Free The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles by John Jakes Page A

in the veins of these squires and farmers.”
    The mate then proceeded to point out some of the structures high on the cliff, including the Norman keep and the strange, tall tower. Of the latter he said:
    “There were two Roman lighthouses up there long ago, not just the one. Their fires guided the galleys of the legions into the harbor. And Caesar’s troops fathered plenty of bastards before they pulled out. So whatever your business in England, my lad, don’t let the locals put you down. Their ancestors came from all over Europe and God knows where else. Besides, we’re at peace with them. For the present.”
    As he started aft, he added, “I’ll be glad to help you and your mother find the coach. Shame the sailing wracked her so. She’s a handsome woman. I’d court her myself if I didn’t have two wives already.”
    Phillipe laughed, feeling a little less apprehensive. He went below.
    He found his mother sitting in the gloom beside the shabby trunk. Her white hands were knotted in her lap. He closed his own hand on top of hers. How cold her flesh felt!
    “The mate said he’ll assist us in finding the overland coach, Mama.”
    Marie said nothing, staring at nothing. Phillipe was alarmed again. Distantly, he heard the lugger’s anchor splash into the water.
ii
    The mate led them up from the quay into town. He carried the trunk on his muscular shoulder as though it contained nothing at all. In the yard of a large, busy inn, he tried to decipher the English of a notice board that listed the departure times of various “flying waggons” bound for towns with unfamiliar names.
    “Flying waggon is intended to be a compliment to the speed of the public coaches.” The mate grinned. “But I understand that’s nothing but the typical lie of any advertisement. Bah, I can’t read that ungodly script! I’ll ask inside. What’s the name of the village you want?”
    “Tonbridge,” Phillipe said. “It’s supposed to lie on a river west of here.”
    The man with the gold ear hoop disappeared, returning shortly to report that they wanted the coastal coach, via Folkestone, departing in midafternoon.
    The mate kept them company while they waited, stating that he’d only squander money on unworthy, immoral pastimes if he went off by himself. He was a jolly, generous man, and even bought them lunch—dark bread and some ale—at a public house called The Cinque Ports.
    Then he saw them aboard the imposing coach, whose driver kept yelling, “Diligence for Folkestone, m’lords. Express diligence, departing at once!”
    The mate had helped them change some of their francs for British money. Now he picked the correct fare out of Phillipe’s hand and paid the agent. He waved farewell as the diligence rolled out of the yard.
    Five of the other six persons packed inside the coach chatted in English as the vehicle lurched westward. Phillipe and Marie sat hunched in one corner, saying nothing and trying to avoid stares of curiosity. Among the passengers was a cleric, who read his Testament in silence. But a fat, wigged gentleman in claret velvet talked enough for two men.
    Apparently he had some connection with the weaving industry. He complained about the refusal of the “damned colonials” to import British goods—in protest against some of those taxes of which Girard had spoken, if Phillipe understood correctly.
    “But damme, we’ve the King’s Friends in power now!” the fat gentleman sputtered. “North shall bring those rebellious dogs to heel. Eh, what do you say?”
    The merchant’s mousy wife said she agreed. Oh yes, definitely. The fat man became all smiles and smugness. Dust boiled into the coach windows as it lurched along the rough but supposedly modern highway leading southwest along the coast.
iii
    They arrived in Folkestone late at night, and Phillipe engaged a room. His English proved sufficient to the task, even though his pronunciation did elicit a momentary look of surprise.
    The landlord treated his