Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Fulk drew a breath and erupted in a violent fit of coughing, and Calhoun lowered him gently to the ground. “Fulk, I have never had a better teacher or more loyal friend. The priest’s death was an accident, man! If God is God, and all-powerful, then surely He has the power to forgive the greatest of sinners!”

  Fulk could no longer speak, but he clasped Calhoun’s tunic tightly. Desperation gleamed in his eyes. Calhoun searched for words and pulled Fulk upright again. They were face to face, master to pupil, but now their roles were reversed. “Fulk, can you forgive me for bringing you to this place? Can you forgive my damnable pride?”

  The hand on his tunic relaxed somewhat, and Fulk slowly nodded.

  “Fulk, if you can forgive me the act which has cost you your life, then surely God can forgive any act which you have committed. You don’t need a priest to make your case with God, for if He is all-powerful and all-knowing, then He knows and forgives your repentant heart.”

  Fulk gasped in reply, but his eyes closed slowly and he placed his hand protectively on Calhoun’s shoulder. He gasped three times in quick succession without exhaling, and then his hand fell limply to his side.

  Thirty-two

  Afton straightened her back and groaned. Though the dark of Perceval’s forest was cool and shady, still berry-picking was back-breaking work. She and Corba worked to fill their hungry stewpot and anything edible Afton could find went into the pot for supper.

  The past eight years in Corba’s house had taught Afton how hard life as a villein could be. In the castle, Afton had been sheltered and pampered. At the mill, she knew the luxury of a steady income and a comfortable home. But in Corba’s cottage there were no luxuries, and few of life’s most basic necessities.

  While Corba went to the castle to perform her boon work for the estate, Afton wove on the loom, toiled in Corba’s little garden plot, or tended the chickens. In the garden she grew cabbage, lettuce, leeks, spinach, and parsley, and two or three times a week she ventured into the forest to look for berries or primrose.

  Here in the forest Afton forgot her situation and became a child again. She stretched her weary arms and put down her basket of berries, moving past the prickly berry bushes to a bush of climbing roses. She silently cursed the thorns that obstinately pricked her callused fingers, and tucked several bright buds in her hair. She laughed softly. Corba would never understand what drove her to do these things, but there were many things Corba did not know. . .

  Afton grabbed her basket and sprinted through the forest, heading by instinct to her favorite place. She saw the twin oaks from a distance, their green limbs high above the other trees, and soon she stood in front of the massive trunks of the two trees that surrounded each other in a supportive embrace.

  Four years ago, in a fit of melancholy, she had carved names upon the trunks, and the names were there in the scarred wood still, grown deeper and darker with time. She touched Calhoun’s name tenderly as she always did at this place, and whispered a prayer for his soul.

  She moved quickly past the trees to the cool green pool. Leaning forward upon a rock, she examined her reflection in the still water. “Thirty years old and you still fancy yourself a maiden,” she told her reflection, laughing. The water was kind to her, softening the tired lines around her eyes and the resolute line of her jaw. The rosebuds in her hair winked brightly back at her from the water, and Afton rose and imagined herself once again in front of a mirror and in a lovely gown.

  She hiked her skirts to a manageable length, curtseyed gracefully to the oak trees, and began a slow and graceful dance to music that played from her memory. The soft dead leaves on the forest floor made no sound as she danced lightly over them, and the water did not protest when she fell breathless at its edge to splash water on her flushed face.

  She reclined upon the rock by the lip of the pool until her gaiety had passed, then she straightened her tunic, released her skirt so that it fell once again to the ground, and gathered her basket. She touched Calhoun’s name on the tree trunk as she left, a final offering to days past. The pool of the twin trees was the only place she could climb out of her protective shell. As soon as she left the forest and stood on the road to Margate Castle, she fortified her soul again.

  She knew many of the villagers thought her mad or bewitched. She did little to dispel the notion, and with the village women and her brother’s wives she was silent. They knew little of life except its hardships, and Afton often thought them more fortunate than she. They did not miss the comfort of a soft bed, nor did they curl their noses in distaste when their clothing smelled, for they had never known perfume or taken a bath. Their tongues did not rebel against a bland soup of strawberry leaves, not did they complain when their hair matted with dirt. They calmly accepted all life had to offer because they had never known anything better.

