Sir Bigwart Read online

  ‘Look what I has catched!’ crowed Grimbeard.

  ‘Two?’ said Dungbean, frowning. ‘I swear I is only seeing one before.’

  ‘That is ‘cos I is catching another while you is sleeping like a granny,’ answered Grimbeard.

  ‘How did it get in? You think there is more of them?’ asked Dungbean.

  ‘Maybe there is,’ nodded Grimbeard thoughtfully. ‘Let us ask him.’

  Crispin felt the ogre’s grip relax and sat up on the palm of his hand, looking into Grimbeard’s bloodshot eyes. He tried not to imagine how it would feel to be crunched up like a biscuit.

  ‘You! Hornswoggler!’ growled Grimbeard. ‘Is you coming alone or is you bringing with you an army?’

  ‘I came alone,’ replied Crispin, trying not to sound terrified.

  ‘Don’t listen to him! He’s lying!’ It was Marigold who had shouted.

  Grimbeard frowned. He wasn’t used to dealing with more than one opinion – it was confusing.

  ‘He came with a knight called Sir Bigwart,’ the Princess went on. ‘A knight who has killed a thousand ogres bigger than you. He cuts off their heads and has them mounted on his walls. So if you don’t want to die you’d better let us go before he finds you!’

  As it happened, Crispin had just caught sight of the giant-killing hero in question. Sir Bigwart was stealing towards the door, dragging Firkin’s cooking pot behind him.

  ‘I is looking forward to meeting this squeak-pipping knight,’ growled Grimbeard. ‘I will squeeze him till his eyeballs pop and he is grizzling for mercy!’

  ‘And I will grab him by his luglisteners and toss him into the middle of next month!’ boasted Dungbean.

  Crispin saw that Sir Bigwart had reached the door and was about to scramble through the narrow gap underneath. In his haste, however, he forgot that the cooking pot was a tight fit. There was a loud CLANG! as it wedged fast and wouldn’t budge. The ogres heard it too and turned their heads.

  ‘THERE’S THE LITTLE HORNSWOG-GLER! CATCH HIM!’ cried Grimbeard.

  Chapter 10

  Whoman Stew

  ‘This is all your fault,’ Marigold grumbled.

  ‘Mine?’ said Sir Bigwart. He wished the Princess would stop stomping up and down. There wasn’t much room in a birdcage for stomping.

  ‘If you hadn’t come on this ridiculous quest, then we wouldn’t be in this mess!’

  ‘In the first place,’ said Sir Bigwart irritably, ‘I never asked to come on this quest. And in the second place, I don’t remember asking you to join me. If it’s anyone’s fault –’

  ‘Oh shut up, both of you!’

  Sir Bigwart and Marigold stared at Crispin in surprise. They weren’t used to being told to shut up by a mere kitchen boy.

  ‘Arguing isn’t going to help,’ said Crispin. ‘We’ve got to think of a plan. We’re trapped in an ogre’s castle and locked in a cage, so what are our choices?’

  ‘Escape,’ said Marigold.

  ‘Or get eaten,’ said Sir Bigwart gloomily.

  ‘But how can we escape?’ asked Crispin. ‘The door’s bolted from the outside and the ogres will be back any minute.’ He could hear Dungbean thumping around in the cellar below, looking for something.

  Marigold was thinking. ‘You know the story of Rapunzel?’ she said.

  Crispin nodded. ‘The girl in the tower who lets down her hair?’

  ‘Well, if my hair was as long as hers, you could climb down it and reach the floor.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crispin. ‘We could. Except your hair doesn’t reach your waist.’

  ‘No,’ said Marigold. ‘I’m just saying if it was.’

  This didn’t seem to be getting them very far. Crispin sat down on the upturned cooking pot, trying to think. ‘If only we had something to bargain with,’ he said.

  ‘You can offer them him,’ suggested Marigold, looking at Sir Bigwart.

  ‘Or her,’ replied Sir Bigwart.

  Crispin gave up. They didn’t have anything to bargain with. Besides the clothes they were wearing, the only thing they had was Firkin’s pot. He jumped to his feet. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The ogres would certainly be interested in a magic cooking pot. They talked about little else but what they were going to eat. An idea began to take shape in Crispin’s mind. It would take courage but it was better than sitting around waiting to be eaten.

