Reluctant Knight

“Presenting, Bartholomew Butterbrusher,” the announcer called.

A boy with a javelin-length spine walked up to the platform, chewing on a piece of sugarcane. He spat out a string of fibre through his helmet, and it landed right between the hooves of the brown horse in front of him. 

“You called?”

“This is your mount, good sir. Climb right up and be on your way.”

“To where?”

“Well, the dragon’s cave I expect, since that’s what the condition is. If you win the joust, then you will be chosen to slay the dragon.”

“Yes, but I’m knackered. And I need to have some tea and a nap. There isn’t enough time to fit an entire dragon slaying ceremony in before dusk. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll see if I can fit you in.”

“I beg your pardon,” King Dulart said.

“No, not at all, Your Majesty. No need to beg me. I’m happy to oblige, just not today.” Bartholomew Butterbrusher backed away briskly before anyone could stop him. Before they could discover the truth.

And as he backed away, he bumped right into four-feet and four inches of royalty herself.

“Princess Burpalot,” the announcer supplied.

Bartholomew’s jaw fell to the ground. Never in his life had he witnessed such an appearance. His mouth felt dry. As if someone had dragged his tongue along the filthy desert on the outskirts of the pristine kingdom, where the palace threw its waste.

The female in front of him was a sight to behold. Under all those pockets, bulging with distorted shapes, was a garment—likely a dress—in the unfortunate colour of a ripe bruise. The colour made him want to wretch, but Bartholomew didn’t wretch. He did something worse. He looked at the face of the person wearing all those pockets.

Now he knew that the statue of what he thought was a bullfrog getting ready to spit near the entrance of the palace was actually Princess Burpalot, smiling. In fact, with the sunlight shining at precisely the angle it was at, one would never know the difference.

“So, you’re coming with me,” she stated, staring at him from the top of his tarnished helmet to the bottom of his scuffed boots. “But we will have to get you refitted into something more strapping.”

“I assure you, Princess. There are plenty of straps in my current outfit that you can’t see.” 

Oh, how he longed to lunge in his long underwear so everything stretched out and went back into position again. Chainmail was so stifling.

“You are not going to rescue my sister, Princess Waterswallow, looking like that.”

Princess Waterswallow? From some alternative hidden oasis in his mouth, liquid appeared in the form of drool, and drool he did. Princess Waterswallow was the very heartbeat of every chap in the kingdom. The cause for stirring in every loin. Men would clamber over each other and crawl after her. They would jubilantly cause a stampede if it meant they could spend a few extra seconds basking in her floral fragrant feminine glory. It seemed all the beauty of Queen Ramona had gone to Princess Waterswallow and the leftovers of King Dulart’s lack of handsomeness were used to create the features of Princess Burpalot. 

It was a matter of heart, and Bartholomew had insufficient experience in this field. However, his expression seemed to have been convincing enough, causing Princess Burpalot to concede. “Well, then we’ll have to have you polished, at least.” 

Bartholomew Butterbrusher had run out of excuses, which meant he had run into trouble.

He was promptly manhandled into a barrel of lard and then thrust at the muzzles of four enormous mutts. Within minutes, his armour gleamed like the silverware in the King’s mouth.

“Much better.” The princess nodded her approval and off they went.

The woods were quiet, except for the crunch of leaves being trampled by both steeds. They followed the scent of fresh pine up and over a mountain and then into a thick wood. 

As they travelled, Princess Burpalot lived up to her name, and since she was leading the way, Bartholomew Butterbrusher was placed in the unique position of learning what she had had for breakfast (an omelette with bacon, some toasts drowned in butter, marmalade and jam, and an enormous pile of vanilla and buttercream pancakes, along with a full pot of tea. And scones. Lots of scones).

She burped it all up. Some sour, some sweet, but he caught a whiff of it all.

He also learned plenty of other things about the princess. Aside from carrying personal belongings, she was also carrying plenty of food, which she shared generously. 

“One for you,” she said, handing him a cracker. “Two for me.” She placed two crackers on her lap. 

Then she took out a round package of a foul-smelling mouldy substance and a knife. 

“I hope you like blue cheese.” 

She cut up a fat wedge the size of a door stopper and plonked it on his cracker. The savoury crisp almost snapped under the weight. 

“One for you, and two for me,” she said again, but this time she gave herself two identical pieces of what she had cut for him.

“Very well, Madame.” If there was one thing Bartholomew had learned over the years, it was to never stare a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, he knew to chew fast and swallow frequently, lest the horse he was currently sitting on decided he wanted to share his rations, but for now, the creature was happy chomping on apples, which were also thoughtfully supplied by Princess Burpalot.

Once the last crumb of cheese fell from her chin, the princess widened her bulbous eyes at Bartholemew. “You aren’t a prince and you aren’t a real knight either, are you?”

Bartholomew Butterbrusher was in all honesty neither of these things, but he was a true liar, and true liars never revealed their trade secrets. 

“I won the joust, didn’t I?”

“Somehow, you did. However, you possess no royal quality whatsoever–”

“--Now wait a minute–”

“--which I must admit is absolutely refreshing!”

