The Angel's Command

by Brian Jacques

  However, Mathilde was not about to go away. She persisted, “Can ye hear the market fair outside? I can. Why don’t you put on some decent clothing and get out there? ’Twill do you good. Summer’s almost gone, and you sit out here from dawn to dusk, day after day, like some old cracked statue.”

  He sighed, staring down at the beetle, which was laboriously crawling from his big toenail to the floor. “Give your tongue a rest, Mathilde. ’Tis my own business how I conduct my life. Go back to your kitchens.”

  Mathilde stubbornly tapped the tray and continued her tirade. “You’ll become an old skeleton, eat something! You never touched the nice breakfast I served you this morning, so I’ve brought you chicken broth with barley and leeks. Look, fresh bread, cream cheese and a glass of milk laced with brandy. Taste it, that’s all I ask, just take a little bit.”

  The comte turned his lined face from her stern gaze. “Take it away, I’m not hungry. Please, give it to one of the servants. I have no appetite for food or drink.”

  The faithful Mathilde knelt by his side, her voice softening. “What is it, Vincente, what ails you?”

  Again he wiped the sleeve across his eyes. “I’m an old fool—worse, an unthinking old fool. On a silly impulse I sent three young people and a dog to their deaths!”

  Mathilde stood up brusquely, her attitude hardening. “Oh, ’tis that again, is it? Well, let me tell you, sir, ’twas not your doing—they volunteered themselves to go. Hmph! Gypsies and vagabonds, little wonder they never came back. If you ask me, they’ve probably joined up with the Razan. They’re creatures of a kind, all of them!”

  The comte’s eyes flared briefly, his voice sharpening as he pointed a finger toward the big house. “Go, you bad-mouthed old fishwife. Go!”

  She bustled off in a huff, muttering aloud, “Well, I’ve done my duty to the Bregons. Soon we’ll have a dead comte on our hands, one who starved himself into his grave. What’ll become of Veron then, eh? Those Razan’ll march straight in and take over the entire place. Mark my words!”

  The comte spoke, not so much to answer her, merely ruminating to himself. “Why does God choose fools to rule? I was deluding myself that Adamo would be still alive after all these years. That pretty young girl, those good young boys and their dog, their lives are lost now, all because of a stupid old man’s desires. Oh Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done!”

  Garath, the comte’s blacksmith and stable master, trudged up the three steps into the gazebo. Placing a strong arm under the older man’s elbow, he gently eased him into a standing position. “Time for you to go inside now, sir. Shall I send someone out to bring your food in also? That soup still looks hot, you may fancy it later.”

  Shaking his head, the comte allowed himself to be led off. “Do what you wish with the food. Take me to my bedchamber, Garath, I feel tired.”

  It was the last day of the market fair, and a few people were leaving early owing to the long journey home they would have to take. Seated in a two-wheeled cart drawn by a lumbering ox, a farmer, together with his wife and teenage daughter, made their way to the gate in Veron’s walls. The cart was held up at the gateway. It could not proceed because of an argument that was going on between two fresh-faced, newly appointed guards and five other people. The farmer sat patiently, holding the ox reins, whilst the dispute outside the gate carried on.

  Karay’s voice rang out. “Five centimes? That’s daylight robbery! It was only two centimes apiece and one for the dog last time we came here! Go and get the comte, he’ll be glad to let us through for free!”

  The tallest of the two guards, who was little more than a runaway farmboy, laughed at the girl’s claim. “Hoho, personal friends of the comte, are we? Listen, girl, we may be new t’this job, but we ain’t soft in the head. Entrance fees to the fair have risen, how d’you suppose the sergeant can make up our wages, eh?”

  Arnela’s voice replied with a dangerous edge to it. “You keep a civil tongue in your head, boy, or you’ll feel the back of my hand. Where is your sergeant? Go and fetch him—he’ll certainly know what to do!”

  The smaller guard was even younger than his comrade but was polite and serious. “Marm, the sergeant’s having his meal in the big house kitchen. You’ll have to wait until he comes back here, neither of us is allowed to leave his post. If you pay us the entrance fee, then I’m sure he’ll be glad to sort out the difference with you later. Sorry, but ’tis more than our job’s worth to let you in free, you understand, marm?”

  Karay’s voice chimed in. “So, then, how much d’you want?”

