Thorfinn and the Rotten Scots Page 2

  “Vikings!” The men chattered excitedly. “Actual Vikings! We’ve captured real Vikings!”

  “In fact, this boy is the son of our chief Harald the Skull-Splitter. You’ve probably heard of him.”

  There was more excited chatter among the clansmen:

  “Oh aye, he’s quite famous!”

  “He’s one of my favourites, he is!”

  “We’ve captured the Skull-Splitter’s son!”

  Ranald turned to his men and rubbed his hands. “See, I told you, we can be at least as tough as the Vikings. At least!”

  Thorfinn stepped in front of Ranald and took off his helmet. “Now that we’re all acquainted, could I offer you and your men a cup of tea?”

  The Scots stared at Thorfinn’s kettle like it was a rat sandwich.

  “Tea?” said one of them. “Is that what Vikings drink?”

  “Is that their secret? Does it make you tougher?” asked another.

  “Should we be drinking tea?”

  “Don’t be daft! He’s playing with us. Vikings don’t drink tea,” said Ranald. “I have a plan. We’ll take them back to the castle and ransom them.”

  Two men grabbed Velda. She kicked, and screamed at them. “Oh, you’re going to be SOOOO sorry! When Harald finds us, he’ll chop you into little bits! He’ll mince you and stick you in a curry!”

  Thorfinn, on the other hand, was brimming with excitement as they dragged him away. “Oh, a castle! I love castles. Sadly most of the castles I see get burnt to the ground. I’d rather like to see one that wasn’t.”

  “Wheesht!” cried Ranald. “Shooglin’ numpties! You’re prisoners; you’re supposed to be quiet.”

  Ranald’s men pushed their three captives into the forest while Percy followed overhead. They walked about fifty metres before Oswald started complaining about his feet again, then another fifty before he demanded to be carried.

  Ranald sighed. “Silly old fool!” He prodded one of his men. “Winkie! Carry him!”

  If anything, Winkie was even older, scrawnier and more decrepit than Oswald.

  “Whit? I’m no’ carrying him!” the man protested.

  “Shuddup and get on with it!”

  Winkie was a good name for this old fossil. He had a gurney, screwed-up face and blinkie eyes.

  He staggered and gasped as Oswald leapt onto his back. “You’re a ton weight, auld man!”

  “Rubbish! I live on a diet of raw cabbage and apples.” To make his point, Oswald let loose a colossal FART. “See?”

  ***

  They soon left the forest behind. The path carried them many miles over hills, moors and steep passes into the Highlands, before finally descending to a sea loch.

  “There’s Castle Red Wolf,” said one of the Scots, pointing to a tumbledown fort perched on a rocky crag that jutted out into the water.

  “Oh look, they have a beach,” said Thorfinn. He turned to one of Ranald’s men. “Do you have buckets and spades at the castle? How about deck chairs?”

  The man just stared back at him, horrified.

  By now Winkie was red-faced and wheezing, which did not add to his looks. “AHHHH! Ah need a rest!” he gasped.

  Oswald whipped him with his cane. “Come on! Move!”

  They followed the path down to Castle Red Wolf.

  CHAPTER 6

  As they neared the castle they realised what a terrible state it was in. Some of the walls had rotted away. Most of the windows were boarded over. Ranald’s flag flew over the ramparts, a red wolf on a black background. The motto underneath read:

  Time to get Tough!

  Judging by the giant holes in the roof, and the cacophany of cooing from within, many pigeons were living in the castle.

  Thorfinn called up to Percy, “Oh, look, you’ll have loads of friends here.” Percy seemed to nod, then flew up to the roof, where the other pigeons squawked to welcome him.

  They trooped through the gate and into the castle courtyard. It was just as grimy here as it was outside. Armed men slouched around. The only activity came from the forge, where new swords and spears were being made.

  Winkie threw Oswald off his back and then slumped to the ground, yelling, “Ah’m gonnie die!”

  Oswald stood up, dusted himself down and sniffed. “Well, that was a most uncomfortable way to travel.”

  A group of women hanging around outside the entrance to the castle keep started jeering.

