The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (2 page)

God, he could make no sense of it. Especially not now. He was sleepy again, wanting to escape into dreamless rest. He was totally exhausted. He lay back on the straw, bumping the hidden books before he wriggled and got comfortable. He pulled up the ragged blanket that stank of smoke and age.

A splendid future? For
him?
Who was he, after all? A tavern boy, nothing more.

And yet, when her face came to him in the frequent dream—when she hectored him—he
would
wonder just a little, as he started wondering again now, whether there was something in what she said.

“In good time, Phillipe.”

Was there something not yet revealed? Something waiting—as winter was waiting—to descend at its appointed moment? Something mysterious and exciting?

He didn’t know. But of one thing he was utterly certain.

He feared and detested the dream. He hated being afraid of the savagery in the eyes of his own mother.

Ramshackle, its wood sign creaking in the ceaseless wind of Auvergne, Les Trois Chevres clung to a hillside above a narrow road some three kilometers below the hamlet of Chavaniac. Four persons lived at the inn, tending the common-room fire, sweeping the rooms and changing the bedding, cooking the meals and serving the wine. They drew a meager living from the occasional coachloads of gentry bound farther south or heading eastward, toward the dangerous Alpine passes to the sunshine of Italy, which he imagined, in his most realistic moods, that he would never see.

Such a mood was on Phillipe Charboneau in the misty dawn following the nightmare. He felt he would probably spend his whole lifetime in the rocky country that was the only homeland he could remember.

With eyes fully open and his mind turning to the cheese to be fetched for the coming week, he displayed no sign that he believed the promises his mother shrilled at him in the dream. No sign, that is, except a certain lift of the shoulders and a touch of a swagger when he walked.

Of course, a short but strongly built boy of seventeen could be expected to stretch and swagger some. There were wild, powerful juices flowing at that age.

Phillipe’s mother, Marie, ran the inn. It had belonged to her now-dead father, who was buried, as befitted a good Catholic, in the churchyard at Chavaniac. Years ago, Marie had run away to Paris to act in the theaters, and found herself automatically excommunicated from the Mother Church.

Phillipe helped her with the place, as did the hired girl, Charlotte, a buxom wench with a ripe mouth and wide hips. Charlotte’s people lived a kilometer farther south. Her father, a miller, had begotten seventeen children. Unable to keep them all, he’d sent some of the brood to find employment where they could. Under Marie’s guidance, Charlotte did most of the cooking.

The fourth resident at Les Trois Chevres was Girard, the tall, thin, razor-nosed man who had wandered by some four years ago, a pack of precious books tied to a stick over his shoulder. He had been persuaded to stay on because, at that time, Marie needed an older, stronger male to help around the place. Coming downstairs to the common room this morning, Phillipe found Girard mopping up sticky wine stains from the one table that had been occupied the night before.

“Good day, Phillipe,” Girard greeted, in French. “We don’t exactly have a bustling trade again this morning. May I suggest another lesson?”

“All right,” Phillipe answered. “But first I have to go buy more cheese.”

“Our sole customer of last night ate it all, did he?”

Phillipe nodded.

“He was a scrawny sort for a traveling tinker,” Girard observed. “On the other hand—” He clinked sous down in his greasy apron. “Who am I to question the man’s choice of vocations? He paid.”

“Is my mother up yet?” Phillipe asked, starting toward the old, smoke-blackened door to the kitchen. Beyond it, he smelled a fragrant pine log burning on the hearth. “I heard no sound from her room,” he added.

“I imagine she’s still sleeping—why not? Our tinker took the road early.” Girard rolled his tongue in his cheek. “I believe the charming Mademoiselle Charlotte’s back there, however. Take care that she doesn’t attack you.” One of his bright blue eyes closed in a huge wink. “It continues to be evident that she’d like nothing better.”

Phillipe flushed. The subject Girard hinted at excited him. He understood what men and women did together. But in actual practice, it still remained a mystery. He stopped a pace from the kitchen door. Yes, he distinctly heard Charlotte humming. And for some reason—his ill-concealed excitement, or nervousness, or both—he didn’t want to face her just now.

Girard perched on a corner of a table, amused. He was an oddly built man of about thirty. He reminded Phillipe of a long-legged bird. Origins unknown—destination and ambition in life, if any, also unknown—Girard seemed content to do menial work and teach Phillipe his lessons, orthodox and otherwise. Fortunately, master and pupil liked each other.

