Dotti blinked serenely. ‘Thank you kindly, but I’d rather not. I’ve just finished quite a large luncheon.’
Bucko bit into a tart, and blackcurrant juice ran down his chin. ‘Mmm, nought like a fresh blackcurrant tartie, mah pretty!’
Dotti took a dainty sip of her clouded oatmeal water. ‘Nought like a fresh mountain hare, I always say. Kindly remove yourself downstream, sah, your table manners offend me. There may be a few mad toads down there who’d be glad of your company. Toads aren’t too choosy, y’know.’
Bucko bolted the rest of the tart and licked his paws. ‘Och, an’ ye’d know aboot toads’ manners, I ken?’
Dotti gave him her sweetest smile. ‘Indeed I do. Mother always held them up to me as a bad example. Pity your mother hadn’t the sense to show you.’
Bucko scowled. He tried to stand up but the skiff swayed. ‘Ah’ll thank ye tae leave mah mither oot o’ this. Another word aboot her an’ I’ll teach ye a braw sharp lesson!’
The haremaid stared down her nose at the irate king. ‘Pray save your threats until the appointed time, sah.’
Bucko signalled his hares to row on. ‘Ye’d do weel to mind that there’s many a beastie got themselves slain by their ain sharp tongue!’ he called back to Dotti.
Dotti waved delicately to him with a clean kerchief. ‘Just so, sah, an’ you’d do well to know that there’s many a creature with a sloppy tongue slipped an’ broke their neck upon it. Toodleoo an’ all that!’
Ruff squeezed Dotti’s paw as the hare’s boat pulled upstream, his face wreathed in a big smile. ‘Full marks, miss. You was magnificent!’
Dotti kept up the pose, simpering and fluttering her lids. ‘Why thank you, my good fellow. Did it earn one perhaps a smidgeon of that woodland trifle which Gurth made, wot?’
The otter shook his head firmly. ‘’Fraid not, miss.’
‘Yah, go an’ boil your beastly head, y’great slabsided boatnosed planktailed excuse for a worthless water-walloper!’
Brocktree poked his striped head through the willow fronds. ‘Did our young lady say something then, Ruff?’
‘Bless ’er grateful liddle ’eart, she did, sir. She was just thankin’ us fer all the trouble we’re takin’ over ’er eddication. She’s fair overcome with gratitood!’
The Badger Lord waggled his paw at Dotti. ‘Mustn’t get over-excited now, must we, missie? Time for your afternoon nap – remember ’tis the Bragging challenge tomorrow evening. Can’t have you overtiring yourself, can we?’
Sitting with the luncheon party, Jukka Sling put aside her bowl of cold mint tea. She listened wide-eyed to Dotti telling Ruff and Brocktree what she thought of them.
‘Zounds! Methinks yon haremaid could give young Grood a lesson in choice language. Grood, cover thy ears!’
It was the evening of the first day. Crowds gathered at the log-bounded arena amid a festive air. There was music, singing, the sound of picnic hampers being shared and banter from supporters on both sides. Candied fruit and treasured possessions – knives, belts, tail and paw rings of precious materials, some studded with glinting stones – were changing paws as betting opened. As usual, Bucko was the firm favourite. Nobeast had ever seen him lose, so they weren’t about to wager on an outsider.
Amid a roll of drums and a blast from a battered bugle, King Bucko Bigbones entered the ring, with an honour guard of his cronies. He wore his broad belt, his cloak, two silver paw rings and the laurel-twined crown perched on his brow at a jaunty angle. Whirling the cloak dramatically, he shed it and threw the garment to his minions. Then he paraded round the perimeter, acknowledging the cheers by leaping high, with one clenched paw held up.
Dotti wore a demure cloak of light blue, with the slightest hint of a frill at its neck. She carried her bag and stood patiently whilst Mirklewort and Jukka made final adjustments to her flowered straw bonnet, specially loaned to her by Mirklewort for the occasion. Southpaw and Bobweave gallantly helped her over the log barrier, and she entered the arena alone. The bankvole referee puffed himself up officiously and roared in his stentorian voice, ‘Gentlebeasts aaaaall! Praaay silence for the Braggin’. Kiiiing Bucko will not remove ’is crown for this h’event. The winnaaaah will be judged by the popular h’opinion h’of your very good selves. The challengeaaaaah this h’evenin’ is Miss Dorothea Duckworthy Dillfontein h’of Mossflowaaaaah!’
There was a smattering of applause. Dotti tapped the bankvole. ‘Correction, my good sah, the name’s Duckfontein Dillworthy. Would you kindly reannounce me, please?’
