Free A Wedding for Wiglaf? by Kate McMullan

Chapter I
    W iglaf pushed his carrot-colored hair off his sweaty brow. It was a hot spring day. Coach Plungett had given his class a break to get a drink. Wiglaf and the other students stood in line at the well in the castle yard, waiting for a turn with the dipper.
    Coach leaned against the well. “I’ve killed many a dragon, lads,” he said. “Ah, yes...but I’ll never forget the first. You never do. Hotblaze was his name. The beast spewed flames so hot they melted my helmet. Burned my hair off, too. Been bald as a potato ever since. But that didn’t stop me. I drew my sword like a manly man! I jabbed Hotblaze in his left flank. Or...was it his right?” Coach pushed back his brown, pageboy-style wig. He scratched his hairless head, trying to think.
    Wiglaf hoped Coach wouldn’t go on and on, telling how Hotblaze met his end. Blood-and-guts stories always made him feel sick to his stomach.
    “Wiglaf!” someone called.
    Wiglaf turned. He saw his friend Angus hurrying across the castle yard.
    “Uncle Mordred wants to see you in his office right away!” Angus yelled.
    Me? Wiglaf pointed to himself.
    “Go on, lad,” Coach told Wiglaf. “You can get the homework from Torblad.”
    “Nice knowing you, Wiglaf,” Torblad scoffed.
    Wiglaf trotted off. He was glad to get out of class. But he hated to think why he was being summoned by the hot-tempered headmaster of Dragon Slayers’ Academy.
    Mordred was not fond of Wiglaf. For Wiglaf had, quite by accident, killed two dragons, Gorzil and Seetha. But he had not brought Mordred any of their dragon gold.
    Wiglaf caught up with Angus. “What does Mordred want?” he asked. The two began hurrying toward the old castle that housed DSA.
    Angus shrugged. “Uncle Mordred didn’t say. But he wasn’t angry. In fact, he seemed rather...jolly.”
    “Jolly?” Wiglaf exclaimed. That was a new one. Mordred was never jolly.
    The boys ran all the way to Mordred’s office. Angus knocked on the door.
    “Enter!” boomed a voice.
    The boys entered. They found Mordred standing next to his desk, reading a copy of The Medieval Times. He wore a red velvet tunic with golden dragons stitched on it.
    “Ah, Wiglaf!” Mordred put down his newspaper. “Back to work, Angus,” he added, never taking his violet eyes from Wiglaf. “I don’t pay you half a penny a year to stand around gawking!”
    “No, Uncle,” Angus said. He went back to polishing the headmaster’s big black boots.
    “Ah, Wiglaf!” Mordred exclaimed again. “How are you feeling, my boy? Fit as a fiddle, I hope?”
    “Yes, thank you, sir,” Wiglaf answered. He wondered why the headmaster had asked. Mordred was not one to worry about the health of his students. Quite the opposite, in fact.
    “And your pet pig,” Mordred went on. “Is Daisy happy living out in the henhouse?”
    “Very happy, sir,” Wiglaf answered.
    It surprised him that Mordred knew about Daisy. He had brought his dear pig to school with him from his home in Pinwick. He wondered if Mordred also knew that Daisy was under a wizard’s spell. She could speak—in Pig Latin.
    “Is Frypot feeding you enough lumpen pudding?” Mordred asked.
    “More than enough, sir,” Wiglaf said.
    “Excuse me, Uncle Mordred,” Angus said. He held up a boot. “Is this shiny enough for you?”
    “You must be joking!” Mordred yelled. “Put some elbow grease into it, nephew!”
    Angus sighed and went back to polishing.
    “Now, about clothes, Wiglaf,” Mordred said. “My sister Lobelia will order you a new tunic. And fine new britches, too.”
    “Clothes?” Wiglaf said. “But I have no money! I cannot pay for new clothes.”
    “Worry not, my boy,” Mordred said, still smiling. “I shall pay for everything!”
    Wiglaf gasped. Now he understood. Mordred had lost his mind!
    The DSA headmaster was a famous penny-pincher. He never spent a cent if he could help it. He would never, in a million years, pay for anything for anybody else. Especially not for