  Corba seemed to be aware of Afton’s discomfort, and once suggested that Afton enter the convent. Afton did not have the heart to remind her mother that the nunnery was reserved for the daughters of rich men who could afford to pay the dowry the convent demanded. Even so, she might have entered the nunnery as a servant, except for two things: a most unspiritual desire to take revenge upon Endeline, and the hope that Ambrose would one day choose to return to her.

  She waited patiently for those two desires to be fulfilled. As she rocked the infant children of her brothers, she remembered her own children and swore once again to avenge them. Endeline had married her to Hubert, father and murderer of Afton’s daughter. Endeline had stolen Ambrose, Afton’s beautiful son. Endeline had taken the mill, Endeline had sent Calhoun away to his death, Endeline stole Afton’s own childhood and made her ashamed and afraid of her rightful heritage. . .

  “I will kill her with a wooden stake from the forest,” Afton thought absently one afternoon as she rocked Jacopo’s infant daughter. “I will walk into the castle, go straight up the stairs and into her chamber, and kill her as she sleeps in her bed. Then I will be hung, of course, but I will have my revenge.”

  She only had to wait until Corba was safely in the grave and out of Perceval’s reach. If Afton attempted anything rash, her mother would surely be punished, so Afton stalled her anger and worked, waited, and watched over her aging mother as the days and months passed.

  ***

  Calhoun felt as if he had aged more since he began his solitary journey home than he had during his years of imprisonment. Fulk was gone, and Calhoun realized how much he had relied upon his master and friend. “It is as you said, Fulk,” he muttered aloud one day as he rode his black stallion northward from Damascus. “God sent my moment of revelation, and I saw myself for the prideful fool I am. May God have mercy on me for the pain I brought to you.”

  His eyes gleamed now with the dark knowledge that comes from introspection, and those who met him on the road smiled timidly and then stayed far out of his way. “Calhoun of Margate is surely a tormented man,” he overheard one knight tell another around the campfire outside Constantinople. “He speaks little, but it is rumored he killed a thousand Saracens in Outremer.”

  If they knew I killed my master, they would not welcome me at all, Calhoun thought bitterly. But if God has any mercy, I will carry that dark secret to my grave.

  At Constantinople he fell in with a band of pilgrims returning to England and learned that King Henry had been dead for five years. Stephen of Blois now wore the crown, and “a more mild and genial king we’ve never known,” the Lord of Lydd told Calhoun. “He’s a good man and gentle, but what England needs now is a rod of iron.”

  The lord looked carefully at Calhoun. “I see that you are a knight, and battle-scarred,” he said, seeing the marks of Zengi’s whips upon Calhoun’s arms. “Can I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

  “Calhoun. I have been away for many years.”

  “Do you return home, or to service, noble Calhoun?”

  “I return--” Calhoun faltered. Did he still have a home? “That remains to be seen,” he said, bow
ing politely.

  “It is enough that you return,” the lord nodded. He extended an arm to his campfire. “Come, join our feast. If you have been away, you will want to know of England.”

  “I do.” Calhoun bowed to all assembled and settled himself comfortably around their campfire. He ate with relish, delighting in the familiar tastes of foods he had not seen in years. How wonderful the food was, how delightful were spices and honey-sweetened breads!

  While they ate, the lord described the civil war that currently divided England. Robert of Gloucester, the illegitimate son of Henry, had joined forces with Matilda, Henry’s daughter. Together they vied for the throne of England, and Matilda herself had abandoned the gentle ways of women and put on armor to lead an army against her cousin Stephen. “Things are at a strange pass when a woman wears armor and the king is clothed in mercy,” the lord remarked. “But England runs with blood these days. Family wars against family and neighbor against neighbor.”

  “Truly?” Calhoun asked, dipping his bread into a bowl of porridge.