“Go on, go on!” Girard grinned, waving. “A warm bun and the ample charms of Mademoiselle Charlotte await. What else could a chap want on a nippy morning?”

But Phillipe shook his head. “I think I’ll go after the cheese first. Give me the money, please.”

Girard fished the coins from his leather apron, mocking him:

“Your virtue’s admirable, my boy. Eschew temptations of the flesh! Cling to the joys of the soul and the intellect! After all, are we not privileged to be living in the greatest of all ages of man? The age of reason?”

“So you keep saying. I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, we’re grumpy this morning.”

“Well—” Phillipe apologized with a smile. “I had a bad dream, that’s all.”

“Not because of Monsieur Diderot and company, I trust.”

Phillipe shook his head. “But there are some more questions I want to ask you, Girard. Half of that business about politics, I just can’t understand.”

“But that’s the purpose of education! To
begin
to understand! Then to
want
to understand!”

“I know, you’ve said that before. I got a little of what some of those writers were talking about. Enough to tell me that what they’re saying doesn’t—doesn’t sound
right,
somehow. All that about kings no longer having God’s authority to run other people’s lives—”

Girard’s emphatic nod cut him off. “Exactly.”

“But we’ve always had kings!”

“Always is not forever, Phillipe. There is absolutely nothing inherent in the structure of the universe which dictates that any free man should be expected to obey authority unless he wishes to—for his own benefit, and by his own consent. Even the best of kings rules by tradition, not right. And a man must make up his own mind as to whether he’s willing to be ruled by the authority in question.”

“Yes, I got that much.”

“Our mad Swiss was even more blunt about it. He once observed that if God wished to speak to Monsieur Jean Jacques, He should not go through Moses.” Girard paused. “Scandalous stuff I’m teaching you, eh?” he said with a twinkling eye.

“Confusing, mostly.”

“Well, save your questions until we devote a little attention to something more conventional. When you return we’ll try an English play. There are witches in it, and old Scottish kings who murder one another. You’ll find it stimulating, I think. Learning ought not to be dull though God knows it is the way the priest peddle it.” With mock seriousness, he concluded, “I consider it not just my job but my sacred obligation to sweeten your preparation all I can, my young friend.”

At the inn door, Phillipe turned. “Preparation for what?”

“That, dear pupil, is for madame the actress to tell you.”

Phillipe frowned. “Why do you always speak of her as madame?”

“For one thing, she insists upon it.”

“But she has no husband. I’ve no father that I know about.”

“Nevertheless, I consider your mother a lady. But then”—Girard shrugged, smiling again—“when she’s in a bad mood, she herself calls me an unconventional, not to say dangerous, fellow. And she’s not the only one! Pity I can’t force myself to stick to sums and English where you’re concerned. I can’t because you’re a bright lad. So before you keep on pestering me with questions, remember what I’ve told you before. Some of my philosophical ideas could land you in serious trouble one day. Consider that the warning of a friend. Now hurry along for the cheese, eh? Or I can’t guarantee you’ll be safe from Mademoiselle Charlotte!”

So, on a gray November morning in the year 1770, Phillipe Charboneau left Les Trois Chevres. He had never, as a matter of record, seen a single goat on the premises, let alone the three for whom Marie’s father had named the establishment.

He set off up the rock-strewn road in the direction of Chavaniac. As the morning mist lifted gradually, the sun came out. Far on the north horizon he glimpsed the rounded gray hump of the Puy de Dome, a peak, so Girard had informed him, that was surrounded with pits which had once belched fire and smoke. Small extinct volcanos, said the itinerant scholar.

Phillipe walked rapidly. On the hillsides above him, dark pines soughed in the wind blowing across the Velay hills. The air of Auvergne could shiver the bone in the fall and winter months. The inn was seldom warm this time of year, except when you stood directly at the fireside.

He wondered what it would be like to dwell in a splendid, comfortable chateau like the one near Chavaniac. The Motier family—rich, of the nobility —lived there, his mother said, usually hinting whenever the chateau was mentioned that he would experience a similar sort of life one day. In the stinging wind, Phillipe was more convinced than ever that she was only wishing aloud.

