Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  He did not answer, but continued to hold her, and she knew his words were true. She had long suspected that Hubert’s qualities resided in her son. As a boy, Ambrose had been charming, but devilish, and often he had unnerved her with his cunning. On the day she was arrested and taken from the mill, had he not been an accomplice in injustice? And for what? A pony?

  She relaxed in Calhoun’s grip, and was surprised when he gently lay her head in his lap and stroked her hair. As she lay there, her eyes wide, she watched the cluster of flames in front of her, greedy flames that devoured every tender twig within reach and insistently lapped at the log Calhoun had placed on the fire. Endeline was such a flame; devouring and lapping her way into every part of Afton’s life to destroy beauty and goodness.

  She did not know how long she lay in his arms, but after a while she stirred and sat up. “I love you, Calhoun,” she said, turning her face into the firelight so he could see her clearly if he turned her way. “I have always loved you and you alone.”

  “I loved a beautiful maiden called Afton,” Calhoun answered softly. “Whose heart was as pure as her face.”

  “That girl is a woman now, with a woman’s scars,” Afton sighed, loosening the cloak tied around her neck. “Accept her love or leave it, the choice is yours.”

  Calhoun stood to his feet without even glancing in her direction. “I will keep watch while you sleep,” he said, his voice flat. “We will ride back in the morning.”

  He stepped away from her in the darkness, and Afton spread her cloak on the ground and pillowed her head in her arms. Like a child, she cried herself to sleep.

  ***

  He watched her as she slept, covering his feelings with the habitual detachment he found useful on the battlefield. He would never have dreamed it possible, but the older he grew, the more often he found himself imitating Fulk. If he needed to slit a man’s throat, he did it as Fulk would have, quietly and quickly without a second thought. If he was required to whip a disobedient soldier, he wielded the lash himself, considering that Fulk had borne more blows than these without a whimper of pain or fear.

  And now his mind taunted him: Do you need to renounce your love? Do it as Fulk would have, resolutely and calmly. Take her back to the church and leave her with a man who would never be threatened by her ferocity.

  “Josson would faint if he knew the true tenor of your nature,” Calhoun as Afton lay sleeping, “but he will never see it, for he does not know you. While I, who adore you and would fight for you, am bound to renounce you for my mother’s sake.”

  He looked upon her with admiration, knowing some of what she had endured. She had survived marriage to Hubert, who, by all accounts, had been as brutal a master as Zengi. She had been falsely accused and unjustly treated, and stripped of her dignity and worth in the eyes of the entire village, her entire world. Still, she stood strong and unbowed. “Perhaps the thing I cannot overlook is the thing that keeps you alive,” Calhoun whispered again in his solitary discourse. “But I am tired of strife and bloodshed. I cannot marry a woman whose desire for vengeance outstrips my need for honor.”

  Thirty-five

  A trumpet blew as they drew near the castle, and Calhoun knew Perceval and Endeline had been alerted to their approach. “It is time to face our actions,” Calhoun told Afton who sat silently behind him. “Are you ready?”

  “She can but kill me,” Afton answered. “Though I suppose it is Josson’s choice as to what shall be done with me.”

  “They may not believe we shared a chaste night together,” Calhoun said, slowing the horse to a walk. “It may even be that you will be tried for adultery.”

  “It would not be the first false charge I have withstood,” Afton said, raising her chin. “Do not worry about me, Calhoun. I have lost every battle of my life, but I have survived.”

  The gate creaked open for them without the welcoming herald of trumpets, and no man called out a greeting. The silence was ominous and oppressive. Through the gate they rode, and a stable boy took Calhoun’s horse at the entrance to the castle. Afton slid easily off the back of the animal, then waited for Calhoun. Side by side, but without touching, they walked into the great hall.

  Perceval and Endeline waited on the dais, and Afton’s heart leapt at the sight of Ambrose sitting at Endeline’s side. How handsome and tall he had grown! He was breathtakingly beautiful, a stunning boy with dusty gold hair, yet he cast impartial eyes upon Afton as if she were just another villager. Afton felt a sob rising from her heart, and forced herself to look away lest she dissolve into tears.

  Two rows of Perceval’s nobles sat as motionless as a row of statues, called into special council for the hearing. Josson, the injured party, stood alone on a carpet before Perceval.

  “Calhoun of Margate and Afton, widow of Hubert,” Perceval called as they entered. “You are ordered to stand and hear the accusations against you.”

  “What are these accusations?” Calhoun demanded, placing his hand on his sword. “I would hear them, and refute them.”

  “You stole my bride at the church door,” Josson cried, taking an eager step toward Calhoun. He stopped abruptly. “She gave me her promise to wed, and yet she left with you in fear for her life.”

  “I felt no fear,” Afton answered clearly. “I went with Calhoun willingly.”

  The council members stirred, and Perceval rapped his knuckles on the table for quiet. “Josson speaks the truth,” Perceval told the counselors. “I gave this woman to my honored steward as a bride.” He looked steadily at his son. “She agreed to be married. Then you, Calhoun, abducted the bride, and now my name has been dishonored among the people. What say you to this charge?”