  “Oh, here they come, our gallant menfolk!” cried a large woman with rosy cheeks and red hair. A tartan shawl was draped over her shoulders. “What have you brought us this time? Food? Supplies? No, I didn’t think so.”

  Ranald glared at the woman. “Even better, Maggie. We have brought Viking hostages. The son of a chief!”

  “Big wow!” cried Maggie, who was in charge of running the castle. “And while you’re busy wandering the countryside, kidnapping children and old folk, how are we supposed to tend our crops or repair the castle?”

  Thorfinn turned to one of Ranald’s men. “Excuse me, sir, but would you please tell me where the tennis courts are?”

  The man looked insulted. “There are no tennis courts here, laddie.”

  “Oh, dear, that’s a shame,” said Thorfinn. “Then what other activities do you offer? Bowls? Croquet?”

  Ranald’s voice boomed out, “ENOUGH! Take the prisoners into the great hall.”

  ***

  The great hall was stark and bare. The only furnishings were large tapestries showing bloody battle scenes. Some appeared to show members of the MacRanald clan defeating Vikings.

  The three prisoners were thrown to their knees in front of the chieftain’s throne. Ranald slumped down on it and studied Thorfinn, who was looking around the room with a well-meaning smile.

  “Charming tapestries,” said Thorfinn. “The weaver has really captured the spirit of battle.”

  “Enough of your tittle-tattle, laddie,” Ranald fumed. “Now then, we’re going to send a little ransom note off to your father. What do you have to say about that?”

  “You won’t get away with this, you good-for-nothing, lousy, rotten Scots—” Velda screamed before the guards pinned her down.

  “By the way,” said Thorfinn absent-mindedly, “do you by any chance have an indoor pool? It’s just that my friend Oswald suffers from terrible bunions—”

  “Still playing the fool, eh?” yelled Ranald.

  “Oh, you have NO idea!” groaned Velda.

  “Well, I tell you what, young Viking boy. I know what an insult it is for a Viking to be pampered! Tomorrow you will sit with the little children, the old men, the wounded and the weaklings and watch my men train in the practice yard.” Ranald turned to Glen, his chief steward, a tall man with long grey hair and a sober face. “No weapons, no ale, not even watered-down. And give him the comfiest seat we have, the one we usually keep for the bishop.”

  “How kind,” said Thorfinn.

  “Ha! Putting on a brave face now,” said Ranald. “But a bit of spoiling and we’ll soon see you crack!”

  The three captives were hauled to their feet and dragged upstairs, with Oswald whining, “Make sure I get a comfy seat too…” and Velda kicking and yelling. “The Vikings will chop you into chunks and feed you to the dogs…”

  CHAPTER 7

  Ranald went over to his desk, which he rarely used except for signing death warrants. “Now, we’re going to write this ransom note. And because I want it to look really tough I’m going to write it in blood.” He unfurled a scroll, picked up his dirk and turned to the nearest man he could find. “You!”

  It was Winkie, who was still wheezing after carrying Oswald.

  “Draw this blade across your palm, man,” Ranald roared, “so I can use your blood.”

  “Whit…? Are you kiddin’?” replied Winkie.

  “No, hurry up and do it!”

  “B-but I’ve got the washing-up to do; it’ll be really stingy!”

  “In the name of Ben Nevis!” Ranald turned to
his bowman. “You do it!”

  “I can’t!” replied the man. “I’ve got to fire arrows with this hand.”

  Ranald turned to his chief steward. “You do it, Glen.”

  Glen shook his head. “Alas, I cannot do it, my Lord.”

  “Why not!”

  “It wouldn’t be fitting for me to serve as your steward and greet guests with a bandaged hand.”

  “What guests? We never have any guests!”

  “Well, you never know,” shrugged Glen.

  “We’re supposed to be tough. Do you think the Vikings would be having this argument? They’d be queuing up to do it.”

  “Then why don’t you do it, Chief?” said Glen.

  “Why? Eh,” Ranald smarted. “Well, I can’t do it. I’m the chief.”

  “Excuse me,” said Winkie, “but why do we no’ just use something that looks like blood?”

  “Like what?”

  “We got loads of raspberries this summer. I could squash a handful oot and we could use the juice?”

  “Raspberry juice? You want me to use raspberry juice?! It’s meant to look tough. They’ll think we’re mad.”

