The Angel's Command (27 page)

Comte Vincente Bregon did not sleep well at night, thus he passed the warm summer days in his garden, catching small catnaps to while away the hours. His eyes opened slowly at the sound of feet crunching upon gravel. As the captain passed, he saluted his master. Bregon stopped him with a slow gesture of his parchment-skinned hand. He looked at the three raggedly dressed young people and the dog.

The captain had to crane his head forward to hear the old man's voice. “Where are you taking those children and their dog?”

Standing stiffly to attention, the captain spoke officiously. “Unlicenced traders, sir, young lawbreakers. A week or two in the dungeons will teach them some discipline and manners!”

The old comte's eyes twinkled briefly as he addressed Ben. “Are you a very desperate criminal?”

Ben immediately liked the comte—he looked wise and kind. “No, sir, apart from not paying my two centimes entrance fee to your village fair—oh, and one centime for Ned here.”

The comte nodded slowly and smiled. “Ah, I see. And this Ned, will he bite my head off if I try to stroke him?”

Ben chuckled. “Hardly, sir, he's a well-behaved dog. Go on, Ned, let the gentleman stroke you. Go on, boy!”

The black Labrador trotted over to the comte, passing a thought to Ben. “I do wish you'd stop talking to me as if I were still a bumble-headed puppy. This looks like a nice old buffer. I'll charm him a bit, watch!”

Ned gazed soulfully at the comte and offered his paw. The old nobleman was delighted—he accepted the paw and stroked Ned's head gently.

“Oh, he's a fine fellow, aren't you, Ned?”

Ben heard his dog's comment. “Aye, sir, and you're not a bad old soul yourself. Mmmm, this fellow's an expert stroker!”

The comte nodded dismissively at the captain. “You may go, leave these young ones with me.”

Blusteringly the captain protested. “But sir, they were trading on your own front steps, and they insulted the prefect of Toulouse's wife—”

Cutting him short with an upraised hand, the comte replied, “Huh, that hard-faced harridan, it's about time somebody took her down a peg. Go now, take your guards back to the fair and continue with your duties. I'll take care of these vagabonds!”

Looking like an indignant beetroot, the captain marched his men off, back through the tunnel.

With open palms, the old man beckoned them forward. “Come here, my children, sit on the carpet by my chair. Pay no heed to my captain, he's a good man, but sometimes a bit too diligent for his office.”

Seating themselves at his feet, they repeated their names one by one. The comte patted the big black Labrador. “And this is Ned, I already know him. My name is Vincente Bregon, comte of Veron, an ancient and useless title these days. I like pears, do go and pick us some, Karay.”

The girl picked five huge soft yellow pears from the nearby branches, which grew right into the gazebo window spaces. The fruit was delicious, and the old man wiped juice from his chin with a linen kerchief as he questioned them.

“So then, tell me about yourselves. You, Karay, what do you do?”

Wiping her mouth upon her sleeve, the girl replied, “I am a singer, sir, the best in all the country!”

The old fellow chuckled. “I'll wager you are. Come on, girl, sing me a song, a happy one. I love to hear a good voice giving out a jolly air. Sing for me!”

Karay stood up, clasping her fingers at midriff height. She gave forth with a happy melody.

 
As the last sweet notes hung on the noontide air, the comte wiped his kerchief across his eyes and sniffed. “Pay me no heed, child. Your song and fine voice gladden my heart, though my eyes have a will of their own. Now, Ben, what particular talent have you to display, eh?”

From where he was sitting, Ben looked up into the kindly old man's face. “Me, sir? I don't do anything in particular, Ned and I are just friends of these two. We don't sing like Karay, or sketch like Dominic.”

The comte patted Ben's head affectionately. “They're very lucky to have friends like you and Ned. Friendship is the greatest gift one person can give to another. Tell me, Dominic, what sort of things do you sketch?”

“The features of people, sir,” Dominic replied. “I am known as a facemaker.”

Patting his wispy hair and smoothing his beard, the comte held his chin up. “Do you think you could picture my likeness?”

