The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  “Slippery little gutter bastard,” Stark panted, right arm across his chest, blade ready to chop outward in a lopping horizontal arc. “Bragging and smarting about your swordplay—”

  With a sibilant hiss the sword slashed the air. Philip ducked again, running forward bent over, his hand so tight on the axe handle that his fingers hurt. Because he knew the half-drunk Stark meant to kill him, he wasted no time on gentlemanly maneuvering. He darted under the next arc of the sword and swung the axe full force.

  The blade chopped through white trousers into Stark’s thigh. His left eye blind from blood, Philip barely perceived Stark go stiff. But he heard the grenadier yell in pain.

  Stark clutched his red-sopped trousers with one hand, whacked at Philip’s neck with the other. Philip ran backward without looking—

  Another of those infernal garbage heaps tripped him up. He went down on his back among rotted cabbages and stinking fish carcasses.

  The hard-breathing Stark hobbled forward, left hand gripping his thigh wound, right readying the sword for a last direct thrust. The refuse pile was slippery, no footing, no handholds—

  Captain Stark had no need to proclaim his advantage, or his satisfaction. Philip could hear pleasure in the incoherent growl building in the grenadiers throat. The rum reek blended with the stink of cabbage and fish. For one awful moment, Philip seemed to stare up at some giant limned against the winter moon showing between the rooftops. Stark drove the blade’s point down at an angle toward Philip’s exposed throat—

  Hacking over from the right with the axe, Philip felt the sword slice the air next to his face. The axe bit Stark’s uniform sleeve, cut all the way to the bone. While Stark was bent forward for the finish of the stroke, Philip kicked him in the belly with his right foot.

  The grenadier’s hand opened. The sword dropped away as the severed muscles of Stark’s arm failed him. He moaned, sank to his knees. He turned his head from side to side as if searching for his enemy.

  “Lad—” he began—to appeal for mercy? Philip didn’t wait to find out. He snatched up the sword and rammed it all the way through Stark’s midsection until the point protruded from his backbone.

  Stark crumpled slowly onto his side, lips and eyeballs glistening in the starlight. The grenadier let out one hideous grunt of pain between clenched teeth and shuddered, dead.

  Numb, Philip listened.

  He heard no sound save for some male voices singing drunkenly in the distance. Then a church bell chimed half after nine.

  Philip had struck at Stark out of self-defense, not heeding or even thinking of what could happen to him afterward. Now visions of that spilled through his mind with terrifying detail. He dropped to his knees and dug through the garbage till he’d cleared a place in which to hide the gory axe.

  Let anyone who discovered Stark think he’d been felled solely with his own sword. By some robber, perhaps.

  The same cat he’d encountered before strolled into sight as Philip heaped slimy cabbage leaves and fish heads on top of the axe, burying it. The cat licked his left hand with its rough tongue, pressed its head against his knuckles and meowed.

  That commonplace sound somehow unnerved him completely. He bolted away, leaving the dead man to the cat and the darkness.

  He could feel the blood drying on his left cheek. He must be a sight, lampblack and red and half of a tooth knocked out of his mouth—

  He took side streets, pausing now and then to rest and let the nausea, the dizziness work themselves out. His teeth were chattering loudly by the time he reached Dassett Alley.

  He dropped the key twice before he got the front door unlocked. He stumbled downstairs, lit the candle, took a step toward the basin of icy water and fainted.

  CHAPTER V

  Decision

  i

  A DISTANT RAPPING. REPEATED—PHILIP opened his right eye. The left one took a little longer. Caked blood had sealed the lid.

  He squinted at straw near his nose, remembered what had happened. He’d fallen. Some time ago, to judge from the way the candle had burned down to a stub. With a groan, he dragged his knees under his body, pushed up from the floor as the knocking sounded another time. For a moment his eyes glittered with a wild, trapped look.

