Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Calhoun opened his eyes. He was not in a battle at Margate, but on the floor of his cell in Zengi’s prison. An earthen pot sat by the door, and in it was a gourd--and water. “Fulk, we are saved,” Calhoun croaked, crawling toward the pot. “The siege is lifted.”

  The guard behind the door laughed. “Give thanks to Allah for Nur al-din,” he said. “Zengi’s son routed those who besieged us. You owe your lives to the mercy and strength of Nur al-din, Christian knights!”

  Calhoun brought the gourd to Fulk and slowly poured a slow stream into the man’s mouth. Fulk’s eyes flickered, and his swollen tongue weakly licked his lips. “Easy, there is more,” Calhoun said, crawling back for another dipper of water. “We have an entire jar of water to ourselves.”

  Fulk pressed his cracked lips together and tried to smile. “Never was water so precious,” he croaked, “until now.”

  Calhoun sat up and lifted the jug with both hands, drinking deeply. The water seemed to sit upon his stomach and he felt nauseous. “Water is precious,” he said, dragging the pot over to Fulk. “But freedom is infinitely more so. When you have regained your strength, Fulk, we shall escape this place or die trying.”

  ***

  They ate well that night, and through their solitary window Calhoun could hear sounds of celebration. “Zengi’s city celebrates today,” Fulk said, putting his ear to the outer wall. “And, knowing Zengi’s pride, I believe he will launch a counter-attack very soon. He will not suffer a near-defeat without a counter-strike.”

  “And?” Calhoun lowered his voice, mindful that the guard could be outside the door.

  “We escape while the army is diverted,” Fulk answered. “Never has Zengi been as angry or as weak as he is today. Tomorrow or the next day will bring our chance for freedom. Zengi will not fail to act quickly.”

  That night when the guard slipped their bowl of gruel through the small opening in the door, Fulk rapped to get the man’s attention. “Zengi rides tonight, does he not?”

  The unseen guard paused and did not move away. His muffled voice came through the door. “You know of this attack?”

  “Certainly,” Fulk answered confidently. “Zengi often consults me on his plans. He has asked for my advice about how to defeat the Christians who dared to besiege this city.”

  “Indeed?” the guard replied. Calhoun could hear skepticism in his voice.

  “Yes,” Fulk answered. “And I have sketched a map of the Christian city of Damascus here in the floor. If Zengi rides for Damascus, you may look at this map, describe it to him, and earn yourself a place of honor far from these dread dungeons.”

  Calhoun held his breath. How ambitious was their unseen guard? The man knew Fulk’s words contained more than a germ of truth--

  A jangling noise reached them, then the door creaked, and the guard’s dark head peered into the room. “Here,” Fulk said, standing innocently against the far wall. He pointed to scratches on the floor. “This is the map of Damascus.”

  The guard hesitated and drew his scimitar, peering at the scratches on the floor. Calhoun and Fulk leaned against the wall of their cell, their hands casually behind their backs. The guard glanced warily about, then approached.

  “You see,” Fulk said, advancing toward the map and pointing down at the floor, “just inside the city gates you will find a stable.” The guard peered more closely, and Calhoun reached silently for the water jug. With his remaining strength, he swept the jug into his hands and brought it down over the head of the guard.

  The man staggered for a moment, then fell, and Fulk sprang to close the cell door.

  “Why don’t we leave?” Calhoun asked, his heart racing. “Why do we wait?”

  “We wait for darkness,” Fulk answered, tearing the guard’s tunic into strips. “We keep the guard quiet and we leave after Zengi’s troops have departed. Now we would get no farther than the stairs.” He quickly bound the unconscious man’s hands and grinned up at Calhoun. “Obey me, zealous friend, and I will get you home safely.”

  ***

  Zengi’s warriors rode for nearby Damascus as the sun set, and when the last horse had left the courtyard Fulk and Calhoun armed themselves with the guard’s dagger and scimitar and crept from their prison cell. The castle was unusually quiet, for those who had not ridden off with Zengi had gone out in search of food and water to replenish the city’s supply.

  As they climbed the stairs from the dungeon to the courtyard, Calhoun nearly ran into a veiled serving woman, whose dark eyes widened in fear at the sight of him. Calhoun shook his head and put his finger across his lips, and the woman retreated silently, then turned to run down the hall.