  The taller guard took up the dispute again. “Well, er five centimes apiece for the two ladies, an’ five each for the boys, an that, er, other person. Let’s see, that’s twenty centimes all told, if y’please.”

  Karay’s scornful laugh rang out. “Where did you learn to count?”

  The guard continued, pretending to ignore her. “We’ll call it three for the dog, and er, say, one centime apiece for those goats, when we’ve counted ’em!”

  Arnela pushed forward, her temper growing short. “Enough of this foolishness, let us in! We’ve got business with the comte. Stand aside!”

  The guard’s spears crossed, blocking her path. The big woman pointed a warning finger at the tall guard.

  “D’you want me to take those spears and wrap them around your necks and give you both a good spanking, eh?”

  The farmer’s wife came walking through the gate and entered the dispute. She took coins from her purse, offering them to the guards. “Let these folk through, take these five francs!” She turned to Karay with a smile. “Remember me, Veronique?”

  The quick-witted girl recalled everything in a flash. She recognised the lady as the pancake seller whose fortune she had told when they had first come to Veron.

  “Oh, Madame Gilbert, what a pleasure to see you again. Thank you so much for paying our toll. I’m, er, with some friends at the moment. We’re a bit short of money, until I get a fortunetelling engagement, you understand.”

  The farmer’s wife nodded knowingly. “Of course, my dear Veronique.” She winked at Karay. “After what you did for me that day, ’tis the least I can do. I’m no longer Madame Gilbert. I married the farmer. I’m Madame Frane now, and very happy to be so. I acted on the good advice you gave me. That’s my husband and our daughter Jeanette in the cart. I sold the pancake business at a handsome profit. My life is so happy now, thanks to you. Well, I must go, we’ve got a long journey back to the farm. Good-bye, Veronique my dear—that is, if your name really is Veronique?”

  Karay whispered in the good woman’s ear as she kissed her cheek. “Only when it suits me. Bless you, Madame Frane.”

  Garath had delivered the comte to his bedchamber. He sat in the kitchen, watching Mathilde crimp the edges of a large plum pie as he worked his way through the tray of food that the comte had left untouched. “Mmmm, that plum pie looks good. Maybe he’ll eat a slice for his supper, eh?”

  Mathilde made some chevron slits in the centre of the pastry. “I hope he does, Garath. I’m worried sick about the man—he’s fading away from lack of good food. That, and the troubles he’s created in his mind.”

  A timid rap on the kitchen door interrupted Mathilde’s woeful musings. She raised her voice irately. “Yes, who is it?”

  The smaller of the two guards poked his head around the door, respectfully pulling off his hat and revealing a tousled mop of hair. “Marm, I met the sergeant in the square and he told me to bring these people to see the comte.”

  Mathilde wiped floury hands upon her apron. “People, what people?” A billy goat pushed his way past the guard and wandered into the kitchen. “Maaaahaah!”

  Mathilde grabbed her rolling pin, shouting, “Yaaah! Get that beast out of my kitchen! Garath, help!”

  The guard was brushed aside as, knocking the door wide open, a herd of goats came bleating into the room, followed by Ned and the rest of the party.

  Mathilde immediately shouted at Ben, Domi
nic and Karay, brandishing the rolling pin. “You three, I might have known it! Gypsies, assassins, get out of my kitch—waaaah!”

  She clapped a hand to one cheek. The pie was spoiled as the rolling pin fell into it. Mathilde swayed, grasping the table edge as she stared at the man clad in bearskin.

  Garath saw him too, and his voice trembled as he spoke. “Monsieur Edouard . . . you’re alive?”

  Mathilde recovered herself quickly. “Fool! That’s not Edouard, ’tis his son, Adamo . . . but . . . but . . . he’s a grown man!”

  Adamo pushed his way through the goats to the cook, who had been his nursemaid in infancy. “Oh, ’Tilde!” He swept her up in both arms and lifted her onto the tabletop.

  Mathilde would not let go of Adamo and rained kisses on him. “See, Garath, he knows me. ’Tilde! That’s the name he used to call me when he was little. Adamo! You’ve come back to me! My Adamo!”

  The unbaked plum pie had been swept off onto the floor. Pantyro, Clovis and Ajax the Less began making short work of it, as Arnela watched them ruefully. “I’d have enjoyed a slice of that pie if it had been baked. It’s years since I tasted a nice home-baked plum pie.”

