Hector shuffled into the hall, his weak legs barely carrying the weight of his ponderous stomach, grown fat from years of eating the bribes of villeins.
“Hector! Have you no reason yet to procure the child Ambrose for me? Surely there is something Afton has done to indicate her disloyalty to her lord Perceval.”
Hector shook his head. “Nothing, my lady. My assistant Josson goes there as often as his schedule permits and watches her like an eagle, but he reports nothing amiss. If anything, the mill’s revenues for Perceval have grown in the last two years--”
“Josson goes there? You do not go yourself?” Endeline sank onto a bench and snapped her riding whip against the edge of a table. “You fool! Josson is young and unattached, and you send him to the home of a widowed woman who seeks a husband! Can you not see that she has bewitched your assistant? He pines with love for her, that is why he reports nothing amiss!”
Hector stepped back in indignation. “Indeed, lady, you could not be more wrong. Josson is an equitable judge, and he assures me--”
“Do not send him any longer,” Endeline snapped, standing up. “Go to the mill yourself next week, and the next, if you have to, until you catch the widow of Hubert in some large or small act of treachery. Then run to me, that I may hear of it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lady,” Hector answered, backing out of the room. “I will go myself.”
***
The next afternoon Endeline heard a careful rap on her chamber door. “My lord and lady,” Lunette said, pushing the door open, “Josson wishes to speak with you.”
“Bid him come in,” Endeline said, rising eagerly from the bench where she had been half-heartedly embroidering. “Has he news for us?”
“Urgent news,” Josson answered, coming in behind Lunette. He walked to the bed where Perceval reclined and respectfully bowed his head. “My lord, Hector is on his death bed. He was taken suddenly taken ill, and the doctor has been summoned. The barber bled him last night, but it does not seem that Hector will recover.”
Perceval nodded reflectively. “It is expected,” he answered. “Hector is an old man. Well, Josson, his station is now yours. Upon Hector’s death, you will become my chief steward. The house inside the courtyard is yours, as is the right and duty to collect tribute from the vassals on my estates.”
Perceval reached for a stick and handed it to Josson, who knelt and received it. Endeline recognized the ceremonial gesture of receiving a fief, which Josson would now hold until his death. She and Lunette had witnessed the transfer of property, there was nothing else to be done.
“Do you wish to speak to Hector before--” Josson began, but Perceval waved him away. “No, there is nothing to be said. Call Father Odoric, if you like, from the village. Make whatever arrangements you need to make. I leave him in your hands.”
“Did Hector say anything about the mill?” Endeline interrupted, her hands tense and still in her lap. “Has he visited the mill as I requested?”
“I do not know, my lady,” Josson shook his head. “Hector fell ill yesterday and took to his bed. He has not been to the village in over a month.”
Endeline lowered her eyes back to her sewing, fuming in silence, as Lunette opened the door for Josson to leave. Hector will soon be dead, Endeline thought, and that too-soft Josson would remain in his place. She would have to find another way to discover Afton in a fault. If it took another five years, she would find a way to claim Ambrose as her own son.
Twenty-six
For two years Calhoun and Fulk spent most of their days in the company of Reynard and the Knights Templar, escorting pilgrims through Outremer and always on guard against the persistent bands of raiding Saracens. Calhoun was constantly frustrated in his search for meaning in the bloodshed, for he had yet to see or fight a fair battle. Either the Saracens crept upon his people in the dark, striking brutally, or he was ordered to run down desert dwellers who happened to be on the road at the wrong time.
Calhoun could not bring himself to kill the unarmed Arab men, women, and children who ran from his horse’s thundering hooves, yet his brain hummed in fury when the enemy struck and killed those under his protection. The only moments in which he found rest from his frustration were those in which he rested at Khalil’s house and thought of Margate--and Afton. Afton had hated war, cruelty, and even his sword. Years ago, he had thought her foolish. Now he was beginning to think her wise.
