Free Rotten Luck! by Peter Bently Page A

turquoise and orange satin tunics plus cloaks of green velvet with a gold trim.
    “Evening, Spencer,” said Sir Percy, eyeing his friend’s outfit rather enviously. “Looking forward to the party?”
    “Evening, Perce,” beamed Sir Spencer, shaking back his golden curls. “Couldn’tmiss a chance to wish His Maj a happy birthday, could we, Algie?”
    Or show off your wardrobe, I thought.
    Before Algernon could answer, another door opened. This time it was the beefy, bearded figure of Sir Roland, along with his sneaky squire, Walter Warthog.
    “Well, well, well, look who it is,” said Sir Roland. “I might have known you two prancing peacocks wouldn’t miss a free banquet, eh, Walter? Hur-hur-hur!”
    “And a jolly good evening to you, too, Roland,” said Sir Percy. “At least we’ve made an effort with our clothes. Is that an egg stain on your tunic, by any chance?”
    “Why, you—” Sir Roland growled.
    “N-now, no arguing, chaps,” said Sir Spencer hastily, as we reached the stairs down to the great hall. “It wouldn’t do to arrive at the king’s birthday dinner making a scene, would it?”
    Sir Roland glared at Sir Percy, but held his tongue.

    “I say!” declared Sir Spencer suddenly. “Bagsy I sit next to the king!”
    “Oh yes , Sir Spencer,” simpered Algernon. “He’ll definitely want the most elegant knight sitting next to him.”
    “Rubbish!” said Walter. “The king’ll want the most fearless knight. And that’s my master!”
    “Well, I think it ought to be me ,” said Sir Percy airily. “After all, who defeated Sir Roland in the king’s tournament?”
    Actually that would be me, I thought.
    The three knights stopped in their tracks. For a moment they just stood there, eyeing one another. And then, all of a sudden, they bolted.
    “Me first, losers!” hollered Sir Roland.
    “No, me!”
    “Me!”
    As the three knights charged down the stairs, Walter shoved past me and Patchcoat.
    “Outta my way, Fatbottom!” he yelled. “Go on, Sir Roland, you can do it!”
    “Watch out!” cried Patchcoat. His juggling balls flew out of his hands, and bounced down the stairs.
    It all happened in an instant.
    Sir Spencer slipped on a ball, squealed and grabbed Sir Percy. My master lost his balance, sending the two of them tumbling head first.
    “AARGH!”
    “WAAH!”
    “I win!” Sir Roland cackled gleefully, as he reached for the handle of the door. “I’m going to sit next to the king! Nah-nah-nee-nah-n- OOF !”
    Sir Spencer and Sir Percy slammed into Sir Roland, and the three of them barrelled through the door and rolled to a halt in a heap of tangled limbs.
    “You idiots!” roared Sir Roland. “You pair of total—”
    “Now, look here,” came the muffled voice of my master. “That was your silly squire’s fault, Roland. If he hadn’t—”
    “I’ve ripped my tunic!” wailed Sir Spencer.
    But before the three knights could start squabbling and bickering again, a voice said, “Ahem!”
    Standing over them, looking VERY cross, were King Fredbert and Queen Malicia. And that wasn’t all. Seated at a long banqueting table was just about every lord, lady and knight for miles around.

Chapter 2
Banquet Bombshell
    “Your Majesties!” grinned Sir Percy, freeing his face from Sir Roland’s armpit. “How simply splendid to see you both. And happy birthday, sire! I trust all is well with Your Majesty?”
    “Fine, thanks,” said the king. “Which is more than can be said for the sheriff.”
    “Oh dear, dear,” schmoozed Sir Percy.
    “I’m awfully sorry to hear that, Your Majesty. Has he been taken ill?”
    The queen frowned. “No,” she said. “You’re sitting on him.”
    There was a groan from underneath the knot of knights. They hastily untangled themselves to reveal a little man with a pointy beard and thin moustache. The deputy sheriff ran to help him up.

    “Thundewing thumbscwews!” shrieked the sheriff. “Of all the dimwitted, dunderheaded,