Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Afton’s hand shook as she cut her meat, but she steadied her voice. “Why no, my lord,” she answered. “Here in the village?”

  “It doesn’t matter where,” Hubert answered. He stopped and stared at her bowl. “You aren’t eating, my dear, and this meat is especially tender.”

  Afton put the meat into her mouth and chewed obediently. Hubert nodded in satisfaction and continued: “The husband found the lover, killed him, and cut out his heart. The unfaithful wife was then forced to eat the heart of her lover.”

  Afton had to clench her teeth together to keep from gagging. She kept her eyes downcast, though, and after pausing for a moment, she took another bite. “That seems an unusual punishment, my lord.”

  “But a worthy one,” Hubert answered. They ate for a while in silence, and Afton noticed that Hubert was unusually attentive. Once the bowl in her lap slipped, and he caught it quickly and returned it to her, smiling at her thanks.

  His peculiar actions and manner terrified her. After they had eaten, he took her bowl, placed it on the tray, and reached for her hands. “I’ve a little gift for you,” he said, gripping her hands firmly.

  “For me, my lord?”

  “Yes. I went to the village to inquire about the source of your smile today, and a brave soul told me you were holding hands with a young man, just as I hold your hands now. I knew you’d want to look your best for the lad, so I had an animal skinned for your pleasure. You have eaten the meat, and I believe the fur will make a nice collar for your new mantle.”

  He released one of her hands and reached into his tunic. With a flourish he produced a small, still-damp animal skin, white, with touches of orange fur. Afton stared at it in silence, shivering as the truth struck her. She had just eaten her little cat.

  Hubert gripped her hands again and watched in fascination as she trembled in terror, then he began to laugh, and drew her to him so tightly that she could not speak, could not breathe without smelling him.

  She wanted to die. She tried to tell him the young man in the village was her own brother, but Hubert glared at her with such ferocity she dared not utter another word.

  ***

  Afton slowly dressed herself the next morning. For many months she had borne Hubert’s public flaunting of her and his private humiliations, and now she was sure she was dying. She had been ill for several weeks, but she had not dared to let Hubert see her weakness, for fear he would laugh or find some new way to teach her his “lessons.”

  In the beginning of their marriage she had prayed that he would die, but he seemed to feed on his malignity, growing stronger and more cruel each time he belittled her. Now he was a giant, the shadow of her life, and no light could pass through him.

  Once she had learned about the kitten, it became obvious to Afton that Hubert had even cowered Wilda into submission. She wondered what Hubert had done to the old woman. . .had he beaten her? Threatened to kill her? Nothing less would have made the woman give up Afton’s pet, her only source of daily joy. Wilda would no longer dare to show any kindness to her mistress. Knowing Hubert, Wilda would not even be allowed to serve as a chaperon, so Afton could not go out of the house unless it was on her husband’s arm.

  She was sitting alone in her chamber, miserable and ill, when someone knocked on the door. Afton rose and peered into the hall. “Mama!” she whispered, overcome with surprise at receiving an afternoon visitor. She opened the doorway to her chamber. “Please come in.”

  “Your cook said I should come straight in through the hall,” Corba said, looking around the room. “Jacopo said you wanted to see me.”

  Afton closed the door and collapsed at her mother’s feet. “I’m dying, mama,” she wailed. “I’m so sick, and I’m dying!”

  Corba gathered Afton into her arms and listened to her daughter’s sobs. Afton did not dare tell of Hubert’s brutality, but she poured out her symptoms and her desire to die. Corba listened intently, then a deep chuckle rose from her generous throat.

  Afton pulled away and looked into her mother’s face. “How can you laugh?” she sobbed. “I want to die!”

  “No, you don’t,” her mother said, hugging her again. “You’re going to be a mother. you are with child.” Corba smiled, and then added proudly, “I know about these things. I’ve carried eight babes.”

  Afton froze in disbelief. A baby? Could Hubert’s monstrous acts have created a baby?

  “It can’t be,” Afton protested weakly. “Hubert--”

  “He will be so happy,” Corba assured her. “Why, a man of his age fathering a baby--he’ll be so proud. The whole village talks of his pride in you, and this will increase his joy a thousandfold.”

  Increase his joy? His only joy lay in mortifying her. The words rang in Afton’s ears as she fainted.

  ***

  Afton did not have to tell her husband the news; Corba told him, pulling him close in her excitement and shaking his hand enthusiastically. “Congratulations to you,” she said, her face beaming. “My own daughter will soon bear you a child.”

  Hubert’s face was inscrutable. From where she lay on the bed Afton could not tell if he was truly glad, but he smiled at Corba and graciously led her out of the house.

  When Corba had gone, Hubert came into the chamber and closed the door behind him. He gazed at Afton for a long time in silence, and Afton closed her eyes and wished that death would come. Finally he spoke as if he read her mind: “You wish to die? If this child you carry is not mine, you shall.”

  “It is your child. My mother told me how the seed of a child is planted, and the child can only be yours.” Afton answered flatly. She was too tired and too ready for death to cower before him.

  Hubert crossed over to the bed and placed his rough hand over her stomach. “When will this child be born?”

