Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  ***

  Lady Endeline gave a curt nod to her maids. “You may leave my chamber,” she said, her tone sharp. “Lord Perceval is on his way.”

  When the maids had curtseyed and left, Endeline slipped off her heavy fur surcoat, loosened her hair, and reclined regally on their bed. Her silk tunic clung to her slim body; perhaps Perceval could be distracted this afternoon. She had already bade Hector send two cows to the church, and the priest had promised to pray for her. As an afterthought she had quietly commanded one of the village women to buy a fertility charm from a carnival witch. The charm now dangled between her breasts, and Endeline smothered a smile. Her brother the abbot would threaten her with hellfire if he knew she had resorted to witchcraft. But whether through the powers of heaven or hell, she wanted another child. Three were not enough.

  She heard the sound of Perceval’s boots on the stone floor and absently pulled all but one curtain down around her bed. She raised one knee, exposing the white flesh of her leg, and extended her arm to the door. When Perceval came in and saw her thus--

  But Perceval was not alone. Behind him was Hector, and neither man even glanced at the bed when they entered the room. “I want a careful accounting,” Perceval said, tossing a ledger book on the table. “King Henry may visit in September and the stores must be replenished before then. Have all the manors sent in their due?”

  “Aye,” Hector nodded. “And more is due at Michaelmas.”

  “Perceval,” Lady Endeline interrupted.

  “Michaelmas is not until the end of September!” Perceval fretted, pulling energetically on his beard. “Could we demand an earlier accounting? If we required the annual payment in August, would our store be sufficient to do the king honor?”

  Hector scratched his bald head thoughtfully. “August is harvest month, my lord. The villeins will be hard pressed to harvest their crops as well as yours.”

  “Perceval.” Lady Endeline’s patience was growing short. What if the witch’s charm would not last for more than the day?

  “Why don’t we take the annual tribute in July? We could call for the rents on the day of St. Mary Magdalene.”

  “Hay month, my lord? The villeins will be so busy--”

  “All right, then, June.”

  “Plough month?”

  Perceval lost his patience. “Man, how long does it take for a villein to bring his required rent? The annual tribute is well-known and planned, so what difference will it make if we call for the rents early?”

  Hector bowed his head in face of Perceval’s anger. “None, my lord, but in the unusual cases. For instance, Wido, a plowman in the village, must pay tribute of one lamb. But his ewe has died, and he will need time to come up with a suitable substitute.”

  “And what is a suitable substitute?”

  “I do not know, my lord. Perhaps you can tell me.”

  “What does the man have to offer?”

  Hector shrugged. “Chickens. A small garden plot. His wife, who weaves.” He smiled. “His wife’s best talent is producing children. A healthy baby every year, to serve you, my lord.”

  Endeline’s temper flared. “Perceval!”

  Perceval turned toward his wife in bewilderment. “What are you doing, woman?”

  Hector bowed and left the room. Endeline rolled onto her stomach and kicked her bare legs playfully. “I want another baby, my lord,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Give me another child.”

  Perceval shook his head. “For this you interrupt a meeting with my steward? I have given you three children, and I am not to be blamed for your barren womb.”

  Perceval turned to leave, but Endeline ran to him, her bare feet skimming the floor. She flung her arms around his waist. “I gave two cows to the priest. I sent for charms from the witch at the carnival. I’ve done all I can, Perceval. But you must give me a child!”

  Perceval scowled in impatience, but she would not let him go. For seven years she had longed for another child, but lately the feverish longing would not be denied. She clung steadfastly to his belt, perspiration dripping from her forehead, her hands trembling. She desperately hoped her body would convince her husband; her words had evidently failed.

  Perceval lay his hand on her head. “Come, my dear,” he said, helping her to her feet. He walked her to the bed, and her eyes alighted in hope. But Perceval shook his head. “No, Endeline, I cannot stay with you now. But you should not carry on this way. If God wills another child, it will be. Didn’t your brother assure you of this?”