The years in Jerusalem opened Calhoun’s eyes to the ways of the world. The Christians in Jerusalem, many of whom came to seek God, were those who stayed for the comfortable climate and the promise of easily-obtained wealth. The knights, who came, like Calhoun, for the glory of defending the Holy City, tarried in Jerusalem for the promise of bloody battles, plunder, and rich booty.
Calhoun was not sure why he remained in Jerusalem. He supposed it was simply easier to stay than go home, but an inner voice reminded him that he remained because he had not accomplished what he set out to do--forget about Afton.
It was not the glory of battle that kept him in Outremer, for the barbarism he discovered there turned his stomach and tortured his sensibilities. Barbarism was not confined to the Saracens. Once Calhoun happened upon a victorious party of knights who had just raided a Saracen camp in the desert--from the saddles of their horses dangled the heads of women and children. Calhoun had expected that battle would be honorable and victory untarnished, but he discovered that battle was often dishonest and victory a one-sided slaughter.
One hot afternoon Reynard pulled Calhoun and Fulk aside in Khalil’s house. “It is rumored that Zengi marches on Antioch soon,” he whispered gruffly. “We are to go at once to help fortify the city.”
“At once?” Calhoun echoed, standing to his feet. “A real battle?”
“Perhaps more than a battle,” Reynard replied. “Zengi may attempt to besiege the city. Antioch cannot hold out indefinitely.”
“I am ready,” Calhoun replied without hesitation. He glanced at Fulk and smiled. “Finally, my teacher, an honest battle for honest men.”
***
After two days in the saddle, Calhoun had no idea they were near Antioch until he mounted the crest of a hill and saw the battle lines drawn before him. A circle of knights, many emblazoned in the familiar uniform of the Knights Templar, surrounded the city walls, and line of Saracen warriors stood below the hill at a distance, watching warily.
“Good, we’re behind them,” Reynard muttered. “Hold your position, brothers, until we see the battle forming.”
There were few trees to conceal their company of thirty knights, and Calhoun felt uncomfortably exposed in the desert. At any moment the Saracens would turn around, see them, and lead off in an outward charge to scatter them.
But the Saracens were intent on the battle before them. Somewhere in the distance a kettle drum beat insistently, and suddenly the flourish of trumpets split the air. From Calhoun’s vantage point it seemed that unseen hands propelled the two lines of warriors toward each other, for the Saracens and Christian knights outside Antioch furiously charged each other.
“For the glory of God and the defense of Antioch, we attack!” Reynard cried, waving his sword above his head. He spurred his mount and shot off into the fray, and Calhoun followed almost without thinking, Fulk at his right hand.
He had never dreamed battle contained such noise. The kettle drums on a distant hill beat incessantly, and trumpets squealed battle signals as horses screamed and swords and shields clanged in the melee. Calhoun galloped toward the war ahead, his horse’s hooves pounding over the dry ground. A turbaned Saracen warrior charged at his left side, his bloody scimitar flashing in the late afternoon sun.
Calhoun’s shield rose from his left arm reflexively; he brought his sword down upon the man’s neck without thinking. The blow took his opponent’s head from his body, but Calhoun did not do more than note it. His horse carried him further into the fray, where swords and axes rose and slashed in a reckless frenzy.
> The Saracens had the advantage of flexibility. Without rigid armor, their warriors were lighter on their feet when felled from their horses and they used their opportunities on the ground to fire arrows at riders and horses as they passed.
Calhoun drove his horse through the crowd, in the direction of the city, hacking and slashing at every advancing form not attired in the uniform of the cross. His enemy was nimble; more than once he drew back his sword to land a blow and found that the Saracen simply whirled and disappeared.
His shield he kept firmly at his side, and repelled blow after blow. It will be battle scarred after this day, he thought idly as he turned his horse to face another aggressor. Still, let them come! His horse, eyes wild in fury and fear, trampled blindly through the men and carnage, not pausing even when wounded men lay underfoot.
A turbaned figure ahead of Calhoun whirled and rushed in his direction, and Calhoun expertly lopped off the arm that brandished the scimitar. But before he could turn to finish the enemy, a shooting pain pierced his leg, and his horse fell beneath him.