Dominic took a piece of parchment, charcoal and chalks from his satchel, and looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the carpet. “You have an interesting face, sir, I've been saving this parchment for a good subject. Lower your chin and look down at me, sir.”

A golden afternoon rolled slowly by while Dominic sketched leisurely, taking his time not to miss any detail in the comte's lined features. Ned stretched out and took a comfortable nap. Karay wandered off around the garden, admiring the flowers and the mullioned windows of the stately manor. Ben sat on one of the open windowsills, breathing the fragrant air cooled by running water and laden with the heady scent of blossoms. Somewhere nearby, a mistle thrush warbled a hymn to the cloudless blue sky. Bees hummed a muted accompaniment to the bird's song, while a butterfly, all iridescent blue and purple, landed on his shirtfront and perched there with wings spread wide. A calm serenity pervaded Ben's mind. This was a world away from storm-torn seas, the
Flying Dutchman
and Captain Vanderdecken. Memories of his buccaneering days and of poor Raphael Thuron seemed to be a dream of the distant past. His eyes were slowly closing when Dominic announced, “There! I think I've captured your likeness pretty well, sir.”

Karay came in from the garden, Ned woke up and Ben went across to see the result of the facemaker's art. All five gazed at the picture, which the old nobleman held in his trembling hands—it was Vincente Bregon, comte of Veron, to the very life, and far beyond that. Every line and crow's-foot wrinkle, every time-silvered hair of beard and head were startlingly lifelike.

The old man's voice quivered as he spoke. “The eyes! Tell me, young one, what did you see in my eyes?”

Dominic pondered his answer before replying. “I saw wisdom, sir, but also the loss and grief of a man who once was happy, now turned to loneliness and resignation. Do you wish me to continue, sir?”

The comte shook his head wearily. “I know the rest, what need to tell an old man of the anguish he has lived with so long.”

Ben reached out and touched the comte's cheek. “Then why don't you tell us, sir? Maybe 'twould do you good to talk. We'll listen, we're your friends.”

The comte blinked. He stared at them like a man awakening from a dream. “Yes, you are my friends! I feel as if you were sent here, to listen and to help me!”

Carefully, he rolled the parchment up and offered it to Ned. “Take this, but go lightly with it. I will have this picture framed and hung in my house.” Ned took the scrolled sketch gently in his mouth.

As he held out both hands, the old fellow's voice took on a new briskness. “Now, my young friends, help me up, let me lean on your strong arms. We will go indoors. There's good food inside—I never knew children that couldn't eat well. You shall hear my story after you have dined.”

It was a house of great splendour, with silk hangings, suits of armour and ancient weapons decorating the walls. The comte disregarded their curiosity and took his newfound friends straight into the kitchen. There he bade them sit at a large, well-scrubbed pine table amid the surroundings of cookery and serving equipment. Shelves loaded with plates, drinking vessels and tureens ranged all around; copper pans, pots and cauldrons hung from the oak-beamed rafters. Their host sat with them. Rapping on the tabletop, he called querulously, “Mathilde, is there nobody here to serve a hungry man a bite of food, eh?”

An enormously fat old lady, bursting with energy, came bustling in, wiping chubby hands on a huge apron. She retorted sharply to his request. “Hah, hungry, are we? Can't take meals at proper times like civilised folk. Oh no, just wait until 'tis poor Mathilde's time for a nap, then march in here shouting your orders!”

Her master's eyes twinkled as he argued back at her. “Cease cackling like a market goose, you old relic. Bring food for me and my young friends here, and be quick about it!”

Ben hid a smile—he could tell that the pair were lifelong friends, that this was just a game they were playing with each other.

Mathilde the cook folded her arms and glared fiercely at the young people, curling her lip. “Friends, you say? They look like the rakings and scrapings of some robber gypsy band. I'd lock up my silverware if they entered my house. Is that a black wolf you've got sitting on my nice clean chair? Wait while I go and get a musket to shoot it with!”

Ned looked at Ben and passed a message. “I hope she's only joking. That old lady looks dangerous to me!”