  “I am barren because the first animal I saw after Lienor’s birth was a mule,” Endeline moaned softly. “A sterile mule. My handmaid said it was so, and I believe her.”

  “You must not believe her.” Perceval sat on the bed and draped his arm around her thin shoulders. “You have three worthy children, lady, what others could you want?”

  Endeline shook her head. “Would you be happy with only three horses? Only three fields? Only three manors?”

  “That’s a different matter.”

  “No, it is not.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “I am married to a great man. I should raise great and noble children, as many as I can bear in a lifetime.”

  “Then raise noble children.”

  “How?” Her voice was flat.

  Perceval stood and smoothed his surcoat. “Wido the plowman has a wife who has a baby every year. He also owes me tribute. Go to him with my blessing and take what you desire.”

  Three

  Endeline wasn’t sure what she would find at Wido’s house. The mud cottage with its freshly thatched roof looked neat enough for the house of a lowly villein, but out of it emanated odors and sounds she couldn’t identify.

  She nervously jiggled the reins in her hand and nodded to Sir Gawain, the burly knight who had accompanied her to the village. He dismounted from his horse and called into the dusty courtyard of Wido’s house: “Lady Endeline is at your door, villein! She asks to see Wido the plowman or Corba, his wife.”

  A woman’s dust-streaked face appeared at the window, then she hesitantly stepped through the doorway. “I am Corba,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Endeline’s gaze froze on the woman’s belly, where the rough tunic stretched tautly over the round shape of her unborn child. “My husband Lord Perceval tells me that your sheep has died,” Endeline said icily, forcing herself to look into the woman’s faded blue eyes. Her horse stamped a hoof impatiently, and Endeline shifted in the saddle. “I have come to choose a substitution for your annual tribute.”

  “Aye,” Corba answered, bowing her head respectfully. “What do you have in mind, my lady? I weave very well, and I could make you a nice cloak.”

  “I would like to see your children.”

  Corba blinked rapidly, but stepped back into the cottage. Endeline studied the sky, where a squawking flock of crows flew overhead. Troublesome birds. She ought to have Gawain kill them all.

  Presently a boy stepped out of the house, then another, until five dark-haired children stood blinking in the sunshine. Endeline gazed at them hungrily.

  The youngest boy was but a baby, a chubby bundle of delight. The next was dark-skinned. Two were of the same size and manner, both shyly studying the trappings of her horse, and the tallest stood defiantly, a challenge in his eyes.

  Endeline bit her lower lip. Perceval would choose the tallest boy, no doubt, but she knew the choice was not simple. The child who would live with her noble children must possess a brave heart, adaptability, and charm. Most of all, he should reflect well upon her and Perceval.

  Gawain interrupted her thoughts. “Are these all the children?” he called to Corba. “I heard there were six.”

  “There is a girl,” Corba replied, her voice uneven. “She is with her father in the fields of the lord.”

  Endeline lifted her reins. “I must see her, too,” she said, relieved that her decision could be postponed.

  “I will lead you there,” Gawain offered, and
Endeline pulled her horse’s head to follow Gawain to the fields.

  Several villeins were plowing in the wide wheat field, but only one plowman was accompanied by a young girl. Endeline watched the pair from the edge of the field, carefully noting the child’s slender form, height, and agility. “She moves well,” she said, watching Afton leap from ridge to furrow as she goaded the ox. “She could be a beautiful dancer.”

  “She would do well with you as her teacher,” Gawain answered, displaying the tact that had earned him the distinction of being Perceval’s most trusted knight. “But no child of a plowman will dance as well as a nobleman’s daughter.”

  “How old would you say she is?” Endeline mused. “She’s about Lienor’s age, is she not? And the blonde hair will be more seemly in my household,” she added, thinking of the row of black-haired boys at Corba’s house. “She would almost be able to pass for Perceval’s child.”

  “No child of a plowman--” began Gawain, but Endeline silenced him with a stern look.

