The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  “You promised you’d never tell him.”

  Fireflies glowed golden in the dark. She sounded annoyed as she answered, “Why, not unless you abuse me in an ungentlemanly way. As you’re doing now.”

  He let go, tried to kiss her to make amends. She permitted it. But she wouldn’t abandon her original subject.

  “Roger thinks he’s such a perfect master of his world. The condition only grows worse after he’s strutted around London awhile—”

  “He’s back, then?”

  She nodded. “I really think it would be charming to shatter his illusions. But don’t worry, my dear. I meant what I said before. We’ll keep the secret. I was only teasing you.”

  Still, the remarks troubled him for days afterward—until other events intruded with devastating abruptness.

  Phillipe was serving a platter of mutton to evening diners. He was out of sorts; he’d gone to the message tree four days in a row and found not so much as a note. He presumed Roger’s presence had sharply curtailed Alicia’s freedom. He fervently hoped there was no other reason for her silence.

  All at once, he overheard a remark by one man in a coarsely dressed group at a corner table:

  “—given wages and told to leave for the rest of the day. I guess Amberly will never have the pleasure of seeing the fine greenery we’ve been laying out according to Mr. Capability’s plan.”

  Phillipe turned cold. He approached the table.

  “Sir? What’s this you speak about at Kentland?”

  “The black wreath hung on the door,” said the laborer. “We were told his lordship died shortly after noon.”

  The platter dropped from Phillipe’s shaking hands. Some of the juices spattered the laborer’s breeches. But Phillipe paid no attention to the cursing as he streaked toward the kitchen to find Marie.

  iii

  They ran down the now-familiar towpath through summer darkness pricked by heat lightning along the northwest horizon. Marie seemed obsessed with one thought, which she kept repeating aloud:

  “We were not told. She wouldn’t lower herself to tell us!”

  As they dashed up the long drive, Phillipe noted that most of Kentland’s windows showed lights, as if the household were in a state of commotion. A death wreath did indeed hang on the great door. Marie broke into tears at the sight of it.

  Phillipe hammered the door. The senior footman answered, recognized him, said:

  “This household is in mourning. Private mourning.”

  “I am entitled to see him!” Marie sobbed.

  “Be quiet, you vulgar slattern,” snarled the footman, starting to close the door. Phillipe’s anger quickened. But before he could move, Marie hurled past him, a fist striking the footman’s cheek.

  “I will see his body! Let me in!”

  Her hysteria drove all concerns but one from Phillipe’s mind—the desire to spare her humiliation. He seized her arm, tried to pull her back.

  “Mama, I know how you feel. But there are certain courtesies to the dead—you mustn’t carry on this way. Let’s go back to Tonbridge. We’ll come tomorrow, when you’re feeling—”

  “Let go! He was your father! I have a right to see him!”

  All at once the footman vanished. The door swung inward. Phillipe caught his breath at the sudden sight of Lady Jane Amberly.

  The Duke’s wife was dressed in black. She seemed to tower against a background of shocked faces—the horrified servants. Then Roger appeared, crossing the foyer, equally somber in a black suit much like that worn by the physician Bleeker.

  Roger’s face was wrathful in the light of the candles illuminating the doorway. The hoof-shaped mark at his left eyebrow looked nearly as black as his clothes. He carried his varnished walking stick. Its huge silver head reflected the candle flames in glittering highlights. At the sight of Phillipe, he shook visibly. But not from fear.

  Gripping the edge of the door with one pale hand, Lady Jane said, “Madame, you exceed the bounds of all decency. Leave at once! And take this information with you—my husband woke briefly before he died, He charged me to care for his son. His legitimate son. He never mentioned your name, nor that of your boy. You have no claim on us. The matter is closed.”

  The horizon lit with white light. Roger’s face glowered over his mother’s shoulder like a branded skull.

  “If they won’t walk away, I’ll see they crawl away—” he began.

  Lady Jane’s stern eyes and upraised arm held him back. Then she started to shut the door.

  Stunned, Phillipe inadvertently relaxed his grip on Marie. He realized his error too late. With another cry, she threw herself at Lady Jane and would have knocked her down if Roger hadn’t stepped quickly in front of his mother to shield her.

