Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  So be it, Calhoun thought one night as loneliness washed over him. I live alone, but they can keep their jokes and foolishness to themselves. I need no one else.

  After a full year of training, Calhoun grew into his hauberk. It no longer hung loosely on the slender frame of a boy, but clung to muscles grown hard and sinewy. His face, which had held an aspect of softness and pampered nobility, was now bronzed and lean. More disguising than his physical growth, however, was his manner. The laughing boy had become a solitary knight, and Fulk thought one day that even Lady Endeline would have difficulty recognizing him.

  Calhoun was surprisingly agile in his heavy armor. Over his heavy shirt of mail, he now wore a white tunic which would be exchanged for one in his family colors after he was officially dubbed a knight. On his legs he wore chausses, coverings of mail, and a conical helmet of steel covered his head. Calhoun did not leave his chamber without a dagger sheathed at his calf and a sword strapped to his side. When mounted, he carried a shield and a twelve-foot lance, his favorite weapon, unless Fulk had instructed him to practice with the mace or battle axe. In Calhoun’s hands, both were deadly weapons.

  He no longer struck at tree stumps, but dueled with Fulk himself, trading blow for blow. Both warriors frequently drew blood. The heavy suit of mail protected its wearer from slashes and glancing cuts, but a direct penetrative hit from sword or lance would invariably part the woven metal rings, so Fulk and Calhoun fought carefully and with discipline. Calhoun was accustomed to bruises on his ribs and back from Fulk’s heavy sword, but he bore his pain stoically and resolved to be quicker on the morrow.

  Calhoun was Warwick’s champion jouster from his first contest, but he modestly attributed his skill to days spent tilting at the quintain at Margate when he was a boy. He and Charles had spent hours rushing the dummy quintain with long poles, and more than once he had missed the target or hit it and forgot to duck, so the moving weight swung toward him and knocked him from his horse. He had failed often enough as a boy to remember the humiliation of landing in the dirt, and Calhoun resolved never to be knocked from his horse at Warwick. As a squire, he rushed now not at a dummy quintain, but at other squires who aimed long, padded poles at his chest as they charged toward him on their horses.

  In his year at Warwick, Calhoun had quickly become the squire exemplar, first among his peers in fighting, wrestling, jousting, hunting, and even dancing, but he was not accorded this rank with Lord Thomas. As far as Lord Thomas was concerned, it was Squire Arnoul who was the best and finest boy in training, and it was Arnoul, cousin of the king, who was awarded honor, praise, and a seat at the lord’s table. Calhoun, whom Arnoul openly despised, received no attention and little praise from the lord of Warwick Castle.

  Calhoun bore the injustice with as much dignity as he could muster, finding no comfort even in the surreptitious pitying smiles of Lady Clarissant whose blue eyes seemed to understand the truth of the situation. Calhoun knew he could not even complain to Fulk, for his master had tried to remedy the situation long before. Perhaps if I had let Arnoul win on that day, things would be better, Calhoun thought. But what honor lies in failure?

  An opportunity for salvation presented itself during the holidays of Christmastide. Lord Thomas announced a three-event tournament for the squires, consisting of jousting, swordplay, and a wrestling match. The winners of those three events would then compose and read a poem to Lady Clarissant, for a knight’s social skills were as valued as his physical abilities. She would then select the winner of the tournament.

  Calhoun threw himself into practice for the tournament. He would win all three events, surely, and he would be the only squire eligible to stand before Clarissant and read his poem of love to her. The days and nights at Warwick had wrought another change in him, a transformation he did not expect. Emotions and inexplicable urges stirred his days and nights, and often, in restless sleep, he was awakened by Fulk, who roughly commanded him to go outside and chop wood. Calhoun obeyed without protest, bewildered by the feelings that swayed his body and mind.

  He only knew that the center of his attention lately had been Clarissant. Her voice, her form, her laugh, all had the power to send him reeling across the room in delightful delirium. She was the most lovely, most serene, most gentle woman he had ever known. It mattered not that she belonged to Lord Thomas, for Calhoun could not even conceive of marrying, or even kissing such a creature. It was enough to stand and gaze at her, and love chastely from a distance.

