The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles Read Free Page A

“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