Free The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles by John Jakes

lying on the trestle table. Franc notes. More than he’d ever seen in his life.
    Suddenly Marie Charboneau was all composure, decision:
    “That money is ample for our passage to Paris, then by ship to England. We’ll leave immediately. Surely Girard will keep the inn for us—”
    She rushed to her son, wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close.
    “Oh, Phillipe, didn’t I promise? I’ve lived for this moment!”
    Then he felt the terrible tremors of the sobbing she could no longer control.
    “But I don’t want him to die. I don’t want him to die!”

CHAPTER IV
Kentland
i
    T HE COASTING VESSEL, A lugger out of Calais, slid into the harbor of Dover in bright April sunshine.
    Phillipe gripped the rail, staring in awe at the white chalk cliffs rising behind the piers and the clutter of small Channel vessels anchored nearby. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying stridently. The air carried the salt tang of open water.
    Phillipe had seen so many new sights and wonders in the past fortnight, he could hardly remember them all. Especially now. He felt a tinge of dread because he was entering his father’s country both as a stranger and as a traditional enemy: a Frenchman.
    Beyond that, Marie had not weathered the journey well. During the one night they had spent in the splendid, teeming city of Paris, she had been confined to her bed at a shabby inn on a side street. Phillipe had wanted to roam the great metropolis, see as much as possible before the coach departed for the seacoast. Instead, he’d sat the whole night on a stool beside the bed where Marie lay wracked with cramps and a fever.
    Perhaps the cause was the strain of the trip. Or—the thought struck him for the first time that night in Paris—perhaps the hard years in Auvergne had drained away her health and vitality.
    He saw further evidence that this might be true when the lugger put out from Calais. Complaining of dizziness, Marie went below. She vomited twice during the night crossing, much to the displeasure of the French crew, who provided a mop for Phillipe to clean up the mess personally.
    He gave his most careful attention to the cheap second-hand trunk they’d bought in Chavaniac before departure. He mopped it thoroughly, even though the work—and the smell—was sickening.
    Marie lay in a cramped bunk, even more pale than when she’d received news of Amberly’s illness. She alternately implored God to stop the churning of the waves—the Channel was rough that night—and expressed her shame and humiliation to her son.
    He finished cleaning up the ancient trunk and stared at it a moment. The trunk contained what little they owned that was of any value. Save for the inn, of course. That had been left in the care of Girard.
    Marie’s few articles of good clothing were packed in the trunk. Her precious casket of letters. And Phillipe’s sword.
    Why he’d brought the weapon he could not fully explain. But somehow, he wanted it with him in the land of the enemy—
    Now he leaned on the lugger rail, squinting up past the gulls to a strange, tall tower on the chalk cliff. His confidence of the preceding months was all but gone.
    He saw figures bustling on the quays. Englishmen. Would his limited knowledge of their language serve him well enough? He and his mother still had a long way to travel to reach his father’s bedside. No instructions had been provided in the letter written by Lady Jane Amberly. Perhaps that was deliberate. He looked again at the cliff tower, strangely forbidding, as the sails were hauled in and the lugger’s master screamed obscene instructions to his crew scampering around the deck.
    The mate, a man with a gold hoop in one ear, noted Phillipe’s rapt expression and clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He said in French:
    “Busy place, eh? You’ll get accustomed to it. The captain would probably have my balls for saying this, but I don’t find the English a bad sort. After all, there’s a lot of old French blood running