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

French guests with reasonable courtesy, however, and at dawn he helped Phillipe hoist the trunk into the luggage boot of another coach. Shortly after sunup, Marie and her son were bouncing northwestward, through a land most pleasant to gaze upon. Gentle downs, green with spring, unrolled vistas of tiny villages set among hop fields and orchards whose pink and white blossoms sent a sweet smell into the coach. Marie even remarked on the welcome warmth of the sun.
    Phillipe got up nerve to ask an elderly lady what the district was called. She replied with a smile, “Kent, sir. The land of cherries and apples and the prettiest girls in the Empire!”
    Near the edge of a great forest called The Weald, the coach broke an axle. They lost four hours while the coach guard, leaving his blunderbuss with the driver for protection of the passengers, trudged to the nearest town. He returned with a replacement part and two young wheelwrights, who performed the repairs. Finally, on the night of Phillipe and Marie’s third day in England, the coach rolled across a river bridge into the village of Tonbridge, a small, quiet place in the valley of the Medway.
    They found lodging upstairs at Wolfe’s Triumph, an inn evidently renamed to honor the heroic general who had smashed the French at Quebec. In Auvergne, the general’s name was jeered and cursed.
    The inn’s owner was a short, middle-aged man with protruding upper teeth. Phillipe went downstairs to find him late in the evening. Marie was already in bed. Not asleep, but unmoving. As if the trip had proved too great a strain.
    A fragrant beech fire roared in the inn’s inglenook. The spring night outside had grown chilly. A crowd of Tonbridge men packed the tables, drinking and gossiping about local happenings. Most of the men were fair, ruddy-faced, in sharp contrast to Phillipe’s dark hair and eyes. But he was growing accustomed to drawing stares.
    As Phillipe approached, the innkeeper turned from an ale cask. He handed two mugs to a plump serving girl, who switched her behind and smiled at Phillipe as she walked off.
    “Well, young visitor,” said the proprietor, “may I serve you something?”
    “No, thank you. I am not thirsty.” Phillipe was careful to speak each English word clearly. But the answer was a lie He felt too insecure about the future to squander one precious coin.
    “Too bad,” said the older man. “I meant the first one to be a compliment of the house.”
    “Why—in that case, I’ll accept. With thanks.”
    “That woman who arrived with you—is she your mother?”
    Phillipe nodded.
    “Is she quite well?”
    “She’s tired, that’s all. We’ve come a long way.”
    “Across the Channel. You’re French, aren’t you?” The man drew a frothing mug from the cask, replacing the bung with a quick, deft movement, so that very little spilled. “Good English ale,” he said, handing Phillipe the mug. “I don’t hold with serving gin to younger folk. It’s the ruination of thousands of little ’uns up in London.”
    Phillipe sipped, trying to hide his initial dislike of the amber brew. “Mmm. Very good. To answer your question—” He dashed foam off his lip with his sleeve. “I am French. But I have a relative who lives near here. My mother and I need to find his house so we may go see him.”
    “Well, sir, Mr. Fox knows most if not all of those in the neighborhood. What’s the name of this relative?”
    “Amberly.”
    At the nearby tables, conversation stopped. Eyes stared through the smoke rising from clay pipes held in suddenly rigid hands. A log fell in the great walk-in hearth.
    Mr. Fox picked at a protruding upper tooth with one cracked nail. “Amberly, eh? Is that a fact?” Someone snickered.
    The landlord surveyed Phillipe’s shabby clothes. Then he asked: “You mean you have kinfolk serving the Amberlys, don’t you?”
    “No, sir. I’m related to the family itself. How far is their house from this town?”
    “If you mean their