from his custody.”

“Tell Sir Nigel le Faire, paly
bendy, or sable, a bend sinister ermin - we really must find a
better way to refer to each other than this long-winded nonsense -
that I will pay their ransom. I will win it back soon enough
anyway!” And he laughed heartily and turned to Roland and friends,
“Come, and I will show you what we are up to.”

and he led the way out of the
blacksmith’s tent. Once in the open he flung his arms wide, “This
is my grand arena, where we announce the winners of each
tournament, then we rejoice, sing songs about love and armed
combat, and then go out for another tournament where we bash each
other silly as practice for a real battle – of which there are far
too few these days! Anyway, it’s grand fun!” and the count laughed
heartily.

“Sounds wonderful,” said
Botherworth, sarcastically

“Just like the tourneys we held of
old!” Brother Goodwill cried, “I remember once when Brother
Skullcrack struck home with such a terrible blow to the head of
Brother Bonebreak – of course they are now both sworn to peace. No
more fighting for them,” he became sad for a moment – “but they are
very good with bricks and mortar,” he said, perking up “– most
excellent! And with blocks of stone!”

“Most other tournaments,”
Og-dra-gob continued, “are carried out with two teams of knights,
but we decided it would be so much more fun to divide into four
teams, all matched against each other – no alliances allowed
between teams. It works fine, it’s just that all this officious
heraldic nonsense gets in the way…. But never mind that! Let us
have the results!” and he commanded the trumpets to sound,
signalling that the results were to be announced. They all looked
toward the dais where a herald climbed up the steps. He puffed
himself up, unfurled a scroll and read out: “Nigel le faire, paly
bendy, or sable, a bend sinister erminois, Sir Justin, bendy wavy
or sable, Sir Nicholas, pily dancetty or sable and Sir Jock De
Salle, chevronny, or sable, Have scored the most points and taken
the most prisoners – some of whom I think are in the audience right
now! Give us a wave if you’re out there!”

Brother Goodwill waved. The others
didn’t. There was a ripple of applause.

The Herald continued, “So, with no
further ado, I present the grand prize! They win a voucher for a
burnishing from Janikin's armourers!”

The named knights stepped up to
collect their prize. The crowd went wild.

“Now, the runners up,” said the
herald, “Sir Valiant de Vosper, bendy dancetty, argent vert, Sir
Dunstan, paly bendy, argent vert, Sir Langorrock de Larrack, pily
bendy vert argent, Sir Morgrain, lozengy argent vert a chief vert.
They win a voucher for a fumigation and delousing of their
undergarments from Messrs. Gusgrime, Grimnicks and Sniffit, valid
for one month only!”

Again, the named knights stepped up
to collect their prize. The crowd went wild, yet again.

“Now the third place, Sir Jools,
gules, a bend argent….”

“You see what I mean?” said
Og-dra-gob, turning to Roland, “All we want to do is collect our
prizes, sing a few songs and then go back to our wargames, but all
this heraldic nonsense just gets in the way! Every time we wish to
refer to each other and the teams….”

Then Roland pointed out something
that had been on his mind for while, “All the teams have one colour
in common, and exclusively – only they use it, for instance gold,
or green….”

“Yes, that’s the way we planned it,
so that we would know easily who was on which team.”

“Well then, why not just call them
by that colour: yellow team, green team, blue team and red
team!”

Og-dra-gob’s mouth fell open, then
he slapped his palm to his forehead, “Of course! Of course! That’s
so simple! So obvious! Why didn’t I think of that! Brilliant! We
will do it!” and he turned to the knight next to him, “When he is
finished, fetch The Herald to me!” He turned again to Roland, “The
Herald won’t like it - he won’t like it at all! He gets a great
deal of pleasure out of showing off his knowledge of all this
heraldic stuff!”

“He’ll just have to stick it down
his tights,” Oliver said.

“He will! He will indeed!” and
Og-dra-gob laughed loudly, showing off his white teeth.

After the prize giving was over the
count took them to the grand chamber in the fake castle. The Count
sat on a throne whilst Roland and friends stood around him. The
Herald was announced and entered proudly, puffing up his chest and
walking in stately fashion up to The Count. He bowed deeply with a
flourish.

“You sent for me my liege,” he
said.

“Indeed I did!” The Count said.
“There has been a bit of a suggestion by my new friends here….”

“A suggestion?” said The Herald
suspiciously, his eyes moving nervously to look at Roland and
company.

“Yes, a suggestion,” said the
Count. “Now, all this pily paly wavy bendy blazoning stuff….”

The blazoning of the escutcheons!”
said The Herald, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “You wish me
to teach these youngsters how to blazon an escutcheon!”

“Oh no!
No
! Perish the
thought!” The Count said, “No! We don’t want any more of it! No! In
fact we want
less
of it! A lot less!”

“L-less, my lord?” The Herald
stuttered, not sure he was hearing correctly.

“Yes! Less! As in cut it out
completely!”

“C-cut it out…. But, but,” The
Herald stammered, “how shall we know the teams then?”

“Well now, that’s the suggestion.
From now on we are going to call them yellow team, red team, blue
team and green team!”

“But, but,” The Herald stammered
again.

“Butt––butt?” Mimicked The Count,
“What is this? Do you think you’re instructing a billy goat?”

“No my lord! Of course not my lord
- But my lord, this suggestion, it is unheard of.”

“It is only unheard of because no
one has said it yet! Now I am saying it and it shall be done.
Clear? Savvy?”

The Herald was crestfallen. He
seemed like a broken man and he became hunched over, as if gravely
wounded. When Roland saw this he had pity on the poor man and
stepped forwards, “I tell you what, why don’t we keep the old
heraldic names for the team colours, that would work too! Or,
gules, azure, and vert!”

“Could we?” Said The Herald,
brightening a little, “
Could
we?” he asked, tears forming in
his eyes as he looked at The Count.

Yes, yes, alright, alright. I don’t
see why not. Just don’t let it go any further though!

“No my lord – of course not my
lord!”

The Herald seemed to have recovered
somewhat and although still clearly shaken to the core left with
some crumb of comfort.

After he was gone The Count turned
to Roland and company, “My friends! You have brought me so much joy
by solving my problems! The time has come for me to ask what I can
do for you! Anything! Anything! Big - small - medium sized – family
sized - a six pack! Think on it, don’t make up your minds too
quickly!”

“Ah, well that’s quite simple
actually,” Roland said, “There is a man who is a prisoner of yours
called Mr Brandon – we’d like to have a few words with him.”

The Count appeared shaken and
stuttered as he spoke, stroking his jaw and grimacing, “That man
has caused me a lot of trouble!” he growled.

“We know. By proposing to build a
railroad through your lands,” Roland said.

“Not merely through my lands, but
through our
sacred
tourney zone! What worst could one man do
to another?”