Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  ***

  In the week that followed, Calhoun learned much from Khalil. The child of European parents, Khalil was born on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and remained there when his parents died. “Khalil” was the first Arabic word his parents had learned, for it meant “friend,” and Khalil felt it his personal goal to befriend the Saracens who now worked as tradespeople inside the city.

  “Outside the city war still rages,” Khalil said over supper one evening as Calhoun and Fulk joined him on the covered terrace. “And war continues inside the city, but in subtle ways.”

  “What do you mean?” Calhoun asked.

  “The Assassins,” Khalil whispered, looking around him with wide eyes. “They are a secret society sworn to kill the enemies of Mohammedism.”

  “Why doesn’t someone confront these people and destroy them?” Calhoun demanded.

  Khalil smiled. “They are ghosts. No one knows where they meet or who they are. The beggar sleeping on the corner of the road might be hiding a dagger meant for your heart. The loyal servant who daily pours your wine might one day add the poison that will strike you down.”

  “Such actions are cowardly!” Calhoun ranted, remembering the headless corpse of Parnell, killed while he slept. “What sort of coward does not confront his enemy?”

  “A terribly clever one,” Khalil answered. “But they are not cowards. They will die in the commission of their sworn duty, if necessary, and will kill themselves should they fail. You may have noticed that I have no Moslem servants. I will buy from them, sell to them, and befriend them. But I will not have a Muslim working in my house. I simply do not trust them.”

  Khalil explained that the Muslims were divided among themselves, and the Sunni Muslims believed that the Frankish armies of the first expedition of God had been summoned by a rival Muslim group to destroy them. “It was a sad day when the Sunni Muslims realized the Franks came to stay,” Khalil said, sipping from a silver goblet. “And for years the warring factions of Muslims have been trying to put aside their difference for a jihad, a holy war against the infidels.”

  “The infidels?” Calhoun asked. “But the heathen who have desecrated the Holy City are the infidels!”

  Khalil shook his head. “You forget that Jerusalem is a most holy city for the Muslims, too. It is said that Mohammed was awakened by the angel Gabriel in Mecca and advised that he was to take a night journey to paradise. To prepare for the trip, Gabriel slit Mohammed’s body open, removed and cleansed his heart, and when it was returned to him, it was filled with faith and wisdom. Mohammed then mounted a magic mare with a woman’s face, a mule’s body, and a peacock’s tail. Accompanied by Gabriel, Mohammed was at the ‘fartherest place’ in a heartbeat.”

  “What is this ‘fartherest place’?” Fulk muttered.

  “Jerusalem,” Khalil answered. “Though certainly Mohammed never visited here in the flesh, it is said he visited in spirit. He tethered his magic mare at the wailing wall, then went up to the Temple Mount. There he discovered the rock of Abraham’s sacrifice, and a ladder of light which led to Paradise. This he climbed, meeting Abraham, Jesus, Moses, and Noah on the ladder. At the top of the latter Mohammed saw Allah, unmasked.”

  “Nonsense!” Calhoun snorted. “This is a crazy tale.”

  “It grows more interesting,” Khalil answered. “Allah told Mohammed he wanted his subjects to pray to him thirty-five times a day, but Mohammed talked the deity into a more practical five-times-a-day ritual. After being filled with the wisdom of Solomon, Mohammed climbed down the ladder and rode back home to Mecca.”

  “I suppose there is a monument on the place now,” Fulk remarked dryly.

  “But of course,” Khalil said, a sly smile lighting his eyes. “The Most Noble Sanctuary. The Knights Templar use it as their headquarters, and the Muslims would love to see their most holy place cleared of all Christian infidels. There is a regent in the north now, Zengi, who is said to be amassing an army for this purpose.”

  “Why do we not ride out and stop him?” Calhoun asked, his eyes blazing.

  Khalil shrugged. “Before Zengi, there was another. After Zengi, there will come yet another. The Saracens are always massing, always attempting to wage war. While they do prompt a man to sleep with his dagger at his side, they have not posed a severe threat.”