  Ranald stared round at the blank faces of the men in the room, and his shoulders slumped. “OK then, we’ll use raspberry juice.”

  ***

  “This looks rubbish!” Ranald huffed as he finished his raspberry ransom note. “Oh, well, it’ll have to do.” He turned to the man nearest to him. “You!”

  Yet again it was Winkie, who was by now on the verge of collapse. “I want you to march straight back over the hill and deliver this to the Viking chief.”

  Winkie nearly fainted. “Whit… me?!”

  “Yes, you!”

  “Why have ye always got tae pick on me?”

  Ranald roared, his face the colour of a giant boil that was about to burst. “Don’t argue with your chief! Just do it!”

  Winkie snatched the message out of his chief’s hands and hobbled slowly towards the door.

  Ranald smothered his face in his hands. “Galloping galoots!”

  ***

  “Oh, you’re going to be SOOOO sorry when the other Vikings get here,” Velda cried as she, Thorfinn and Oswald were dragged along the corridor. “They’re going to grind your bones to dust then use you as cat litter! They’ll squish you into a paste then use you as pie filling!”

  Thorfinn and Velda were thrown into a small, bare room, while Oswald got his own room next door.

  Thorfinn got up, dusted himself off and looked around. The room was empty apart from two small beds and a tiny glassless window looking out onto the loch.

  “Well, the accommodation is basic, but it does have air conditioning at least.” He turned to the toilet recess: a plain stone seat and a hole with an icy draught blowing through it. “En-suite too!”

  Velda threw herself on the hard woorden bed and folded her arms. “I’m going to escape. This castle won’t hold me.”

  Thorfinn wasn’t listening. He had stepped up to the window, his hands on his hips, and was gleefully looking out at the view. “And the scenery is just wonderful.”

  Velda rolled her eyes. “Besides, sharing with you will drive me round the twist.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Velda barely slept that night. She was racking her brain trying to think up escape plans. Thorfinn on the other hand snoozed happily until morning, when they were woken abruptly and marched down to the great hall.

  Breakfast was being served – if you could call it breakfast. It was porridge, which both looked and tasted like horse sick. Velda pushed her plate away but Thorfinn tucked his napkin under his chin and sampled it like it was some kind of exotic foreign cuisine.

  Oswald started banging his fist on the table, shouting, “Don’t you have any kippers? We want kippers!”

  After this, the three captives were led down to the parade ground, where the MacRanald swordsmen were training. One of the guards grinned as he showed Thorfinn to his seat, on which a padded velvet cushion was placed. “Chieftain MacRanald is out hunting, but he has instructed me to guard you. Sit there, boy.”

  Thorfinn’s eyes brightened. “Thank you so much. I feel very safe. And I could do with a nice sit down.”

  “I bet you could, little Viking boy!” the guard said in a mocking posh voice.

  “You can’t treat a Viking chief’s son like this!” said Velda. “It’s not right!”

  This only fired the guards up. Now they cackled and taunted Thorfinn. “How about a nice little cup of tea and a biccie-wiccie while you watch the big strong men train?”

  But Thorfinn didn’t break as they’d hoped. In fact his face lit up. “Why, that would be just wonderful, thank you.” The men could only scratch their heads.

  It was Velda who was close to breaking point. “Please!” she cried, grabbing one of them round the ankles. “Throw me in the dungeon! Put me in chains! Just don’t make me sit on that nice comfy seat!”

  The only other people sitting there were two sad-looking old men.

  “I’m Jock,” said one of them as they sat down.

  “And I’m Haggis,” said the other.

  “What? That’s really your name? Haggis?” Oswald couldn’t believe it. He burst out laughing, sounding like a giant parrot that had just been doused in itching powder.

  “We’re the wise men of the castle,” said Jock.

  “Aye, nobody listens to us,” sighed Haggis.

  Oswald rubbed his chin. “Well, seeing as you are wise men perhaps you can help me solve a riddle.”

  “Oh, we love riddles,” said Jock, punching his hand.

  “Aaaagh! Not riddles again!” cried Velda, clutching at her helmet and pulling it down over her ears. “I’d rather be boiled alive.”

