The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

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 I 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, 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 stroked”

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?”