  Calhoun nodded. Though Jerusalem was not the war-torn city he had envisioned, still it offered opportunities for service. He looked over at Fulk and smiled. His dagger might taste of blood yet.

  Twenty-five

  The next two years passed smoothly in the convent. Agnelet grew as long and slender as a reed, and there were times Hildegard completely forgot about the horrible blood-red mark on the girl’s face. On those occasions Hildegard would notice the beauty of Agnelet’s clear complexion and delicate features, and then, like a thunderclap, the reality of the crimson claw mark upon the girl’s face would assert itself. In Hildegard’s mind the mark was no longer a coincidental configuration, but the actual print of the devil’s claw, a fiendish hand that had tried and failed to snatch the babe from the land of the living.

  “But you failed,” Hildegard told the ground beneath her feet. “The devil himself failed to take this child, and now she abides with God.” Indeed, Hildegard found Agnelet more dedicated to the holy rule of the nuns than many of the nuns themselves. Agnelet seemed to know instinctively how a nun should respond in any situation, and she read the nuns’ delicate sign language easily, incorporating it often into her own spare conversation.

  She slept in a curtained alcove in the cloister with the other nuns, and when the bells rang for the night office at two a.m., she sprang from her straw mattress to go with the nuns to the dark, cold chapel to recite Matins, followed immediately by Lauds. The nuns then went back to bed, Agnelet with them, though often the child lay awake until the bells rang at six o’clock for Prime.

  After Prime the nuns ate a light breakfast of bread and beer (Agnelet, by special dispensation, drank milk), then went about their work, for the nunnery was affiliated with a working order whose holy rule considered labor as important as piety and prayer. Agnelet’s chores were simple: she served as assistant to the gardening nuns, the cooking nuns, and occasionally assisted the Abbess herself.

  At noon the community of nuns stopped work to eat a solid meal at which no one spoke, for the meal they ate for their bodies was not as crucial as the meal they received for their souls through the dinnertime reading of the day’s epistle. All language having to do with the physical meal was secondary, and relegated to the hands: an upraised hand with a waggling index finger asked for water, a cutting motion of the back of one hand against the palm of the other told the server that bread was needed, and two humble taps on the breast eloquently asked excuse for the latecomer or the nun who had unceremoniously belched at the table.

  Throughout the rest of the day the nuns dropped their work and retreated to the chapel to recite the other offices, Tierce, Sext, None, and Vespers, and after Compline, the last office of the day, they went straight in an orderly row to bed.

  Such was the life of Hildegard, Lienor, and Agnelet, and as Hildegard watched her flock struggle to perfect themselves in the heavenly graces, she thought she had never seen a more perfect nun’s heart than that which resided in Agnelet.

  ***

  Afton smiled at Ambrose as he struggled to pull a fish trap from the stream. “I’ve got it, mother,” he called, struggling to raise the heavy trap. “I’ve almost got it!”

  “Careful or it will get you!” Afton teased, rising to stand behind her son. “It will pull you right into the river if you’re not careful!”

  She grabbed a section of the rope that held the trap and gave a mighty tug. The trap raised slowly, and water flowed out of it. Inside three healthy trout flopped about, and an eel struggled to free himself. “Quick, cut off his head,” Afton said, handing her dagger to Ambrose. “We’ll have eel for dinner.”

  As he cut, Afton couldn’t resist rumpling her
son’s golden hair, even though he pulled awkwardly away. At six, Ambrose was tall and fair with dark blue eyes that sparkled wickedly when his thoughts turned to mischief. He was handsome, quite the most beautiful boy in the village, and Afton’s primary reason for living.

  A shadow fell across Ambrose, and Afton turned to see Josson standing behind her, his ledger in his hand. “Hello, Josson,” she replied casually, accustomed to his presence at the mill. “We’re not grinding today, there’s been no demand for it. More people are coming for fish this week than for grinding.”

  “I know, there has not been much harvest from Perceval’s fields, either.”

  Josson sat on a tree stump behind her and inspected the fish trap. “But there are three fine fellows! And an eel! Ambrose, did you haul that trap up yourself?”