  It was quite a time before order was restored to the kitchen. Arnela herded her goats out into the garden, where they immediately began eating flowers, grass, leaves and anything that resembled food to them. Mathilde seated the five travellers at her table and began producing food like magic. Each time she passed Adamo, she would hug him fondly.

  “Here, my love, have some of this almond cake, and a dish of my vanilla custard. The beef stew in the oven won’t take long to heat, and the baked carrot and turnip. Garath, bring more ale, and milk, too. Oh, I must pop some of that raisin flan in to warm up. Eat, all of you! Come on, eat, eat!”

  Crimson twilight of early autumn evening flooded through the kitchen windows as Garath lit the lanterns. He kept turning to look at Adamo and shaking his head. “We can’t have you walking in on the comte in that state, sir.”

  Mathilde changed her juice-stained apron for a clean one. “I should think not, ’twould frighten the poor man to death! Garath, tell Hector to get hot water and fill up that big tub you keep in the stables, put lavender water in it, too. I’ll sneak up to Monsieur Edouard’s old room—there’s a whole wardrobe of his clothes still there. He was almost as big as Adamo, they should fit well enough. Then you can take that horrible bear’s hide and burn it!”

  Ned looked up from beneath the table, where he was munching on an enormous pork chop. “Maybe Adamo would like to burn it, eh Ben?”

  The boy caught his dog’s thought and asked Adamo, “Would you like to burn the bearskin, my friend?”

  A rare smile lit up the big fellow’s face as he pointed to himself. “I . . . burn . . . it . . . Ben . . . my friend!” The boy’s strange blue eyes smiled back. “I wager you

  The boy’s strange blue eyes smiled back. ”I wager you will!”

  After Garath had left him lying upon his bed, tiredness of both mind and body overcame the old comte. He drifted into a deep sleep, unaware of any activities that were going on downstairs. The few hours he lay there felt as long as a full night’s rest. Therefore, he was mildly surprised when he woke to the curtains being drawn open, revealing evening’s glorious scarlet sun rays flooding the bedchamber. Confusion set in on the old man. Was he awake, or was it a dream? Shading his eyes, he blinked upward at the tall, handsome man who was standing by the bed gazing calmly down at him. A strange and limited conversation took place—the visitor spoke only one word. “Pappa?”

  Vincente Bregon shook his head. “No, no, our father died many years ago, Edouard, a long time ago. Edouard, is it you?”

  Then the strange boy, Ben, this one who had eyes which had looked across seas and oceans, came and sat upon the bed. “No, sir, it isn’t Edouard. This is his son, Adamo. We’ve brought him back to you, just as we vowed we would.”

  Unsure whether he was still awake or not, the old man nodded. “Of course, Adamo never knew his father. Pappa, that’s what he used to call me. Ah, but that was before the Razan stole him.”

  Before anyone could stop him, Ned bounded up onto the bed and licked the old man’s face. Comte Vincente Bregon de Veron sat up straight, fully awake.

  Seconds ticked by as he looked into the face of his long-lost nephew, then recognition dawned. Taking the tall man’s hands, he pressed his face into them. “Adamo, my dear brother’s son, it is you? Adamo! Adamo!”

  29

  THREE MARKET FAIRS HAD COME AND gone. Early mists drifted away into a crisp, golden autumn morn. Ben gripped the iron tongs, holding a horseshoe against the front hoof of a placid white mare. Smoke arose from the forged metal in a blue-grey cloud.

  From his seat atop a hay bale, Ned winced, passing Ben a thought. “Ooch! Didn’t that hurt the poor old nag? It was almost red hot!”

  Ben mentally answered his dog’s inquiry. “Of course it didn’t—horses enjoy having new shoes fitted. Garath’s going to show me how to nail the shoe onto her hoof now. Hold still, good girl, this won’t take long.”

  Ned cut in with a horrified thought. “You mean you’re going to hammer nails into the poor mare’s foot? I’m off, before you and Garath decide to give me a new set of shoes!”

  Leaping off the bale, the black Labrador shot outside into the cobbled stable yard. Ned narrowly missed being run down by two more horses that clattered in, with Karay and Adamo on their backs. The girl called out needlessly, “Mind yourself, Ned, or you’ll get run down!”