  Just then the door slammed and Grimbeard entered the castle carrying armfuls of wood. He had been out on Ghastly Fell pulling up trees by the roots. He snapped them in two with his bare hands and threw them on to the fire. Before long the room was lit by a crackling blaze.

  Dungbean emerged from the steps of the cellar armed with a greasy collection of pots and pans. ‘How shall us cook them then?’ he asked. ‘Shall us sizzle them in a sausage pan and guzzle them whole?’

  Grimbeard wrinkled his nose. ‘Last time you is doing that you is setting alight your hair. Sizzling is no good. I say us puts them in the oven and bakes them till they’re crispling.’

  Dungbean shook his head. ‘You is talking hogswoggle! That oven isn’t working since you tried to mend it with a hammer. No, if we is cooking them, boiling is best. Let us have them in a stew.’

  ‘A stew?’ repeated Grimbeard.

  ‘Yes, you slugbucket! A whoman stew with turnips and taters and salt and pepper. There is nothing half as tasty as a hot whoman stew with the heads floating on the top.’

  Princess Marigold couldn’t help hearing this conversation since the ogres practically shouted every word. She turned away feeling sick. Sir Bigwart had his fingers in his ears.

  As darkness fell, the ogres went about preparing the great feast they had planned for that evening. Dungbean ferried buckets of green, murky water from the castle moat and poured them into the big rust-coloured stewpot that hung over the fire.

  His twin brother sat at the table chopping enormous turnips, potatoes and fat red onions with an axe. The onions made his eyes run and his nose drip on to the food but he didn’t pause to wipe them.

  ‘Is her hot and bubbling yet?’ he asked every five minutes.

  ‘No, it isn’t! You is frying my patience asking that!’ growled Dungbean.

  At last Crispin saw clouds of steam start to rise from the stewpot and heard the sound of bubbling hot water. The moment had come.

  ‘Now for the best part,’ grinned Grimbeard crookedly. ‘Shall us toss them in all at once or do them one at a time?’

  Crispin felt Marigold move closer to him. Her hand crept into his and squeezed it.

  ‘Let me go first,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Us’ll take it in turns,’ Dungbean was saying. ‘I likes to hear them squalling when they is boiling in the pot. Hand me the cage, slugbucket, and I will toss the first one in.’

  ‘Not on your bellies,’ growled Grimbeard. ‘I made the stew so I is going first.’

  ‘I is!’

  ‘I IS!’

  The cage swung around dizzily in Grimbeard’s hand as the two ogres squabbled and fought over it. Dungbean stamped on his brother’s foot and Grimbeard headbutted him in the belly. The three prisoners were tossed about in the cage like leaves in a gale as the ogres punched, bit, spat and cursed each other with filthy names. Finally Dungbean managed to poke his brother in the eye and steal the cage from his grasp.

  He unlatched the door and pushed his hand inside.

  ‘Come on, my beauties! Who’s first for the pot?’ he said.

  Marigold backed away and Sir Bigwart clung to the bars of the cage.

  Dungbean’s hand closed around Crispin, who made no attempt to escape.

  He was carried over to the fire. Hot clouds of steam rose up to sting his eyes. Below him, the lumpy, pea-green stew boiled and bubbled like lava.

  ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘I’ve something to tell you.’

  ‘Save your breaths,’ grinned Dungbean. ‘In you goes.’

  Chapter 11

  A Horrible Way to Go

&nbs
p; Crispin found himself hanging upside down by one leg and about to fall. ‘Listen to me!’ he gasped. ‘There’s something I want to show you!’

  ‘What is he drivelling about?’ asked Grimbeard, rubbing his eye. ‘Toss the swiddler in.’

  ‘It’s a cooking pot,’ cried Crispin, swaying back and forward. ‘A MAGIC cooking pot.’

  ‘Hogswoggle!’ sneered Grimbeard. ‘’Tain’t no such thing. Let him go.’

  He jogged his brother’s arm and Crispin felt himself falling. He hurtled downwards through clouds of hot steam towards the scalding soup below. This was it – the end.

  All the air was knocked out of him as he landed. Except there was no splash and no hot, bubbling stew closing over him. Instead he found himself face down on the palm of a giant hand which was lifting him up. At the last moment Dungbean must have reached out and caught him.

  ‘Magic?’ asked Dungbean. ‘What is you twaddling about?’

  ‘He is telling fibwigglers. Sling him back in!’ grumbled Grimbeard.

