The Angel's Command

by Brian Jacques

  Slumping down on the steps beside Ben, Karay heaved a sigh of resignation. “Two customers, no, three, if you count the baby, and what have we earned so far? A bowl of buttermilk apiece! Why don’t we go and seek out some beggars, perhaps this facemaker’d like to sketch them free! Maybe we could give them the clothes off our backs for allowing us to do them the favour. Fools, that’s what we are!”

  Ben was not pleased with the girl’s callous attitude. “Oh, stop grizzling, there’s nothing wrong in helping people a little. There are other things in this life besides money. Where would you be if I hadn’t helped you when you were chained to a cartwheel?”

  Karay was about to make a sharp retort when they were interrupted by a richly clad lady, mounted sidesaddle on a chestnut mare. Her voice was loud and imperious. “Tell that boy he can sketch me next!”

  Ned growled menacingly as she spurred the horse forward. The chestnut reared, but the lady brought it forcefully under control. She wagged her quirt at Ben. “Tie that dog up, or I’ll have it destroyed!”

  The boy took hold of the Labrador’s collar. “I’m sorry, marm, Ned thought your horse was going to trample us.”

  He ignored Ned’s indignant thoughts. “Pompous baggage. Both she and her horse could do with a lesson in manners!”

  The lady was pointing at Dominic with her leather quirt. “Finish that picture quickly, I don’t have all day to sit here waiting whilst you mess about with peasants!”

  The facemaker continued sketching, though his eyes were hot and angry as he flicked them up at the mounted lady. “Then be on your way, marm, because I don’t intend making a likeness of you!”

  The young woman with the baby started to rise, but Dominic beckoned her to stay put. “Sit still, I’m almost done.”

  The onlookers had to scatter as the lady wheeled her horse about and rode off, glaring hatred at Dominic.

  Ned broke free of Ben’s hold and chased after the horse, barking furiously, causing the animal to break into a gallop. The lady was forced to hold on to her ornate hat as she bounced up and down awkwardly. Stall holders laughed and jeered at her ungracious exit, some even cheering Ned as he made his way back to Ben’s side.

  Dominic held up the slate containing the picture of the young woman and her baby, amid gasps of admiration from everyone around. There was beauty and honesty in the woman’s face, and love for her child. Happy innocence and trust shone from the babe’s eyes—it was a perfectly beautiful likeness. He passed it over to the blushing mother, together with the food he had promised her. She curtsied deeply, stammering her thanks.

  “My husband will be pleased to see this hanging over our fireplace. Thank you, thank you very much, sir!”

  Dominic bowed and smiled at her. “Tell him that I said he’s a lucky man to have such a pretty wife and baby.”

  Shortly after the mother and child’s departure, Dominic had just started to portray a fat, jolly housewife when a commotion arose between the stalls. He looked up from his work. “What’s all the noise about?”

  Karay climbed one of the gateposts of the big manor house. “I think we’re about to find out. Here comes trouble! It’s the guards and that toffee-nosed lady you turned away.”

  Dominic began gathering his materials. Ben stayed seated. “No use running, mate, let’s stick together and see what they’ve got to say. We haven’t harmed anybody or stolen anything.” He looked pointedly at Karay. “Have we?”

  Climbing down from the gatepost, she joined him. “What are you lookin’ at me like that for? I haven’t lifted anything. You’re right, we’ll stick together!”

  Ned looked imploringly at Ben. “I wish you’d said we should run for it. I’m guilty of disturbing a horse!”

  The mounted lady, both guards from the gate and a guard captain strode up the steps, dispersing any curious onlookers before them. Dominic forestalled the captain by addressing him. “My friends and I haven’t done any wrong. I refused to sketch this lady because I am free to choose whom I draw!”

  Ned’s thought crossed Ben’s mind. “I don’t blame Dominic. Just look at the frosty-faced fishwife—the behind of her horse would have made a more handsome picture to draw!” Unwittingly, Ben laughed aloud at his dog’s comical observation.

  The guard captain, a neat-uniformed and stern-faced man, glared at him. “So you think it’s funny, eh?” He indicated the group with a wave of his gauntleted hand. “Are these the ones?”

  The smaller guard from the gate answered. “Aye, Captain, that’s them. They slipped by us without paying, both boys, the girl and the dog. We couldn’t leave our post an’ give chase.”

  The woman pointed her quirt at Dominic. “That’s the one who insulted me, impudent young wretch. I demand that you do something about it, Captain. My husband is the prefect of Toulouse, he wouldn’t allow that sort of behaviour in our town, I’m certain of that!”

  Hands clasped behind his back, the captain circled Ben and his friends, lecturing them severely. “This is no laughing matter, as you’ll soon find out!”

  Karay smiled sweetly at him. “Oh come now, sir, we aren’t really guilty of anyth—”

  “Silence!” The captain’s face reddened as he shouted. “Defrauding the guards by entry without payment! Setting up business without licence, fees or permission! Trading on the very steps of Comte Bregon’s residence, where none are allowed to set up stall! Insulting a lady visitor to Veron and setting a dog upon her horse! And you have the effrontery to stand there and tell me that you’ve done no wrong? Arrest them and take them away immediately! The dog, too!”

  Ned bared his teeth and growled ferociously. Ben slipped his hand through the dog’s collar, warning him mentally. “Hush now, mate, no use making things worse. It looks like we’re in real trouble with the authorities.”

  Village folk watched in silence as the four miscreants were marched off toward a barred entrance in the wall at the far side of the big house.

  18

  A LONG BRICK TUNNEL LED THEM out into a sunny walled garden. With the captain in the lead and the two guards at the rear, the four friends emerged, blinking from the darkness of the passage. It was obviously the carefully tended garden of somebody wealthy. Rose and rhododendron bushes skirted the walls, fronted by all manner of border flowers. A circular red gravel path surrounded an area of rockeries, with streamlets gurgling about them. At its centre was an ancient gazebo with stunted pear trees growing on either side. Inside the gazebo, an old man with a wispy beard sat upon a woven-cane divan. He was clad in a nightshirt, over which he wore a quilted silk jacket.

  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, wat
ch!”

  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.

  “Oh what care I for faces long,

  Or folk so melancholy,

  If they cannot enjoy my song,

  Then fie upon their folly.

  Small birds trill happy in the sky,

  They never stop to reason why,

  And as for me, well nor do I,

  It costs nought to be jolly.

  Sing lero lero lero lay,

  Come smile with me, we’ll sing today

  A merry tune or roundelay,

  All of our cares will float away,

  With no need to sound sorry!”

  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.”