His old wool coat offered little protection from the cold. He was thoroughly chilled by the time he turned up a track through the rocks and emerged on a sort of natural terrace overlooking the road. Here stood the hovel and pens of du Pleis, the goatherd. Higher still, behind a screen of pines, bells clanked.

A fat, slovenly boy about Phillipe’s age emerged from the hovel, scratching his crotch. The boy had powerful shoulders, and several teeth were missing. Phillipe’s eyes narrowed a little at the sight of him.

“Well,” said the boy, “look who graces us with his presence today.”

Phillipe tried to keep his voice steady: “I’ve come for the week’s cheese, Auguste. Where’s your father?”

“In bed snoring drunk, as a matter of fact.” Auguste grinned. But the grin, like the mealy dark eyes, carried no cordiality. The boy executed a mock bow. “Permit me to serve you instead. Sir.”

Phillipe’s chin lifted and his face grew harder. “Enough, Auguste. Let’s stick to business—” He took out the coins, just as another, taller boy came outside. He carried a wicker-covered wine jug.

The new boy belched. “Oh. Company, Auguste?”

“My cousin Bertram,” Auguste explained to Phillipe, who was studying the older boy. Bertram bore a faint scar on his chin. From knife fighting? He wore his hair long, not clubbed with a cheap ribbon at the nape of his neck, like Phillipe’s. Bertram had dull, yellowish eyes, and he swayed a little as Auguste went on:

“This is Phillipe Charboneau, Bertram. A noted innkeeper from down the road. And far better than any of us. The little lord, some people call him.”

“A lord of the horse turds is what he looks like,” Bertram joked, lifting the jug to drink.

“Oh, no!” Straight-faced, Auguste advanced on Phillipe, who suddenly smelled the boy’s foul breath. “Though his mother’s place isn’t prosperous enough to have even a single horse in its stable, he’s a very fine person. True, he’s a bastard, and that’s no secret. But his mother brags and boasts to everyone in the neighborhood that he’ll leave us one day to claim some fabulous inheritance. Yes, one day he’ll brush off the dirt of Auvergne—”

Auguste swooped a hand down, straightened and sprinkled dirt on Phillipe’s sleeve.

“Don’t laugh, Bertram!” Auguste said, maintaining his false seriousness. “We have it straight from his own mother! When she lowers herself to speak to lesser folk, that is.” He squinted at Phillipe. “Which brings up a point, my little lord. At the time my own mother died—just last Easter, it was—and yours came up to buy cheese, she didn’t say so much as one word in sympathy.” He sprinkled a little more dirt on Phillipe’s arm. “Not a word!”

Tense now, Phillipe sensed the hatred. Bertram shuffled toward him, swinging the jug. Phillipe knew that what fat Auguste said was probably true. But he felt compelled to defend Marie:

“Perhaps she wasn’t feeling well, Auguste. That’s it, I recall it now. At Eastertime, she—”

“Was feeling no different than usual,” Auguste sneered. To Bertram: “She was an actress on the Paris stage. I’ve heard what that means, haven’t you?”

Bertram grinned. “Of course. Actresses will lie down and open themselves for any cock with cash.”

“And for that she’s not allowed inside a Catholic church!” Auguste exclaimed, hateful glee on his suet-colored face. “Very unusual for such a woman to be the mother of a lord, wouldn’t you say?”

Bertram licked a corner of his mouth. “Oh, I don’t know. I hear most of the really grand ladies at the court are whores—”

“Damn you,” Phillipe blurted suddenly, “I’ll have the cheese and no more of your filthy talk!” He flung the coins on the ground.

Auguste glanced at Bertram, who seemed to understand the silent signal. Bertram set the wicker jug at his feet. The cousins started advancing again.

“You’ve got it wrong, little lord,” Auguste said. “We’ll have your money. And perhaps some of your skin in the bargain—!” His right foot whipped out, a hard, bruising kick to Phillipe’s leg.

Off balance, Phillipe fisted his right hand, shot it toward Auguste’s face. The fat boy ducked. A blur on Phillipe’s left indicated Bertram circling him. The taller boy yanked the ribbon-tied tail of Phillipe’s dark hair.

Phillipe’s head snapped back. But he didn’t yell. Bertram grabbed both his ears from behind, then gave him a boot in the buttocks.

The blow rocked Phillipe forward, right into Auguste’s lifting knee. The knee drove into his groin. Phillipe cried out, doubling. Bertram struck him from behind, on the neck. The ground tilted—