Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  She closed her eyes and a sound rose from deep within her; Calhoun could not tell if she laughed or cried. “No,” she said finally, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I am not now in difficulty. But I thank you for your concern, sir. It is most unusual for a knight to be troubled with the concerns of a woman such as I.”

  He did not understand the anger that bubbled beneath her words. What had happened to her? “I am not yet a knight,” he said softly, sheathing his sword. “I am to be dubbed when King Henry arrives.”

  She lifted her chin. “A knight in King Henry’s service. So you always wanted to be, Calhoun.”

  “Aye.” The child toddled over to her and hid his face in her skirt. Calhoun tore his eyes from her face and gave the child a cursory appraisal. “Your child is very handsome.”

  “Aye,” she echoed.

  He wanted to add, He looks very much like you, but did not know how she would react to words of flattery, sincere though they would have been. This woman was not Clarissant, who lapped up flattery as eagerly as a cat before a bowl of milk.

  He turned away, but remembered something. “You promised your obedience if I gave you my name,” he said, turning back to watch her eyes carefully. “I asked you to pull back your hood.” She did not move, so he gently added: “Will you?”

  Her eyes remained obstinate, not once leaving his face, but her hand moved as though it possessed life of its own and pulled the dark hood from her head. Her golden hair shone as he remembered it, long and loose as it had been on the night she danced before him in the castle.

  “Thank you,” he answered. He mounted his horse and pointed at the body in the shadows. “I’ll send a sergeant to remove the scoundrel’s body shortly. I’ll take care of everything.” Then he rode through her gate and vanished into the night.

  ***

  She couldn’t believe she had removed her hood for him. It was a simple thing, but she had yielded to him without protest, and for what reason? So he could look at her? So he could prove his power over her and lord his exalted position?

  She placed Ambrose in his bed and fumed in the darkness. She had vowed never again to submit to a man, but she had done it without thinking because Calhoun had asked a simple thing of her. Yes, his voice had grown deeper and more powerful, and his face had not lost its attraction for her. Under the firm set of his chin there still remained something of the sweet nature she had loved as a child, and the sight of his sword had reminded her of the time he had tried to catch her in the hay.

  But he had not known her. He had not crashed through her gate to rescue his old friend, he had come riding to the aid of Perceval’s miller. She told herself she was being unreasonable to expect him to know or care about her situation, but still she felt bitterly disappointed. In these past few weeks Calhoun had ridden by her house and stood in her courtyard, yet he had known nothing about her, not even that she had a child and a dead husband. In the weeks he had been home, he had asked no one of her whereabouts. He had not even been sure of her face.

  Her disappointment flamed to furious resentment when the sergeant-at-arms and his men arrived the next morning to remove the body from her courtyard. “Yes, lord Calhoun himself killed the fellow when he attacked the woman,” the sergeant said, pride dripping from his voice. “It is the man he suspected and trailed all afternoon. By all the saints, Perceval’s son may grow to be a mightier warrior than his father or grandfather before him.”

  She withdrew from her window and seethed in silence. Did men of his breed keep score of the souls they dispatched to heaven or hell? Was this the first, or second, or hundredth soul Calhoun claimed to boost his fame as a mighty knight? She had killed the intruder herself, and quite easily, for the man had not expected her to be carrying a dagger inside her sleeve. She had even been aware of his presence on the road behind her and in the courtyard, as he carelessly advanced his attack. And she had not been afraid when he struck. She would never be afraid of anything again.

  ***

  The killing of the prowler would have ordinarily provided the villagers with gossip for months, but the arrival of King Henry and his entourage doubled the peasants’ workload and left no time for idle chatter. The villein women baked mountains of bread, and the men slaughtered and salted a small herd of cattle, sheep, and deer in anticipation of the king’s varied appetite.

  In return for their efforts, every villager was invited to attend the great feast and tournament which would follow the dubbing ceremony, and Perceval declared that no work would be done in the week that followed the king’s departure. The work necessary in the week before the king’s arrival exhausted nobles and villeins alike.

