The Angel's Command

by Brian Jacques

  Mathilde winked at Karay and Adamo as she retorted, “Then sit down!”

  The comte chuckled. He patted the empty chair next to him. “No, no, Mathilde, ’tis you who must sit down, here, right beside me. Let the maids serve our lunch today.”

  Mathilde protested. “Cooks don’t sit at table with the master, who ever heard of such a thing?”

  But the comte of Veron would brook no argument. “Madame, I am ordering you to sit and dine with us. When lunch is over, I have things to say which concern us all!”

  The meal was delicious. A steaming mushroom soup was followed by salad and a collation of cheeses, ham, brown bread, eggs and a grilled carp. Over a dessert of hot summer pudding and cream they sipped cider, fruit juice and glasses of the local wine mixed with fresh springwater.

  Ben nodded and smiled at the amiable banter and conversation of his friends. However, he heard little of it as he and Ned exchanged apprehensive thoughts.

  The dog’s paw touched his master’s foot beneath the table as Ned voiced his opinion. “I don’t know why, Ben, but I’m beginning to feel rather uneasy about something or other. I can’t think what it is.”

  The boy reached down and stroked his Labrador’s silky ear. He had forgotten the message that the angel had woven into his dreams when he first met Karay. That night in the forest seemed so long ago and faraway.

  He answered Ned, trying not to sound perplexed. “I expect our angel will let us know if anything’s amiss. Strange, but I can’t remember any warning the angel gave me about moving on, can you?”

  Ned poked his head out from under the tablecloth hem. “No, I don’t recall a thing—that’s what’s bothering me.”

  Around the table it had gone suddenly quiet. Dominic nudged Ben’s arm and whispered to him, “Sit up straight, friend. You look half asleep there. The comte has something to say to us!”

  Ben suddenly became attentive. “What? Oh, er, sorry!”

  The comte drew from his finger the large gold ring that bore his family’s crest. It was far too large for him and slipped off easily. He placed it on the little finger of Adamo’s right hand, where it fitted snugly.

  “This was your father’s ring. He was the rightful lord of Veron. The ring carries the Bregon seal: a lion for strength, a dove for peace, and a knotted rope symbolising union and togetherness. Adamo Bregon, son of Edouard, my brother, you are now to be known as comte de Veron, as is your birthright!”

  The others around the table applauded warmly. Even Ned emerged from beneath the table, his tail wagging furiously. Wiping a joyful tear away with her apron corner, Mathilde turned to the new comte. “Well, sir, are ye not going to say something to us all, a nice speech maybe?”

  Adamo stood up. He looked so tall and strong, yet so calm and happy. His broad face broke into a smile, which touched the hearts of everyone present. Then he bowed and kissed Karay’s hand, speaking haltingly. “You will be my comtesse, Karay . . . please?”

  The girl’s answer was inaudible—she merely nodded once.

  The old comte took both their hands in his. “I have watched you both. This is what I was hoping for. As for my other friends, Ben, Dominic and our faithful Ned, I have asked myself what I can do to repay you for restoring Adamo to me. You are not servants—it would be churlish and ill mannered to offer you money. But I know that you have no parents to care for you. In view of this I have reached a decision. In a few days we will go together on a journey. Toulouse will be our destination. There, at the cathedral, I will consult the bishop, and then I will speak with the justices of my wishes, so that all people will know: I intend to give you both my name, adopting you as my sons. Together you will live here as part of our family. As for you, my dearest Mathilde, you shall become a lady companion of our household. No more cooking and working in kitchens . . .”

  Neither Ned nor Ben heard the rest of Vincente Bregon’s speech. Like lightning at midnight, the angel’s message flooded into their minds, blotting out all else.

  “A man who has not children

  Will name you as his son.

  In that hour you must be gone!

  Turn your face back to the sea,

  You will meet another one,

  A father with no children,

  Before you travel on.

  Help him to help his children,

  As his kinsman would have done.”