The pompous bankvole was forced to comply with her request. This brought a few encouraging laughs and some shouts.
‘That’s the stuff, miss. You tell the ole windbag!’
‘A gel that jolly well stands up for herself, wot. Good show!’
The bankvole cut them short with a glare, then he shouted, ‘Let the Braggin’ staaaaaaaart!’
Silence fell on the crowd. Dotti stood quite still in the centre of the ring and said nothing. Bucko paced about the edges, as if stalking her. Suddenly he did a splendid cartwheel and a breathtaking leap. He landed very close to Dotti, who did not flinch, and began his brag.
‘Yerrahooo! Ah’m the mighty monarch frae the mountains! Mah name’s King Bucko Bigbones. Whit d’ye think o’ that, mah bonnie wee lassie?’
Dotti ignored him and waved cheerily to her friends. ‘Isn’t he clever? He knows his own name. It must have taken him simply ages to learn it, wot?’
There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd.
Bucko stamped until dust rose, and leapt clear over Dotti’s head. Still she did not move from her place. Bucko thrust out his barrel chest and thumped it.
‘Ah’m nae feart o’ anybeast. Ah wiz born on a moonless night ’midst thunder’n’lightnin’!’
Amid the hush that followed, Dotti carefully wiped a speck of dust from her paw with a lace-edged kerchief. ‘Tut tut, what dreadful weather you had. Did you get wet?’
This time the laughter increased. Raucous guffaws could be heard, some with a distinct mountain hare tone to them. Bucko had to wait for the merriment to subside, his jaw and his paws clenched tight.
He thrust his face forward until he was eye to eye with Dotti, and his big voice boomed forth. ‘Yerrahoo, wee beastie, have ye ever looked death straight in the eye, eh? Then look at him whit stands afore ye!’
The crowd waited with bated breath. Dotti peered even closer at her opponent, until her nose touched his. ‘Hmm, you do look a little peaky, sah. All that shouting can’t be doing you much good – all that jumping about, too. Have you got a pain in your tummy, is that it?’
Roars and hoots of laughter greeted this remark. Creatures at the ringside were wiping tears from their eyes.
‘Yahahaha! Pain in the tummy, that’s a good ’un!’
King Bucko was shaking all over. Glaring murderously at Dotti he gripped both paws, raising them over her head as if he were going to bring them down and crush her. She nodded in prim approval of his action. ‘Bit of exercise, sah, good! My mother always says exercise is the best cure for tummy ache. Come on now, hup! Down! Hup! Breathe through your nose, head well back, sah!’
She moved just as Bucko’s paws came crashing down, one of them catching her shoulder, knocking her slightly off balance. The crowd booed.
‘Foul! Foul play, sir!’
‘He struck the little haremaid!’
Several hares, Baron Drucco, Ruff and the bankvole referee leapt the logs and rushed forward. The hares and Drucco restrained Bucko, and Ruff placed a paw about Dotti, while the bankvole placed himself between the contestants, bellowing, ‘Disqualification! Yore Majesty ’as broke the roooools! No creature, h’l said nooooo creature, h’is allowed to strike h’another at a Braggin’ challenge. H’out o’ this h’arena, sire, h’out this very h’instant!’
Bucko grabbed his cloak and pushed through the crowd, knocking creatures this way and that in his haste to flee the scene of his disgrace.
Ju
bilation reigned. Dotti was swept shoulder high and carried round the ring several times. Stamping, whistling and shouting, the crowd cheered her to the echo. Gurth and Fleetscut waved to her as she was borne past them; the old hare was overjoyed.
‘I say, good show, absolutely top hole performance from the young ’un, eh, Gurth, wot wot!’
‘Hoo urr, our miz Dott winned fur’n’square, zurr, but she’m ’ave t’do wotten she’m be told, an’ not go a-getten swell-’eaded. Ee king be still gurtly dangerous. Hurr!’
When the shouting had died down, Lord Brocktree refused numerous offers for Dotti to attend feasts and parties in her honour. He whisked the haremaid back to their camp beneath the willows. Deaf to her protestations and appeals for food, Brocktree and Grenn ordered her to bed down in a shrew logboat. Moreover, they posted sentries on the streambank, to ensure that she did as she was told. Log a Log Grenn was as stern a taskmistress as any badger.
‘You get some sleep now, young ’un. Fergit food. As of dawn tomorrer, yore goin’ t’wish you’d never seen drink or vittles. The contest goes from sunrise to sunset – ’twill be a long day for ye, so close yore eyes. You Guosim, keep yore eyes open, or ye’ll answer to me!’