  “My mother says it will be February . . . if all goes well.”

  “That will depend upon you, little wife.” Hubert turned his back. “I have warned your mother to not speak of this, and we will tell no one of this impending birth. When the child is born, we will see who it favors. Your life depends upon the child you carry within you.”

  ***

  For the next two months Hubert did not strike her. He watched her even more closely than before, and as she sat at dinner he watched his guests to see which of them sent admiring glances toward Afton. Before her announcement he had been pleased to exhibit his wife as a treasure, but now he cast suspicious glances toward any man who even glanced in her direction.

  Afton didn’t care what he thought of his guests, she was only relieved that his humiliations now did not include his horsewhip. He still bade her perform for his guests, he still bade her kiss his hands and wash his feet, and he watched her with the sharp, swiveling eyes of an eagle. Still, Afton felt relief.

  She wondered why Hubert seemed to find it difficult to believe she carried his child. Was it his age? Or did he honestly believe she had a lover? Common sense dictated that the latter was impossible, for she had been a prisoner in her own home for over a year.

  She found her answer unexpectedly when she overheard a conversation in the courtyard between Wilda and a village woman. The woman told Wilda of a girl who had been attacked by a man in the fields. Her father had planned to press charges before Lord Perceval, but then the girl was found to be with child. “Ah,” Wilda cackled, giving the woman a sly wink, “then the maid took pleasure from their chance meeting. Her father will have no suit to bring before Perceval.”

  The women went on with their conversation, but inside the house, Afton ducked behind the window and sank to the floor in sudden understanding. If conception could not take place without pleasure, then it was no wonder Hubert did not believe the child was his! She had shown no pleasure in his time with her, and had felt none, only disgust and mortification. She shook her head. This idea could not be true, but if it was commonly believed, her life hung by a thread more slender than she had realized.

  As the days passed and Hubert continued
to spy on her, Afton became more and more frightened. After the baby was born, what then? Hubert would look at the child, declare privately that it was not his, and he would kill her, as was his right. He would have his heir, his pleasure in killing her, and her baby would be left in the hands of a monster. Her hands went protectively to her gently bulging stomach. Never. She would never leave her child unprotected.

  One night as Hubert snored beside her, Afton raised up on her elbows and looked down at him. She could kill him as he slept. She could go into the kitchen for a knife and plunge it into his heart, for he was a sound sleeper and slow to wake. But she would be discovered and would be brought before Perceval, and would doubtless be hung.

  Her fingers played with the edges of the wool blanket that covered them. Still, the venture might be worth the price she would have to pay. But at that moment, a fluttering in her stomach caught her by surprise and she drew in her breath. The life in her womb was moving!

  She lay back and caressed her belly, considering her choices. If she killed Hubert, her own life would be forfeit, as well as the life of her unborn child. If she continued as she was, Hubert would undoubtedly kill her after his child was born. She could not run away, for she was never alone or unwatched. There was only one option remaining, and her soul shrank from it in disgust. But it was her only choice: she would have to convince Hubert that she took pleasure in him.

  ***

  She awoke before he did, as always, and when she heard him stir she turned and put her arm around him. She snuggled against his chest and felt him recoil in surprise. With his free hand he grabbed her hair and pulled her head off his chest. “What is this?” he growled.

  “I’m caressing my husband and the father of my child,” she said sweetly, smiling at him. “Release my head, my lord.”

  Surprisingly, he did as she asked, and she snuggled a few minutes more and playfully ran her fingers over his chest.

  “What has bewitched you?” he asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “Life and love,” she answered, lifting her head to look at him. She ran a finger across the top of his balding head and traced the outline of his ear. “When we married, my lord, I did not suppose I would have the honor of carrying a child in your name. Even these past weeks I thought it a dream, but last night I felt your child move in my womb, my lord, and I suppose I am overcome with pleasure from the child within me.”

  He did not believe her, she could read it in his eyes, but he flipped her over and put his hand on her belly. “I feel nothing,” he muttered, and Afton felt only the hot presence of his hand on her flesh. But suddenly he removed his hand as if burned. “I did feel it,” he said, staring at her belly. “It did move.”

  “Our child,” whispered Afton, praying that he would believe her charade. “The child of the valiant and worthy Hubert.”

  “So you thought me an old man,” he growled, smirking down at her. “You thought these loins unable to perform their manly duty?”

  He did not wait for her reply, but rose from the bed with a smile. Afton closed her eyes, not in pleasure, but in simple relief.

  ***

  Afton continued her pretense diligently, for she knew her life depended on it. In the months that followed she kissed Hubert often and willingly; she asked, “What shall I wear for you today, my lord?”, and she raised her eyes from the ground for him alone. She danced for him in the privacy of their chamber, and sang him to sleep with his head in her lap. His suspicion gradually evaporated, and hard resolve and the growing hardness of her belly enabled Afton to continue doing things she despised for a man she detested.

  She found an unexpected benefit in her new situation when she and Hubert were invited to Margate castle for a feast on the eve of St. Agnes’ Day. Ordinarily Hubert would not have allowed her to go, but now he was thrilled for the opportunity, for only free men and the lesser lords of Perceval and their wives were to attend. He bragged openly before the villagers of his exalted position in Perceval’s estimation, and pointed proudly to Afton as proof of Perceval’s high esteem.