  Ben heard Mathilde’s voice as the import of the command hit him. She was interrupting the old comte. “No such thing, sir. I’m not going to sit about with nothing to do for the rest of my days. Cook I am, and cook I stay! No silly young girl is going to take charge of my kitchens. Ben, are you alright, boy? You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

  The boy stood up, swaying slightly, his mind in a daze as he made up a suitable reply. “I’ll be fine in a moment, thanks. A little too much of your good wine, Mathilde, even though there was water in it. Please, don’t fuss, I’ll go and take a walk in the fresh air. I’ll be alright soon. Ned will come with me.”

  Dominic, the Facemaker of Sabada, stared into his friend’s clouded blue eyes. They were distant and sad. “Ben, do you want me to come with you?”

  The boy knew that his friend could see the truth of what was about to happen. Ben shifted his gaze fondly from the old comte, to Mathilde, then from Adamo to Karay, and finally back to Dominic. He blinked a few times. “No, mate, you stay here. I only need Ned to go with me.”

  Then the boy and his dog left the room.

  30

  FOUR DAYS LATER, IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, Ben and Ned sat on the dunes, staring out to sea at the Gulf of Gascony. All the tears they could cry had been shed. They had travelled fast, both night and day, stopping only to catch a brief hour’s rest here and there when weariness got the better of them. Both boy and dog had pushed themselves hard, not wanting to stay amid dear friends who would eventually grow old and die whilst they remained forever young.

  Ned snuffled at his master’s hand. “Well, mate, we turned our faces back to the sea, and here we are. Ooh, I am hungry, Ben, so hungry!”

  Ben nodded absently as he replied, “What I’m wondering is, where’s this other one we’ve got to meet? Remember the second part of the angel’s command:

  ‘Turn your face back to the sea,

  You will meet another one,

  A father with no children,

  before you travel on.

  Help him to help his children,

  as his kinsman would have done.’ ”

  Ned’s ears flopped as he shook his head from side to side. “Sounds like twaddle to me. Another father with no children, yet we’ve got to help him to help his children. Huh, and who’s this kinsman who would’ve helped the father with no children, to help his children, eh? Even a dog can’t make head nor tail of that little lot!”

  Ben did not answer right away. He turned his gaze from the sea to the hilltop where they sat and to the trees behind. “Ned, d’you realise where we are?”

  The black Labrador was still trying to solve the angel’s riddle. “No, should I? Wait, don’t tell me, hmmm, sea, hills, small clump of trees . . . Of course! This is the exact spot where we came ashore from La Petite Marie’s jolly boat! Well, there’s a thing, we’ve come full circle!”

  Ben was standing up, shading his eyes as he turned back to the sea. Ned looked up at him. “What is it now?”

  The boy was already descending the sandy dune top. “A little boat, coming to shore this way. Probably a fisherman. Come on, mate, maybe he’s got some spare food with him!”

  Ned raced after his master. “Food, you’ve said the magic word!”

  They stood in the shallows as the tiny fishing smack nosed toward them. A man appeared at the bow and flung a line in Ben’s direction. He shouted a single word. “Hungry?”

  Ben’s answer was also brief. “Starving!”

  The fellow sprang over the side. He was laughing. “How did I guess? Help me get her ashore above the tide line.”

  Ned gripped the r
ope end in his teeth as Ben and the man put the line over their shoulders and hauled. With considerable effort they dragged the boat over the ridged wet sand, through some seaweed and debris, then up onto the dry beach above the tide line. The man was poorly clad, barefoot and had a ragged cloak tied about his neck as protection against long hours facing sea breezes. He shook Ben’s hand firmly and patted Ned. “Thank ye, friends. See those trees up yonder? Could you gather some wood for a fire? I’ve got good, fresh mackerel aboard. Got some bread, and milk, too. We can cook a meal!”

  Ben smiled. “You caught the fish, sir, we’ll get the wood!” He sped off, with Ned outpacing him and thinking happily, “Bread’n’fish, nothing like it when you’re hungry, mate!”

  The fisherman even had a frying pan. He gutted and headed the mackerel and tossed them into the pan with some herbs and a chopped onion. As he took off his cloak, he jerked a thumb at the waters of the bay.

  “High tide’s the best time to net fish around here, though you’ve got to get the job done before the tide turns—it can run out pretty fast and leave you stranded out there.” As he loosed the cloak, Ben saw his white collar and well-worn, threadbare black cassock. A priest!

