Pete growled but then realised with a start what had happened. He’d overslept! How could he have done this? He never slept in. The covers were sent flying as Pete, with his pillow-hair and pyjamas, leapt out of bed. Today of all days was not the day to sleep in.
Every morning Pete would get up early in order to clean the house and make breakfast for his mother. They lived on the outskirts of town, on a little block of land. They had a few animals and they grew crops which they gave to their landlord as rent, keeping only a little for themselves. Although it wasn’t a big house, cleaning took Pete a little longer than it might have taken others, for he had been born with just one arm, his left arm. People had said Mrs McGee should get rid of him, that he would be a burden to her. But she had known better. She had cradled her newborn son in her arms and whispered, ‘You’ll not be a burden to me. Sure, those with two arms will have an advantage over you, but none will have your heart. You will go far, Pete McGee. Your courage and determination will make up for your losses.’
When he was seven years old Pete’s mother had written him a note. It was a day where nothing had gone right and Pete was feeling about as low as he thought possible. It was certainly the lowest he’d ever felt in his short life. But then his mother handed him his note, and now he never went anywhere without it. It read:
You are Sir Pete McGee, a brave and noble man, slayer of monsters and righter of wrongs. You are strong in so many ways. Believe in yourself and the world will see just how great a man with one arm can be.
Sir Pete McGee. That was what she called him. She said that there was a great knight just waiting to burst out of him. If he was good and true, one day a situation would arise when the knight within would be awakened.
But for now, all that mattered was that he was running late.
Meanwhile, in one of the many corridors of King Cyril the 23rd’s castle, a shabby-looking servant edged along the wall towards the Throne Room. He looked like he could do with a good meal. He was dressed in torn and dirty clothes, and his big toe poked out of his right shoe. His name was Marloynne, and in his hand he held a note from the King’s doctor. Sir Clancy, King Cyril’s leading knight, had taken ill and wouldn’t be able to go on the planned journey. Marloynne knew no details about this journey, but he knew King Cyril the Short-Tempered was going to be mad. Really mad. Marloynne had worked as a cleaner and general dogsbody in the castle for only three months, but he had already witnessed the King’s awful temper on many occasions. As he reached the massive doors to the Throne Room he leant against the wall and took some deep breaths. He brushed as much dirt off his clothes as he could, trying to make them look respectable. He smoothed back his hair, and as he did so he noticed his hands were shaking.
‘Be brave Marloynne, don’t be a wuss,’ he said to himself, trying to will the words to have some effect. He turned and knocked on the door. An impatient voice came from inside.
‘Enter.’
Marloynne turned the door handle and winced at the creaking sound the door made. He looked around the room and saw that all eyes were on him. Ashlyn smiled from where she was cleaning and Marloynne winked at her. He longed to talk to her, but that would have to wait until mealtime. He had met Ashlyn on his first day at the castle and they had been inseparable ever since. He loved her deeply, she was by far the best thing about working in the castle. But, first things first, he needed to deliver the note. He walked over and bowed low, holding out the piece of paper at arm’s length.
‘Your Majesty.’
King Cyril the Temperamental took the note without a word and read it to himself. A small noise began in his throat, building like a volcano until it erupted in a massive roar. He stormed around the Throne Room, still yelling, waving the note in the air. He was a fearsome-looking man. He had a hooked nose, as most dastardly people seem to have. It made him look rather like a vulture, or an eagle, or an evil parrot. On either side of the nose were cold, hard eyes, and they were set in a face of stone that only ever smiled devilishly. Actually, it wasn’t even really a smile. It was more a sneer, a sneer that never reached his eyes and that gave away his evil intentions. The great royal cloak billowed out behind the King as he ranted. He grabbed whatever obscenely expensive objects he could and started hurling them around the room. The King was a strong man, and many items smashed into pieces against the rough, stone walls. The servants were forced to dodge as well as they could. Marloynne ran and stood in front of Ashlyn to protect her from any danger, wincing as a vase thudded into his back. King Cyril the About-to-Explode stopped for an instant, hunched his shoulders, then yelled as he straightened up:
‘How will I find this flower without Sir Clancy?
How?’
He wheeled around, grabbed Marloynne by the collar and wrenched him away from Ashlyn. Marloynne’s feet dangled in the air as the King lifted him so that their noses were touching. The King breathed deep and roared again.
‘HOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW?’
Marloynne’s hair blew back and his body went limp. Along with a fearsome temper, King Cyril the Garlic-Lover also had fearsome breath. The King grunted and dropped his servant to the ground. Ashlyn rushed over, dropping to her knees as she tried to rouse Marloynne, stroking his face as she spoke to him.
‘Oh, how sweet,’ the King simpered. ‘The two lowest, scungiest people in the castle are in love. Ahhhh, it makes me WANT TO THROW UP! To vomit! To chuck, chunder, spew! Get it?’
He turned to a guard.
‘Remove this girl from the castle. I never want to see her again. The slave boy will come with me in search of the Wilderene Flower.’
Ashlyn threw herself at the King’s feet, pleading with him as she clutched at his robes.
‘No Your Majesty, please. He will be killed if he travels with you, and he is the sole reason I rise in the morning. Without him I shall surely die.’
‘Then die you surely shall, sho shuffer Shtupid … I mean, suffer. Yes, that’s it, suffer. There will be sacrifices needed on this journey. Your lover boy will come in very handy as one of them. Be thankful I am a kind and noble king and don’t have you killed on the spot for daring to touch the royal robes.’
Ashlyn stared for an instant before speaking in low tones.
‘You are vile and evil. One day you will pay for your actions. I hope I am there to witness that moment.’
King Cyril the Yeah-Yeah-Whatever laughed arrogantly and waved his hand at Ashlyn as he turned away.
‘Remove her! I said I don’t ever want to see her again. Revive the boy from his cowardly faint and take him to Faydon. NOW!’
A guard moved over to Marloynne.
‘Come on Princess,’ he chuckled as he dragged the still unconscious Marloynne out of the room. Ashlyn watched them go, offering no resistance as she was led by two other guards out of the castle grounds. Outside, with heads lowered, the guards told Ashlyn she must not return, for to do so would mean her death.
‘My death is assured as it is,’ she answered. ‘My heart has been removed and it is only a matter of time before my body realises it is so.’
The guards shook their heads, their faces betraying their sadness. They re-entered the castle grounds and slammed the gates.