  As a child, Calhoun had tolerated the visiting troubadours and their songs of love, but now he found himself drawn to both the pain and pleasure in their music. He wrote poetry for Clarissant as did the other squires, but the most personal of his thoughts he hid from her, passionately scrawling them on snatches of parchment and later tossing them into the fire where they flamed with the intensity of his heart.

  When after supper the squires were allowed to dance with Clarissant and her maids, he hung by the walls as he had at Margate. In earlier days he had not been interested in dancing; now he was vitally interested, but petrified with fear. If Clarissant should so much as touch him, he knew his heart would burst through his chest and she would be horrified by what she saw there.

  But the Christmastide tournament offered a noble way for him to prove his love and devotion. He would out fight, out wrestle, and out ride every other squire. His poetry would shine forth with the purity of his love, and her beauty would fire the words to sing forth from his lips. Then Clarissant, Thomas, and all the assembled host would recognize that Calhoun was a squire of the first order. Calhoun of Margate would make a knight worthy to carry the king’s own banner.

  ***

  The day of the tournament dawned bright and clear, and Calhoun jerked Gislebert awake from a sound sleep. “Wake up, little mouse,” Calhoun called, prodding the boy in the straw. “I need help with this armor, and my master Fulk awaits my arrival at the stables.”

  “So soon?” Gislebert mumbled, wiping sleep from his eyes. He blinked and stared fixedly at Calhoun’s hauberk. “Does it begin today?”

  “It begins today,” Calhoun snapped, placing his cold hands under the boy’s arms and lifting him to his feet. “Hurry up and help me get dressed.”

  The first event was jousting, and Calhoun thought his aim had never been more clear or his hands more steady. He had dispatched his first four opponents with ease, knocking them from their horses as if they were made of nothing but straw and mud.

  But now he faced Arnoul, who weighed considerably more than the young men who had nervously charged him before. Calhoun knew the key to unseating Arnoul lay in enticing the larger boy off balance. Then a mere prod with the lance would tilt Arnoul off his horse as easily as a turtle is tipped onto its back.

  Calhoun lowered his visor, gripped his padded lance, and spurred his horse. This day would end in victory.

  ***

  “How does it feel to be the first day’s winner?”

  Calhoun recognized Fulk’s voice, and he smiled slowly, bringing his thoughts from love to victory. He had been lying on his bunk trying to find the words for his poem to Clarissant.

  “Victory is agreeable,” Calhoun admitted, “but my next challenge is intimidating, Fulk. I cannot find the words for what I want to say in my poem. As the jousting winner I will certainly have to read a poem to Lady Clarissant, and though the words are here--” he lay his hand over his heart, “they will not spring onto the paper.”

  Fulk grunted and pulled off his boots. Gislebert hopped up from his straw bed and ran to clean the dusty footwear, and Fulk stretched out on his bunk. “I cannot help you,” he grunted. “I know little of love.”

  “I know so much,” Calhoun sighed. “My heart is full of it when I gaze at the lady. But--”

  “You know less than I,” Fulk retorted. “Your heart is full of giddiness, but it knows nothing of true love.”

  “My love is true,” Calhoun answered indignantly, pushing himself upright. “Love drives m
e to distraction. I can’t think, I can’t eat--”

  “True love drives a man to destruction,” Fulk answered, closing his eyes. “But you will not believe me now. So dream on, young squire, dream on.”

  Calhoun settled back on his bunk, more than a little upset that Fulk considered his devotion so insignificant. If this affection was not love, what was it? Love or not, his passion was indescribable, and Calhoun scowled at the blank page in front of him.

  ***

  He fought the next day in the contest of swordsmanship, and was so charged by his passion and the previous day’s victory that his opponents scarcely managed to land a blow on him. He had to curb his impulses, so high was his energy, lest he turn his sword and run his blade through his fellow squires. The noble Arnoul did not even face him in the final contest; the royal cousin had been defeated two rounds earlier.