The young man’s steed was just as startled by the princess’s words and stopped in his tracks, neighing with confusion. The princess paused her own horse, turned and joined him.

“So, you’re not upset at me, and you’re not going to turn me in?”

“Don’t be absurd. I could have done those things at the palace if I had wished to. No, I have other ambitions, but you shall not be privy to them.” She paused and looked up at him through her plump eyelashes. “Yet.”

Once again, Bartholomew could think of nothing to say in response.

They continued walking for hours, until the wood thinned out, giving way to a vast countryside on one side and mountainous terrain on the other.

As wispy clouds clustered around the crescent moon in the sky, Princess Burpalot spoke in a whisper, “What do you know of the dragon?”

Bartholomew had almost fallen asleep to the rhythm of the horse and was startled awake. “Dragon? Where?”

“You seem to keep forgetting this minor detail. You’re to accompany me to slay the dragon and rescue my sister, Princess Waterswallow.”

“Ah, yes. That.”

“Have you changed your mind? Lost your courage? Had a change of heart?” She turned her neck in a backwards glance to witness the expressions on his face. 

“Hmmmmm…” He humoured her, stretching his eyebrows above and beyond their reach in contemplation. “No.”

 “I don’t understand,” she said.

“It’s quite simple, you see. I do not wish to kill the dragon.”

“Why?” 

“Why? Well, first I would like to know why you have accompanied me on this trip, Princess Burpalot. It is most unconventional. What do you have to gain?”

The princess sighed. “Well, I have not fared well in the looks department,” she said, gesturing to herself and smiling her bullfrog smile. “But I have other talents, you see…”

Bartholomew tilted his head and waited patiently.

The princess huffed and said, “Well, if you must know, I wish to cook the dragon.”

“That does not answer my question. Why would you come along instead of having the dragon brought to you?”

“Don’t you see? This way, I will have complete access to the dragon. I can pick out the meaty juicy parts and savour the delights—I mean, savoury delights. Pies, soups, tarts.”

Bartholomew Butterbrusher’s face resembled a preserved pickle. The more things she spoke about dragon dishes, the tighter he pursed his lips.

“But what will that get you?” Bartholomew asked. He cracked his neck from side to side.

It was Princess Burpalot’s turn to raise her bushy eyebrows. “What do you mean? I will be the pioneer of chefistory. My recipe book on dragon meat will change the world. I will make one-of-a-kind delicacies.”

“You may very well do all of these things, Princess, but these actions will not make you famous. You see, if I slay the dragon, fame, fortune and glory will be mine because I am the chosen one, but you will not be glorified. The world remembers the hero, not the chef that cut up the carcass of the beast after the first slit was made by someone else.”

The princess scratched her double-chin. “Well, tell me, good sir, why don’t you want to slay the dragon?”

“It’s a matter of strategy, Princess.”

“Explain.”

“As you know, the entire kingdom’s men dote on Princess Waterswallow’s beauty. I am no exception. It took me eighty-seven hours to read and practise all the jousting techniques in Jousting for Beginners by Sir Arthur Swammalot.”

“Well, what did you plan to do after winning then, if not kill the dragon and rescue the princess?”

“Why does the story have to always be that way? Why can’t there be a twist of fate? Why do I have to be a cold-blooded killer? I’m a vegetarian, for heaven’s sake!”

“A vegetarian? That’s preposterous!”

“But it’s true. I’m also a humanitarian and a peaceful animal lover.”

“Oh dear. I’m beginning to feel sorry for Princess Waterswallow.”

“Why ever so?”

“Because she likes animal skin prints and because a week without chicken liver pie and veal would mean yet another chef has lost their job. That’s part of the reason I started cooking, you know? To appease her.”

“Princess Waterswallow wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“You’re right. That would be too easy. She would preserve it in torturous conditions if she could replicate the print of its skin for her own garments, and when she’s done with it, she’d—” CLAP! “Swat it!” Her clap echoed around them.

Bartholemew made a sour cream face. “That is hard to believe.” 

“Just like me believing you’re a vegetarian?”

They gave each other a long look.

“So, what was your plan then?” she asked.

“You mean, before you revealed the woman of my dreams is a flesh-eating fly-swatter?”

Princess Burpalot giggled so much she snorted and then she belched so loudly, the partridges in the tree behind them squawked and flew away.

“I thought perhaps I could marry her and stay at the tower; that perhaps we could adopt the dragon as a pet? It would mean we don’t need to damage the forest for firewood. I was wishfully thinking that my avocado on toast with crushed peppers would convert the dragon to become a vegetarian too.”

“Oh, you also cook?” the Princess’s eyes gleamed..

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter now.”

“Why not?”

“Because my dream has been crushed.”

“I thought you loved Princess Waterswallow.”

“But that was before I learned of her ways,” Bartholomew Butterbrusher said. “Tell me, Princess, what is to be done now? I don’t wish to harm the dragon, nor do I particularly feel like rescuing the princess.”

“Well, that’s quite a twist you’ve given me. I need to think about it.” She dug into the depths of one pocket and produced an exquisitely large block of chocolate. She snapped off a third and passed it to him. “One for–”

“Yes, yes, I know. One for me and two for you. Go on, eat the chocolate so we can think of an idea.”

