A Wedding for Wiglaf? (3 page)

Wiglaf’s heart indeed thumped, clonked, pounded, beat, and pitter-pattered. Not with love. But with fear that this awful thing might really happen!

Lobelia skimmed the letter. “Very nice, Mordie,” she said when she finished.

Mordred smiled. He pulled a velvet bell cord hanging on the wall. A DSA student teacher quickly appeared at the door.

“Take this to Brother Dave.” Mordred handed him the letter. “Wait while he copies it. Then give the copy to my scout, Yorick. Tell him to deliver it to Mildew Palace tonight.”

Tonight!
Wiglaf gulped. Things were moving quickly. Way too quickly!

“Now for the wedding plans!” Lobelia held up a list she had made. “The wedding shall take place in the rose garden,” she said.

Mordred frowned. “What rose garden?”

“The one I shall plant in the castle yard,” Lobelia replied. “I’m thinking red roses to go with the redhead theme. After the wedding, we’ll have the feast. Frypot and I planned a menu to go with Belcheena’s favorite letter—
W.
We’re serving whitefish, Welsh rarebit, wolf chops, weasel tenderloin, wrens and warblers baked in a pie, watermelon, and wine. But Mordie, this will not come cheap.”

“Spare no expense!” Mordred said. “A princess must have a proper wedding. And surely Belcheena will pay for the whole shebang!”

Lobelia nodded. “Now, Wiglaf, you must pick a best man. Your most trusted friend in the world. One to stand by you as you say your vows.”

“You should choose someone important,” Mordred said. “Someone powerful. Someone... like me.”

Wiglaf rolled his eyes. Mordred was the cause of this mess. He would never pick him. Angus and Erica were his good friends. But his most trusted friend in the world? That was his pig, Daisy. Wiglaf almost laughed, thinking what Mordred and Lobelia would say if he suggested that Daisy be in the wedding. A best pig! They would think he had lost his mind!

And suddenly Wiglaf realized that’s just what he
would
say! If Mordred and Lobelia thought he was crazy, maybe they would give up trying to make him marry the princess.

“My best friend must stand by me!” Wiglaf declared.

“Fine,” Lobelia said. “Just tell me his name. I will have him measured for a new tunic.”

“It is a she,” Wiglaf said. “My pig, Daisy.”

“Your pig? Over my dead body!” Mordred roared.

“Daisy must stand by me!” Wiglaf smiled strangely. He tried to look quite mad.

“I’ll roast that pig of yours for the wedding supper!” Mordred roared.

“Stop, Mordie,” Lobelia said. “Clearly the pig cannot be the best man. But picture this. Daisy as...the flower girl!”

“Have you lost your mind?” Mordred bellowed.

“Not her, me!” Wiglaf cried. “I’m the one who’s lost my mind!”

“Shush!” Lobelia said. “A flower pig has never been done. It’s new. Cutting-edge! What a statement it would make!”

Panic gripped Wiglaf. He had not counted on this! How could Lobelia want a pig in a wedding? He had to do something fast.

“Yes! Here’s the statement it would make!” Wiglaf said. And he started oinking like a pig.

“Stop that, Wiglaf,” ordered Lobelia. “It would say our lives are connected to the earth. To beasts—the pig. This is such a fine idea,” she added. “Perhaps the hens should be in the wedding, too.”

“Ooooh! I feel a headache coming on!” Mordred groaned. “All right, Lobelia. Make what plans you will. But I warn you...” He raised one bushy eyebrow. “Don’t do a thing that will put a stop to this wedding. For I shall let nothing—
nothing!—
stand between me and that pot of gold!”

W
iglaf stumbled into the dorm room late that night. But Angus and Erica had waited up for him.

“What happened, Wiggie?” Erica whispered. “Did you talk Mordred out of this crazy idea?”

Wiglaf shook his head. “Mordred wrote Belcheena that he had found the perfect husband for her.... Me!” he wailed. “Yorick is on his way to Mildew Palace with the letter right now!”

