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.

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