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."
Dominic leaned forward, his voice incredulous. "The Razan!"
The old man's eyebrows raised. "Ah, my young friend, so you have heard of the Razan?"
Dominic nodded vigorously. "Over the mountains, in the Spanish town of Sabada, where I
come from, folk talked of little else. Honest men would make the sign of the cross at the very
mention of their name. When horses or cattle went missing, sometimes even people, everyone
would whisper that it was the work of the Razan. Mothers would use their name to frighten
naughty children. 'The Razan will get you!' Yet nobody really knew who they were. Our priest
said that they were evil magicians from Algiers who knew the dark ways of wizards and
witches. But I'm sorry for interrupting you, sir, please carry on with your story."
Stroking his wispy beard, the comte continued. "One hears all manner of tales about the
Razan; some say they are from Africa, others, from the mountains of Carpathia. I think a lot
of these things are fables, put about by the Razan themselves to instill fear in ignorant