“Sit down, Calhoun,” Endeline said, her voice sharp. “Ambrose may not speak wisely, but he speaks the truth. He is a valiant knight, and you would do well not to doubt him.” Her voice softened and she held out her hand to her son in supplication. Her slanting eyebrows lifted in her face, and Calhoun was struck by the abundance of fine lines upon her skin. “You must understand, son, we thought you dead because we were sure no prison could hold you. Apparently we were mistaken.”
Ambrose grinned from the end of the table, and Charles lowered his head in the awkwardness of the moment. Perceval said nothing, but gulped his ale.
“It is clear I have no business here,” Calhoun said, still on his feet. He looked at Perceval. “I trust, Father, that I may have a suit of armor, and a sword? I am yet a knight of this family.”
“Of course,” Perceval answered, waving his hand carelessly. “Whatever you need, my son. We are pleased to have you as a knight at Margate, and welcome the sight of you again wearing the colors of our house.”
“I do not wish for our colors, nor the role of Margate knight,” Calhoun answered, eyeing his father steadily. “I will take the armor. I cannot remain here, honored parents. I will take my sword elsewhere.”
As he turned to leave, he heard his mother’s startled gasp: “Stop him, my lord!”
But Ambrose replied quickly and loudly enough for Calhoun to hear. “It is for the best, my lady. A knight with no spirit is of no use to Margate.”
***
He rode for four days, stopping only to feed and water his stallion and sleep under the stars. He once again wore the hauberk and carried a proper sword, but over the suit of mail was a plain blue tunic, not the white and purple uniform of Margate’s knights. No longer would he wear the colors of Perceval’s house, nor would he wear the cross of the knights of God. Like Fulk, he had become a solitary knight who sought life and an honorable cause with sword in hand.
“And like you, dear teacher, I carry the scar of revelation,” Calhoun whispered one afternoon as his horse daintily picked its way through a stream. “You carried yours boldly upon your face, but I carry mine upon my heart. May God, who used you mightily in life, lead my sword to some useful purpose.”
He rode toward London without consciously considering his destination until he drew near to Stephen’s camp. At the first sight of Stephen’s royal banner and smoking campfires, Calhoun shook his head in confusion. Did he ride to volunteer in Stephen’s service merely to spite the divided loyalties of his father? Or had his own loyalty to the crown led him to Stephen? Perhaps God would use him as an instrument to stop the bloodshed of civil war in England.
“Lofty thoughts,” he murmured to his horse, pausing on a hill overlooking Stephen’s camp. He patted the beast’s neck in affection. “Too lofty for truth. Perchance I come here merely to forget the life I would build with Afton, who now hungers for death and vengeance with more appetite than I have ever possessed. If she, the most gentle and innocent of souls, waits for violent opportunity, then surely the entire world wallows in the lust for blood. I see no escape from ferocity.”
He paused and put his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “If every man and woman, too, stands before God with blood-stained murderous hearts, then one tool is much like another in His hands, no better and no worse, except that it be willing in service. And if a man be willing to surrender, then shall God not use him in a divine plan?”
He lifted his eyes past Stephen’s camp to the horizon, where the sun was slowly sinking in the west. Drawing his sword, he thrust it above his head. “Employ me, then, God,” he cried, and the startled stallion reared up, pawing the air. Calhoun held firmly to the reins as he continued shouting to heaven: “My life is in Your hands, for no one else claims it. Use me or kill me, God, as it suits Your purpose!”
***
Two scouts found him outside the camp, and although he identified himself as loyal to Stephen, he was escorted immediately under guard to a captain’s quarters. The burly captain who whirled around to question him was Thomas of Warwick, his old master from his training days.
“Calhoun of Margate! Can it be you?” Thomas asked, his dim eyes squinting in the darkness of the tent. “I heard you gave your life in Jerusalem.”
“I gave twelve years,” Calhoun replied, removing his helmet. “And now, returning home, I find there is a need for skilled swords in England. Before God I vowed my loyalty to the throne, and I am here to prove it.”