  “Quick, she’ll alert the remaining guards,” Fulk said, dashing down a long corridor. “Here! This will take us out of this accursed place.”

  Calhoun wished there were more guards in his path, for his soul burned with the desire to exact vengeance for the beatings, bruises, and blood he had spilled in these halls of Zengi’s. But the palace was nearly deserted. Through the open courtyard they ran, toward the stables, and they surprised a young warrior napping by the door. He awoke at the sound of their running footsteps and rattled a question in Arabic.

  “What was that?” Calhoun asked, waving his scimitar.

  The young man tensed, and drew his dagger. “By all the gods, we don’t have time for this,” Fulk answered, and he rushed the warrior. Calhoun followed, and as steel bit steel, Calhoun’s scimitar knocked the dagger from the young man’s hand. As the startled guard struggled, Calhoun and Fulk grabbed his arms, dragged him to the well, and tossed him in.

  After the resulting splash, Fulk grinned at Calhoun. “Now we blend with the darkness,” he said, his silver hair gleaming in the faint moonlight. “Like shadows, we fly out of this city and find shelter in the desert.”

  They gathered rough blankets from the stable and covered their threadworn clothing. Thus arrayed, Calhoun and Fulk looked like the other bedraggled siege survivors, and passed by the guards at the city gate without arousing suspicion.

  Later, as they walked along the desert road, Calhoun felt the sting of disappointment because their escape was too easily accomplished. “Not a worthy opponent did we meet,” he complained. “After twelve years of confinement, my blade thirsts for the blood of those who tormented us!”

  Fulk kept his eyes steadily on the road ahead. “Turn your thoughts from vengeance to survival, young friend. Now we look for food, water, and clothing. We will rebuild our strength, then we shall journey home. Our work as soldiers of God is done.”

  “I cannot go home without vengeance upon Zengi!” Calhoun interrupted. “Turn and run from the man? How can you suggest it, Fulk! He has taken twelve years of our lives! I would kill twelve--no, twelve dozen Saracens to exact my revenge!”

  “I promised your father that I would deliver you home safely, and I intend to keep my word,” Fulk answered, his eyes puffy and tired in the starlight. “I did not promise to kill Saracens for revenge. We are alive, young friend, and that is what matters. There is no dishonor in survival.”

  ***

  Just before daybreak, they came upon a small Bedouin camp and waited behind the sand dunes until the men had taken the sheep and goats to graze. Calhoun would have descended upon the women and children and simply taken their food, but Fulk put out a hand to stop him. He waited for a long time, it seemed to Calhoun, until a boy of about eight or nine bundled up what remained of his breakfast and set out toward the fields with a lamb.

  Fulk motioned to Calhoun, and they crept behind the dunes and intersected the path of the boy. The boy’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the two men before him, but Fulk smiled and pointed carefully at the boy’s bundle, then at his own mouth.

  The boy paused, and Calhoun could see fear and uncertainty in his eyes. What was to stop him from screaming? The women would certainly hear him, and the men were probably not far away. Surely Fulk’s insanity would result in their ambush.

  But the boy nodded
, and held out the bag of food with a shy smile. Fulk bowed graciously, took the bag, and sat upon the sand. He held out a loaf of flat white bread to Calhoun. “Eat this,” he commanded gruffly, “and be pleasant about it. Smile.”

  The boy said something in Arabic, and Calhoun shook his head. Fulk, however, smiled, and pointed to the rough horse blanket on his shoulders. He pulled it off and handed it to the boy, while gesturing that he now had nothing to wear over his robe.

  The boy grinned and gathered up the blanket, then turned and scampered back in the direction of the camp.

  “Let’s be gone,” Calhoun urged, grabbing another piece of bread from the boy’s lunch. “He’ll be back with the others.”

  “No, he won’t,” Fulk answered slowly, his eyes on the boy’s footprints. “The men are in the fields, and the women are busy. The boy will be back. These people are natural traders.”

  Soon enough, the boy did return, carrying two cloaks of rough wool. Fulk nodded in appreciation and accepted his cloak, and Calhoun willingly removed the heavy horse blanket from his shoulders and presented it to the boy. The boy beamed, and gave him the second cloak.