The comte returned her glare and shouted in a mock rough tone. “I'll fetch a musket and shoot you if food doesn't get here soon, you turkey-wattled torment!”

Mathilde managed to stifle a grin as she shot back at him, “Torment yourself, you dry old grasshopper carcass. I suppose I'd better get that food, before the wind snaps you in two and blows you away!”

When Mathilde had departed, Karay took a fit of the giggles. “Oh, sir, d'you always shout at each other in that dreadful way?”

The old man smiled. “Always. She's the dearest lady in all the world, though she rules my household as if I were a naughty child. I don't know what I'd do without my Mathilde.”

The food, when it arrived, was excellent: a basin of the local cream cheese, some onion soup, a jug of fresh milk, peasant bread and a raisin cake with almonds on it. Mathilde served them, muttering under her breath about being murdered in her bed by beggars and vagabonds. She recoiled in mock horror when Ned licked her cheek, fleeing the kitchen before being, as she put it, torn to pieces by the wolf in her own kitchen.

After an extremely satisfying meal, the friends sat back and listened to their host unfolding his narrative. Drawing a heavy gold seal ring from his finger, the comte placed it on the table. “This seal carries the crest of my family—it is carved with a lion for strength, a dove for peace, and a knotted rope for union, or togetherness. The family of Bregon have always tried to live by these principles. We have held these lands for countless ages, trying to live right and taking care of all under our protection. I was the elder son of two born to my parents, but I had the misfortune of never being married. I was the scholar—once I had ambitions to enter a monastery and become a monk, though nothing ever came of it. My younger brother was far more popular than I. Edouard was a big man, very strong, and skilful with all manner of weapons. When our parents passed on, we ruled Veron together. But Edouard left all the affairs of the village and the management of this house to me. He would go off on adventures, sometimes not coming home for long periods of time. One day he rode off south, alone. Edouard loved adventuring. He went toward the Spanish border, into the Pyrenees, intending to hunt. Whilst he was in the mountains, he suffered an accident, a fall from his horse, which left him unconscious, with a head wound. My brother was found, though, and was taken in by a powerful family called the Razan.”

Dominic leaned forward, his voice incredulous. “The Razan!”

The old man's eyebrows raised. “Ah, my young friend, so you have heard of the Razan?”

Dominic nodded vigorously. “Over the mountains, in the Spanish town of Sabada, where I come from, folk talked of little else. Honest men would make the sign of the cross at the very mention of their name. When horses or cattle went missing, sometimes even people, everyone would whisper that it was the work of the Razan. Mothers would use their name to frighten naughty children. ‘The Razan will get you!' Yet nobody really knew who they were. Our priest said that they were evil magicians from Algiers who knew the dark ways of wizards and witches. But I'm sorry for interrupting you, sir, please carry on with your story.”

Stroking his wispy beard, the comte continued. “One hears all manner of tales about the Razan; some say they are from Africa, others, from the mountains of Carpathia. I think a lot of these things are fables, put about by the Razan themselves to instill fear in ignorant peasants. I myself have had reports of them putting spells on folk, turning men, women and children into fishes, beasts or birds. They prey on superstition and rule simple minds by terror of the unknown.”

Returning the signet ring to his index finger, the aged nobleman sighed. “My brother, Edouard, was frightened of nothing. Whilst he was being nursed by the Razan—who must have known who he was, or they would have slain him just for his horse and weapons—Edouard was smitten with love for a Razan girl. She was the only daughter of the Razan, and very beautiful. Ruzlina, for that was her name, would have none attending Edouard but herself. Her mother, Maguda, must have seen the possibilities of allowing them to be together. It would be an easy, and legal, way for the Razan to gain a foothold in Veron, a village they had long coveted. Together, Ruzlina and Edouard went through a form of ceremony that passes for marriage among the Razan. He brought his new bride back here when he was fully recovered. How that girl had lived among such a wicked brood as the Razan, I'll never know. She was honest, true and gentle-natured—I could readily understand why my brother had fallen in love with her. They both lived happily in this place for nigh on two years.