Free Rotten Luck! by Peter Bently Page B

dog-bwained—”
    “Sorry, sir,” grunted the deputy sheriff.
    “Not you, Lurk!” the sheriff snapped. He pointed at the three knights. “These fools. Why, I’ve a good mind to lock ’em all up and thwow away the key!”
    The king laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come along, sheriff! We’d better sit down,” he said. “They’re about to serve dinner!”
    “Vewy well, Your Majesty,” he said. “But these oafs haven’t heard the last of this!”
    The sheriff strutted to his seat besidethe king’s throne with as much dignity as he could muster.
    Queen Malicia turned to the knights. “And as for you three,” she hissed. “After that little scene, you can jolly well sit in the corner.”
    She pointed to the end of the table furthest from the king. Sir Percy, Sir Spencer and Sir Roland sheepishly squeezed themselves on to the end of the bench next to a large baroness.
    The queen took her throne beside the king. “Happy birthday, Fredbert dear!” she declared.
    And then she led the whole hall in a rousing chorus:

    “For he’s a jolly good monarch!
    For he’s a jolly good monarch!
    For he’s a jolly good monarch!
    And so say all of us!”
    “Thank you!” beamed the king, after all the cheering and clapping had died down. Then the kitchen door opened and in marched a procession of servants carrying a peacock pie, a whole roast boar and dozens of other steaming dishes.
    I served up Sir Percy’s food and stood behind him while he cheerfully stuffed his face. Sir Roland was still sulking as he chewed noisily on a haunch of boar, while Sir Spencer just picked at his food and keptwhining to Algernon about his torn tunic. I’ll say one thing about my master, he never stays grumpy for long.
    After the main course, there was another round of cheers as a magnificent birthday cake topped with a marzipan crown was brought in. I served Sir Percy a large slice. He had just stuffed in an enormous mouthful when the queen raised her hand for silence.
    “My lords, ladies and knights,” she declared. “You may now give the king his presents!”
    Sir Percy suddenly coughed and spluttered violently, spraying cake all over the tablecloth and the elderly earl sittingopposite, who had dozed off with his mouth wide open.

    Sir Percy covered his face with a napkin and turned to me with a look of pure panic.
    “Cedric!” he whispered. “This is a disaster. I’ve forgotten to get the king a present! Why didn’t you remind me?”
    I could have said, “Because I was too busy trying to remember all the things you’d got for yourself.” But that would have been a breach of the Squire’s Code about being sarky to your master.
    All eyes had turned to our end of the table, where Sir Roland and Sir Spencer were already producing gifts from inside their tunics.
    “Aha!” said the king brightly. “I see Sir Percy is dying to go first. Come on, then,Percy, show us what’ve you brought me!”
    “Ah, yes, well, sire, I – um – er…” my master gibbered. “You see, er, my squire here…”
    Then I had a brainwave. Wherever Sir Percy went, he made sure I packed at least one signed copy of The Song of Percy , his best-selling book, to give to his admirers. It’s full of thrilling stories about his brave deeds. The only snag is that they are all ever so slightly made up.
    “Um – I left it upstairs, Your Majesty,” I said quickly.
    “You did?” said Sir Percy. “Um – I mean, he did, sire!”
    “Silly boy!” said the king with a chuckle.“You’d better go and fetch it then, hadn’t you?”
    “Yes, Your Majesty,” I said.
    “And I hope it’s not another signed copy of your book, Sir Percy,” said the king. “You’ve sent me ten already!”
    Everyone roared with laughter. Yikes! Now what was I going to do? But before I could think of a Plan B there was a noise at the door and a breathless peasant came running into the hall.
    “Yer Majesties! Yer Majesties!” he panted, doffing his cap.
    The sheriff shot to