  They might have bartered longer, but a man’s shout broke the stillness. One of the men was coming toward them, and his voice startled Fulk and Calhoun into action. They grabbed the food and the cloaks and ran over the dunes until they were sure no one followed.

  “I can’t go on getting our breakfast this way,” Fulk said, gasping to catch his breath. “Soon some young girl will outrun me.”

  “You are right, old man,” Calhoun answered, laughing. He bit a hunk of meat from a goat’s leg in his hand. “But today we shall eat well.”

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, Fulk pointed toward a scrubby olive tree. “We should rest here during the day,” he said. “We will move at night. We cannot have the sun steal our remaining energy.”

  Calhoun reluctantly agreed and, after glancing warily about for tarrents that might prove fatal in their weakened condition, they lay down under the olive tree. Fulk fell asleep immediately, but Calhoun tossed and turned, thinking about home. Did home still exist? Would he really be able to journey back to Margate?

  He awoke instantly when Fulk’s hand tapped his shoulder at dusk. “Time to rise,” Fulk said, putting the dagger again at his belt. “We will find food, and we will walk southward, toward Jerusalem. Perhaps we can find a camp and secure horses.”

  The prospect of riding stirred Calhoun, and he strapped the scimitar to his waist with relish. “Why do we linger, then?” he asked, but Fulk held up a warning hand. “Zengi’s battle at Damascus is done, or nearly so,” he said. “The Saracen warriors will scattered throughout the desert, either returning victorious or sorrowful in their defeat. We must stay off the road, and be wary.”

  Calhoun nodded. “I am with you,” he answered, and they set off.

  ***

  They had not gone far when they saw firelight in the distance. Fulk and Calhoun crept toward the light, keeping low in the shadows, until they crouched behind a sand dune and clearly saw what remained of Zengi’s war party. Less than two dozen warriors milled or rested around the campfire while physicians tended their wounds. Five men stood outside the circle as lookouts, and two others guarded a cluster of horses. Fulk pointed toward the horses, and Calhoun nodded.

  Through gestures Fulk outlined his simple plan. He would seize one guard and Calhoun the other; then they would each mount a horse and ride swiftly away from the camp. Fulk lay his finger over his lips to emphasize the need for silence, and Calhoun nodded impatiently. With good luck, they should be able to ride away without the men in camp even knowing they had come and gone.

  The horses were apart from the men at the campfire, and the two warriors who stood with the animals were intent upon their conversation. Before moving closer, Calhoun studied the horses with longing eyes. It had been so long since he had ridden! And these were magnificent beasts, the quick, sure-footed stallions of the desert, known for endurance and agility.

  He had already decided upon the black stallion with the long legs when he and Fulk crept near in the shadows thrown by a clouded moon. They simultaneously ran toward the startled guards, and Calhoun felt his scimitar pierce the guard’s rib cage as his left hand stifled the man’s cry. Within an moment the man crumpled to the ground, and Calhoun flung himself astride the black stallion.

  Fulk struggled with his man, but as Calhoun watched, the dagger found its way home, the man fell, twitched, and lay still. Fulk ran for a horse, and Calhoun kicked and turned the stallion’s head with a quick pull on his mane.

  He knew he should ride away, but he could not. Something in him demanded restitution. He clenched the handle of his bloody scimitar, thrust it above his head, and turned his horse in the direction of the men in the camp. “Cursed be Zengi of the Saracens!” he yelled, thundering past the startled warriors. “Praised be Jesus Christ!”

  He whooped in glee as the Saracens stirred like angry bees in a hive, then circled around the camp and caught up with Fulk, who rode southward. “You fool!” Fulk roared as Calhoun galloped past, but Calhoun only grinned and clenched his sword more tightly. He would not only escape Zengi, he would cover the act in glory. This would be a tale fit for telling a company of valiant knights.

  Fulk’s horse galloped only a few paces behind, and Calhoun’s heart raced as their desert stallions raced over the sand dunes like the wind. In the distance Calhoun heard the pounding of other hooves, and knew that some of the warriors were in pursuit, but he urged his horse ahead in the mad rush of victory. He had escaped, he had killed an enemy, and even if one of the pursuing warriors’ arrows found its way into his heart, he would still have won a victory.