  Ned settled down in the warm sand, thinking, “Haha, a priest. So that’s the father who has no children. This is him, Ben!”

  The priest handed Ben enough bread for him and his dog. “So, what are you doing on this forsaken stretch of shore?”

  Ben tossed half the bread to Ned. “We’re just travellers, Father, making our way along the coast to Spain. It isn’t too far. Do you live hereabouts?”

  The priest tested six mackerel he had put on to fry and turned them over with his knife blade. “Just on the outskirts of Arcachon. I have a little parish. Very small and poor . . . we even meet in my house for services, as the church collapsed many years ago. Sandy foundation, cheap materials, the usual story.”

  Ben noted the large mass of silver- and black-banded fish in the boat. “You missed your trade, Father, you’re a good fisherman to land a haul like that.”

  The priest nodded ruefully. “My flock and I live as a community, helping one another. Chopard, our fisherman, broke his arm last week, so I elected myself to the job until his arm is mended. They’re simple people around here, but good. I call them my children, and, as you know, children must be fed.”

  The fish tasted good. They sat in silence, attending to the needs of their hunger.

  Ned was first to finish. He passed Ben a thought. “Look at the father’s face—who does he remind you of?”

  Ben scrutinised the man’s face. Ned was right, there was something rather familiar about the eyes, the strong jaw, the shape of the nose, those sandy brown whiskers. Almost without thinking, Ben found himself saying, “I was at sea once. I had a friend, he came from where you live, Arcachon.”

  The father licked his fingers, tossing a fish bone into the fire. “From Arcachon, you say? What was his name? I might know the family. We’ve had a few from the parish run off to sea.”

  Ben spoke the name of his dead buccaneer captain. “Raphael Thuron.”

  In the moment the father’s eyes went wide with surprise, Ben found his mind invaded by Ned’s urgent pleas.

  “Easy, mate, go careful. Watch what you say. Lie if you have to!”

  The man grabbed Ben’s arm with a hand as heavy as the captain’s had been. “Raphael Thuron is my brother . . . would your man be about eight years older than me?”

  Ben avoided his new friend’s gaze. “Aye, about that, Father. He looked a lot like you, as I remember. Did your brother run off to sea?”

  The good father stared into the fire. “Yes, our parents were poor farmers. They wanted Raphael to become a priest one day, but he was too wild. He was forever getting into scrapes.” The father smiled. “And getting me into trouble with him. Raphael was a rogue, but a good brother. Please, tell me what you know about him, how is he doing? Raphael said that if ever he got away from these parts, he’d make a fortune in some far country. I wonder if he did.”

  As he pondered his answer, Ben passed Ned a message. “This is a good man, it would be wrong to tell him lies. If we’re to help him and his children, it’s best to tell the truth.”

  Ned replied, “Right, mate, but don’t mention the angel.”

  Ben gently released his arm from the father’s grip. “I have news to tell you, both good and sad, Mattieu.”

  The priest stared deep into Ben’s mysterious blue eyes. “You know my name?”

  The boy met his gaze. “Your brother told me of you when I first met him. He was one of the finest men I ever knew.” Ben’s eyes betrayed what he was holding back.

  Turning away, Father Mattieu Thuron watched the receding tide. “Something tells me that you’re going to say Raphael is dead!”

  There was no way to soften the blow. Ben took a deep breath. “That’s my sad duty, Father. Captain Raphael Thuron is dead.”

  A silence followed, in which the priest’s lips moved slowly as he offered up prayers for his brother’s soul. Ben and Ned sat quietly watching. Wiping a frayed cuff across his eyes, Father Mattieu turned back to Ben and said a single world. “Captain?”

  Ben tossed a twig upon the fire. “Aye, a captain. Would it surprise you to know that he was a buccaneer?”

  Ben thought for a moment that the priest was weeping again, but he was chuckling and shaking his head.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least, my friend. Raphael was always a wild one—I’ll wager he made a fine buccaneer.”

  Ben cheered up, remembering his days aboard La Petite Marie. “Cap’n Thuron was the terror of the Caribbean, but let me tell you, we—my name’s Ben, that’s Ned, my dog—we were proud to serve under your brother.”