  He knew his crime had been detected. Stark had told the other officer, the one who had fallen behind, that their intended victim worked for Edes the printer. Only that could explain the rapping at the upstairs door—

  Philip’s head began to clear. He ran his tongue over the broken tooth, waited, breathing softly. Perhaps the nocturnal visitor would leave—

  The knock came again.

  Philip left the candle burning, climbed the stairs as silently as possible. At the top, he stole toward the shop’s rear door.

  This time, the knock at the Dassett Alley entrance was accompanied by a voice: “Philip?”

  He whirled, ran up past the press, unlocked the door and jerked it open. A cowled figure shivered in the December wind, a shadow—but not threatening. Familiar.

  “Anne!”

  Behind her, the moonlit sky looked cold silver. She slipped past him as he knuckled his left eye, trying with that physical act to drive the dull ache from his head. She blended into the shop’s darkness as he shut the door and locked it.

  He reached for her hand, felt a responding pressure of her fingers as she said:

  “I had to see you. I waited until Father and Daisy were both asleep, then crept out of the house—”

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after three o’clock.”

  “And you came all the way from Launder Street by yourself? Good God, girl, that’s dangerous!”

  “Any less dangerous than what you did tonight?” Her voice was husky with emotion. “When I looked down from the gallery at Old South and spied you with Mr. Edes—well, I can’t properly describe everything I felt. Surprise. Admiration. The truth about why—why I’ve been so miserable ever since that afternoon we rowed across the river. Why didn’t you come calling again?”

  He phrased the answer carefully, so it would carry the truth, yet not hurt her:

  “I thought it best not to, that’s all. You made your feelings clear. But I couldn’t say what you wanted said. I—”

  Yes, tell her. The moment demanded no less than complete honesty.

  “I still can’t. Now I think I should see you back home.”

  The dim white oval of her face seemed to move in the dark; she was shaking her head. “Not just yet—” She touched his left cheek, gasped softly. “What’s that on your face?”

  He winced at the pressure of her cool fingers against the clotted gash, drew back. As his eyes adjusted to the faint light filtering up from the cellar, he saw her own widen:

  “You’re cut! But I heard there was no trouble at Griffin’s Wharf! No fighting, nothing—”

  “I had an accident running home. I fell.”

  “So much blood doesn’t come from a fall. I want to see it. Where’s your room, and some light?”

  In her tone he heard the prickly determination that had been one of the first qualities that had attracted him. And her presence—her concern—cheered him. Consequently, he didn’t argue. He gripped her still-chilly hand and led her toward the stairs.

  She threw back her cowl as they reached the cellar chamber, looked closely at his face. “Dear heaven! That’s a sword mark. And you’ve lost part of a tooth!”

  Anne’s cheeks had gone pale. The freckles on either side of her nose looked almost black in the dim light.

  “The tooth was my own fault. I was running, I fell—Mr. Revere can repair it, I imagine. God knows if anyone can repair the rest of the damage done tonight.”

  “You don’t mean the tea, do you?”

  He shook his head, took her hands in his:

  “Anne, if I tell you what happened, you must promise to repeat it to no one. Not even your father, do you understand?”

  Wide-eyed, she nodded. He released her hands, face
d away toward the ledge where Gil’s wrapped sword lay, and, in a niche above, Marie’s casket.

  “There were a few soldiers in the crowd when we sank the tea—”

  “So Father reported.”

  “One was the grenadier Stark. He recognized me. He and another officer chased me. The first one fell behind. But Stark caught me in an alley. With no one watching, he had his chance to do what he’s wanted to do since that day at the Book-Store. He’d been drinking a lot, I think—”

  “And you fought?”

  “Yes. Before it was over, I—I had to kill him.”

  The dark eyes welled with tears. She rushed to him, bending her head to his chest. “Oh, Philip, what a terrible thing.”

  “For who?” he asked, a bit ironically.

  “You, of course. And the captain. He was a vile man. But death is no light matter.”