  He knew he had chosen his horse well. He and Fulk outran their pursuers, and when Calhoun was certain no warriors lingered in their trail, he slowed his mount to a canter, then to a trot. Fulk’s horse still followed, but when Calhoun glanced back, he saw that Fulk’s head was down. “What’s wrong, old man?” Calhoun called. “Don’t tell me you wanted to leave without saying farewell.”

  Fulk’s horse slowed to a walk, and as Calhoun watched, Fulk slowly slid off animal’s broad back and landed in a heap in the sand. Calhoun’s smile froze--a long arrow protruded from Fulk’s back.

  “Fulk!” Calhoun shrieked, and he clumsily slid off his horse and ran to his teacher’s side. Fulk’s eyelids fluttered weakly as Calhoun sat him upright. “Should I pull the arrow out? Tell me, Fulk! What should I do?”

  “I want--to--lie--down,” Fulk managed to whisper, and Calhoun knew the arrow would have to be removed. Biting his lip, he braced Fulk’s back with his left hand and tugged on the arrow with his right. The bloody instrument came out in his hand with a hissing sound, but the triangular arrowhead tore the flesh more severely during its exit than in its entrance.

  Fulk screamed in pain, and Calhoun hastily tore a strip of wool from his tunic and stuffed it into the wound to staunch the bleeding. “Be still, Fulk, and I will take you to a doctor,” Calhoun babbled, reclining Fulk in the sand. “The sun is not yet up, so you will be cool, and the doctor will make you well. Then we will be on our journey.”

  “You be still,” Fulk whispered, grasping at Calhoun’s cloak. “And help me!”

  “What?” Calhoun asked, bewildered. His stoic teacher’s eyes were now as frantic as a woman’s. In eyes that had never shown fear, Calhoun now saw unmitigated terror.

  “I am going to die,” Fulk said, spitting his words out with effort. “And I am frightened.”

  “You’re not going to die,” Calhoun said, tearing another strip of cloth from the edge of his tunic. “This is just an accident, and it’s all my fault. If I had not been so intent on showing myself, we could have escaped with no trouble. I don’t know what possessed me, Fulk, but I--”

  His words died off under Fulk’s wide, wild gaze. “Your main fault, your damnable pride, has killed me,” he wheezed. “And it will kill you, too, young Calhoun.”r />
  “Forgive me,” Calhoun whispered, ripping his cloak. “Just let me make another bandage.”

  “There is no need for a bandage,” Fulk answered, spitting blood on the sand. His trembling hand sought Calhoun’s and held it tightly. “What I need is a companion. I journey alone to death, and I’m frightened, young friend, for I go to everlasting hell.”

  Calhoun covered Fulk’s trembling hand with his own. “Perhaps you do not go to hell,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Even if a man commits a mortal sin, is not God merciful?”

  “Miranda,” Fulk answered. He gurgled the word, and pulled his hand from Calhoun’s grasp. He struggled to sit upright, and Calhoun supported him as Fulk spat another mouthful of blood and drew a slow, shallow breath. “I loved Miranda. She was all to me, and she was beautiful, much like your Afton. I was terribly jealous.”

  He coughed, and blood spew out of his mouth. Calhoun wiped Fulk’s face with a shred of cloth, and Fulk inhaled slowly. “One day I accused her of loving another, and I struck her,” he said. “She fell against an oil lamp and the cottage caught fire. As I ran to help her, she fought me off, screaming, and a priest ran into the house to aid her.”

  He wheezed frantically, and Calhoun waited until Fulk got his breath and continued. “I pushed the priest out of the way, and he fell upon a chair I had broken in my anger. The splintered wood pierced his body, and as I watched him die, I knew God could never forgive that murder, or my jealous temper.”

  “You don’t know that,” Calhoun answered softly.

  Fulk nodded impatiently and drew a quick breath. “Yes, I know. The priest died, the house was afire, and Miranda ran out, screaming that I was the devil himself. I threw myself upon the priest’s burning body, thinking to burn myself alive, but villagers pulled me out of the house and preserved my wretched life.”

  Fulk struggled to catch his breath, and Calhoun nodded slowly. “The scar upon my cheek,” Fulk continued, lifting his hand weakly to the cross-shaped area of dead flesh upon his face, “was the imprint of the cross on the priest’s rosary as I flung myself upon him. I knew God had marked me forever as a man beyond redemption, beyond love.”