  “Go tell the plowman I’ve chosen his daughter,” Endeline said, turning her horse’s head toward the castle road. “The girl should be brought when the rents are collected next month.”

  ***

  Wido’s steps were heavy as he led the ox home. Afton scampered ahead of him, happily splashing her slim legs and tunic in the rutted road’s muddy puddles. How could such a child find a home in Lord Perceval’s castle? Why had Endeline not chosen one of his sons? He had five sons, fine sons, but only one daughter!

  Wido was not a man of learning or sophistication, but he had the good sense to prize the few rare treasures life had sent his way. Corba was one treasure, more beautiful and gentle than the rough village girls he had known as a young man. He had been honored and humbled when she consented to become his wife. And Afton was like her mother, all golden hair and sensitive spirit.

  The ox snorted behind him, anxious to be back in the community pen, and Wido considered what his neighbors would say. “You are fortunate to lose her,” the men would agree, “for what is a girl child but an obligation to pay a dowry?” Sons were strong and valuable, and Wido was particularly blessed with sons.

  But there was something about the sprite that had been born to him first. Endeline had recognized it; even Bodo, wretch that he was, had desired it. Wido could not define the quality that made Afton unique, he only knew she had always unsettled him. Perhaps it was God’s will the girl leave. He had never felt she belonged to him.

  Afton sprinted toward the cottage, and the ox quickened his pace now that its pen was it sight. Wido dreaded breaking the news to Corba. He led the ox into the pen, fastened the gate, and stooped to affectionately rub the tousled heads of Matthew and Kier, who were spinning their wooden tops on the impacted earth. Was it only a few days ago he felt like a king of the earth with a beautiful wife, five sons, a daughter, and a sheep? Now he knew full well that he was not a king.

  Corba was waiting in the doorway. “Lady Endeline was here,” she said stiffly, a broom in her hand. “We are to lose one of our children in place of the sheep that died.”

  “I know,” Wido answered, patting her shoulder as he passed. He settled onto a stool near the table. “The annual rents are to be paid next month instead of at Michaelmas.”

  “So soon?” Corba’s hands flexed instinctively over her unborn child. “The babe will not yet be born.”

  “It’s not the babe she wants,” Wido said, trying to keep his voice calm. He reached for the round loaf of brown bread on the rough table and broke off a generous hunk. “She wants the girl.”

  Corba abruptly drew in her breath and sat down. In the corner of the room a chicken clucked, a sure sign their best laying hen had laid yet another egg.

  “Nothing else will do?” Corba asked, her voice strangled.

  “Nothing else,” Wido answered, chewing his bread. The dark rye bread seemed tasteless in his mouth, and he swallowed it with great effort. “It would not be wise to argue, in any case.”

  Corba straightened her shoulders. “Then there will be one less mouth to feed and a dowry we may not have to pay, if all goes well,” she said, her eyes dark and wide. “If the girl minds her manners, she may stay as a handmaid for many years. It will be good for us.”

  “Aye.” Wido agreed. He muttered the words Corba wanted to hear even though he did not believe them: “This is a good thing.”

  The family ate supper together as they always did, the children scrambling for bread and scooping thick pottage from their wooden bowls. Wido found his eyes irresistibly drawn to Afton. She ate with her usual concentration, but once she looked up and frowned. “Mama,” she asked, one eyebrow raised delicately, “can’t we get some pomegranates for supper? They were delicious.”

  By all the saints, perhaps it was a good thing she was leaving.

  ***

  As the sun set, Corba bedded the children on their mattresses while Wido stirred the coals on the hearth in the center of the house. A fire was hardly necessary, the weather was so warm, but the glowing red embers comforted him.

  Wido watched the coals until he heard the regular breathing of sleeping children, then he joined Corba in their bed. Her back was to him, and when he touched her, her body convulsed in soundless sobbing. He held her until she lay exhausted from crying.

  The moon was shining through their open window when she spoke. “I never thought of us as poor,” she said, her voice remarkably clear. “We have each other, we have a home, we have children.”