  “Indeed. John Marshall, a fierce and loyal ally of Matilda’s, was forced to hand his son to Stephen as a hostage,” the lord said, leaning forward confidentially. “Then Marshall, who fought for Matilda, sent a message to the king that he didn’t care if the boy was hung, for he had the anvils and hammer with which to forge still better sons. Well,” the lord laughed, “the king set out to hang the boy for his father’s treason, but at the sight of the poor lad upon the tree, Stephen couldn’t do it. He cut the boy down, took him back to the castle, and spent the afternoon playing ‘knight’ with the child.”

  Calhoun shook his head in disbelief. “This man is descended from William the Conqueror?”

  “You would never have known it, but he is the Conqueror’s grandson,” the lord nodded. “But he is too good for England’s throne, and he does no justice. My lord and I have allied our houses with Matilda’s forces.”

  “And your lord is?” Calhoun asked.

  The Lord of Lydd puffed out his generous chest. “The Earl of Margate, Lord Perceval,” he exclaimed proudly.

  ***

  Six months later, as the land around him gave up its harvest and prepared for the coming winter, Calhoun left the Lord of Lydd and his party at their estate without revealing more of his identity. He thanked his host profusely, and then mounted his stallion to ride for Margate. The stallion, who had spent all his days in the desert suns of the East, was not accustomed to the chilly winds that assaulted him and his most recent master.

  As they journeyed toward Margate, Calhoun wondered what changes lay in store at home. Why had his father turned against a long-standing loyalty to the throne and allied himself with Matilda? Did this mean that the knights of Margate now served in Matilda’s army? Would his father expect him to disobey his vow of fealty to the throne of England?

  On a deserted stretch of road, two mounted knights rode toward him, the royal ensign of England flying proudly. “Halt,” one of them called through his iron visor. “Identify yourself, sir, and state your purpose for traveling on the king’s highway.”

  Calhoun rested his right hand on the scimitar at his side, but forced himself to speak agreeably. “I am Calhoun, son of Perceval, Earl of Margate,” he said clearly. “I am journeying home.”

  The knight who had spoken raised his visor and peered uncertainly at Calhoun. “I know of Charles and Ambrose,” he called, frowning. “But I do not know of Calhoun of Margate.”

  “I have been on the expedition of Christ for many years,” Calhoun answered quietly. “I return now, to show my father that I am alive, and seek service in the name of my father and king.”

  “Swear your allegiance to Stephen, and you shall pass,” the other knight barked. “For Perceval has allied himself with the forces of King Stephen.”

  Calhoun raised an eyebrow, then called out his answer: “Gentlemen, if God has ordained Stephen king, then I swear my allegiance without benefit of my father’s alliance.” He pulled the reins taut and his horse jolted forward. “By your leave, sirs, I am going home.”

  ***

  Darkness lay over the village like a blanket as his horse clip-clopped over the well-worn road, and Calhoun guess that while candles were plentiful in Outremer, they were still a luxury for villeins. It might as well be a town of ghosts, he thought, much like the burned Saracen villages we saw on our way to Jerusalem. Not a light flickered at a window, not a soul disturbed the stillness, save his own.

  The mill lay on his left, and it too lay quiet and gloomy. Calhoun scrutinized the mill and house carefully as his horse walked past, and even though path to the mill house shone clear in the moonlight, the garden plot was overgrown with yellowed weeds, and tall grass blocked the entrance to the house. Calhoun sighed. Fulk was right. Afton had surely married and left this place; perhaps she lived in another village or even a city.

  He spurred the stallion and the animal cantered smoothly down the castle road through the familiar forest and past the open meadow. Soon he glimpsed Margate Castle itself, its tall twin towers majestic against the purpling night sky. Calhoun noticed with approval that Perceval had updated the castle walls. The square towers had been rounded, leaving an enemy no place to hide. Lessons from the East, Calhoun thought to himself. The Saracens’ influence extends even here.

  “Who goes there?” Two guards called out their warning from the tower post as he approached, the arrows in their bows aimed at Calhoun’s unshielded chest. A trifle slow, Calhoun thought, his eyes warily eyeing the men’s weapons. If I had intended damage, I could have already inflicted it.