  ‘It’s the truth!’ panted Crispin. He knew this was his last chance. ‘It’s a magic cooking pot. I brought it to show you. If you don’t believe me, look in the cage!’

  Dungbean set him down on the table while he searched the birdcage.

  A moment later he returned with Firkin’s cooking pot, which to him was little bigger than a sugar bowl.

  ‘This teensy thing?’ he said.

  ‘It may not look much,’ said Crispin, ‘but it belonged to a great and powerful wizard called Firkin of the Forest. He gave it to me.’

  He glanced back at the cage. Marigold and Sir Bigwart could only watch, knowing that if Crispin’s plan failed, they were next for the stew.

  ‘What magic is you doing with such a piffling thing?’ demanded Grimbeard.

  ‘Put it on the table and I’ll show you,’ replied Crispin.

  Dungbean did as he was told and sat down at the table opposite his brother. The promise of seeing magic at work was too good to resist. They waited eagerly to see what Crispin had in mind.

  ‘Have you ever tasted honey cakes?’ he asked.

  ‘Honey cakes? What is they?’ replied Dungbean.

  ‘Let me show you.’

  Crispin approached the pot, remembering Firkin’s warning not to get too close when it was cooking. He closed his eyes, praying that he could remember the right words.

  Grimbeard and Dungbean both leaned forward, their mouths hanging open. Crispin stretched out his hands and spoke in a loud voice.

  ‘Cooking pot, cooking pot,

  Hear my request,

  Bake me some honey cakes.

  Make them the best.’

  For a second or two nothing happened. Grimbeard scowled.

  ‘I told you.’ Tis nothing but a swizzling trick!’

  ‘Wait!’ said Dungbean. ‘Look!’

  Clouds of blue-grey smoke were rising from the pot. It began to bubble and tremble. The smoke grew thicker, turning from blue to green to violet. At last the pot gave an echoing belch and out flew a plate which Crispin just managed to catch. The sweet smell of freshly baked honey cakes filled the room.

  ‘Well I’ll be frazzled!’ exclaimed Dungbean.

  ‘I never seed the like!’ said Grimbeard, peering at the stack of cakes. ‘Is they for scoffling?’

  ‘Of course. Try them,’ urged Crispin, holding out the plate.

  Grimbeard greedily scooped up a half dozen while his twin brother snatched the plate and tipped the rest straight into his mouth.

  ‘Scumshous!’ declared Dungbean, smacking his lips.

  ‘Yes, that has wettled my appetite nicely,’ agreed Grimbeard. ‘And now time you went back in the stew!’ He rose from his seat and snatched Crispin from the table.

  ‘No! Wait!’ cried Crispin, struggling to escape. ‘There’s more!’

  ‘More?’ repeated Grimbeard. ‘What more?’

  ‘I haven’t even begun. The pot can cook you anything you want. All you have to do is ask.’

  Grimbeard frowned. ‘Anything? You mean anything we want?’

  ‘Anything at all,’ nodded Crispin.

  ‘Put him down, bimstinkle,’ ordered Dungbean.

  Grimbeard glared. ‘I will decide whether I is putting him down or not!’

  He put Crispin down.

  ‘Can it cook devilled kidneys?’ he asked.

  ‘And whoman brains in onion sauce?’ added Dungbean. Dribble was escaping from his mouth and dripping on the table.

  ‘It can cook you anything you want,’ said Crispin. ‘But there is one dish so rich and spicy, I’m afraid you wouldn’t have the stomach for it.’

  ‘US? Not have the BELLIES for it?’ roared Grimbeard. ‘You is talking out of your ears!’

  ‘There is nothing I cannot eat! I is crunching up bones since I is a baby!’ declared Dungbean. He smashed his fist down so close to Crispin that he had to jump back to avoid being flattened.

  ‘That may be true,’ said Crispin, holding his nerve, ‘but I only ever met one person who could eat this dish and that was the Great Ogre of the North. He has it every Sunday for his lunch.’

  ‘HA!’ scoffed Grimbeard. ‘Who is this gobtrotting ogre? You think he is mightsier than the great Grimbeard?’

  ‘Bring me this dish and I will swallop it down before you can count to three!’ vowed Dungbean.

  ‘Very well,’ said Crispin. ‘Then ask the magic pot to bake you Ogre Pie.’

  ‘Ogre Pie?’ Dungbean frowned. ‘I is never hearing of it!’