“Well, look at the bright side,” Angus advised. “You will be very rich.”

“What do I care for riches?” Wiglaf moaned.

“You can order the best suit of armor from
The Sir Lancelot Catalog,”
Erica pointed out. “And the ruby-handled sword!”

Wiglaf pictured the handsome ruby-handled sword from Erica’s catalog. That part didn’t sound so bad.

“No more lumpen pudding,” Angus said. “And no more Scrubbing Class!”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Wiglaf said.

“And someone will wait on you, hand and foot,” Erica added. “You’ll like that, Wiggie.”

Wiglaf smiled. “That’s
Prince
Wiggie to you!” Then his smile faded. “But I don’t want to get mar... Oh, why did Mordred write that letter?”

“You know...” Angus said thoughtfully. “We, too, can write a letter.”

Erica grinned. “Our letter could say how awful Wiglaf of Pinwick really is!”

“Yes!” Wiglaf cried. “Let us write it now!”

Erica ran off to her bunk. She quickly returned with paper and a goose quill pen.

“You write it, Angus.” She gave him the supplies. “You have the worst handwriting.”

“All right,” Angus agreed. He settled himself on the floor. “What shall I write?”

“Dear Princess Belcheena,” Wiglaf began. “A greedy matchmaker wrote you of a redheaded dragon slayer, Wiglaf of Pinwick. He wrote that Wiglaf would make you a perfect husband. Nothing could be further from the truth!”

“Let me add a bit,” Erica said. And she took over. “You will know Wiglaf when you see him by the handsome wart on the tip of his nose. His lips are always nicely moist, for his drooling keeps them wet. Are you fond of dogs? I ask, for Wiglaf’s breath is so like that of a hound. His teeth are artistically arranged. Some lean to the left. Others to the right. Still others lean way out of his mouth.”

“Enough about my looks,” Wiglaf said quickly.

Erica nodded. “Wiglaf would rather walk a mile on burning coals than marry you,” she went on. “But he is a fortune hunter. And you have a fortune. So he shall wed you for your gold.” Erica smiled. “That is enough, I think.”

Wiglaf took the pen. He signed the letter, “From a True Friend at DSA.” He blew on the ink to dry it. Then he rolled the letter up. Erica tied it with a ribbon.

“Let us keep this mar...mar...this thing a secret,” Wiglaf suggested. “I have no wish for the other students here to know about it.”

“I shan’t say a word,” Angus promised.

“Me either,” Erica said. “I swear it on my genuine Sir Lancelot sword!”

The three friends locked pinkies to seal their promise.

“Maybe Yorick is back from Mildew Palace by now,” Erica said. “Let’s go see.”

They tiptoed out of the dorm. They ran silently through the hallways and across the castle yard. Wiglaf opened the door to the gatehouse. But it was empty except for a large rock on a pile of straw.

“Too bad,” Angus said. “Yorick isn’t here.”

Suddenly the rock sat up. A hand reached out and slipped off a gray hood.

“Yorick!” Wiglaf exclaimed. “We thought you were a rock.”

“That’s the idea,” Yorick said, getting to his feet. “This is my rock disguise—gray tights, a gray tunic, gray hood. When I spot trouble, I squat down by the side of the road. People take me for a rock and walk on by.”

“We have a letter, Yorick,” Wiglaf said. “It must be delivered to Mildew Palace right away.”

“I just got back from there!” Yorick exclaimed. “I’m not going again so soon. Not on your life.”

“I shall pay you a penny,” Angus offered.

“No, Angus!” Wiglaf cried. “Your mother gave you that penny for your birthday!”

“It’s a small price to pay to keep you from getting married and—oops!” Angus clapped a hand to his mouth.

“Wiglaf’s getting married?” Yorick asked.

“Not if I can help it,” Wiglaf said quickly. “That’s why we need you to take this letter.”

