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for my school if Lancelot were to come here. I could attract new students. I could raise the tuition. Yes! Lancelot must come!”
    Angus groaned. “If Lancelot shows up,” he whispered to Wiglaf, “Uncle Mordred will make us scrub every inch of this old castle.”
    Wiglaf nodded. Angus was Mordred’s nephew. But this status earned him no special treatment. Quite the opposite, in fact. Angus had to help his uncle in countless ways, most of which involved scrubbing.
    “I have it!” Mordred cried suddenly. “You all shall enter the contest! That way, one of you surely will win!”
    “But I shall win, sir!” Erica called out.
    Mordred paid no attention. “Start writing now, boys. Copy out of books if you have to. Do whatever it takes to win the prize!”
    Erica rolled her eyes. But Wiglaf didn’t think she looked worried. After all, who could compete with her? Erica always had a small copy of The Sir Lancelot Handbook with her for quick reference. She had read Sir Lancelot’s memoir, A Knight Like I, dozens of times. Wiglaf was sure that Erica knew more about Lancelot than the knight’s own mother.
    Mordred turned to Erica. “When is the contest deadline?”
    “All entries must be in Camelot by midnight tomorrow,” Erica said.
    “Bring your essays to my office first thing in the morning,” Mordred told the class. “I’ll have Yorick run them over to Camelot.”
    He rubbed his hands together. “Ha! Sir Lancelot is going to make me a rich man!”
    “Sir?” called a tall, skinny boy named Torblad. “What news did you have about Toenail? I come from there, you know.”
    Mordred’s smile faded. “The green plague has broken out in Toenail. Last time the green plague struck, boys here came down with it left and right. I had dozens of parents writing me for tuition refunds. Well, I can’t have that happening again! So, boys, DO NOT GET THE PLAGUE. Do I make myself clear?”
    “But, sir,” said Torblad in a shaky voice. “How will we know if we have it?”
    “First your tongue swells up and turns green,” Mordred said.
    Wiglaf tried not to think about that. “Then,” Mordred continued, “your eyes crust over with green ooze.”
    Wiglaf began to feel sick to his stomach.
    “Your skin gets covered with green boils, and you spew whatever’s in your stomach—”
    That did it. Wiglaf’s stomach lurched. He clapped his hand to his mouth and ran for the classroom door.
    “Boy!” Mordred bellowed as Wiglaf ran by him. “Have you gone and caught the plague after I told you not to?”

Chapter 2
    “I s it green?” Wiglaf stuck out his tongue.
    Angus shook his head. “Trust me, Wiglaf,” he said. “You don’t have the green plague.”
    Wiglaf slumped down on his cot. He was glad he didn’t have the plague. But he wished he had some excuse for running out of Mordred’s class that morning. His face still burned hot with shame when he thought of it. How could he ever hope to be a hero if the mention of a few plague boils made him lose his lunch?
    Wiglaf glanced down at the blank piece of parchment on his cot. He had not started his essay. And any minute, Frypot, who was on Night Patrol for the week, would be in to put out the torches.
    “There!” exclaimed Erica from her cot on the far side of the room. “Finished!” She smiled. “I’ve written twenty-six brilliant pages!” She hopped up and ran over to Wiglaf and Angus. She held out her essay. “Who wants to read it first?” she asked.
    “Go ahead, Wiglaf,” Angus offered.
    “Oh, no, you first,” Wiglaf said quickly.
    “My conclusion is especially good.” Erica sat down on Wiglaf’s cot. “I don’t understand why Mordred is wasting time having the rest of you write essays. Mine has winner written all over it.”
    Erica glanced at Wiglaf’s blank parchment. “Zounds, Wiggie!” she exclaimed. “You have not written a word! Here, let me help you.”
    “No, I can do it.” Wiglaf turned away from Erica. He dipped his quill into his