They ate in companionable silence. Then the princess began giggling to herself. It began softly, like the tinkle of a bell, and slowly the frothy mirth spilled over and soon both Bartholemew Butterbrusher and Princess Burpalot were laughing (and burping) in harmony.

“Wh–what were you laughing about?” he asked as their bout of laughter calmed.

“Just the absurd idea that you help me at least capture the dragon, and then I’ll do everything else myself…”

“If I did that, hypothetically speaking, of course. Then, what would I get in return?”

“Well, for starters, you won’t be killed. I’ll even let you cook your special avocado toast for Princess Waterswallow. To woo her. If she falls for your cooking, then you can get married, and I can start my dragon delicacies with scales, claws and other parts that don’t require the immediate death of the dragon. See, everybody wins.”

“A very promising proposal indeed, Princess Burpalot. I will accompany you to the tower and help with the capture of the dragon.”

They set up camp in the tents that Princess Burpalot had folded and kept in her back pocket. It was making her lopsided for most of the ride. They tied the horses to a tree not too far away.

The next morning, they shared some crackers, but this time with brie and grapes. Then they galloped along the path that led them straight to a tower made of discoloured bricks. There was a lone window at the top, from which Bartholemew could see what looked like long blond hair fluttering in the wind. The breeze carried the hypnotic scent of honeysuckle floated into the air around him, and Bartholemew instantly began daydreaming of Princess Waterswalllow again. He was so deeply engrossed that he did not notice being lifted off his horse, nor did he notice having his hands tied up. He caught a whiff of something going wrong when he realised his chainmail was glowing.

“AHHHH! Prin-cessssssss! What kind of treachery is this?” he yelped. Unfortunately, he was now moving at the mercy of the rotisserie that was turning slowly above a healthy flame. The chainmail of his armour fit neatly along the stick.

“You really made things very easy,” Princess Burpalot said as she cuddled a dragon and gave it a kiss, smack in the middle of his snout. 

“Allow me to explain,” said the dragon, with a deep throaty voice. 

“You speak Englishhhh?” Bartholomew asked as a blister appeared on his bottom, grew and popped in the matter of a few seconds. A few more blisters followed. Soon, his whole bottom was covered in rotund popping blisters where the flame burned the hottest.

“Try not to move,” the dragon advised as he lessened the flames. “You will feel less pain.” Bartholomew stilled. 

“Now, to answer your question,” the dragon said. “Yes, I speak English, and write it too. In fact, who do you think writes all the fine print on all the important documentation for the Crown?” he asked, admiring his claws. “It’s called fine print for a reason, you know.” The dragon smiled, revealing perfectly aligned teeth that looked like stalactites and stalagmites. 

“But why me?”

“Well, the King would not approve of my marriage to a dragon, and my ridiculous sister fell in love with a pauper. Her marriage was about to be announced, so we had to act fast. Dragly here agreed to carry off Waterswallow so she looked like she had been kidnapped, and then we had that ridiculous jousting contest that I rigged in your favour.”

“You what?”

“You couldn’t possibly think for a second that you would have won a real jousting contest, good sir. Your skills are simply subpar, to put it plainly.”

“My sweet tells it like it is,” said the dragon. He nuzzled Princess Burpalot, who snorted and then burped loudly, which threw her into another giggle fit.

“Ahem!” Bartholomew wriggled his shoulders. He was sweating profusely. His skin sagged like a rooster’s wattle.

“Ah, yes. Your answer,” said the dragon. “We made it appear that you were the chosen one because we knew you were smitten with Princess Waterswallow. Princess Burpalot wanted to make sure you had no ambitions to harm a dragon, and every ambition to stay peaceful.”

“Why bring me along? Why not just get rid of me?” 

“I had to bring my dear darling Dragly a snack after all his hard work.”

“Mr Dragly, I hope you know that your girlfriend here wishes to cook you. She wants to chop your delicate parts and cook up delicacies out of you for a recipe book. She told me so herself!” Bartholomew squealed the last part loudly when Princess Burpalot increased the flames of the fire.

“Now, now, my sweet,” the dragon said, taking the poker from Princess Burpalot. “It’s only fair for him to feel wronged. We shouldn’t be so cruel to our food now should we? We had to make her seem ruthless so we could make sure you were non-threatening,” the dragon explained. Then, the dragon turned and placed his eye right next to Bartholemew’s face. “Would you like a chance to survive, human?”

“Anything!” Bartholomew screamed.

“Alright. If we let you go, you must promise to return to the kingdom and announce your failure to rescue not one but two princesses. Convince the King that his daughters are dead. There are enough boils and burns on your body for the tale to be deemed acceptable, I suppose.”

“Yes. I’ll do it.”

“Good because if you don’t, then I will find you. And you should know, I enjoy my humans slow-cooked and well done. It gives them an extra crunch.”

Bartholomew blanched. “I promise, I’ll do it!”

Princes Burpalot doused the flames with a cup of water along with all of Bartholemew’s ambitions of a bright future with Princes Waterswallow.