  A sudden surge of emotion threatened to block his words, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, as a boy who asks a maid for his first dance. “Calhoun, son of Perceval.”

  The two guards conferred for a moment, then a third guard in stout armor moved to the edge of the tower and peered down at Calhoun. “Prove yourself,” the man commanded, his voice rough and familiar. “The night is thick with traitors.”

  “I know you, Sir Gawain,” Calhoun answered, shifting easily on his horse. “And I long to see my brother, Charles, and my sister, Lienor, who resides in the nunnery.”

  “And?” one of the young knights asked, keeping the line of his arrow upon Calhoun.

  “And what?” Calhoun shrugged. “I have no other brothers or sisters. Would you have me name the servants as well?”

  “You do not know Ambrose?” There was a faint trace of wonder in the young knight’s voice, and Calhoun was irritated by it.

  “No,” Calhoun’s voice sharpened. “But I know he is no son of my father’s.”

  Gawain smiled in satisfaction. “Praise be to God, raise the gate,” he commanded. “It is Calhoun, returned from certain death. Let him pass!”

  Calhoun heard the chink of the chains that operated the castle gate, and he nudged his stallion forward.

  ***

  Calhoun thought the walls of Margate Castle had not heard such weeping and wailing since the day Henry smote his own grandchildren in the hall. Awakened from sleep, his father had bounded down the stairs, red-eyed, to embrace his son. Endeline wept and screamed hysterically that her son was back from the dead. Charles came from his bed, bewildered, and Calhoun noticed with surprise that the years had left his older brother nearly bald.

  Morgan and Lunette, now middle-aged women, kissed his hands and showered him with tears. A new maid hung back shyly against the wall and smiled coyly in his direction, but Calhoun forgot about her when the knights entered the hall to welcome him home. The older knights in Perceval’s service bowed stiffly in almost reverential respect, and the young knights saluted him in awe. All but one. One well-appointed young knight regarded Calhoun coolly, as one would scrutinize an opponent.

  “You are here. You are alive!” Perceval kept repeating, and Calhoun answered over and over that he had been a prisoner, but, with Fulk’s help, had escaped. “The honorable Fulk endured until the end, Father,” he said, grasping Perceval�
��s hand as he led his father to a chair. “He kept his vow to you with his life.”

  “Bless Fulk,” Endeline answered, her eyes spilling over with tears. Her long hair flowed down her back, and Calhoun was startled to see that the hair at the crown of her head was quite gray. “Sit, son, and eat, and tell us of your journey.”

  The servants brought food and fresh clothing, but Calhoun waved them away. “I have come home to serve you, Father,” he said, bowing to Perceval. “But first I need to sleep.” The crowd laughed, and Calhoun patted his brother affectionately on the back. “After my tired body sleeps, I want to talk to each of you and discover what the years have brought to your lives. I’ll visit Lienor at the nunnery, and I’d like to visit Afton in the village, if she still resides there.”

  Endeline’s smile froze. “Why do you want to see her?” she said, her eyes faintly worried. “You need to be in the bosom of your family, beloved son. And you should get to know Ambrose.”

  She gestured with a delicate hand to the young knight who had scrutinized Calhoun so carefully. He wore a knight’s hauberk and a tunic embroidered in Perceval’s family colors, and at the mention of his name, he stepped forward and bowed stiffly.

  “Who is this?” Calhoun asked softly, knowing full well who stood before him.

  “He is your father’s ward,” Endeline explained. “We supposed that you were dead, dear son. Ambrose has been of great joy to us for many years. He was dubbed a knight earlier this year--”

  “This boy?” Calhoun asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “He is sixteen,” Endeline answered, her tone registering disapproval. “You were but fifteen at your dubbing, Calhoun.”

  “That was different,” Calhoun answered, studying the boy again. He seemed so young, so delicate--the image of his mother.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Calhoun,” Ambrose spoke, his words cutting sharply through the room. “It is not often that I meet a living legend.”