Calhoun saw the ground come up to meet him, and he made an effort to roll off the horse and remove himself from his vulnerable position, but his leg was firmly attached to his saddle. He felt his stomach churn as he noted for the first time that a long arrow had struck from the sky, pierced the armor on his right thigh, penetrated his saddle, and killed his horse.
His world went black, and Calhoun steeled himself. If he fainted now, he would never again see the light of day. Pinned to his horse, he was a helpless target, and his life depended upon his quick escape. He debated cutting off his leg at the thigh, but he knew he would bleed to death or be trampled underfoot in the battle.
Fumbling at the metal sheath surrounding his calf, he took a deep breath and pulled out his dagger. A semblance of sanity returned to his brain, and he hacked wildly at the portion of the arrow that protruded from the top of his leg. He winced involuntarily as the shaft reverberated in his flesh and drove waves of pain through his leg and up his spine. When he had cut through the top of the arrow, he put his weight on his left leg and lifted his right leg from the arrow that had felled his war horse.
“Young Calhoun!” Fulk’s voice rang out from the din, and Calhoun grabbed his sword and ducked under his shield until the elder knight galloped toward him. Fulk’s strong arm was extended, and, grasping it, Calhoun swung himself onto Fulk’s mount.
As they continued into the fray, the trumpets of the Saracens sounded a different note, and the remaining warriors whirled on their mounts and galloped toward the eastern hills. A few knights of the Cross followed them, but Calhoun and Fulk stopped in the sandy field to survey the battle site.
It seemed to Calhoun that all of creation had gone black with dust and trampled earth. The blue sky was now murky with an obscuring cloud of dust, and the field of brown grass now ran black and red with blood. Fragments of bodies lay scattered across the thirsty earth, arms, heads, and feet torn asunder by pike and axe and horse hoof. Men lay in the mud, gasping to draw their last breath through the stench of blood. Calhoun surveyed the field and felt curiously empty. Where was the rush of glory he had expected to find? They had routed the enemy and saved the Christian city of Antioch--so why didn’t he feel victorious?
Reynard rode toward them, looking curiously like a porcupine. Five or six arrows stuck out from his armor, but he appeared to be unhurt. “A great victory, my friends,” he said, nodding to Calhoun and Fulk. “You fought well. God has preserved our lives and His honor here tonight.”
“The young knight is injured,” Fulk answered, pointing to Calhoun’s leg. “Perhaps we should go into the city and see a physician.”
Reynard did not answer at first; his eyes carefully scanned the skies. “They will send a messenger pigeon to Zengi,” he said, explaining his action. “To tell of their defeat and suggest a counter attack, certainly. I have to tell the falconers to prepare a falcon to bring the pigeon down.” He kept searching the sky. “These Saracens are like flies. If you swat them and drive them away, they will go, but they return. They always return.”
Reynard’s eyes fell upon Calhoun for the first time. “You are injured,” he said. “Antioch will be crowded with wounded tonight. If your wound is not serious, I suggest you go north to Aleppo and find a physician there.”
“We will do that, holy man,” Fulk answered, turning his horse to the east. “If you need us, you will find us there.”
***
Outremer’s eastern frontier was defended by a line of castles from the northern city of Aleppo south to Damascus. Aleppo itself was a small city with many Muslim inhabitants, and Calhoun felt curious eyes upon him as he and Fulk rode through the city gate. “A doctor,” Fulk demanded of the first fair-skinned man they saw. “My friend is wounded.”
“Ah,” the man nodded. “Follow me.”
Fulk dismounted and led the horse through the city streets as he followed the man. Each step of the horse’s hooves jarred Calhoun’s leg and brought a new wave of pain, but Calhoun gritted his teeth and tried to think of other things. The houses in Aleppo, he noted, were not as ornate or lavish as those in Jerusalem, but sleep in any one of them would be wonderful.
His leg was stiff and throbbing when Fulk gave the horse to a servant at the doctor’s house, and Calhoun nearly fainted when Fulk pulled him off the horse and led him inside the doctor’s house. Once inside, Calhoun reclined on tapestry covered cushions while Fulk removed his armor. Finally the doctor came in to see them, and Calhoun noticed that Fulk’s eyes narrowed in distrust. The doctor was a Saracen.