  “Leave this house, you French scum!” he screamed, and struck Marie in the side with the silver head of his stick.

  Marie stumbled back. Roger Amberly wore no wig tonight. His hair was virtually the color of Phillipe’s, contrasting with his white face, accenting the death’s-head pallor of his cheeks. This came as a blurred impression while Phillipe tried to catch his mother as she fell.

  He wasn’t quick enough. Marie sprawled on the top step and exclaimed in pain.

  That sound drove through Phillipe like a knife. He grabbed Roger’s throat with both hands and dragged him outside.

  Roger rammed the silver head of his stick against Phillipe’s chin. Phillipe let go, staggered back, his foot missing the top step. He flailed, then tumbled all the way down to the drive.

  Dizzy, he heard Roger’s shoes clatter on the stone. Two male servants shouldered past Lady Jane, to help their master. Roger whirled on them, the brandished stick a blurred arc.

  “Stay back, all of you! I said stay back!”

  The servants hesitated, withdrew past Lady Jane as Roger leaped down the steps, loomed over his dazed half-brother, almost cooing:

  “No one shall give the bastard his comeuppance but me—”

  Face twisting with savage glee, Roger whipped his arm up. Frantically, Phillipe rolled aside. Holding the stick by its ferrule end, Roger sought to smash the huge silver knob down on Phillipe’s head.

  Roger’s blow struck the ground instead, missing Phillipe by inches. He scrambled up, listening to the sibilant, almost deranged sound of Roger’s violent breathing. Lady Jane cried out for her son to be careful not to injure himself on a worthless nobody—

  Roger paid no attention. Neither did Phillipe, circling away from his antagonist. In the yellow candlelight spilling from the house, half of Roger’s face took on a jaundiced, poisoned color.

  “I’ll kill you for tormenting my mother,” he said, taking a firmer grip on the stick. Then his voice dropped lower. “And for Alicia. Oh, yes—she’s told me. Flaunted you! Her little French lover—”

  Panting for breath, Phillipe tried to assimilate what he’d just heard. One of his worst fears had been realized. Alicia had revealed the liaison—but why? Why, when she’d promised—?

  Roger kept circling, poking at him with the silver stick head. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”

  Thrust.

  “I can see it in your face, bastard. You’re afraid—”

  Thrust.

  “Well, by God, you have good cause!”

  Abruptly he grasped the stick with both hands, club-fashion, and brought it whipping down toward Phillipe’s head.

  Phillipe tried to dodge. The silver head glanced off his temple, bringing immediate dizziness. Lady Jane cried out again—some caution or warning, Phillipe didn’t know. He was trying to outmaneuver Roger’s foot in the uncertain light. But the kick caught him in the groin, doubled him over, dropped him to his knees.

  He heard the warning hiss of air, stabbed both hands upward, deflected the stick blow that would have smashed his skull.

  Then four hands gripped the stick, wrestling for it as Phillipe lurched to his feet.

  Roger was mouthing incoherent obscenities now. But he was strong. Phillipe cou
ldn’t break his grip by jerking or twisting. The two figures swayed back and forth.

  Roger drove his knee into Phillipe’s genitals again. As Phillipe reeled and let go, Roger spat in his face, then swung the stick in a sideways arc. Phillipe. ducked; ducked again, as the winking head whipped back the other way.

  The spittle sticky on his face, Phillipe rolled his right shoulder down and bowled into Roger full force. He crashed his half-brother to the ground, kneeled on his throat. Roger squealed and clawed at Phillipe’s eyes, his cheeks purpling till they were almost the hue of the cloven mark—

  But Phillipe got hold of the stick.

  With one hand he seized Roger’s right arm. With the other, he brought the stick down head first on Roger’s pinned fingers. He struck the open palm once, twice, then again, again, the silver head hammering, each blow bringing the release of more hatred and frustration.

  Smash.

