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.”
Wiglaf hurried over to Erica on the far side of the room. She was scraping burned lumpen pudding from a big pot. How like Erica to pick the dirtiest pot, Wiglaf thought. No wonder she always won the Dragon Slayer of the Month medal.
“Wiglaf!” Erica cried when she saw him. “What were you doing in Mordred’s office?”
“I’ll tell you,” Wiglaf whispered. “But first I must ask you something. Do you princesses—”
“Talk not of princesses!” Erica hissed. “If you have breathed a word of my secret, Wiglaf...”
“I have said nothing!” Wiglaf said. “I swear it on my sword!”
“Ha!” Erica scoffed. “That rusty old thing?”
“I shall never tell your secret,” Wiglaf said. “But tell me! Do you know Belcheena?”
“Belcheena!” Erica cried.
Several heads turned toward them.
“Shhhh!” Wiglaf whispered. “What is she like?”
“Belcheena doesn’t come out of her tower much,” Erica said. “But I saw her once at a Princess Talent Contest. That was the day I won first prize in sword fighting! True, only one other princess had entered, but I—”
“What about Belcheena?” Wiglaf put in.
“As I remember, she sang a sad song. ‘The Squire of My Desire,’ I think. Why do you ask, Wiglaf?”
“There is a story about her in the paper,” Wiglaf said. “She is looking for a husband.”
“Belcheena is very...” Erica stopped for a moment. “How shall I put it? Belcheena has a very strong personality. I pity the man who marries her.”
“Then you may have to pity me!” Wiglaf cried. And he told Erica all that had taken place in Mordred’s office.
“I have no wish to marry anyone,” Wiglaf finished up. “I want to stay
“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.”
Wiglaf hurried over to Erica on the far side of the room. She was scraping burned lumpen pudding from a big pot. How like Erica to pick the dirtiest pot, Wiglaf thought. No wonder she always won the Dragon Slayer of the Month medal.
“Wiglaf!” Erica cried when she saw him. “What were you doing in Mordred’s office?”
“I’ll tell you,” Wiglaf whispered. “But first I must ask you something. Do you princesses—”
“Talk not of princesses!” Erica hissed. “If you have breathed a word of my secret, Wiglaf...”
“I have said nothing!” Wiglaf said. “I swear it on my sword!”
“Ha!” Erica scoffed. “That rusty old thing?”
“I shall never tell your secret,” Wiglaf said. “But tell me! Do you know Belcheena?”
“Belcheena!” Erica cried.
Several heads turned toward them.
“Shhhh!” Wiglaf whispered. “What is she like?”
“Belcheena doesn’t come out of her tower much,” Erica said. “But I saw her once at a Princess Talent Contest. That was the day I won first prize in sword fighting! True, only one other princess had entered, but I—”
“What about Belcheena?” Wiglaf put in.
“As I remember, she sang a sad song. ‘The Squire of My Desire,’ I think. Why do you ask, Wiglaf?”
“There is a story about her in the paper,” Wiglaf said. “She is looking for a husband.”
“Belcheena is very...” Erica stopped for a moment. “How shall I put it? Belcheena has a very strong personality. I pity the man who marries her.”
“Then you may have to pity me!” Wiglaf cried. And he told Erica all that had taken place in Mordred’s office.
“I have no wish to marry anyone,” Wiglaf finished up. “I want to stay
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