  Ambrose scowled at Josson, and Afton felt her face flush with embarrassment. Lately the boy had been openly hostile to Josson, and Afton had not the vaguest idea what Josson had done to offend him.

  “Yes, he pulled it up himself,” she said quickly. She patted Ambrose on the back and took the dagger from his hand. “Take the eel to the kitchen, son, and give it to the cook for dinner. Hurry!”

  Ambrose held the eel by two fingers and sprinted across the courtyard to the kitchen. Afton wiped her hands on her apron and looked down at her guest. “I suppose you’ll want one of the fish for Perceval?”

  “No, the tribute is only one fish out of five, not one of three,” Josson answered, squinting up at her in the sun. “But if you serve me dinner, I think that will meet the requirements for today’s bounty.”

  “Come then,” Afton smiled at him. She took the arm he gallantly offered, and together they went into the hall.

  ***

  After dinner Afton sent Ambrose out to play and looked earnestly into Josson’s eyes. “Sir, I would ask you an honest question,” said, tapping her finger lightly on her cup. “You have been coming here for six years, and your attitude is pleasant toward me, but your talk is all of business. But you do not visit the tanner or the smith with such regularity, and they are free tradespeople such as I.”

  She paused and frowned slightly. “I would know the reason for your visits, sir. Why do you come so often?”

  Josson smiled at her words and shifted in his seat. “It is no mystery,” he said, spreading his hands wide. “Lord Perceval and my master Hector do not trust the operation of the mill by a woman. I am sent as overseer.”

  “No other reason? Have you been charged to find me in a fault?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “Long ago, the idea was suggested to me. I thought it nonsense then, but lately your visits have become more regular, and I would know if I stand in jeopardy of losing my livelihood.”

  Josson cleared his throat and looked away for a moment, and Afton knew him well enough to realize he was searching for a harmless means of subterfuge. “I am entrusted to ascertain that all is within the measure of the law,” he said finally. “I am charged--”

  “All is well,” Afton finished for him. “I understand. You can be sure, Josson, that I have reasons of my own to continue in honest trade. My son and I have suffered much to acquire the mill, and I intend to run the mill honestly so that we may keep it.”

  Josson spread his hands and smiled. “Then there is no problem, aye?” He grinned and leaned toward her on the table. “There is perhaps one other reason why I visit so often. It is because I am so fond of eating in your house, mistress Afton.” He was teasing, and Afton knew it, but it had been so long since any man had teased her that she blushed and hid her face.

  ***

  Agnelet wandered in the convent, bored and uneasy with the unusual abundance of free time. Two new novices were being vested in the chapel, and because the chapel overflowed with visitors, Hildegard had asked Agnelet to stay out of sight and amuse herself until the vesture and feast were done.

  Agnelet wandered for a while in the garden, her favorite spot in the convent, then lay on her back to watch the sky. The sun shone bright on her pale face, and she closed her eyes to enjoy its warmth. Soon its heat became uncomfortable, though, drawn in through her tunic and veil and cape.

  She got up and crossed to the garden gate. Outside the gate lay a grassy field where the world met the cloister. She had never been through the gate, for the outside world held no attraction for her, but the sun beamed upon her from the direction of the field and the grass beckoned invitingly. How would it feel to scamper outside the walls? How would it feel to run in a straight line until her breath gave out, without having to turn to avoid either a wall or a black-robed nun?

  Agnelet lifted the iron latch of the gate and scrunched up her face as it squeaked. Madame Hildegard had never told her not to go outside the gate, but Agnelet knew in her heart that nuns had no place in the world. Still, if it was not expressly forbidden--

  She slipped out of the gate and took a few tentative steps over the grass. A field of bluebells and buttercups nodded in the sunshine, and she darted from flower to flower, delighting in each touch and smell of flowers and grasses. A flock of blackbirds roosting in a large bush took flight as she darted toward them, and Agnelet stood in wonder as they filled the sky.

  The sky was so wide! She had never dreamed the sky filled such a wide expanse, never having seen more than a sliver of it from the small windows in the chapel. She stood quietly, breathing in the marvel of it, and wondered how Madame Hildegard and the other nuns could bear not to walk in the sunlight, breathe the sweet air of the outdoors, and dance in the flowers.