  Afton looked forward to the feast as well. It had been nearly two years since she had last seen Endeline and Perceval, and she looked forward to seeing Morgan and Lunette as well. She was but fourteen, but she felt she had aged twenty years since leaving the castle in the bridal wagon.

  Wilda helped Afton dress in a lovely gown of scarlet with a warm matching mantle edged with beaver fur. She was eight months with child, and very large, but she would be able to disguise her figure under the generous mantle.

  Corba often joked about Afton’s size, saying she was eating too much, but Afton didn’t mind not being able to see the floor. She was even able to bear Hubert’s fascination with her belly: he slept with his hands upon her and often pulled her to him so he could remark on the strength of his unborn child’s movements. All these things could be borne, because Afton had fallen in love with the child who depended upon her for life and love. Afton resolved not to fail her baby.

  Her distasteful deception had worked. Hubert had publicly acknowledged that his wife carried his child, and every man in the village had raised a tankard to Hubert’s great virility.

  ***

  The castle seemed smaller than Afton recalled, the courtyard more confining. As they drove through the massive barbican in Hubert’s wagon, Afton saw Perceval and Endeline standing near the castle gate, braving the winter winds to welcome visitors as they alighted. Gawain, Perceval’s sergeant-at-arms, was there, too, and Hector, the steward, stood at Endeline’s side.

  Afton’s own trials had eclipsed the bitter feelings she once harbored for Endeline, and she was eager to greet her former mistress as one mature woman greets another. Hubert gave the reins of the wagon to a servant and extended his hand to help Afton down. As she struggled out of the wagon, the edges of her mantle parted and revealed her pregnancy, though she quickly pulled the edges together and awkwardly curtseyed before Perceval and Endeline.

  Endeline stared at her in stony silence, then remarked casually to Perceval: “I am chilled, husband. I will see you inside.”

  Afton stood in confused silence while Hubert greeted Perceval, Hector, and Gawain. The other guests were proceeding into the great hall for dinner, but Hubert grabbed Afton’s arm and pulled her away from the crowd and into a corner of the stable.

  “What did you do to offend Lady Endeline?” he snapped, his eyes dark and threatening. He raised his hand as if to slap her. “Tell me now, so I can apologize to the lord!”

  “I did nothing,” Afton stammered, searching for a reason to explain Endeline’s behavior. Then it came to her, and she forced a teasing smile. “Do you not know, my dear lord, that the lady is jealous of me, for I carry your child?” Afton whispered. She reached for Hubert’s outstretched hand and pulled it down underneath her mantle and onto her belly. “Endeline wants a baby badly, and she cannot bear to see a woman in this blessed condition. Her behavior is a compliment to you, dear husband, because you and I have accomplished what our lord and lady cannot.”

  The notion appealed to Hubert’s vanity, as Afton knew it would, and his stormy expression broke into a smile. Afton linked her arm through his and lay her head on his shoulder. “Now can we go in and eat, please? Your child and I are famished.”

  ***

  The meal was excellent and Endeline noted that the guests seemed suitably impressed. Her good mood had returned, once she managed to put aside the destructive feelings of jealousy that struck her when she saw the very pregnant Afton, and now she concentrated on her other guests. The servants had done well, and the tablecloths, silver spoons, salt dishes, and steel knives were shining in their abundance. As usual, today’s guests would go home and tell stories of the opulence and generosity of Perceval’s castle.

  Endeline nodded to the troubadour she had engaged for the feast, and he sang as they ate. He sang lovely dawn songs, bawdy spinning songs, and a song of political satire that made Perceval squirm in his seat. Endeline smo
thered a smile. Perceval need not worry about this crowd; none of these people had the ear of the king or the power to do him harm.

  “Sing us a love song,” Endeline commanded as the servants cleared away the dishes. She raised an eyebrow and glanced in Afton’s direction. “Something fitting for young lovers.”

  The troubadour bowed. “I do have a special treat for you, my lady, a poem composed by a young squire of Warwick, quite stricken with love for his lady. It was a lovely piece, and I would be honored to sing it for you.”

  Lady Endeline leaned forward. “A young squire? Pray, what was his name?”

  The troubadour bowed low. “Your honorable son, my lady. Squire Calhoun of Margate, a valiant and most excellent young man.”

  The crowd stirred in pleasure, and Endeline smiled and held up her hand for silence. Calhoun was in love! And obviously with a lady at Warwick Castle. She glanced at Afton and purred in pleasure: “Please, we would hear this song.”

  The troubadour bowed again, then clasped his hand over his heart and began to sing:

  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.

  The crowd burst into applause at the end of the song, and Charles, laughing, called out: “Who was the maiden for which the song was written?”

  “There’s another story,” the troubadour said, pleased with his reception. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper: “The poem was directed to the Lady Clarissant of Warwick, but later a page in Squire Calhoun’s confidence told me the eyes of gray belong to another maiden, for the Lady Clarissant’s eyes are blue.”