Son of Fury

A good blow, Sir Arthur.

Someday I'll learn never

to wager against you.

May I speak

with Your Worship?

I found him, Your Worship.

I found him.

- Where?

- Near St. James's Gate.

He lives with Amos Kidder,

a gunsmith.

- Amos Kidder, eh?

- Yes, Your Worship.

- Wait for me outside.

- Yes, Your Worship.

- Grandfather?

- Aye, Ben?

Why do they say

I have no name?

- Who says it?

- The boys at the school.

I fought one

for it yesterday.

I'll fight them all

if I must.

Aye, Ben,

you'll have to fight

fight all your life,

belike.

- But why do they say it?

- You're young yet, Ben.

Where's my father

and mother?

Dead both of'em.

They died in India.

Is that why they say

I have no name?

Because my mother

and father are dead?

Ben, when you're older you shall know

the whole story. Now look here, Ben.

Any fool can make a firearm...

but only a craftsman,

one that the user can trust.

You'll learn

the gunsmith's trade...

and someday the shop will be yours,

for I'll not live forever.

Think of it, Ben.

The gentry comin' in and orderin' pistols

and no better in the land.

I'll make pistols,

none better.

But I'll shoot them myself.

- Good morning, Master Kidder.

- Good morning, Your Worship.

- Do you remember me?

- Aye, Your Worship.

Why haven't I been informed

that my brother left a son?

No, no, no.

This is my son my own.

Don't take me for a fool.

Look at him.

The Blake eyes, the Blake chin

And the Blake temper too.

Come, man, the truth.

It'll do you no good to lie to me.

Aye, he is Sir Godfrey's son,

and my daughter Bessie's.

That's better.

Now then, what do you call him?

- Ben, Your Worship.

- Ben, eh?

Well, Ben, how would you like

to live with me at Breetholm?

A gunsmith's forge

is no place for a Blake.

Plague take me, you have the blood, even if

you were born on the wrong side of the blanket.

You'll be brought up

as a gentleman.

No handle

to your name, perhaps...

but horses and a servant

of your own and all the rest that goes with it.

Begging Your Worship's pardon,

I'd like to keep him here with me.

Would you deprive the lad

of his birthright?

No, Your Worship.

I know his father was a gentleman.

And his mother was a lady

by her gifts if not by birth.

But he's mine. I brought him up

since he was a tiny baby.

Can you read?

No, Your Worship.

'Tis a writ naming me

the boy's guardian...

and charging me with the responsibility

of his welfare.

Get the boy's clothes.

Well, my dear, here he is.

Your new mistress, Ben.

Mistress, Arthur?

Naturally. I expect to give the boy

something to occupy his time.

- The stables I think.

- Arthur!

The lad has pride,

just like his father.

Oh, the pattern fits.

You'll be surprised how well it fits.

Godfrey would take nothing

that didn't belong to him.

If the lad is the same, he'll be only

too eager to work for his keep.

Well, speak up, boy.

I will take nothing

that is not mine.

Well spoken.

A true Blake, you see,

in speech, manners and pride.

That'll be all, Purdy.

- Oh, Paddy.

- Yes, Your Worship?

This lad is young and green.

I put him in your charge.

See if you can make

a stable boy out of him.

Yes, Your Worship.

There's no question about it.

The boy is Godfrey's son.

I think I know why you want him here.

- Do you, my dear?

- Because he is the rightful heir to Breetholm.

- Nonsense.

- And you're afraid that someday,

somehow, he'll prove his right.

You know as well as I do,

there's no record of Godfrey's marriage.

None except Godfrey's own record

while he lived.

He could do

nothing dishonorable.

My noble brother

he always made fools

of his women.

And now, my dear...

shall I tell you why I want

that brat of his here?

As a gift to you.

His presence here

will remind you of his mother

the woman Godfrey

preferred to you.

We cleans the harness.

Then we eat.

Here.

Take it to bench yonder and mind

you don't drag it in dirt.

I told you not to dirty it.!

Now we've twice the work.!

Fight me, will you?

There!

- Paddy! Give over!

- How 'bout that?

Give over!

You wanna kill him?

- Master put him in my care.

- I'm master in this stable...

and there'll be

no beatings, hear?

He's calling for his chestnut mare

and Miss Isabel's pony.

Go and saddle 'em.

Ben?

Ben, lad,

are you bad hurt?

- I'll kill him.

- Oh, no, no, no.

No talk of killing, Ben.

I worked for your father,

and I loved him.

We all did.

He let a man be a man...

whatever his position.

From now on you're bound to Sir Arthur

his servant for life.

He can do with you

what he will...

and he'll always

have the law on his side.

You'll have to make

the best of it, lad.

- And if you're wise, you'll submit like the rest of us.

- No.

Aye.

You'll learn as you grow.

Come to my cottage

when you've finished your work...

and my wife will give you

a good supper.

I ran away.

You're limping, lad.

- Are you hurt?

- A stone in my shoe.

Why did you run away?

He He made me a stable boy,

and I've been beaten.

- God forgive us.

- Why does he hate me so, Grandfather?

Because you're bred true.

Because you have the blood of the family.

Because he knows that it's only the lack

of a parson's blessing...

that makes him

cock of Breetholm walk.

He shakes in his ugly boots

every time he looks at you.

I'm not going back.

No. No, you can't go back.

We must leave

before he finds you're gone.

We'll sleep

on the road tonight.

And tomorrow it'll be new names,

a new life.

And the money I saved

will be good for a start.

Get some bread and cheese

from the kitchen.

How will we live

when our money's gone?

I'll find work.

There'll be other gunsmiths.

Work for a wage

in another man's shop?

I've done it before.

I can do it again.

- What could he do if he caught us?

- You'd go back to Breetholm.

And you, Grandfather?

Men have been

branded and jailed for less.

You'd risk that for me?

You're the beat

of my heart, Ben.

Come. It's late, and we have

a long road ahead of us.

No. We're not leaving.

- I'm going back to Breetholm.

- Ben, what are you sayin'?

He said I was a Blake

in all but name.

I'll show him.

I'll take whatever he has to give me,

and I'll mark it down.

And someday when I am master

of Breetholm, I'll give it back.

He can do with me

as he pleases...

but I'll never submit.

Say good-bye to me, Ben.

My tongue's stuck.

Well, we're almost ready,

milord.

- The vixens have whelped

a splendid lot of cubs this year.

- Indeed?

'Pon my soul, I don't believe

I've yet presented my daughter. Here she is.

Or shouldn't we be interrupting?

This is my daughter, Isabel.

Lord Tarrant. Lord Tarrant

rides with us today.

- Your servant, Mistress Isabel.

- Your servant, milord.

- Mr. Hobart of Foxcroft Hall.

- How do you do, milord?

- How do you do?

- I'll give you my black mare.

She's light, but well up

to your weight.

Where's that rascal Ben?

The mare should be here by now.

I'll go, Father.

Excuse me, gentlemen.

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