  Oswald explained the riddle of the two fathers, two sons and three birds.

  “Hmm, that is a tricky one,” said Haggis.

  “Do you give up?” asked Velda. “I’ll tell you the answer—”

  “Belt up, you lot!” cried one of the guards. “Prisoners are supposed to be quiet!”

  “Oh, stuff this! I’m not sitting here any longer.” Velda leapt from her seat and charged towards the training men, shouting, “VIKINGS FOREVER!”

  Then she went on the rampage, kicking men in the shins, pushing them into the mud, tweaking their noses, and somersaulting out of their grasp when they tried to stop her. Within seconds she’d turned Ranald’s training session into a riot.

  “She certainly knows how to liven up any occasion,” said Thorfinn.

  CHAPTER 9

  Later that day, Ranald returned from the hunt, riding into the courtyard with a look of wicked glee across his face. His horse was festooned with deer, rabbits and partridges.

  He dismounted and passed the reins to his chief steward, Glen.

  “Well, how did the Viking boy fare watching the men practise? Did he crack? Did he break? Did he sob with jealousy?”

  The steward was stony faced as he replied, “No, my Lord. In fact, he was heard to enjoy it.”

  Ranald’s smile melted away. “WHAT??”

  “I’m afraid so, my Lord.”

  “Did you give him the comfy seat?”

  “Yes, he declared he was very happy with it.”

  Ranald’s eyes blazed. “I’ll show him. I will go and see this boy.”

  He stormed up the stairs to the corridor where the prisoners were kept. “Where is he?”

  “SSSSHH!” said one of the stewards. Ranald suddenly realised that everyone in the corridor was tiptoeing.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

  “Because of the old man!”

  Suddenly an incredibly loud and whiny voice cried out:

  “QUUII-ETTTT!”

  It sounded like the mating call of a Pacific albatross.

  Oswald’s head popped out from behind his door. “I’m trying to think, you know.”

  “Why is this man’s door unlocked?” cried Ranald.

  “It was just e
asier, sire. He kept banging on it and demanding things,” said Glen.

  “Things? What kind of things?”

  Glen pulled a piece of paper from his tunic and opened it out, which took a moment because it was very long. “Ahem… a beard comb, a neck pillow, a foot muff, toenail clippers…”

  “Aye, alright! Alright!” roared Ranald.

  “It was just constant. My stewards were rushed off their feet,” Glen explained.

  Oswald came out of his room carrying a huge pile of dirty linen. “You there!” he cried at Ranald. “Stop loafing around and take my laundry!” He dumped the linen into Ranald’s arms.

  Ranald almost nodded and turned away before catching himself. “Wait! I’m The Red Wolf! I don’t do laundry!” He angrily dumped the linen in a heap and stomped over to Thorfinn’s room.

  Thorfinn was already standing at the door with his usual good-natured smile.

  “Playing a game, eh!” cried Ranald, who was now red-faced with anger. “Well, I know the game you’re playing. You think you’re tougher than us, eh? You think you can’t be cracked?”

  Thorfinn interrupted him, gently raising his helmet. “Excuse me, sir, I’d just like to thank you and all the staff for your hard work.”

  “WHA—?!”

  “Yes, it’s been a wonderful stay so far, although I do have some feedback. You might want to advertise for a new janitor. I’ve noticed the building is in some disrepair.”

  Ranald shook his fist at him. “Disrepair? I’ll show you disrepair.” He stomped away in the direction of the great hall, yelling at the top of his voice. “He thinks he can toy with me? MEEEEE?!”

  “Why don’t you have a lie down, Chief ?” said Glen, who followed close behind.

  But Ranald wasn’t listening. “If he wants to carry on this act let’s up the stakes.” He rubbed his chin as he thought of a plan. “Here’s what we’ll do. Tonight, give him a nice feather bed, the one reserved for royal visits. Give him fluffy slippers and a hot-water bottle. Any true Viking would be ashamed. And, since he’s going on about the state of my castle, tomorrow you can put him and his friends to work cleaning it. Yes, servants’ work: a major insult to any proud warrior. Besides, Vikings don’t believe in cleaning.” He laughed and slapped his hands together. “We’ll see who cracks first!”