“Well said!” Thomas smiled and patted his now generous belly. “You are as skilled a man as I have ever known, and your rightful place is over a company of men. We have been recruiting peasants of late, and they are of little use except as foot soldiers and archers.” He winked at Calhoun. “But archers will win a battle, my friend, as we have learned from the expedition of God.”
Calhoun cleared his throat. “I have not been engaged in battle in many years, Lord Thomas, and my skills may need improvement. I shall need some time to sharpen them.”
Thomas puffed out his cheeks. “Nonsense, my boy, you were the most natural soldier I ever saw. When the enemy comes upon us and you find yourself sword to sword with a man who deigns to slit your throat, your skills will reappear as if they were merely asleep.” He paused a moment and his eyes twinkled. “Whatever became of your master? A more fearless man than Fulk I have never known.”
“Fulk is dead,” Calhoun answered, his voice sounding oddly flat in his ears. “He died in the East.”
“Ah, well,” Thomas nodded agreeably. “He gave his life in a good cause, right? Come, my son, and let me assign you a tent and a servant.” Thomas walked from behind his desk and put a stubby arm around Calhoun’s shoulders. “You are needed now more than ever, my son. I suppose you know who leads Matilda’s forces?”
Calhoun shook his head.
Thomas rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Arnoul, your old rival. He’s a limb of hell and the root of all evil, as surely as I stand before you now.” Thomas chuckled as they walked. “How well I remember the contests you two had! But as I recall, you usually bested him, didn’t you?”
“A long time ago.”
Calhoun felt his flagging spirits begin to rise as they walked out of the tent and through the camp. He had not thought of Arnoul in years, but perhaps they would soon meet. His fierce sense of competitiveness begin to stir. Perhaps his sword would find a worthy opponent after all.
***
Four days later Calhoun knelt on the carpet in front of Stephen’s chair and recited the traditional vow of a vassal to a lord: “Food and clothing both for my back and for my bed, and shoes, and thou shalt procure me, and all that I possess shall remain in thy power.”
“Rise, Sir Calhoun,” Stephen said, the point of his sword nudging Calhoun’s shoulder. “As you have served God in the Holy Land, now serve your king in your fatherland.”
“I shall,” Calhoun answered, rising to his feet.
So began his journey into the bloody battlefields of Britain. Matilda and her half brother Robert had succeeded in dividing the land and turning brother against brother in a bitter strife. Calhoun found that his task was to join a company of knights who patrolled the countryside in search of Matilda’s army or sympathizers. thought he fought valiantly when they had occasion to skirmish with the enemy, his spirit rebelled against the gruesome deeds accomplished in the names of Stephen and Matilda, contenders for the Crown.
At York Calhoun watched the lady of the castle writhe in anguish between two guards as her husband was murdered. Her noble brother, who fought for Stephen, ran her husband through with a sword as penalty for his aid to Matilda. Though Calhoun tried in vain to dissuade him, the offended brother then cursed his sister and threw her two infant children from the castle tower in the King’s name.
The countryside, now in the full throes of winter, reminded Calhoun of an old woman, afflicted and decrepit with age, nearing death. After hours on his stumbling horse in the blowing wind and snow, Calhoun wished that he wer
e anywhere but in a warrior’s camp, but stern reality reminded him that he had no place in the world but this.
One cool, crisp winter day he led a small group of archers and foot soldiers on a purge of the country north of London. The scout he had sent ahead appeared from the bushes as they approached, breathless and red-faced. “Arnoul’s company lies ahead, just off the road,” the poor man gasped, his eyes wide with fright. “I saw ‘im myself, I did. The devil’s man himself waits ahead for us.”
Calhoun raised his head defiantly. “Then it is time we cut off this limb of hell,” he answered, “and send evil away from King Stephen’s land. If Matilda relies on Arnoul as heavily as is reported, the end to this bloody war may lie within our grasp.”
He divided his men into two lines, a line of archers and a line of foot soldiers, most of whom were runaway villeins from warring manors. He then led his troops in an advance, and paused at the crest of a hill.