  Absently, he touched her lustrous hair and realized again that she was an inch or so taller. “I’ve killed men before, Anne. But you’re right—there’s no joy in it. Just fear afterward. And shock. And knowing it will happen to me someday—in any case, I took a long time answering your knock because I thought I’d been identified. Perhaps by the second officer. I was starting to steal out the back way just as you called my name.”

  Silence. Anne seemed to be looking at him differently. With a trace of fright in her eyes. Then she drew on that strength she possessed in such amazing degree, and smiled.

  “I’m sure you’ll be safe. They’ll probably think Stark was caught by some of the mob.”

  “The other officer was.”

  “There, you see? With Stark’s bad reputation, everyone will assume he provoked his own killing.”

  “Unless Stark did identify me to his companion. There’s no way to tell—until someone comes to arrest me.

  “Worry about that if it happens. For the moment you’re out of danger. Here, sit down and let me clean you up a little. God, you’re fearfully smeared with blood. Is there a place where you can safely burn your shirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must, first thing in the morning.”

  Pressing his shoulder with soft but forceful hands, she sat him on the stool by the pallet, then hurried to the stand with the basin of water. She unfastened the ties of her cloak, tossed it aside, soaked a towel in the basin.

  “Pull your shirt off.”

  He did, noting her fresh surprise at the sight of the liberty medal hanging on his chest. One hand holding the wrung-out towel, she lifted the medal with the other.

  “I didn’t know you wore one of these.”

  “A present from Mr. Edes. For dousing the fire a few weeks ago—agh!”

  His yelp was a reaction to the sudden cold of the water. Methodically, she scrubbed away the dried blood. Though she tried to do it gently, some pain was inevitable. But he made no further sound. In fact, he began to relax under her ministrations.

  Then he grew conscious of an itch under the sole of his right foot.

  As Anne worked, dipping and re-dipping the towel into the basin until the water took on a deep scarlet tint, he hauled off the boot. He tilted it—and laughed as a little cascade of black tea poured out.

  “I think I should save this! A souvenir of my career as a Red Indian—wait, I know just the thing for it—”

  Anne watched with an amused smile as he hobbled upstairs on one bare foot; returned a few moments later after rummaging in the shop. He showed her a small green glass bottle, used to contain the type-cleaning solution. He’d emptied the bottle the previous week and opened a new one, so the bottle in his hand was dry inside.

  Carefully, he poured the rest of the tea from his boot into the bottle. The tea formed a layer a half-inch thick in the bottom. He stoppered the bottle and set it on the ledge beside Gil’s sword.

  “Another Kent family heirloom. To show my grandchildren I attended Mr. Adams’ tea party.”

  Anne directed him back to the stool, began scrubbing his left eyelid. Presently she stood back, surveyed her work, gave a nod.

  “Clean at last. Carry the basin out to the alley and empty it while I try to find something to wrap the top of the wound—that’s the deepest part.”

  “Think there’ll be a scar?”

  “A slight one. But no one will ever be able to say how you came by it.” She took hold of his arm, turning him toward the stairway with that crisp, authoritative air that made him chuckle.

  As he headed for the rear door, he reminded himself that he should take her home soon. He heard sounds of movement up by the press, where she’d gone to find a clean rag in the supply kept to wipe up excess ink. The night air bit his bare skin as he stepped out under the stars to empty the basin of its red evidence. Going back in, he re-latched the door.

  Downstairs again, he resumed his place on the stool while Anne tore a rag in long strips. She wrapped his forehead, covering the worst of the gash, and knotted the bandage at the back. Hands on hips, she stepped away, satisfied.

  “You’re presentable, at least.”

  The candle was flickering out. For the first time since her arrival, he was conscious of her femininity, of the swell of her breasts beneath her plain gown of violet silk. He rose and reached into the niche behind the casket as Anne said:

  “I’ve always wanted to see where you stayed, Philip.”

  He pulled another candle from behind the box. “I’ll have a better place one day, I promise you that. Mr. Edes is holding my wages for me. He gives me what little I need for meals when I ask for it. I’m saving the rest. For a shop like this—”

  He realized she was staring at something beyond his shoulder. He turned. The object of her curiosity was the leather-covered casket.