Southpaw and Bobweave had been missing since the end of the Bragging contest. Grenn joined the others on the streambank as supper was served. ‘Are those hare twins back yet?’
Baron Drucco peered out into the darkness. ‘No sign of ’em yet, marm. You know ’ares, they’ve prob’ly gone off to some celerybrayshun or other.’
Grenn looked to Mirklewort. ‘Celerybrayshun?’
The hogwife touched her snout knowingly. ‘Don’t let our big words fool ye, marm – Drucco means they’ve gone off to a party. Oh no they ’aven’t, ’ere they come now.’
Southpaw and Bobweave slipped into camp and helped themselves to supper.
‘Sooper dooper, scones with strawberry preserve, wot!’
‘An’ hot mulled pennycloud’n’bulrush cordial. I say, you chaps certainly know your vittles from your vitals, eh!’
Gurth tapped his digging claws impatiently. ‘Did ee get yon jobs, zurrs, tell us’n’s?’
The hare twins laughed, as if sharing a secret joke.
‘Oh, the jobs of waitin’ on table, you mean?’
‘I’ll jolly well say we did, eh, South?’
‘Rather. That old head cook’ll do absolutely anythin’ for three flagons o’ pale cider, wot!’
Drucco waddled angrily over to them. ‘So that’s wot’s ’appened to me fine pale cider. All three flagons! I was savin’ that for me Season Spikeday!’
Mirklewort clipped one of his headspikes neatly with her axe. ‘Stop moanin’, Drucco, yew’ll wake Skiddles. Lissen, if’n we wants the ’aremaid to win we’ve got to make sacriphones!’
Fleetscut chuckled. ‘Aye, an’ some sacrifices too, marm.’
Mirklewort nodded sagely. ‘Them too!’
Brocktree took off his sword and lay down by the fire. ‘Good. I hope this plan of yours and Ruff’s works out, Grenn.’
Unsheathing her rapier, the Guosim Chieftain stuck it in the ground and lay down next to it. ‘Aye, I hope so too. ’Tis costing the Guosim their last keg of old plum’n’beetroot wine!’
Ruff chided her. ‘Oh, come on, Grenn, stop whinin’ about yore wine. Hoho, that’s a good ’un, whinin’ about wine!’
But Grenn did not see the joke. ‘We’ve carried that keg with us more seasons than I care to remember. There ain’t a wine like it in all Mossflower – ask any Guosim. One drop of it can cure any ailment of ’ead or stomach. It can clear up coughs, sniffles an’ colds in the wink of an eye, take my word for it!’
The hare twins shared the last of the scones.
‘Should do the trick then, wot!’
‘Aye, provided miss Dotti knows her blinkin’ lines!’
24
DAWN ARRIVED BRIGHT and sunny. Ruro shielded her eyes as she glanced skyward. ‘More like midsummer’s day than the second day o’ the season, what thinkest thou, Fleetscut?’
‘Goin’ t’be what we hares call a bloomin’ scorcher, marm!’ The old hare turned to Dotti as she walked with her friends to the Feasting challenge. ‘How d’ye feel today, young miss? Chipper, wot?’
The haremaid’s reply was summed up in two fervent words. ‘Flippin’ famished!’
Fleetscut stared at her sympathetically. ‘I know exactly what y’mean, miss. But remember, pace yourself, don’t go wallowin’ in there an’ scoffin’ like a gannet in a ten-season famine. Cool an’ jolly well calm, that’s the ticket for you, m’gel, cool an’ calm.’
The crowd had already gathered around the arena, but they parted to allow Dotti’s party to enter the ring. Bucko was already there, surrounded by supporters. His minions had spent most of the night planting tales of provocation, enlarging the insults to their king until it appeared to the gullible ones that he was the injured party.
A table with two chairs was laid in the centre of the ring, bare save for two plates, two goblets and cutlery. Bucko was already seated, and Dotti took her place at the table’s far side. Bucko tilted his chair back on to two legs and smiled sarcastically.
‘Och weel, here the lassie is. Better late than never, eh? Don’t weep, now – ah willnae raise a paw to ye, pretty one. But mind, ah’m wise tae all yer wee tricks noo, ye ken?’
Dotti shook out a clean kerchief, of which she had brought a goodly supply to use at table. She greeted him civilly. ‘Good morrow to you, sah. I hope you’re in good appetite.’