  Afton herself had worked in the mill from sunrise to sunset. Perceval had sent Josson daily to the mill with a substantial amount of wheat, and Afton’s arms and back ached from lifting and hauling wheat and flour to and from the grindstone. The night before Calhoun’s dubbing she lay on her bed and debated aloud whether or not she should attend the festivities. Surely staying home with Ambrose would be more satisfying than watching Calhoun pledge his life and sword to King Henry.

  Corba would not hear of Afton remaining behind. “You must go,” she declared with unusual fervor. She stopped rocking Ambrose and shook a finger at her daughter. “You will offend the lord and lady, and, mark my words, Hector will know if you do not attend. It will mean trouble for all of us if you do not go to the castle.”

  To calm her mother, Afton agreed to attend the ceremony. She would just have to steel herself for the task of watching her childhood friend take up arms in the service of a brutal king.

  Twenty

  Endeline had spared no expense in preparation for her guests at the king’s banquet prior to Calhoun’s dubbing, and the tables were bountifully arrayed with silver salt cellars, gilded goblets, silver spoons, elegant ewers, and fragrant sweetmeat dishes. But King Henry had changed little during the years of Calhoun’s training, and the knight-to-be found it hard to enjoy himself at the king’s table. The royal eye turned often in his direction, and Calhoun found himself glancing awkwardly at his lap in a most cowardly fashion. Perhaps it was the setting. Only five feet in front of Calhoun and his king lay the space of blood-stained floor where the king had once brutalized his grandchildren.

  So Calhoun ate much and talked little, remembering too well how the king’s eye could gleam violently at the least sign of treachery, and for the first time he realized the wisdom in Fulk’s persistent admonishment to keep a tight rein on one’s mouth. It was obvious that Perceval had never received such training, for he fawned over the king, constantly praising, flattering, and giving homage. Through the barrage of adulation, Calhoun sensed that King Henry did not love Perceval better for it.

  The next two days held many challenges for Calhoun. Not only must he watch his actions, gestures, words, and facial expressions while in the presence of the king, but the eyes of other knights rested upon him, eager to test the mettle of young man who wished to join their ranks. The report of his killing the intruder in the village had added favorably to his reputation, but also fueled jealousy of knights who envied Calhoun’s position as Perceval’s son.

  Fulk warned Calhoun of this danger, and Calhoun had felt the sting of it in the past week. One knight tripped Calhoun in the courtyard, in front of the servants, and Calhoun sprang to his feet, eager to fight. One glance from Fulk, however, reminded him to control his temper and forget his embarrassment, and Calhoun was compelled to smooth his features and continue as if nothing had happened.

  The taunting and testing did not end with the day. In the darkness of the garrison as he tried to sleep, anonymous voices called out insults to his manhood, his parentage, and even his mother. These remarks he bore in silence, gritting his teeth, but keenly aware of Fulk’s warning presence on the bunk across from him.

  But all had gone well. He had borne his week of testing without once losing control of his temper, and now he had only to endure the day of feasting and the day of
dubbing.

  After Endeline’s sumptuous dinner, Perceval summoned musicians for dancing. As the servants cleared the tables from the hall, several young servant girls shyly entered. “Have you no other maidens than these?” the king asked, his wide hand sweeping toward the servant girls disdainfully.

  Calhoun scanned the row of maidens and noted that Afton was not among them. “We have other maidens in the village, sire,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. “But not many are up to the honor of dancing before Your Highness.”

  Henry chuckled appreciatively, and Calhoun bowed again and left the table. He wished for a moment that Afton had been present; now that he knew how to dance he would serve as her willing partner. But he bowed before the first young girl he met, and as she twittered in pleasure, he took her hand and opened the dancing, fulfilling his proper role as a knight. He saw his mother smile in approval.

  The dancing continued throughout the afternoon. A supper table was brought into the back of the room, where those who had developed an appetite could eat their fill, and the musicians continued playing as the sun set. When the late afternoon sun lowered the first shadows of evening in the hall, Perceval clapped his hands, King Henry took his leave, and the musicians and guests cleared the hall.

