Sir Christian de Galis and the Raiders of the Lost Gravy

“The worst answer is sometimes the best answer.”
Sir Christian de Galis, ferocious knight of King Arthur’s Round Table, or so he said when temporarily reinstated, removed a helmet that felt glued to his face and hung it from his saddle on the side away from the speaker. “According to who?”
“According to whom,” said Britta de Brittany, a cloaked lady who looked harmless until with a swoosh faster than most knights could touch their sword hilts, she shifted the helmet—despite a disgusting stickiness—to her side of the knight’s saddle.
Refusing to touch his helmet again, Sir Christian said, “The King of—”
Thunk! Britta said, “Divine intervention has kept you from finishing a sentence with fools.”
“What do you know about divine intervention?”
“I’m an answer to all of your prayers.”
“I want to see the other answers.”
“Wouldn’t you rather hear them?”
His reply was stifled by a loud clang followed by a crash.
Britta said, “That may be one of them now.”
She signaled her other followers, consisting of the craziest crew ever collected to save a kingdom. This included Uncle Sir Cecil the Steady, an ancient archer with more disabilities than arrows; a loquacious niece with the realm’s longest first name whom Britta called Sheena to save time when she wanted her in the morning; and a nephew with a speech defect and bad hair, ironically dubbed Andred the silent, despite his yell which could cause stampedes, who was also Uncle Sir Cecil’s squire. Riding three destriers and two destrier-disguised palfreys while leading two packhorses, they galloped into the presence of the realm’s most perilous as well as athletic—laundry lady.
Now this lady if the word could be applied loosely, was swinging a spear faster than most knights could touch their sword hilts, and wielded, not waved—an important distinction—its razor-sharp tip in a manner perilous to anyone she didn’t like. With a second loud thunk she jabbed its non-sharp bottom into an armored lump sprawled behind a laundry basket the size of a small boulder. It yelled as she informed the new arrivals “He thought I was the Monster-of-Unheard-of-Savageness, and all I said was, ‘Blood Stain, mud stain, light starch or heavy!’ which is how I advertise!”
Britta studied the lump for further signs of life as the laundry lady said, “I hope I didn’t hurt him too much. I never got over the newly accoladed knight I clobbered last summer. He interrupted right after I said, ‘Blood Stain, mud stain,’ with a loud—”
“Huzzah!” shouted Andred.
The laundry lady looked ready to clobber Andred as Sheena jabbed his ribs. But she nodded at Sheena and continued. “And wildly charged into the sheriff’s fresh laundry which he stabbed, smashed, shredded, trampled, and slashed into hours of mending and rewash work. I had to do something; although it was obvious, he couldn’t see very well.”
“He also couldn’t follow directions.” Britta saw something on the ground beside the armor covered lump, and before the laundry lady could point the spear at her, dismounted and grabbed a notice which read, “One hundred fifty groats reward for the Monster-of-Unheard-of-Savageness.”
The laundry lady said, “That’s why I’ve been in eight fights since Sunday, five last week, four the week before, and a five hour duel the week before that! Every time there’s a reward for a monster no one has ever seen someone tries to collect it by turning in the nearest woman washing clothes. However—”
She pointed to a pile of dented helmets, smashed armor, shattered shields, bent swords, and splintered spears. “When it comes to self-defense using laundry soap flasks—I remain undefeated.”
Britta studied the items. “Are the owners still around?”
“When they regained consciousness, I made them wish they weren’t. They ran off screaming, pleading, and sobbing, never to be see again.
“But something monstrous is going around. I didn’t know about the reward, but three weeks ago I fought a five-hour duel with Sir Bertholai of Castle Cameliard, whose clothes smelled bad enough to kill somebody. I smacked him against a tree, bounced him like a ball on the paved road, rang his helmet like a bell, and finally let him go while I blew my nose. That’s when he thought he won and said Prince Idris II of Nauntes hired him to catch a monster scaring the local livestock.”
Britta said, “Did Sir Bertholai think it was the-Monster-of Unheard-of-Savageness?”
“He didn’t say. But when he threatened to turn me in as the monster, I held him in a headlock long enough to admit stealing money from his mother as a boy. Then I told him to go away and bother someone else before I washed him with my soap. But something does wander the wilderness between here and Cadir Idris. I’ve never seen it myself. (Perhaps it’s more afraid of my laundry soap than Sir Bertholai.) But a peasant whose clothes I started washing when his wife became too scared to rinse them in the local creek, thought he heard it outside his hut one night. He described a voice like fingernails upon a chalkboard, creating a horrible screech. The peasant was too scared to look outside, but the next day he told his village elder his cows stopped giving milk, his hens stopped laying eggs, and the wool on his sheep felt like wire.”
“I can’t help catch a monster,” Britta said as she slipped the notice into her cloak. “But here’s a better offer.” And she handed the laundry lady a rolled copy of Sir Christian’s notice.
“Is this an arrest warrant or an invitation for the big lump I just captured to leave?”
“It’s words of encouragement for your lumpy prisoner’s next great awakening.”
“What if he can’t read?”
Faster than lightning, Sir Christian hiding money from his creditors, or certain breeds of horses hiding their food from Sir Christian, Britta helped the laundry lady unroll it as she said, “I included a picture.”