Books by Ian Rogers
Books by Ian Rogers
By Ian Rogers
“ ‘Its awful,’ Scrimshaw said. ‘The worst thing that could happen! The Tax Inspectors are coming. They can’t believe Parcival’s so prosperous and yet pays so little tax. There’s going to be an assize to see if everyone has paid what’s due. We are undone!’ and he broke down and cried.”
“I thrust a bag of money into Scrimshaw’s hands and pushed him out of the house. ‘Go and live with your cousin on the other side of the mountain,’ I told him. Then it was my turn to panic! I went back inside and tried to think. Could I blame the book-keeper for everything? No, it would be obvious that I had spent the money. Would a few more bribes keep people’s mouths shut?
“No! Someone was bound to turn King’s Evidence about my crooked schemes, to save their own bacon ( or bread or eggs; but the butcher was the most likely telltale). so I decided to run away too. I threw every bit of money I could find into a canvass bag, saddled the white horse, and I only just remembered to pull some breeches on over my night shirt before mounting up and riding off into the night.”
John shivered at the memory. He looked around at the sunlit meadow. All that was long ago now. He had found his way to this lonely spot and had paid some wood‑cutters to build his hut and put up some fences. He had bought some chickens and sheep and goats (including your great-great-grandma, he told the kid) The horse had helped him plough up the garden plot and John had lived on his own as much as possible. In time the horse grew too old to carry him to the village and back so John had used Shank’s pony (that’s his legs, dear reader). The horse had spent his last days browsing these pastures until, one day, John had found him dead amongst the daisies, and he’d buried him there.
“Well,” John thought, “I can’t sit here moping all day. The potatoes need earthing‑up, or I shan’t eat through the winter.” He didn’t know that someone was still wondering where he’d got to.
While John was sitting in the meadow, the King was sitting in his palace. He was deeply shocked when the Alcaldé failed to come and play draughts as usual. His advisers were very reluctant to tell him that his old friend was a cheat and a swindler, who had run away to no one knew where. Eventually his top advisor, Lord Seymour, broke the unwelcome news.
“I can’t believe it,” cried the King. “My old friend a swindler and a cheat? It can’t be true!”
“I’m afraid it is,” Lord Seymour answered in a firm, gentle voice.
“But how? When? What happened?” No one answered.
“I demand to know,” the King roared.
Lord Seymour squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “Your Majesty, the town is in chaos. There are great gaps in the town wall where it was pulled down; the streets are clogged with rubble and no one is lifting a finger to put things right.”
“And the bridge?” The King’s voice was barely a whisper.
Lord Seymour shook his head sadly. “Hardly visible. The foundations can just be seen through the water on a sunny day.” He shrugged his shoulders. “There’s no money in the bank to pay the workmen and the Alcadé has gone.”
“Gone,” groaned the King as the truth finally sank in. He shook his head slowly, more in sadness than anger.
“It serves them right,” Lord Seymour said, trying to be cheerful. “Almost everyone there has been cheating you for years by not paying their taxes. Trade has fallen off, though, and many are finding it very hard to make a living.”
“There’s a deep gloom over the town,” added a visiting businessman. “Tourists have stopped coming. The butcher, who ratted on the Alcaldé to save his own bacon, has taken a part-time job with the pig farmer, and the pig farmer is sending his bacon to Snittersly, where it fetches a better price.”
The Alcadé’s treachery depressed the King. He stopped playing draughts, and tried Snakes and Ladders instead, but it wasn’t as much fun. There’s more chance and less skill in Snakes and Ladders, and the ladders reminded him of Parcival’s rise, and the snakes of its fall, and he missed his friend the Alcaldé.
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