Books by Ian Rogers
Books by Ian Rogers
By Ian Rogers
Next morning, the maid knocked on his bedroom door and called; “Breakfast’s ready, your Honour.” When the Prince got down stairs, ready to tuck into his bacon and eggs, there was a young man standing shyly in the far corner of the room, waiting for him. He was twisting a wide brimmed hat round and round in nervous hands and dropped it as the Prince entered.
“Hello,” said the Prince, pleased to see someone less like a rhinocerous. “Have you had breakfast? You Have? Good for you. Come and sit down. Have a cup of coffee whilst I eat mine. I can’t let Prunella’s cooking go cold! ”
“Good morning, your Honour,” chorused the maid and the youth. The maid curtsied, which looked as if she was stifling a sneeze. The boy, red in the face with embarrassment, bowed low and dropped his hat again. After he’d picked it up, he stuttered “No, thank you, my Lord Dook, Earl of Rude Privvies, Cow seller, Clown Prince. Erm… sorry, was that right?” He dropped his hat again and hid his bright red face for a moment as he bent down to get it.
The Prince waved airily. “Good try,” he said, “It’s quite a mouthful but don’t bother with it. Prue here says ‘Your Honour’ so that will do. What’s your name and why have you come?” He leant forward and whispered: “You’re not courting Prue are you? I need her here to look after me!” at which Prue burst into giggles and had to leave the room for a moment and the boy vigorously shook his head and dropped his hat again.
“My name is Graham, Mr Dook… er, your Honour. I am an apprentice to Mr. Grannet, the mason. Mr. Grannet sends his respects and asks if you would like some help? That’s me - I am the help. I’ve been learning a bit from him and Mr. Grannet says he’ll come himself to sort out the difficult bits.”
“Fantastic!” beamed the Prince. “Welcome to the team.”
Two people can do three times the work of one because they can help each other so the near side of the first arch rapidly rose upwards. Soon more people came to help. A girl came to feed the horse, a labourer came to load the stone, a foreman arrived to organise the work. Gifts began to arrive at the Alcaldé’s house - leather gloves to protect hands, trowels, bags of cement, some new breeches and a jar of honey - even a side of bacon from the butcher, who appreciated a good customer. As the team grew, work began on the other side of the arch. Steadily the graceful curves drew together overhead. More arches rose up as summer turned to autumn. Mr. Schist, the master mason, gave up all other work to fit the capstones.
When the first snows of winter crept down from the mountains, the bridge was nearly finished. The tops of all the arches were joined up and the parapets had been built. Only the road surface needed levelling. Soon, when deep snow fell in the valley, work would stop until spring. The people of Parcival had elected a new and trustworthy Alcaldé and a public works committee that would make sure the bridge was finished. The Prince could leave Parcival knowing that the townsfolk would be proud of their bridge for as long as it stood. He worked with them up to his last day and everyone joined in a celebration party that evening. People gave the Prince lots of presents and his horse was groomed until his coat shone. Early next morning the townspeople gathered to see him off.
“Three cheers for the Duke of Champignon,” called the new Alcaldé, “Earl of Rue, Privy Councillor, His Grace, the Crown Prince! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, HOORAY!!!” and everyone joined in the cheering.
The Prince waved goodbye with a heavy heart. His horse picked its way slowly over the rough road across the bridge. Scattered calls of “Goodbye, your honour”, “God bless you” and “Come back soon” floated after him. As he cantered off along the river bank he turned his mind to the task ahead. He was grimly determined to find the old Alcaldé before the roads were closed by winter’s iron grip.
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