“Is there not a Frankish doctor?” Fulk demanded, putting out his hand to stop the man’s approach.
“For a Turkish wound, you need a Turkish doctor,” the man replied, his bald head shining in the dim light of his quarters. “If you would rather your friend die, then I will not treat him.”
“It’s all right,” Calhoun whispered through clenched teeth. “Let him see it.”
Calhoun’s bloody tunic had dried to the wound, and when the doctor ripped it from the gaping hole, Calhoun cried out, then a dark veil came down and he relaxed into blessed unconsciousness.
***
The battle had wounded more than Calhoun’s leg. For days he tossed on his mattress, dreaming of flying heads and smiling scimitars that appeared in darkness and danced dangerously near to his throat. He would awaken for snatches of time, drink broth served by dark-skinned servants, and then doze uneasily again. During one of his periods of wakefulness he realized that Fulk lay silent on a mattress next to him.
Calhoun raised up on his elbows and determined not to sleep until he had news of Fulk, who now shivered under a thin blanket. “It is the sickness,” the doctor told Calhoun when he came in. The old man shook his head. “Possibly a tarrent bit him. Possibly he was scraped with a poisoned sword. I do not know if he will recover.”
The doctor applied foul-smelling ointments to Calhoun’s leg and kept a careful watch on Fulk for a stretch of days until Fulk’s fever finally broke. On that day he opened his eyes and saw Calhoun watching him.
“How long have we been here?” Fulk whispered.
“I don’t know,” Calhoun answered, grinning. “First I was out, then you were. I suppose we can ask the doctor, but I’m glad to tell you, Fulk, I wasn’t sure you weren’t checking out on your duty.” He groaned as he lifted his wounded leg to turn toward Fulk. “But you wouldn’t die and leave me here alone, would you, fearless Fulk?”
Fulk moistened his lips. “What of the attack on Antioch?”
“It’s over.” Calhoun sat up and stretched his arms, noting that his muscles felt incredibly weak. “We chased them away, remember?”
“No.” Fulk swallowed. Each word was an effort, and Calhoun had to strain to hear him. “The counter-attack. The fly, remember? Reynard said they always come back.”
The dingy brown curtain stretched across the doorway of their room parted. The doctor entered and bowed slightly
to both men. “It is good you are both awake,” he said, ringing a bell on a small table. “You must go now.”
“I do not think my companion is able to travel,” Calhoun said, gesturing toward Fulk. “If you will allow him to recover his strength, we will pay you for your trouble.”
“I have been paid,” the doctor said agreeably, nodding. “There is a bounty on the heads of all Christian knights. Zengi has rewarded me well.”
“Zengi?” Calhoun lifted a brow.
“Lord of Aleppo,” the doctor bowed. “Four days ago, my lord Zengi annexed Aleppo as part of the Saracen kingdom. Tonight you both sleep in Zengi’s prison.”
Twenty-seven
Perceval
1130-1140
A sag-bellied rat skittered across the worn path in Zengi’s courtyard, and Calhoun thought tiredly that the rat had grown fat as he and Fulk grew thin. He glanced at Fulk’s chest as he walked, where pale skin hung loosely over the older knight’s ribs. I wonder if I have lost as much weight, Calhoun wondered, the chains between his feet clanking unevenly over the rough stones.
The dusty track upon which they were forced to walk every day had once been a garden pathway, but now that Zengi was master of this castle the garden had become an exercise yard for weary, underfed prisoners. The daily ritual of exercise was a feeble concession Zengi allowed to keep his prisoners alive until their families paid the rich ransom he demanded.
For two years Calhoun and Fulk had circled the garden for an hour each day, vowing to maintain their strength until Zengi decided upon their fate, but days and nights passed with no news. With every approaching footstep, Calhoun hoped for word that they were to be ransomed or released, and as the days passed with no end in sight, Calhoun thought death would be a welcome change from his tired and meaningless existence.
Afton of Margate Castle Page 29