‘Dinnae fret yersel’, lassie, ah could eat every morsel yon servers put up for both of us. Aye, an’ still go hame an’ enjoy mah dinner!’
Dotti carefully wiped the rim of her goblet, not looking up. ‘You can? Oh, that is nice to know, sah!’
Further conversation was curtailed as the bankvole referee entered the ring, followed by a line of servers pulling trolleys laden with food and drink. His considerable voice had lost none of its volume.
‘Hearken to me! H’attend all creeeeeeatures! Toooooday is the Feastin’ challenge! Choice of vittles is left to the contestants, h’as is choice of drinks! No wastin’ of fooood h’or drink by spittin’ out or throwin’ h’away. Theeeeee contest will take place until sunset, h’or until one or t’other contestant is unable to finiiiiiish! Let the Feastin’ begiiiiiin!’
The servers began loading food on to the table. Southpaw set lots of salad, both fruit and vegetable, on Dotti’s side, and winked furtively at her.
‘Good luck, miss!’
Bobweave tapped the keg of plum’n’beetroot wine, filled Bucko’s goblet and came round to serve Dotti. The haremaid covered her goblet with a paw.
‘I’ll take water or cold mint tea, if y’please. That wine looks far too jolly strong for me.’
Bucko swigged from his goblet and smacked his lips. ‘By the mountain rocks, that’s a guid drop o’ stuff! Ach, a shame et’s too jolly strong for the wee lassie, but ah’m a King o’ Hares, an’ naething’s tae strong for Bucko!’
He piled salad, a wedge of cheese and an onion and leek turnover on his plate and dug in eagerly. Dotti could tell that he too had been fasting. She piled salad on her plate and forced herself to eat at a normal rate, though the ten chews per mouthful routine that her mother had enforced at home was too much for her.
Bucko quaffed his wine and signalled for a refill. With lettuce leaves, watercress and scallions hanging from his mouth corners, he gulped the lot, waving his fork at Dotti. ‘Nibble away there, pretty missie, ah’ll show ye the way a king eats. Mmmmff! This is braw wine, suits me fine! D’ye not fancy a dram of et, mah pretty?’
Dotti dabbed her lips with a kerchief. ‘No thank you, sah, I prefer mint tea.’
Bucko held his goblet daintily and mimicked her. ‘I prefer mint tea, sah! Ach, away wi’ ye, ye wee fuss-budget. Here noo, watch how a wild March hare warrior eats!’
He bolted down the wedge of cheese, tore apart a warm rye farl, stuffed it in his mout
h and washed the lot down with another goblet of wine before attacking his turnover. Dotti was so hungry, after nearly three days, that she almost did likewise. However, she checked herself at the last moment, allowing Southpaw to serve her some sliced apples.
By mid-morning Dotti was still maintaining her sedate pace, though she had eaten a latticed pear tart, some gooseberry crumble with meadowcream topping, two plates of vegetable salad and a plate of fruit salad. Which was only about a quarter of what King Bucko Bigbones had downed. His supporters were yelling encouragement, egging him on.
‘Ye show her how ’tis done, sire!’
‘Aye, scoff her under the table, Yer Majesty!’
Bucko dug his spoon into a steaming apple sponge pudding. ‘Ah’m verra partial tae apple sponge. Here, server, brang me yon pitcher o’ custard so ah can pour et over this!’
In the crowd, Jukka murmured to Drucco, ‘Keep silent now. Don’t encourage her to eat fast – leave that to yonder bigboned fool.’
Drucco could not help shaking his head in admiration. ‘By the spike, that longear king can scoff, though, no doubt about that. The beast’s a glutlet!’
‘Yew mean ’e’s a blutton, ain’t I right, Ruff?’
Ruff nodded, knowing it was useless to argue. ‘Correct, marm. Look, Bucko’s callin’ the referee over!’
The officious bankvole listened as the king registered his complaint. ‘Ah’m fair sweatin’, ye ken – yonder sun’s beatin’ doon on mah heid like a furnace. Can ye no brang me a sunshade?’ The referee went to the ringside and consulted with several other pompous-looking bankvoles. After much paw-waving and arguing, the huddle broke up and he returned to the table.
‘H’I’m h’afraid there’s nothin’ in the rules that says you can ’ave a sunshade, sire!’
Bucko was forced to eat on as he questioned the decision. He swigged wine and set about a heavy fruitcake. ‘Weel now, mah guid feller, is there anythin’ in you rules whit states that ah cannot have a sunshade?’ Bucko stole one of Dotti’s used kerchiefs and mopped at his brow whilst the bankvole considered the quandary.