  SMASH—

  Marie shrilled his name in warning. He twisted his head around, saw servants with branched candlesticks—and one with an ancient saber—boiling down the steps. Marie’s streaked face shone like a coin in the windwhipped glare of the candles. Concern for her son had brought her back to reality. She tugged at him while Roger writhed on the ground, gripping his right wrist with his left hand. Spittle foamed on his lips—

  The skin of Roger’s right palm was broken. The fingers were bloody and oddly angled. God help me, Phillipe thought in terror, what have I done?

  One of the footmen almost caught him. Phillipe tore away, ran with Marie down the driveway full speed. Two servants gave chase. Over his shoulder, Phillipe saw the antique saber flash—

  Then he heard Lady Jane call out:

  “Let them go! See to my son first, all of you. Do you hear me? See to my son!”

  With oaths of disgust, the pair of pursuers fell back. Phillipe and Marie dashed on through the darkness.

  When they reached the junction with the towpath, Phillipe looked back.

  At the door of Kentland, candlesticks still bobbed and fluttered. He thought he could make out the bent, pain-wracked figure of Roger being helped inside. He urged Marie to run faster, away from the sight of the great door closing, the entrance darkening to black.

  Fear swallowed him as they fled to Tonbridge.

  iv

  “I would say the situation for you is very desperate.” Mr. Fox spoke with sad frankness, having heard Phillipe’s gasped-out story.

  Noting the appearance of Marie and her son when they stumbled back to Wolfe’s Triumph, Mr. Fox had immediately hurried them into the kitchen and sent Clarence out, along with the serving girls. Now he brought them a tankard of ale each and blocked the door to the common room with his back.

  Phillipe gulped the ale. It did little to wash away the taste of fright and ruin.

  “You say Lady Jane’s son struck first?” Fox asked.

  “He did. He struck my mother cruelly hard.”

  “But they have witnesses, and you have none. They have status—and you have none. For your own safety, you must leave Tonbridge at the earliest opportunity.”

  “For the coast?”

  “No, they’ll expect you to go to Dover. Go to London instead. Lose yourselves in the town awhile. It won’t be easy, but it’s better than surrendering your lives.”

  “In God’s name, how can we get to London?” Phillipe stormed, the tankard still shaking in his hands.

  Mr. Fox tried to remain calm. “On the diligence that leaves at half past eight o’clock tomorrow.”

  “But we have no money!” exclaimed Marie.

  “I will advance you some, though I can ill afford it. Let’s hope morning won’t be too late. Perhaps not, if young Roger’s the paramount concern right now. I’m sure Lady Jane is convinced she can have you taken any time she wishes. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have let you go.”

  “I think I destroyed his hand,” Phillipe said, unsteadily. “I didn’t mean to do it. But he was attacking me—he’d have killed me if he could—”

  Because of Alicia.

  And he’d trusted her! To repay that trust, she had bragged about their affair!

  Mr. Fox’s steady voice interrupted his confused thoughts. “I’ll put Clarence on watch, to alert us in case of surprise visitors. Try to get some sleep if you can. And if French folk pray to the deity, I’d suggest a prayer asking that confusion at Kentland and assistance for Roger spare you the attention of the Amberlys for another twelve hours.”

  But it was not to be. The Amberly coach arrived at the inn at half past seven in the morning.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Trap

  i

  AT THE APPEARANCE OF the Amberly coach, Mr. Fox came racing to their cramped room to warn them.

  Marie started when she heard the news. She nearly dropped the brass-cornered casket which she’d been about to pack into the open trunk. Phillipe heard horses stamp, a coach door slam.

  “Who’s in the coach?” he asked, already reaching for Gil’s wrapped sword.

  Fear chalked Mr. Fox’s face as voices sounded down below. “I didn’t wait to see or inquire! Put down that damned sword and run for the back stairs. If you bide in the stable, perhaps I can convince ’em you’ve gone. Quickly, quickly!” He pushed Marie.

  Phillipe left the sword. As he rushed out of the room, he thought about going back long enough to hide the casket; it lay in full view on the bed. But he didn’t because Mr. Fox was in such a state of agitation.

  Fox hurried them down the rickety steps and out across the rear yard. The morning sky showed unbroken gray clouds. As Mr. Fox gestured frantically from the stable door, a whiff of a breeze sprang up, bringing the first patters of rain.