  “We are not poor,” Wido said. “Even when my poor crops have failed, the lord’s generosity has sustained us.”

  “I have never counted that as charity,” Corba said, wiping her face with the light woolen blanket that covered them. “We give Perceval his due as lord, and he gives us our due as his villeins. It is a partnership.”

  “Aye,” Wido answered.

  “But today has taught me what poverty is. It is not that we lack clothing or furs, for we have what we need and no more.”

  Wido lightened his voice. “You have to agree, dear wife, that we could find use for a cow.”

  “No.” Corba’s voice was emphatic, and she gazed steadily into his eyes. “We are poor because we have no power. We have no voice. If we had twenty cows, we would still own nothing. All that we call ours is the property of Lord Perceval. We do not even own the children we and God have created.”

  Wido was silent, thinking. “The voice of God is our voice,” he said, finally, “And He has sent us another child to replace the one we will lose to Perceval. God is our judge, as He is Perceval’s. Father Odoric tells me so, and I do not believe a priest can lie.”

  “Aye, but will God comfort Afton when she is flogged for making a mistake in the castle? Will He teach her when she grows wise to the ways of women? Will He defend her chastity when a knight desires to have her?”

  Wido felt a slow burn begin in his stomach. “I will make it so,” he said slowly.

  ***

  The village churned with activity the day before the feast of St. Mary Magdalene. Work in the fields was suspended while the villagers prepared their rents. Each farming family had to pay one sheep, one woven tunic, and ten smooth planks of oak. For the past month Corba had been weaving continuously, and Wido had spent his evenings polishing oak planks. Afton watched the bustle with little concern and enjoyed the extra commotion in the cottage. If she was good, perhaps her father would even let her journey to the castle with him tomorrow.

  “Afton, come here.” Afton came in from the courtyard and stood in front of her mother. Corba placed her hand beneath Afton’s chin and inspected for dirt, a critical examination usually reserved for church days. Afton saw herself reflected in the worried eyes of her mother--two tiny girls with straight noses, wide eyes, and smudges of dirt on their cheeks.

  Corba dipped a cloth in her water bowl and swiped Afton’s cheeks. “You’re fine,” she pronounced, stepping back. “Tomorrow you will go with your father to the castle. An
d you will wear this.”

  She pulled a tunic from her work basket, a blue tunic finer than anything Afton had ever possessed. It was lightweight, woven from cotton instead of the usual rough wool, and a blue silk ribbon had been woven into the neckline. “It’s beautiful,” Afton murmured as Corba laid it across her arms. “It is really mine?”

  “It is really yours,” Corba answered. “Now put it away so that it doesn’t get dirty before tomorrow.”

  ***

  The next morning Afton felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Time to dress, daughter,” Wido told her. “We are going to the church.”

  To church? Without the family? Afton swung her legs off her mattress and yawned. The boys were still sleeping, and it was not yet fully light outside. Why were they rising so early? Then she remembered her new gown and eagerly slipped it on. She whirled gently, the full skirt circling around her legs like a whirling top. She giggled.

  From her bed across the room, Corba called. “Let me brush your hair.” Afton danced over to her mother and allowed herself to be pulled down onto the bed. Her mother brushed Afton’s golden hair vigorously, then locked her daughter in a hug so fierce Afton could barely breathe.

  “You’ll crush me like a blueberry,” Afton complained.

  Corba sniffled. “Lady Endeline has taken a special fancy to you,” she said quickly. “You are to live in the castle beginning today.” Her words streamed like a raging river. “I will see you when I go there to work, of course, and you’ll see your father, too. But you will not be returning here to sleep in this house.”

  “No?” Afton pulled away. Surely there was some mistake.

  Corba shook her head. “Go now with your father to the church. Say your prayers and be a good girl. Always remember that you are the daughter of Corba and Wido.”

  Afton looked curiously at her mother and took her father’s hand. Wido was carrying Ree in his left hand, the noisy hen that laid the most eggs. “Why are we taking Ree to church?” she asked as left the house.