  Calhoun was left alone with his father and his master, Fulk. Together the three men went upstairs to the chamber, where Perceval and Fulk dressed Calhoun in a white robe. His father embraced him; Fulk clapped him vigorously on the shoulder, then they escorted him to the chapel where Charles and Endeline waited. Abbot Hugh led the family as they partook of the body and blood of Christ.

  Calhoun found it difficult to concentrate on mass, for on a purple satin pillow before the altar lay his new sword, a weapon of unusual beauty. When all had partaken of mass, Abbot Hugh sprinkled the sword with holy water and murmured a prayer of blessing over it, then Calhoun prostrated himself on the floor before the altar. His family slipped out of the chapel, but Calhoun spent the night on the hard wooden floor. “Our Father who art in heaven,” he prayed, hesitating to search for the right words. “Hallowed be thy name and my sword. Use both my sword and my heart, my Father, for Your kingdom and Your eternal glory.”

  ***

  Calhoun did not dare stir from his position until daybreak when the king appeared in the chapel doorway. Henry offered his hand to Calhoun, who accepted it and knelt at the king’s feet, then Henry bid him rise and affectionately embraced him. In triumph the king led Calhoun to his table in the hall, where they breakfasted with Perceval and Fulk.

  After breakfast, the maids Morgan and Lunette prepared a ritual bath in Perceval’s chamber so Calhoun might cleanse his body as he had cleansed his soul, and after he had bathed, Fulk and his father helped him dress in fine linen undergarments, a tunic of white, a purple robe, silk stockings, and shoes ornamented with violet eagles. “Eagles are birds of strength,” Perceval said, gazing wistfully at the symbol of his family, “and violet is the color of humility, which we bear before the throne of England.”

  A glimmer of pride shown even from Fulk’s dark eyes, and the lips under his moustache quivered with suppressed emotion as he looked at Calhoun, arrayed in the full costume of a royal knight. “You have done well, squire Calhoun,” he said, his voice husky.

  “No longer squire,” Calhoun answered, clasping Fulk’s shoulder. He smiled at his friend and master. “After this hour, my training is complete.”

  “Training is never complete,” Fulk corrected him, turning away to open the chamber door. “But after this hour, you have earned the sword of a knight.”

  ***

  Under the eyes of hundreds of spectators gathered into the castle courtyard, Calhoun knelt on a carpet of violet before the king and heard approval in Henry’s words: “Rise, noble Calhoun, a knight in King Henry’s service. Your father and I have provided for your arms in service to your lord and king.”

  The trumpeters resounded with a musical flourish, and the crowd cheered. Calhoun stood, and Fulk approached with a new shirt of double-woven mail, which no lance or javelin could pierce. Perceval aided Fulk as they removed his purple robe and slipped the shirt of mail over his tunic; then they helped him slip into iron boots of the same double mesh. Endeline approached with a white surcoat, which bore the violet eagle of Perceval’s household. This Perceval slipped over Calhoun’s head.

  New spurs, gilded in gold, were strapped to his heels, and a shield with a violet eagle was hung around his neck. On his head Fulk placed a new helmet, which gleamed with precious stones set into the headband, and Perceval set into his hand a spear of ash, tipped with iron.

  Finally Henry motioned to a nearby page, and the boy approached with Calhoun’s new sword, still lying upon its satin pillow. The silver blade gleamed in the sunlight. “Let the words engraved upon this sword, Homo Dei, forever remind you that from this day until your last you are to be the perfect image of a man of God, young Calhoun,” Henry charged.

  Calhoun removed his helmet and knelt again at the feet of the king and his father. Perceval stretched out his hands, and into his open palms Calhoun curled his hands submissively. As Perceval’s hands closed over those of his son, he recited the traditional vow: “Do you wish, without reservation, to become my man?”

  “I wish it,” Calhoun replied clearly.

  Perceval leaned forward and kissed Calhoun lightly on the lips. Then he dropped his son’s hands and motioned for Gislebert, who stood nearby with a casket of holy relics from the abbey church. Gislebert approached, and Calhoun lay his hands on the casket.