Below him, Arnoul’s men lounged around a stream, watering their horses and filling their gourds with fresh water. A small village church stood less than a stone’s throw from the gathering.
“There,” the scout whispered, pointing to a burly man standing next to a handsome red horse. “That’s Arnoul. He’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen.”
Arnoul stood taller than any man on the field, and seemed as wide as his horse. With one huge hand he held his helmet, and Calhoun noticed that Arnoul stood as proudly as he had in the days of Warwick Castle.
Calhoun motioned for his archers to surround the hill. Arnoul was too confident and unsuspecting. If the archers did their job well, it would be the last day Arnoul championed forces for Matilda.
When the men were in place, Calhoun raised his sword and brought it down. A hailstorm of arrows fell upon the unsuspecting men below, and they scattered as ants when a mound is disturbed. Calhoun’s eyes did not leave Arnoul’s face, and he felt grim satisfaction when Arnoul raised his eyes to the crest of the hill and the spark of recognition flashed between them.
There was no time for further personal remonstrance, for the battle was on. Calhoun motioned for his foot soldiers to advance even as the archers positioned arrows again into their bows. Another barrage of arrows rained down upon Matilda’s men, then Calhoun gave the order for his foot soldiers to sweep forward upon the startled men in Matilda’s camp.
It was not an easy battle, for Matilda’s soldiers were well-trained. Those who were not killed by the rain of arrows fought bravely, and a few fled to the nearby church and barricaded themselves inside.
“What do we do now?” a breathless archer asked Calhoun. “They are inside a holy place.”
Calhoun managed a wry smile, seeing Fulk in his mind’s eye. “They have defiled it,” he said resolutely, knowing what Fulk would advise. “Burn it.” Calhoun’s men immediately sent flaming arrows into the church, and his men encircled the structure to prevent any escape.
Through the crackle and roar of the blaze, Calhoun’s heard the cry of his name. “Calhoun of Margate!” a voice from above called. “We meet again! I have not yet had my vengeance!”
Looking up, Calhoun saw Arnoul in the bell tower, surrounded by dancing flames that seemed to lick his feet. He cursed Stephen and Calhoun repeatedly, his voice carrying over the sound of the blaze. As Calhoun and his men watched, a river of melting lead from the tower roof splashed over Arnoul’s face. Though Calhoun winced in imagined pain, still Arnoul refused to halt his streaming vituperation.
Several of Calhoun’s men looked away as the flames rose, the tower crumbled, but Calhoun’s eyes never left the burning church as Arnoul disappeared from sight. Six hours later, Calhoun’s men reported that no survivors were found in the burned-out shell that remained. Calhoun insisted that they carry forth the charred bodies of the victims, throughout the night if necessary. Though the sight of so many twisted and blacked bodies was sickening, Calhoun examined all of them carefully to determine if Arnoul was indeed dead. The next morning Calhoun concluded that none of the corpses could have been Arnoul.
“He was a big man, and none of these woefully departed knights were above average height,” Calhoun told his men. “Check the church again, thoroughly, for that root of hell must not be allowed to escape. When you have brought me his sword or his body, then will I rest.”
They did bring him a sword, but the twisted molten lump could have belonged to any of Matilda’s knights. “Perhaps the fire shrunk ‘im,” one soldier offered hopefully, eager to be gone from the place. “We will never know for sure what ‘appened in that church.”
Calhoun reluctantly agreed and led his men away, leaving the blackened church behind. I wonder if Fulk would consider this a mortal sin, Calhoun thought idly as they rode. I have burned my enemy beyond recognition in a place of sanctuary. Can God forgive even this?
***
Winter’s cold and appalling misery brought sickness and hunger to the battle camps. Matilda and her men scorched the bare earth as they traveled, burning the dry fields and storehouses of manors in allegiance with King Stephen. Calhoun’s men wanted to burn the manors in allegiance with Matilda, but Calhoun stopped them. “All of England will be a burnt wasteland if this continues,” he told his men. “And who knows but that by sparing the manors we shall not win hearts for our merciful king? Therefore we will not burn any barn or house, nor will we be the cause of any innocent man’s death.”
