The Command - Brian Jacques - Flying Dutchman 02

28

COMTE VINCENTE BREGON OF VERON SAT IN his gazebo at the centre of his beautiful walled garden. Though it was midafternoon, he was still clad in his nightshirt and dressing gown. He looked old and haggard. A small garden beetle trundled slowly over his sandalled foot, a magpie was strutting boldly about on the open windowsill. They were ignored by the old man, who stared unhappily at the fading blooms bordering the gravel path. His mind was elsewhere. The magpie spotted the beetle. It was about to descend on the insect and snatch i when it was disturbed by footsteps. The bird flew off, giving the beetle an unknowing extension to its short life.

Mathilde, the equally old but energetic cook, bustled into the gazebo, sniffing irately as she placed a tray of food and drink on an ornamental table beside her master. “Still sitting here like a scarecrow, eh?”

Wiping the sleeve of his gown across both eyes, the comte replied wearily, “Go away and leave me alone, woman.”

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?”