Authors: Peter Bently
Life Stinks! (3 page)
It didn’t take long for news of the joust to spread. Walter must have boasted about it to everyone he met on the way back to Blackstone Fort. I know this because at lunchtime on Tuesday a troupe of travelling players in a big covered wagon called at the castle.
“Good day, young master!” said the
troupe leader, with an elaborate bow. “Perkin’s the name, entertainment’s the game! Can I interest you in our play?”
“Sure!” I said. “What are you doing?
Saint George and the Dragon?
”
“Nah,” said Perkin. “We’re working on a brand-new play. We met a chap on the road who told us about a joust between his master and some useless knight called Sir Percy. Here, take a look.”
He handed me a piece of parchment.
“Right,” I frowned. “I’m not interested, thanks.”
“Ah well, suit yourself,” said Perkin. “We’re staying at the Boar’s Bottom if you change your mind.”
“I won’t,” I said. “But thanks, anyway.”
By teatime I was starting to get really worried. Sir Percy was still refusing to get out of bed, complaining about his old leg wound, and we were supposed to be leaving for the palace the next day. So far, all I’d packed were his lucky underpants. But which suit of armour was he going to wear? How many helmets should I pack? Would he prefer the red plume or the yellow one?
“Maybe he’s really sick,” I said to Patchcoat in the kitchen.
“Well, there’s one way to find out,” said Patchcoat. “What we need is an apothecary.”
“A pot of what?” I said.
“An apothecary,” he grinned. “You know, someone who heals people. Where did you say those actors were staying?”
“The Boar’s Bottom,” I said. “Why? I told them we weren’t interested.”
“I’ve just had an idea,” chuckled Patchcoat. “I won’t be long. See you in a bit!”
Half an hour later there was a knock on the kitchen door. I opened it to see an old man in a long black robe carrying a large leather bag and a staff. His face was almost completely hidden beneath a white beard and a floppy black cap. A pair of newfangled
eye-glasses perched on the end of his nose. They made his eyes look like pickled onions floating in a jar of vinegar.
“Can I help you?” I asked. “I told the guards not to let in any cold-callers.”
“Good day to you!” wheezed the man. “Doctor Bartholomew Leechwell at your service. Travelling apothecary to the gentry. Gashes, mashes and bashes a speciality. Somebody by the name of Patchcoat sent me here. I gather your master is unwell?”
“Oh right,” I said. “You’d better come in.”
I led Dr Leechwell upstairs to Sir Percy’s chamber and knocked on the door. There was an odd scurrying noise and then Sir Percy’s feeble voice said, “Enter!”
I went into the room and bowed.
Sir Percy was lying in bed. “What is it, Cedric?” he quavered.
“How’s your leg, Sir Percy?” I asked.
“Oooh, the agony!” he groaned.
“There’s really no way I can take part in the tournament.”
“I’ve brought someone to see you,” I said. “Come in, Dr Leechwell.”
The apothecary entered. “Good afternoon, Sir Percy,” he said. “Problem with your leg, eh?”
“Er – well – yes,” mumbled Sir Percy. “But it’s only an old battle wound, you know. There’s really no need to bother—”
“Ah! Such admirable courage,” interrupted Dr Leechwell cheerfully. “Just like a true knight! I have tended to the wounds of many knights and nobles. My cures are renowned all over the kingdom!”
“You mean all your patients have recovered?” I asked.
Dr Leechwell paused and scratched his beard. “Well, let’s just say that one way or another my patients are – ahem – no longer in pain,” he chuckled. “Now, let’s take a look at this leg.” He whipped off the bedclothes.
“Aargh!” squealed Sir Percy, quickly pulling down his nightshirt over his knobbly knees.
“Oh, don’t mind me, old chap!” cackled Dr Leechwell. “Seen it all before! So, which is the leg with the wound?”
“Er – the right one,” said Sir Percy.
(Funny, I was sure he’d said the
left
one before.)
Dr Leechwell peered at Sir Percy’s right leg. He tutted and slowly shook his head. “Dear me,” he said. “This is worse than I thought.
Much
worse.” He called me over to look. “What do you see there, lad?”
“Well – nothing, actually,” I answered truthfully.
“Precisely!” said Dr Leechwell. “The wound is invisible to the naked eye. The very worst type. It can mean only one thing. An evil spirit has entered Sir Percy’s leg. Nasty.”
“
What
?” said Sir Percy, sitting up. “But that’s imposs—” He suddenly glanced at me. “Um – I mean, er – are you
sure
, doctor?”
“No doubt about it!” said Dr Leechwell. “But not to worry, Sir Percy. I have the very cure!”
He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a small pottery jar. He opened the jar. Inside was a wriggling mass of slimy black things.
“Yeuch!” I said. “What are
those
?”
“Bloodsucking leeches,” smiled the apothecary. “They will suck the evil spirit from the wound. Apply two leeches three times a day, as required.”
“Nooo!” yelped Sir Percy. “Take them away!”
“But these are the very finest leeches,” said the doctor.
“I don’t care!” said Sir Percy. “I hate creepy-crawlies!”
(Which seemed a bit odd, considering he’d seen off a giant spider in
The Song of Percy
…)
“Very well,” said the apothecary. “I shall have to try another method.”
This time he fished a knife and a brass bowl out of his bag. He spat on the blade and rubbed it on his sleeve.
“Er – I say –
what
exactly are you going to do with that thing?” asked Sir Percy, shrinking back into his pillows.
“Oh, just open a vein or two in your leg, Sir Percy,” smiled Dr Leechwell. “A little bloodletting works wonders, you know. Master Cedric, if you would kindly hold the bowl to catch the blood.”
“No way!” wailed Sir Percy. “I can’t bear the sight of blood. Especially my own!”
(Which also seemed a bit strange for
someone who had been in all those battles in
The Song of Percy.
)
“In that case, Sir Percy,” sighed Dr Leechwell. “There is only one other way to sort out your leg.” He rummaged in his bag and produced a small length of wood. “Now then. When I say ‘ready’, I want you to pop this in your mouth and bite down hard.”
“Ready?” said Sir Percy. “Ready for what?”
Dr Leechwell reached into his bag yet again. This time he pulled out a rusty saw. “Ready to cut off that nasty leg of yours!” he said brightly. “We’ll have you back on your feet in no time. Or should I say back
on your
foot
. Ha! Just my little joke!”
“Aargh!” Sir Percy leaped out of bed and cowered behind me. “Cedric, get that man away from me!” he squawked. “He’s not coming anywhere near me with that saw!”