His fellow knights grumbled, and Calhoun knew they thought him as “soft” as King Stephen, but he refused to change his opinion. And so they continued throughout the months of winter, chasing the elusive armies of Matilda and Robert, and trying to save England from self-inflicted starvation.
Thirty-four
“Your son fights for Stephen.”
Endeline’s sharp words disturbed Perceval’s game of chess, and he glared at her. He was aware of the eyes of his knights upon him, and he did not want a confrontation with his wife in the great hall for all to see.
“Later, woman.”
“Your son is making quite a name for himself. His reputation has spread far and wide as the merciful leader of Stephen’s army.”
Perceval toyed with the ivory chess piece in his hand. “What shall I do about my son? He is man grown, and does what he pleases.”
Endeline put her hand on her husband’s arm and whispered intensely: “If Matilda’s nobles hear these stories, they will be on us in an instant. They will burn the fields, the castle, and kill you, Perceval.”
Perceval jerked his arm from her grasp. “Leave me, woman. My knights and I concentrate on amusement today.”
Endeline gathered her skirts. “Play your games, my lord, while there is time,” she said clearly, striding out of the hall.
***
Nighttime found Perceval more willing to hear reason, as Endeline knew it would. His later years had left him a toothless lion, all bluster and bravado in front of his knights, and all fear and trepidation in the solitude of their chamber. As he climbed into bed beside his wife, he explained his reasons for the day’s brusqueness: “I cannot stop Calhoun, nor can I stop his reputation,” he said, slipping beneath the heavy furs on their bed. “So what am I to do? Surely his bold adventures for Stephen will be our undoing.”
“You must bring Calhoun home,” Endeline said, her dark eyes gleaming in the glow of their candle. “Write him a letter, promise him anything, just bring him home.”
“What do I promise him? He wants nothing to do with us.”
Endeline shook her head. “If I know my son, there is yet one thing he desires. He would have your blessing to marry Afton. For that, I believe he would come home.”
“Afton?” Perceval scratched his head. “What leads you to believe this, woman? The girl has not been seen in years. Does she still live in the village?”
“Aye, with her mother. And I have it on good report that Calhoun visited her the very day after his return home.”
Endeline slipped out of bed and took a sheet of parchment and a
bottle of ink from the table in the room. She brought both to Perceval. “You must write and suggest that Afton is willing and able to marry. You must also tell our son that you have given your permission and your blessing to this marriage.”
Perceval’s had shook as he took the parchment. He looked up again at Endeline, and the expression on his face was that of a confused child. “Do we really want them to marry?”
“Of course not!” Endeline snapped, then she forced herself to remain calm. “She will be married already before he arrives here, so you will not lie, my dear husband. You will say nothing in the letter that can be used against you, so write what I tell you, my lord.”
“Yes.” Perceval took the quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
***
Calhoun broke the embossed seal and read the letter hastily, then slowly, not believing what was written there. Was the message a trick? Or had God smiled upon him at last and provided deliverance from his life of blood and battle?
I have decided that it is time for my vassal Afton to marry again, his father had written. And knowing that she is the love of your life, I give my blessing and permission for this marriage. Come home, dear son, as soon as you can.
Marry Afton? What had changed in her situation? Why had she agreed to this marriage? He refolded the letter and placed it inside his tunic, over his heart, as he paced up and down in his tent. Winter lay heavy and dead upon them, there would be no more fighting until the spring. Stephen would allow him to go home, of that Calhoun was certain. He had served his king ably and well, and Stephen had no cause to doubt Calhoun’s loyalty.
“I must go!” Calhoun muttered to himself. He stepped out of his tent and gave the order for his company to mount up. They would return to London immediately.
***
“My lady Afton.” The man’s voice hesitated shyly, and Afton looked up from her sewing with surprise. No male visitor had called upon her at Corba’s house in years.
Afton of Margate Castle Page 37