  “That must be the place where you store the letter you told me about in September.”

  Turning away from the niche, he nodded. “But I’m beginning to think I’ve really put all that behind me, Anne.” He touched the fresh candle to the stub, dripped a little wax up on the ledge and planted the new light in place. “When someone tossed that torch into the doorway, I reacted in a way I hadn’t before. I was angry as hell. It wasn’t only Mr. Edes they were trying to burn out—it was me! It’s hard to explain properly, but that night I understood for the first time what Mr. Adams keeps saying. That a threat against one man, or one colony, can have consequences for many others.”

  Cheeks shining in the candle’s glow, Anne sat on the stool, resting her hands on her knees. “Yes, you have it exactly right. We are all threatened—so we’re all involved. You’ve seen how it’s spread. At first Boston was the target of most of the King’s wrath. Now the repression’s reaching out further and further. Tea ships anchoring in other ports—” She paused, then added, “When I saw you at Old South tonight, I did wonder whether you’d come to some decision on the whole issue.”

  Looking down at the engraved oval of bright metal on his chest, he replied, “It appears I have. I never planned on it. But I felt proud when Mr. Edes said I was fit to wear one of these things. When they organized the tea raid, I hardly hesitated. So—” He smiled, tried to push disturbing thoughts of Marie from his mind. “I am a rebel now, I guess.” His eyes clouded; the smile froze in place. “Especially having killed a royal officer.”

  The girl stood up slowly. Her fingers stirred nervously at her sides. Without taking her eyes from his, she said in a quiet voice:

  “One of the things I came to tell you tonight was that if you had made your decision, I had too. Since that trip across the river in September, I’ve tried to lie to myself. Tried to pretend I didn’t feel what I do. As it did to you, something happened to me for the first time. You say I’m strong, but I’m no stronger than—what’s inside my heart.”

  She walked toward him, looking shy, yet radiantly lovely. The implied meaning of her words filled him with surprise and excitement.

  “I said I couldn’t describe all my thoughts up there in the gallery tonight. I don’t think you could guess half of them. But I
had to come here and say one thing I’ve never said to anyone before—”

  The color deepened in her cheeks. The sweet lavender scent of her body had grown almost overpowering.

  “I want you for a lover, Philip. With no conditions, no promises, no pledges about tomorrow or a fine house, because there’s no certainty of any of that after what happened with the tea.”

  Stunned, Philip protested, “I’m still the same person I was in September, Anne. Not sure—”

  “I realize that completely.” Her right hand slipped over her shoulder to the back of her gown. “I’ll tell you again. No conditions. Even if it should be only this one night, I’d rather have that than nothing.”

  In the corners of her eyes, tears began to glisten. But she was smiling, too, as she unfastened the closures of the gown, pushed the bodice and sleeves down and her linen shift along with it.

  “We have time,” she said. “An hour or more before the dawn clocks ring—” She thrust the garments to her waist and ran to him, arms around his neck, mouth seeking his.

  Her firm breasts touched his chest. As he slipped his hands to the small of her back, he felt the tips crush to his skin, hardening.

  “Anne, Anne—” He stroked her hair, kissed her cheek. “I do care for you—”

  “That’s enough, then,” she breathed. “More than enough for now—”

  “I don’t want it to be hurtful. You told me you’d never—”

  The soft, seeking mouth stopped the rest.

  He tasted the sweetness of her tongue as she pressed his back with her palms. She let out a little cry of delight when he pulled her tight against him and she felt his maleness. He’d never fully realized that under her sensible, capable exterior lay this potential for heat and passion—though he might have guessed it, he supposed, from the encounter on the September hillside.

  In a way, he was tempted to break off the involvement before it went further. The reason was simple. He cared for her enough to admit that he didn’t know how much he cared for her. And that demanded that she not be hurt—physically or in any other way.