  Lit by a full moon, night crept in as Ben sat by the fire on the shore with Ned and Father Mattieu. He related the full tale, from the tavern in Cartagena to the Gulf of Gascony. The priest’s eyes shone with excitement, imagining great adventures of palm-fringed islands, Spanish pirates, privateers and a chase across the boundless ocean.

  When he had finished the narrative, Ben took a deep drink from the water canteen, listening to Ned’s approval.

  “Well told, mate, what a great yarn. I’m glad you never mentioned our angel or anything about Veron and the Razan. It was pretty convincing how you said that we’d been hiding and scavenging about the coastline most of the summer. Couldn’t have done better myself!”

  Father Mattieu shook the boy’s hand warmly. “Thank you, Ben, I can tell that you liked Raphael a great deal. I will grieve and pray for him. Thank heaven he was not captured and executed like a common criminal. He died like a true captain, going down with his beloved ship. But what a man my brother was, eh? The places he saw, the adventures he had—I almost wish I’d sailed with him. Raphael packed more into one lifetime than most men do into ten! But I have my little parish to look after, my poor children to attend to . . .” Whilst the good father chatted on aimlessly, Ben noticed an odd change in his view of the bay.

  Ned suddenly stood up alert. “Ben, listen, the angel!”

  The boy heard the heavenly being speaking a line of the poem: “You must help him help his children. Behold!”

  Both Ben and Ned felt their eyes drawn to one spot.

  The tide had ebbed fully, leaving a long stretch of beach and shallow offshore water. A cloud floating alone in the clear night sky obscured the moon. However, there was a hole in the centre of the cloud, which allowed the moonlight to shine downward in one pale shaft of silver light. Right from the skies to the bay’s surface it went, spotlighting a small circle of water.

  Again the angel spoke: “You must help him to help his children. Behold!”

  Ned was tugging the rope at the prow of the fishing boat. Ben sprang to his feet, shouting at the priest. “Come quickly, Father, we need your help with the boat!”

  The priest arose and grabbed the rope with Ned and Ben. “What is it, Ben, what do you need the boat for
?”

  The boy bent his shoulder as he heaved the craft forward. “Save your breath, Father! Just get it to the water and trust me. There’s no time to argue!”

  It was a long hard haul over the wet beach to the water’s edge. Panting and blowing, the two strained at the rope, dragging the fishing smack behind. Ben kept his eyes firmly on the sphere of light, blinking away the sweat that ran smartingly down to blur his gaze. Even when they reached the water, the boat’s keel still scraped on the sand. It came free as they waded in knee-deep. Ben heaved Ned aboard as the priest gathered up his sopping cassock and scrambled in amongst the slithering mackerel. “Where to now, Ben?”

  The boy pointed at the thin column of moonlight. “Straight ahead, see the patch of light on the water? There!”

  Before they actually reached the spot, Ned sighted a nub of timber poking up above the surface. Barking wildly, he threw a thought to Ben. “It’s the little mast of the Marie’s jolly boat!”

  Ben lay in the bow, paddling furiously with both hands until he got hold of the mast. “Father, come here. Hold on to this and don’t let go whatever you do!”

  Father Mattieu obeyed promptly, seizing the timber as though his life depended on it. Ben took the bow rope and knotted it about his waist, then plunged into the dark waters, gasping with shock as his head struck the jolly boat’s keel. It was sitting squarely on the seabed. He felt about swiftly. This pointed bit was the bows. Pulling himself along, he found the stern. His shin barked against the after-end seat. He felt for the sailcloth wrapping and pulled it aside. There it was in a big canvas bag—Captain Raphael Thuron’s fortune in gold!

  Bubbles started streaming from between Ben’s lips, as he desperately tried to hold his breath in. Loosing the rope from his waist, he tied it in a hasty noose. The boy’s head pounded unmercifully as he strained to lift the bag of gold. It moved just enough for him to sweep the noose underneath and pull tight. Ben shot to the surface, spluttering and spitting seawater. The priest relinquished his hold on the mast and helped the boy climb awkwardly into the boat.