Angus gave Yorick the penny. Yorick bit down on it to make sure it was real.

“I’m off!” Yorick took the letter from Wiglaf. He tucked it into his tunic. And he hurried away.

Tomorrow morning,
Wiglaf thought,
Princess Belcheena will read this letter. And she will never want to lay eyes on Wiglaf of Pinwick!

Wiglaf, Angus, and Erica started back across the yard. They had almost reached the castle when a voice called: “Halt! Who goes there?”

Wiglaf froze. So did Angus and Erica.

“Oh, it’s you three,” the voice said. It belonged to Coach Plungett. “I thought I’d caught a pack of thieves on my watch,” Coach said with a chuckle. He put his sword away. “What are you lads doing out here at this time of night?”

“We...uh,” Wiglaf began. “We were just...”

“We couldn’t sleep,” Erica put in.

“Couldn’t sleep, eh?” Coach looked up at the starry sky. “I once suffered from sleepless nights,” he said. “It was long ago. I couldn’t sleep for thinking of my lady love.”

“You were in love!” Angus cried. “Yuck!”

Wiglaf smiled. It was funny to think of Coach Plungett in love. And yet...Coach had never married. How had he escaped?

“Excuse me, Coach?” Wiglaf said. “If I may ask—how is it you never mar...mar...”

“Married?” Coach said. “I was a lowly squire and my lady love’s father thought I’d never amount to a hill of beans. One night he sent his henchmen to tell me to go. Said they’d stab me full of holes if I returned. There were twenty of them. And only one of me. So I rode off. I thought it best at the time.” Coach sighed. “But sometimes I wonder, lads.”

Wiglaf sighed, too. Clearly Coach’s story was no help to him.

“That’s a sad tale, Coach,” said Angus.

“‘Tis,” Coach agreed. “Now go in and get some sleep. I won’t be in class for a few days, you know. I’m off to Ratswhiskers to visit my mother. Sir Mort will take over for me. He’ll be showing you the Fatal Blow.”

“Good night, Coach,” the three called. Then they headed for the castle.

Wiglaf had a light heart all day on Thursday. He pictured the princess opening the second letter. And crossing Wiglaf of Pinwick off her list of possible husbands.

Friday morning, Wiglaf, Erica, and Angus walked into the dining hall for breakfast. Wiglaf caught sight of Mordred. He was running toward him, waving a piece of parchment. The headmaster was smiling broadly. This was not a good sign.

“Princess Belcheena has written back!” Mordred exclaimed as he reached Wiglaf.

Wiglaf’s heart began to pound. Something was amiss. He could feel it in his bones.

“Her steward brought her reply this morning,” Mordred went on. “Listen to what she says!”

Wiglaf looked nervously around the dining hall. All the boys had stopped eating. They were silent, waiting to hear more.

“‘My dear Mordred,’”
Mordred read loudly.
“‘How kind of you to write to let me know that Wiglaf of Pinwick would make me such a fine husband!’”

“Woo! Woo! Woo!” shouted all the boys in the dining hall. “Wiglaf’s getting married!”

“Silence!” Mordred roared. His violet eyes flashed with anger. He read on.

“‘I shall gladly come to Dragon Slayers’ Academy to meet this redheaded dragon slayer. Please have your best room ready for me.’
Then she says something about even if I have to move out of the best room myself...clean sheets, blah, blah, blah. Let me see...” His eyes traveled down the page. “Ah!
‘I shall arrive on Saturday with my ladies-in-waiting, servants, and hangers-on. If Wiglaf is as perfect as you say, we shall be wed the following Saturday. I shall, of course, bring the pot of gold.

“Let us be wed, Wiglaf, honey!” called a boy.

Wiglaf’s face burned hot with shame.

“She’ll bring her gold!” Mordred exclaimed. “That is the main thing. And she will be here tomorrow! Oh, there is much to do!”