  Beyond the next hill lay a stream, and Agnelet drew in her breath at the sight of it. The stream moved slowly like a garden snake, its skin shining under the sun. In its liquid surface Agnelet could see the sky, the trees, even the birds reflected. It lay as a magic mirror in the stillness of the countryside.

  The sound of childish voices surprised her, and Agnelet threw herself down in the grassy bank that overlooked the stream. Two children played nearby, a boy about her age, and a little girl. Both children played in their bare feet, throwing pebbles into the water, and squealing with merriment at the resulting splash.

  “Let me, Ambrose,” the girl said, pulling on the boy’s arm. “It’s my turn and I want to throw that big rock in your hand!”

  The boy acted as though he didn’t hear and pitched the rock overhand into the water, and the girl seemed to forget her disappointment when the rock thunked into the water. “That was a good one! But it’s my turn!”

  The guilt that had forced Agnelet down into the grass evaporated, and she found her feet skipping down the hill before she even had a chance to think about joining them. They were children, after all, like her, and surely they would welcome her as the nuns always did.

  She slowed her pace and crept up behind the pair with her silent tread and habitually tucked her hands under her cape. She sought for words, and finally blurted out: “Grace to you from our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  The children turned slowly. Then the boy’s eyes met hers, and he shrieked even as his hands covered his face. “Aruggggh!” he screamed, covering his eyes. “A witch! She bears the mark of the devil! Run, Laudine, run!”

  The barefoot girl burst into tears and sprinted away, with the boy running close behind her. Agnelet tried to speak, but words failed her, and she sank onto a rock by the water in confusion. Why had they run? Was it because she wore a robe like the nuns’? Had she said something to frighten them?

  Agnelet fought back the urge to cry and twisted her face into a crooked smile. She bent over the shining water to see her reflection, and gasped with horror at the image below her. A horrible hand-print, a bloodied three-fingered hand, had left its mark upon her face, and Agnelet could not remember how it happened. Had this scar come upon her as she slipped through the nunnery gate? Did this mark result from disobedience?

  She slipped her cloak off her shoulders, dipped it in water, and began to scrub her face energetically, until the rough wool was red
with blood from her frantic scrubbing. Madame Hildegard must not see, Lienor must not see, the nuns must not know that she had been disobedient.

  When it became obvious that the mark of disobedience could not be erased by her efforts, Agnelet prostrated herself in the mud to wait for the judgment of God. She had disobeyed an unspoken law of the convent, and surely she would be punished.

  ***

  Trilby found her later that night, after Vespers. She wrapped the child in a warm cloak and brought her to Hildegard much as Lienor had brought the baby to the abbess six years earlier. And just as Hildegard had blanched when she saw the birthmark upon the infant’s face, so she blanched when she observed the raw places where Agnelet had tried to rub the offending mark from her face.

  “We will wash her wounds and let her sleep,” Hildegard said, calling for Lienor. “Let no one speak of this until the morning. I will talk to the child then.” She paused and rubbed her crucifix as if for inspiration. “I think it necessary, as well, to have the Vestiaire make a new veil for Agnelet, with a veiling for the face as well as for the head.”

  Trilby nodded, understanding, and went for warm water and clean cloths for cleaning the child’s skin. Hildegard sank to her knees and prayed for wisdom.

  ***

  Endeline paced impatiently in the hall and rang again for Hector. She had been out riding, and had ridden past the mill and seen Ambrose playing in the yard. She could no longer bear the infernal waiting for the child. Was five years not long enough for the steward to catch Afton in a fault?

  Over the past months Perceval had tried to dissuade her from taking Ambrose, in fact, he had brought her two other children from the village, villeins’ children, and Endeline had disdainfully cast them off and set them to work in the kitchen. She would not rear slaves! She had endured Afton only for Lienor’s sake, and if she reared another child, it would be for her own pleasure. She wanted a child who would reflect upon her, and no child less beautiful than Ambrose would do.