A Wedding for Wiglaf?

Table of Contents

 

 

 

For Audrey Kubetin
—K. McM.

Text copyright © 1998, 2003 by Kate McMullan. Illustrations copyright © 1998, 2003 by

Bill Basso. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Putnam Inc. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

 

 

McMullan, K.H.
A wedding for Wiglaf/ by K.H. McMullan; Illustrated by Bill Basso.
p. cm.—(Dragon Slayers’ Academy; 4)
Summary: When the headmaster of the Dragon Slayers’ Academy hears that
Princess Belcheena will pay the matchmaker who finds her a husband, he decides that
Wiglaf is the perfect candidate.
[1. Princesses—Fiction. 2. Weddings—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.] 1. Basso, Bill, ill. II.
Series: McMullan, K.H. Dragon Slayers’ Academy; 4.
PZ7.M47879We 1998
[Fic]—dc21

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-14206-6

KLMN0 PQRST

98-41532
CIP
AC

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 Wiglaf.

There was a sudden knock on the door.

“Enter!” Mordred said.

The door flew open. Erica ran into the office. Erica dressed as a boy so she could go to DSA. Everyone there called her Eric. Wiglaf was the only student who knew that she was a girl. And a royal one at that. She was none other than Princess Erica, daughter of Queen Barb and King Ken.

“Sir!” Erica cried. “Come quickly! Torblad fell into the moat. And he cannot swim!”

“Torblad, eh?” Mordred scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if he is all paid up. Let me check my records.” He opened a worn leather book. On the cover, it said:

“Hmmm. Just as I thought,” the headmaster muttered. “Torblad owes me for two semesters.” Mordred jumped up suddenly. “Egad!” he cried. “If he drowns, I’ll never see a penny of it! Wait here, Wiglaf. I’ll be back!” The headmaster raced from the room. Erica raced after him.

Wiglaf turned to Angus. “Your uncle has gone mad!” he said. “Why else would he offer to buy me new clothes?”

“Oh, he has something up his sleeve,” Angus said. “You can be sure of that.” He put down the boot he was polishing. He picked up Mordred’s copy of
The Medieval Times.
“Let’s see if Dragon Stabbers’ Prep beat Knights-R-Us in the jousting match,” he said.

“Wait,” said Wiglaf. “What’s this on the front page?” Together, the boys read the headline story.

Angus whistled. “Belcheena is loaded!”

“I wonder why her true love rode away,” Wiglaf said.

Just then the door swung open. Mordred was back. His hair and his tunic dripped with foul-smelling moat water.

“Torblad is saved,” he growled. “But he had better pay up soon. Or I’ll throw the little rotter back into the moat myself.”

Mordred glanced at Angus and Wiglaf. “Ah, you’ve seen the paper!” he said. “I guess my little surprise is out of the bag. Eh, Wiglaf?”

“Your surprise, sir?” Wiglaf asked.

“Yes, my boy,” Mordred said happily. “You are about to get married!”

E
xcuse me, sir?“ Wiglaf managed. ”I don’t think I heard you right.“

“You...are...about...to...get...married,” Mordred said again.

Wiglaf looked over his shoulder. Mordred had to be speaking to someone behind him.

But there was no one behind him.

“You cannot mean Wiglaf,” Angus said.

“Oh, but I do!” Mordred picked up the paper. “Belcheena says her husband must be a dragon slayer. And Wiglaf has slain two dragons.”

“But only by accident, sir!” Wiglaf cried. “Surely the princess wants a husband who slew his dragons on purpose.”

“Fiddle-faddle,” Mordred said. He glanced at the paper again. “Belcheena wants a redheaded husband. And you, Wiglaf, are a redhead.”

“My hair is orange, sir,” Wiglaf pointed out.

“Close enough,” Mordred growled. “Next you will tell me that Wiglaf does not begin with
W!”

“No, sir,” Wiglaf said miserably.

“Well then!” Mordred boomed. “It looks as if I shall be a matchmaker! And I shall get the pot of gold!” He rubbed his hands together. “Ha! I knew there was an easier way to get rich than sending half-witted boys out to bring me dragon gold!”

Mordred glanced at the sundial on his desk. “Off with you now, Wiglaf,” he said. “Come back after supper tonight. Lobelia will be here then. And we’ll make plans for your wedding!”

Wiglaf fell to his knees. “I am a peasant!” he cried. “My twelve brothers smell bad, for my father thinks bathing causes madness! My—”

“Say no more, Wiglaf,” Mordred cut him off. “I understand what you are telling me.”

“Oh, do you, sir?” Wiglaf cried happily.

“Certainly,” Mordred said. “You don’t want to invite your family to the wedding.”

“Uh...that is not exactly what I meant, sir,” Wiglaf said. “I was trying to explain how very unfit I am to mar...mar...” He could not bring himself to say the awful word! “How unfit I am for a princess,” he said at last.

Mordred frowned. “You are a redheaded dragon slayer named Wiglaf. You are exactly what the princess wants. I shall make this known to her. And I shall get the pot of gold. I wonder,” he added dreamily, “just how big a pot it is?”

Mordred stared into space, imagining his pot of gold. The boys quietly left his office. They headed for Scrubbing Class.

“Can your uncle really make me get mar... mar...” Try as he might, Wiglaf could not say it! “Can he make me do this thing?” Wiglaf asked.

“He seems to think so,” Angus said.

They walked in silence for a while. Then Angus said, “Do not take this the wrong way, Wiglaf. But when the princess sees you, surely she will put a stop to any wedding.”

“I hope you’re right,” Wiglaf said. But he was worried. Mordred was so set on getting that pot of gold.

The boys reached the DSA kitchen. Frypot stood at the door. “Hurry in to class, boys,” he called. “You may think Scrubbing is not as exciting as Slaying Class. But wait until you make a kill. It’s a mess, what with the dragon guts hanging off your sword and all. Then you’ll be glad you took old Frypot’s Scrubbing Class.”