  The landlord rolled the creaky door aside, pointed to the dim interior where green flies buzzed over the straw.

  “Go in the last stall. Don’t make a sound, in case they search. Don’t even draw a loud breath till I come back to tell you it’s safe.” He rolled the door shut and left them in darkness.

  Phillipe led the way to the hiding place Fox had mentioned. They crouched behind the splintered partition. His initial alarm had begun to fade, replaced once more by anger. He squatted with his back to the partition, staring at Marie’s face, a face he hardly recognized.

  She looked beaten. Gone was the strength that had tautened every line of her features when she first drew the casket from behind the Madonna in Auvergne. Her dark eyes avoided Phillipe’s. Veins stood out as she clasped her hands together.

  Praying?

  But he knew of no gods mighty enough to protect them from the wrath of people like the Amberlys.

  Overhead, rain drummed the roof thatching. The sound was counterpointed by Marie’s strident breathing. A dismal voice deep inside him said, She’s surrendered. To illness. To strain. To fear of the Amberly money, position, power—

  With a terrifying creak, the stable door rolled open.

  Phillipe searched the stall for a weapon. A stone. A bit of wood. He saw nothing. Footsteps scurried in their direction.

  Marie cowered visibly. Phillipe resigned himself to fighting with his hands—

  Suddenly Clarence appeared at the end of the partition. Popeyed with astonishment, he reported, “The coach brought only that fat churchman. He wishes to see you. In Father’s room—he said it must be private. He pledged no harm to either of you. Father’s greatly relieved. But he asks you to hurry, so as not to anger the visitor.”

  All at once Phillipe began to feel a little more confident. He helped Marie to her feet, guided her out of the stable and across the yard through the showering rain.

  They climbed the rear stairs again, to the commodious sitting room Mr. Fox reserved for himself. Seated in an armchair next to a chipped deal table on which a single candle burned, Bishop Francis awaited them, his porcine hands folded in his lap, his moon face piously sad. Of Mr. Fox there was no sign.

  Clarence went out and closed the door. The prelate’s small blue eyes studied mother
and son a moment. Then, in that syrupy voice, he said:

  “I beseech you to cooperate with me in making this meeting as brief as possible. Grave spiritual matters require my presence at Kentland. Let me, then, go immediately to why I have come here.”

  He adjusted a fold of his robe. “Around midnight, I was awakened and made aware of grievous news. The tragic, untimely death of Lady Jane’s husband. I proceeded to the estate with all due speed—sending prayers ahead. On arrival, I learned how sorely such prayers were needed. I found circumstances that compound an already tragic situation. Young Roger was being treated by Dr. Bleeker. His mangled hand may never straighten again.”

  At the conclusion of the mournful pronouncement, the bishop’s tiny eyes flicked momentarily to Phillipe. More compassionate than condemning—

  Unless the bishop was trying to gull them. Phillipe was suspicious. Perhaps from tiredness, tension—

  “Roger has no one but himself to blame for what happened,” Phillipe said. “He struck my mother.”

  Bishop Francis raised his hand. “Such a remark is unnecessary. Did not our blessed Savior forgive, no matter what the sin or its cause? Following His precepts, my purpose is not to wrangle over who is guilty. As I believe I remarked on my previous visit, the Church must play the role of conciliator. Peace maker. Binder of wounds. That is my mission—in addition to enumerating certain distasteful but unfortunately relevant facts.”

  Phillipe’s distrust mounted. It wasn’t rational; but it was there nevertheless, gnawing in his mind.

  “I arrived at Kentland to discover young Roger raving and screaming in his bed. Oh, a most heart-rending sight! Despite the young man’s pain, he made his intentions quite clear. He wished to pursue you—” He indicated Phillipe. “When Dr. Bleeker categorically stated that Roger’s injuries made such action impossible, and I interjected that the action would be morally reprehensible, Roger still threatened to employ surrogates—armed servants—to carry out his desire to shatter one of God’s prime commandments—”

  “In other words,” Phillipe interrupted, “he wants to kill me or have me killed.”