  ‘The Ogre of the North says it’s his favourite pie,’ said Crispin. ‘That’s why they named it after him.’

  ‘Enough of your twaddle! Give me this gob-smacking pie!’ cried Dungbean, thumping the table impatiently. ‘I is slathering to taste it!’

  ‘Then speak to the pot and tell it what you want,’ said Crispin.

  Dungbean narrowed his eyes. ‘Why must us tell it? Why doesn’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Because it will only grant one wish a day and I have already used mine,’ replied Crispin. This seemed to satisfy the ogres, who were only too eager to try some magic themselves.

  Crispin taught them the words of the spell. It took a bit of practice since the ogres were slow learners and kept blaming each other for muddling them up. But at long last they were ready. Dungbean took a deep breath.

  ‘Wait,’ said Crispin. ‘Don’t you want to see it cooking? Sit closer to the pot.’

  The ogres obediently moved their chairs closer.

  ‘Now look right into the pot and say the words I taught you.’

  The ogres bent over until their noses were almost in the cooking pot. Crispin kept well back as they bellowed out the spell.

  ‘COOKING POT, COOKING POT,

  HEAR MY REQUEST,

  A BIG OGRE PIE

  AND MAKE IT THE BEST!’

  Instantly the pot began to shake and rumble as clouds of blue smoke rose from within. The ogres bent over it excitedly.

  ‘’Tis working! I is seeing it!’ cried Grimbeard.

  The smoke grew thicker, changing from blue to green to violet. Suddenly there was a bolt of light accompanied by a noise like the sky splitting in two. Crispin, Marigold and Sir Bigwart turned away to shield their eyes.

  When they looked again, a gigantic pie had bloomed from the pot. The crust bulged over the sides and oozed a rich, dark gravy. As for Dungbean and Grimbeard, they had vanished from sight. Nothing of them remained but two pairs of leather boots smoking on the floor.

  Chapter 12

  Eggnog Again

  King Eggnog stared out of the palace window and sighed. It was almost a week now since his beloved Marigold had disappeared and he was beginning to wonder if he would ever see her again. Meals were eaten in the Great Hall in silence while the knights drooped around the castle, not knowing what to do with themselves.

  ‘A search party!’ said the King, turning round suddenly.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sire?’ asked Lord Fawnley, wiping
his nose. He was nursing a dreadful cold.

  ‘We should send one out, Fawnley! A search party!’

  ‘My lord, we sent one already. The day before yesterday.’

  ‘Did we? Why didn’t you say so? What did they find?’

  ‘I regret they – a … a … atchoo! – haven’t returned yet,’ wheezed Lord Fawnley. ‘I fear they could be lost.’

  ‘Lost? How can they be lost?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sire, I have sent a … a … another one.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what, my lord?’

  ‘Did the search party searching for the search party manage to find them?’

  Lord Fawnley looked embarrassed. ‘No, my lord. It seems they are lost too.’

  ‘Odds frogs! Fawnley! Marigold is missing! Anything could have happened to her.’ The King was having to raise his voice because of all the noise coming from the courtyard. ‘What is the use of one hundred knights …’ he began.

  ‘Ninety-nine knights, sire,’ corrected Lord Fawnley. ‘I fear Sir Bigwart may be … how shall I put it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dead, my lord. You remember you sent him to find the Ogres of Ghastly Fell? I’m afraid he hasn’t come back.’ Lord Fawnley dabbed at his nose sorrowfully.

  ‘Great heavens!’ said the King. ‘Bigwart as well? How long has he been gone?’

  ‘Since Saturday, sire.’

  The King looked at him. ‘Saturday? Isn’t that when Marigold went missing?’

  ‘I’m a … a … afraid so. Aatchoo!’

  Odds frogs! You don’t think she went with him?’

  Lord Fawnley’s answer was drowned out by the commotion outside the window. A crowd was cheering wildly and drums and trumpets could be heard coming up the hill from the village. King Eggnog went to the window to see what on earth was happening.

  Through the castle gates came a farm cart surrounded by an excited crowd. Seated at the front was Sir Bigwart holding the reins. With him was his squire, Crispin, the Wizard Firkin dressed in his best hat, and Princess Marigold herself, looking as if she’d just returned from her holidays. King Eggnog was so overjoyed that he rushed downstairs to meet them, forgetting he was wearing his slippers.