  But that night Calhoun’s victory felt hollow because the prize, so near for the taking, was still miles out of reach. He had no words for the Lady Clarissant, no adequate descriptions of her beauty, no praises eloquent enough to compliment her goodness.

  The next morning Calhoun scowled at each of his wrestling opponents and dispatched them with such rapidity that the spectator knights declared the contest boring; such a one should be tempered in his skill to make the contests more equal. “Why don’t we tie his feet together?” one knight suggested, and they laughed until Fulk countered their recommendation with a glare. No one dared say anything after that, especially since it appeared that Fulk’s young charge now possessed a scowl as threatening as his master’s.

  By mid-afternoon Calhoun was the victor in all three contests and the certain winner of Clarissant’s favor. He alone would stand before her tonight and recite a poem, but to fully commend her beauty the poem must be no less than an epic, a timeless piece of workmanship.

  The task was too great; Calhoun could feel his brain turning to mush. The distraction he had felt on his first attempt at writing had evolved into frenzy, and he paced through the garrison until he finally collapsed upon his bunk in defeat.

  “I’m not worthy to be a knight,” Calhoun moaned to Gislebert, who watched in bewildered silence. “I can face any enemy who charges me on horseback, with a sword, or with his bare hands, but at the sight of a beautiful woman I am turned to jelly.”

  “You’re working too hard,” Gislebert said, shrugging. “You’re trying to produce something equal to your feelings, and that’s probably impossible.”

  Calhoun considered Gislebert’s words. “What you say is true. But it won’t help me produce the poem my lady Clarissant expects.”

  “Write about someone else,” Gislebert suggested. “Someone else you have loved. Your mother, or your sister.”

  “But I have never loved anyone like this!”

  Gislebert sighed in exasperation. “Love is love, regardless of the degree. Write sanely about someone you once loved, and let the purity of your thoughts guide you clearly. After the poem is written you can just adjust the words to reflect the lady Clarissant.”

  Calhoun stared at his young friend for a moment, then reached out and rumpled the boy’s hair. He was a mouse, always underfoot, but he made sense. Calhoun thought a moment, then began to write.

  ***

  That evening at supper, as the bowls were passed, Lord Thomas bestowed a rare smile on Calhoun. “Congratulations are due to you, Calhoun of Margate,” he said, “for winning three contests in as many days. But to be declared winner of the tournament, you must read a poem for Lady Clarissant and find favor in her eyes.”

  Calhoun wiped his mouth and stood from his place at the table. His mouth felt dry and he was sure his hands were shaking, but he smiled as boldly as he dared. “To find favor in my lady’s eyes is prize enough,” he said, “but to please her with a poem would bring joy beyond measure.”

  Clarissant leaned forward at her table, her eyes shining with expectation. She raised delicate eyebrows in Calhoun’s direction and he was momentarily distracted by the sight of her crimson lips and white throat.

  “Read, young squire,” she said, a teasing note in her gentle voice.

  The clatter and clamor of a hundred feasting men ceased as Calhoun picked up his parchment, cleared his throat, and read:

  When the flowers appear in the earthen green fields,

  Along with the bitter baneberry,

  Then I must consider you, my lady,

  And the burden of love that I carry.

  My love for you cannot rightly be borne,

  It is not my place to declare it.

  Though my heart with longing is heavy each day,

  I will never be able to share it.

  I will fight for the honor and glory due you,

  And deny what I ought not to say,

  But my heart is engraved with your image so fair,

  Golden hair and sweet eyes of gray.

  As Calhoun lowered his parchment, a visiting troubadour sprang to his feet and applauded. “It is magnificent!” he cried, rushing to Calhoun’s table. “I must have a copy, please.”

  Lady Clarissant smiled and stood. “It is a wonderful tribute,” she said, extending her hand. Calhoun came forward, took her cool hand in his sweaty palm, and bent from the waist to kiss it. There was an audible hush over the room, as jealous squires and knights united in an envious intake of breath.

  Calhoun straightened awkwardly and took a step back. “There’s only one thing,” Clarissant said, smiling. She tilted her head toward him, gently teasing. “I’m not sure whose image is truly engraved on your heart, young Calhoun. My eyes are blue, not gray.”