  “Do you promise by your faith that from this time forward you will be faithful to your lord Perceval and your King, and that you will maintain toward them your homage entirely against any man, in good faith and without any deception?” Perceval asked.

  “I swear it.”

  The crowd cheered, and Henry reached for Calhoun’s sword and regally touched it to Calhoun’s shoulder. The gesture forged the bond of service, and Henry then placed the sword in Calhoun’s hand. Calhoun kissed its hilt, then stood and sheathed it at his side.

  The crowd drew in a collective breath for what was to come: Perceval drew back his hand and struck Calhoun in the face. The traditional colee’, a strong buffet, would serve to remind the young knight of his oath, and though Calhoun had been expecting it, the force of the blow nearly knocked him from his feet.

  “Go now, fair son, and be a true knight and courageous in the face of your enemies,” Perceval charged his son. “Be brave and upright, that God may love thee better for it, and always remember that you spring from a race that can never be false. Spare the vanquished enemy who asks for your grace, assist those in distress, and give of your love and strength to God. If you will do these things, you cannot fail to please your lord and your king.”

  “So I shall!” Calhoun replied. He turned to face the cheering crowd, which parted as the final gift from his father was led into the courtyard, a war horse, the knight’s destrier, a stallion especially bred for strength in battle.

  Calhoun sprinted to the horse and swung into the saddle. He stood on his horse, his legs taut and straight in his long stirrups, and waved his sword in triumph at the jubilant crowd. As the other knights mounted their horses behind him, he turned the animal and lifted his lance with a mock battle cry. One touch of the spur sent the beast galloping out the castle gate toward the field of contest, and the crowd parted as the other knights streamed after him.

  As the hooves of Calhoun’s mount tore the tender grass in the field of contest, the other knights stampeded behind him for an exhibition of their talents and skills. Calhoun of Margate, a noble knight in the service of the Earl of Margate and King Henry of England, had completed his ceremony and begun his celebration. One voice was silent in the boisterous crowd, one pair of eyes did not follow the knights from the courtyard to the tournament field. Afton, her eyes downcast upon the golden head of her son, patted Ambrose absently and nodded to her mother. “We have seen what we came t
o see,” said, lifting the child into her arms. “Can we go home now without offending Lord Perceval?”

  Corba nodded, her eyes wide with understanding and, Afton thought, the tiniest trace of pity.

  ***

  For seven days the castle household and the king’s entourage feasted in the celebration of Calhoun’s knighthood. Endeline felt herself begin to relax as the days passed, for Calhoun had accomplished all and more than she and Perceval had planned for him. King Henry took obvious pleasure in Calhoun’s considerable skills as both a fighter, hunter, and diplomat, and the royal tiger showed no sign of turning on his hosts.

  When the celebration had ended and the royal guests had left, Endeline could not help noticing that Calhoun seemed detached from the daily routine at Margate. At meals he seemed distracted and aloof, and when she forced him to sit and talk with her, his replies were monosyllabic and his eyes no longer snapped with boyish abandon. It was as though the essence of her son had vanished, or wandered alone in a far away place.

  She asked the sergeant-at-arms how Calhoun was performing in his duties. Gawain reported that Calhoun was proficient, but lacked zeal in his work. “He knows what he must do,” Gawain explained to Endeline one afternoon in the garden, “and he does it well. But the other knights delight in gaming and tournaments, and Calhoun participates only if required, and then he wins and seems to find no glory or joy in winning.”

  “With whom does he spend his free time?” Endeline asked, leaning forward in the garden swing.

  Gawain shrugged. “He spends a great deal of time alone with Gislebert, and even more time riding through the countryside. He is often with Fulk, but they do not speak often. Both are men of few words.” Gawain wiped a trickle of perspiration from his forehead. “I do not know what to tell you, my lady. Perhaps your son is bored. Perhaps--” he laughed, “--perhaps he is in love. I hear he was devoted to the lady at Warwick Castle.”