Read The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles Online
Authors: John Jakes
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.
A
T 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.”
“Sad to say, you are correct.”
“That’s nothing new.”
The bishop ignored the bitter comment. “Only with prayers and fervent persuasion at the bedside did I manage to turn him from that course.”
Phillipe trembled a little, hearing the mellow pulpit voice speak of murder. Francis went on:
“I could not stand by and permit such bloodshed! But from a practical standpoint—and this is the part distressful to my soul—Roger would, of course, be safe from reprisals.”
“Safe?”
Marie burst out. “He could kill my son and not be punished?”
“Not even accused or troubled by an inquiry—under the secular law. Believe me, madame, striking at the Amberlys, you have struck very high. Such a family is all but invulnerable. No one in the neighborhood—no one in the realm, I venture to say—would concern himself about your son’s death. As the sparrow falls, God’s eye is upon it. But not, alas, the eyes of a magistrate. However—” Francis hitched forward slightly, his lips and forehead beginning to glisten. “My intercession and prayers showed Roger Amberly and, more importantly, his mother the moral folly of Roger’s desire. True, my restraints may be no more than temporary—”
Phillipe spoke with a clarity that matched the cold rage he felt inside:
“Let me understand you, bishop. You’re telling us that because I’m low-born, and Roger a nobleman, he can have me murdered and not be punished?”
“That is the unhappy fact, yes.”
In that case, Phillipe thought, then Girard was right. It was indeed time for storm winds to blow away the rotten structure of the aristocracy.
Said the bishop: “After winning Roger’s assurance that he would not act in haste—and seeing him finally asleep with some of Bleeker’s laudanum—I took counsel with Lady Amberly. As you might suspect, her situation has become intolerably tormenting—”
“No more tormenting than ours!” exclaimed Marie.
“Yes, yes, madame, I fully appreciate your state of stress,” he soothed. “But do remember—Lady Jane has not only lost her husband, she has seen her son possibly maimed for life. She is not the sort to accept all that lightly. But she
is,
we may say with thanks, at heart a Christian woman. Able, ultimately, to overcome her natural instincts and listen to a higher voice—a higher doctrine than the doctrine of Cain.”
Sweet, flowing words. Almost hypnotic—
And yet Phillipe kept sensing a trap being set behind the pious, blubbery face.
“In short,” Francis concluded, “after much soulful struggling, I wrung a concession from Lady Jane. She is prepared to let the past be forgotten—provided you both agree, finally and unequivocally, to certain terms—”
Phillipe almost laughed aloud. He had suspected before that he and his mother had in their possession the means to force a victory. Now the bishop’s words assured him of it. Relishing the realization, he got a jolt when he heard Marie say:
“Go on.”
“In the coach, dear woman, I have a pouch containing notes in the amount of two thousand pounds sterling. Lady Amberly has reluctantly agreed to that sum—and no action against you—” The blue seed eyes focused on Marie, picking up reflections of the candle in their depths. “—
if!
—if you and your son will renounce all claims upon the family and return to France. Permanently.”
“Two thousand—?” Stunned, Marie was unable to finish the sentence.
“I beg you to accept the offer!” Francis struggled to his feet like some purple mountain rising from a tremoring earth. The sausage-fingered hands spread in pleading eloquence. “It’s not only a just settlement but—realistically speaking—handsome. Handsome indeed! Lady Jane is anxious to bring an end to the disputation, the turmoil. Join her in that endeavor! I can see the sad ravages of this wrangling in your face, madame—the toll it has taken. Why harm yourself further? Why risk your safety or your son’s? Depart, and you can live in modest comfort for the remainder of your days! I plead as much for your welfare as for Lady Jane’s—accept!”
“No,” said Phillipe.
Marie glanced sharply at her son. Bishop Francis bit his lower lip, teeth sinking deep into the wet pink flesh for a fraction of time. Then he recovered, his melancholy seeming to deepen.
“Oh, God’s wounds, sir!—is this another Cain who confronts me? I’ve wrestled one already tonight! Haven’t I explained the alternative to acceptance—?”
“Yes, but the facts are no different than when we first knocked at the door of Kentland. Amberly was my father, the letter is legal, she knows it and apparently she’ll do anything to see that Roger takes the whole inheritance. What if I wait another few hours? Will her price go higher?” Phillipe said contemptuously. “It can’t be high enough unless it’s the amount full due—half!”
Abruptly Francis faced away, concentrating on Marie:
“Madame, you are my last hope. I come here with the best of motives—and find Satan’s imps of greed and error have preceded me. Talk to your son, madame. Open his eyes!”
Looking worn out, Marie said, “We can at least consider the offer, Phillipe—”
“Yes, yes, madame! That’s being sensible. Besides”—Francis turned back to Phillipe, the skirt of his purple gown belling—“if you wait, as you put it, for the price to go higher, there is no guarantee you will be alive to receive the payment. May I be forgiven in Heaven for alluding to such a grim reality, but it’s the truth.”
Marie gave a small, humbled nod. To his horror, Phillipe saw that the bishop—and the Amberlys—had broken through her defenses at last.
His jaw set. “Mama—”
“Don’t you understand what the good bishop’s saying, Phillipe? I won’t risk your life!”
“And by accepting, you will save and enrich your own!” the churchman exhorted. “Roger will recover. Lady Jane may waver. I cannot constantly, constantly be in attendance, urging restraint—” He pressed his palm against his eyes suddenly, as if seized by a dizzy spell. And in that moment of postured overstatement, Phillipe knew there
must
be a trap.
“Be damned to Roger and his threats!” he shouted. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“But I am,” Marie Charboneau said wearily.
She faced the bishop, her shoulders slumping. Phillipe started to argue. She was quicker.
“Two thousand pounds will last many years—we will accept the offer.”
“Mama, listen! You’re selling out everything you wanted, everything you—”
“I will not sacrifice your life. We will accept the offer.”
Heaving a long sigh, Bishop Francis intoned, “Blessed be God’s holy name. Wisdom and virtue have prevailed.”
Phillipe stared at the prelate’s round face. The jowls shone with dozens of tiny diamonds of sweat. The battle of words had been an exertion. He thought bitterly,
No, power has prevailed.
Showing more animation, the bishop seemed to collect himself.