  Fourteen

  When Hubert was willing and pleased with himself, Afton was allowed out of the house, with Wilda, to attend church once a week. The hour she spent in the small village church was the only spiritual nourishment her soul received, for while Hubert believed that a dutiful wife was religious and devoted to prayers, he himself consigned religion to fools and madmen.

  Afton’s spirits were almost light one summer afternoon when she and Wilda walked home from church. Father Odoric had spoken kindly to her, and had asked how her marriage was faring. “It’s been nearly two years since I united you with the miller, hasn’t it, my child?” the priest had asked, squinting at her. “Is all well with you?”

  Afton had replied, yes, all was well. In her heart she had excused the falsehood by reminding herself that things had not lately been as bad as they once were. She had learned Hubert’s peculiarities, and she knew now to avoid them.

  A dark-haired boy stepped across her path. “Please let us pass,” Wilda barked vigilantly. Afton immediately cast her eyes down at the ground and prayed that the strange would move without incident. Hubert was waiting for her at home.

  “Afton, do you not know me? I’m your brother,” the young man said in the deepening voice of youth. He bent to look into her eyes. “Jacopo, do you remember? I’m a year younger than you.”

  Sudden joy flooded Afton’s heart and her eyes rose to eagerly memorize the details of his face. She was not alone! She had not thought of her brothers in years, but here was one brother, and there were others, too.

  “Jacopo? Of course I remember you! And there was Marco, and Matthew--”

  “Matthew was killed,” Jacopo interrupted.

  “I knew that,” Afton recalled, her face twisting in sadness. “But there is still Kier, and Gerald.”

  “And William, who died while a baby, and Galbert,” Jacopo finished for her. “I was hoping I’d see you in the village. Mama says we’re not to bother you at the miller’s house.”

  “Oh, but you can,” Afton said, reaching out for his hands. “Please come to dinner! My husband has guests for dinner all the time, and I’m sure you’d be welcome. Tell mama and papa to come, too. I’d love to see them.”

  Jacopo backed away awkwardly and released her hands, but he smiled. “I will,” he promised.

  The veil on her head had slipped when she reached for Jacop
o’s hand, so Afton pulled it tighter around her head and resumed her walk home with Wilda. For the first time in months, she felt happy. At her marriage, when she had ridden with Corba and Wido in the wagon to the church, she had gazed upon their poor clothing and rough hands with disdain. Now the sight of their faces, no matter how unrefined, would be so welcome at her house!

  ***

  She was smiling when she entered the hall, and Hubert’s narrow eyes flitted over her face. “What made church such a happy occasion?” he asked.

  “The peace of God,” Afton replied easily, moving past him into the chamber. Surprisingly, he did not follow her, but went out of the house, and Afton breathed a sigh of relief.

  He did not come home for dinner or supper, and after waiting until her stomach growled and her legs grew weak, Afton directed Wilda to bring Afton’s dinner into her chamber. She did not care where Hubert was, in fact, she half hoped he had found something or someone to take his attention away from her. The only way she could survive life with Hubert was to enjoy the hours she spent without him.

  Wilda seemed to take forever with her dinner, and when Afton finally heard a knock on the door she felt lightheaded with hunger. “Come in,” she called brightly, putting her embroidery away, but Wilda did not open the door. The chamber door swung open and revealed Hubert, who carried a tray laden with two steaming bowls of meat.

  The sight was so unusual that Afton gaped in astonishment. Hubert raised his busy black brows and a corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You haven’t had your dinner,” he said smoothly. “Come, sit at my feet, and we’ll eat together.”

  His voice was pleasant, almost soothing, but something in his unflinching stare made Afton shiver. The hair on her arms rose and some primal instinct raged at her to flee. But she smoothed her skirt, wiped her face, and walked to her low footstool while her husband took his place in his chair by the fire.

  When she was seated, Hubert handed her a heaping bowl of meat and a knife. He took the bowl with the smaller portion and began cutting his food. “I heard a story in town,” he said, placing a hunk of meat in his mouth, “about a woman who was unfaithful to her husband. Have you heard the story?”