  Ned barked his disapproval at the words his mouth could not say. “I’d sooner be run down than have iron shoes nailed to my paws, miss. Have y’seen what those two are doing to a mare in the stables? I’ll bet Arnela doesn’t do that to her goats!” He dashed off barking to find his goatherd friend.

  Karay laughed. “Let’s go and see what Mathilde’s baking for lunch. Something nice, I hope, I’m starving!”

  Adamo helped her down from her horse. Tugging her hair playfully, he remarked in his slow, halting speech, “You are always hungry, Karay!”

  She looked up at him fondly. “Huh, look who’s talking. Have you noticed how much you can put away?”

  Comical innocence shone in Adamo’s brown eyes. “I am bigger than you, Adamo needs more food!”

  Arnela was sitting in the gazebo with a tiny month-old nanny goat on her knee. Dominic perched against the windowsill, painting them both. He had been given brushes, paints, canvas and an easel, a gift from the comte. Ned came lolloping along. Sitting next to the big goatherd woman, he placed a paw on her knee and gazed faithfully up at her and the goat.

  The facemaker chuckled admiringly. “Stay like that, Ned, what a perfect tableau it makes. Well done, boy, good dog!”

  The black Labrador held his pose, emitting thoughts that would never reach Arnela or Dominic. “Why d’you think I sat here? Anyone with half an eye could see the picture was off balance. Note the way I present a noble profile in just the right light. If only someone would let me paint, I’d dash off a few masterpieces with my tail. Hidden depths of talent, y’know, quite common among us Labradors!”

  The baby goat bleated. “Maaahaaah!”

  Ned flicked it a glance. “Huh, who asked you?”

  Lunch that day was not a snatch-and-bite-in-the-kitchen affair. Mathilde would not even let them enter her domain; she shooed them all out.

  “Go and get cleaned up, all of you, put on some fresh clothes, too. Go on!”

  Adamo protested, “We are hungry people, feed us, ’Tilde!”

  But even his plea did not move the old cook. “The master wants to join you in the dining room, he told me so specially. Lunch will be served in one hour. Go away!”

  Ned passed a thought to Ben as they went upstairs. “Maybe the comte wants to speak to us about something in particular.”

  Ben paused on the stairway. “That’s what I was thinking, too. I’ve been getting an uneasy feeling for the past few days. We’ve been a long t
ime in Veron, maybe a bit too long.”

  Ned licked the boy’s hand. “Too much to hope that our angel has forgotten about us, I suppose?”

  Ben sighed. “I’ll wager that angels never forget anything, mate.” He shrugged and tried to brighten up. “We’re probably worrying over nothing. Come on, let’s get dressed!”

  He bounded up the rest of the stairs, laughing aloud at the dog’s reply. “Dearie me, what shall I wear to lunch?”

  Vincente Bregon looked every inch the comte de Veron as he entered the dining room—dressed in the finest silks and linens, his hair and beard neatly trimmed, his step vigorous and steady. To the eyes of his guests he seemed many years younger. Seven places were laid for the meal. Ned was underneath the table, already making inroads upon a slab of roasted pork crackling. Ben, Dominic, Arnela, Karay and Adamo sat laughing and chattering with one another, each of them clad in new outfits provided by their host’s generosity.

  The comte seated himself. Banging the tabletop with mock severity, he raised his voice: “What? My guests sitting here staring at an empty board! Where’s that lazy old cook of mine? Dozing in front of the oven fire, I wager. Can’t a man get a decent meal in his own house anymore?”

  Mathilde entered, leading two young maidservants who were pushing a trolley laden with food. Her scornful wit was not lost upon her audience. She wagged a finger in the comte’s face. “The lunch has been ready this past quarter hour, waiting on you to dodder downstairs in your bib and tucker. Dozing in front of the oven fire, indeed? The only time I’ll do that is when I’ve got you in the oven, baking some life into those old bones of yours, you crotchety old codger!”

  Ben and his friends shook with laughter as the pair exchanged good-humoured insults.

  “Be silent, you frowzy old loaf-burner!”

  “Yah, go and take a nap, you mumbling old chin-dribbler!”

  The comte rose. “I’ll not stand for that in my house, Madame!”