  “I have in my possession a letter from you stating that this woman was free to marry,” Calhoun answered, pulling the letter from his tunic. “And your injunction that I should return home. I assumed, of course, that the woman was promised to me.”

  “You assumed incorrectly,” Ambrose sneered. He turned his gaze toward Afton. “Hello, mother.”

  Afton felt her throat tighten. Calhoun was right, this snide boy was not the son she surrendered eight years ago! He might have sprung from her womb, but he sat next to Endeline as Hubert reincarnated, taunting her one last time. But was he completely lost? He was only sixteen. Surely she had time to redirect him, if given the opportunity!

  “Ambrose,” she whispered, her heart breaking.

  Perceval was blind to the drama between Afton and her son. He fastened his dark eyes upon Calhoun. “I would like to know your intentions regarding this woman.”

  “As God is my witness, my love for her is honorable,” Calhoun replied, his voice steady and strong. “No dishonor has been brought to any member of this house, nor to the woman herself.” He glanced briefly at Josson. “I did not touch her.”

  “So say you,” Josson declared, his face flushing. “Who is to believe it? Lord Perceval, I demand justice!”

  “God will reveal His justice,” Perceval pronounced, rising to his feet. The counselors stood in unison for his judgment: “Calhoun, as of this day, you are no longer my son,” Perceval announced. “This boy, Ambrose, whom we have reared in your absence, is a finer son to me than ever you were. And to your validate the truthfulness of your statements, when the sun is at its highest point in the sky this day, you shall duel for this woman. If your love is honorable, God will grant you victory. If your words and spirit are false, may God grant you a mercifully quick death.”

  Afton felt her knees turn to water at Perceval’s words, and the room began to spin slowly. The only objects that did not move were Perceval’s eyes, glinting in the shadows of the hall. “Prepare yourself,” he said. “I have spoken.”

  ***

  Calhoun’s horse shifted uneasily beneath his weight as the field outside the castle filled with spectators. The news had spread like wildfire, and villagers, knights, tradesmen, and servants appeared from every hamlet of Perceval’s lands to watch the promised spectacle. Never before
had a nobleman’s son dueled for the love of a common woman. “Such a thing,” one laundress told her mate as she shoved her laundry aside, “may never happen again.”

  Calhoun checked his sword, dagger, and lance. He had fought over forty tournament duels in his lifetime, but this duel would not end until one champion lay dead. He was not worried, though. If God were truly the judge of this match, he would be victorious.

  He was also comforted by the thought that Perceval’s garrison contained no knights up to the challenge of facing a seasoned soldier. Knowing his father’s mind, he knew the man who faced him would likely be poor Josson, who had never lifted a lance in his lifetime. Honor and duty would demand that he duel; Calhoun would be victorious, Perceval would allow Calhoun to marry Afton, and in time, he would restore Calhoun to his rightful place.

  Calhoun chuckled as he gripped his sword. His father was fond of playing with fire.

  ***

  The crowd cheered when Perceval and Endeline appeared in their box at the top of the tower. As Perceval’s chaplain lifted his arms high and prayed that God’s will would be done, the villagers removed their hats and caps and bowed their heads.

  “That will do,” Calhoun muttered, slowly walking his horse down to the far end of the tourney field. He tightened his hand around the pole of his lance. “Let’s have it over and done with.” He looked through the sea of faces for Afton--where would the guards have taken her? She would probably watch the duel from the garrison, and after Calhoun’s victory, he would take her far from Margate, possibly to London. If she could leave her past behind, they could love each other.

  The trumpeters blew the warning, and Calhoun mounted his stallion, who seemed to sense that today’s ride was more important than most. Calhoun checked his stirrups, his spurs, and tightened the leather band that strapped his hand and lance together.

  Another trumpet blast, and Calhoun aimed his lance at the chest of the masked rider even as the challenger thundered toward him. Calhoun leaned back on his heels; his spurs urged the stallion forward to his target.

  ***

  Afton stood between two guards at the wide window at the top of the tower garrison. From there she could see Calhoun, riding in his simple blue tunic, and the rider who charged in Perceval’s colors. A tear rolled down her cheek. Though she had not loved Josson, she did not want to be the reason for his death.

  The thunder of pounding hooves carried across the pasture. Clods of earth rose from the ground as the horses raced, but the riders sat motionless, their lances still and steadily aimed at the other’s breast. The second before the two made contact, Afton turned her head, unable to watch.

  Metal clashed, and a collective groan rose from the crowd. Afton peered down; the rider in Perceval’s colors lay on the grassy field, his shield rammed away and his helmet thrown from his head. Calhoun sat squarely on his horse, and circled the downed rider even as the man struggled to his feet.

  The felled rider gained his footing and pulled the sword from his belt. He took a brave stand, but the crowd already knew his situation was hopeless. From a mounted position, Calhoun would merely have to aim the lance a second time, and the man on the ground would never land a blow.

  Afton crossed herself and whispered a prayer for Josson’s soul, for surely he would spend his next hour with God. The sun shone on the man’s long hair, hair that gleamed like gold, and Afton gasped. The felled rider was not Josson, but Ambrose!

  Her blood ran cold and she involuntarily clasped her hands together in the pose for prayer. Ambrose stood defenseless on the field, the ruthless boy who had literally taken Calhoun’s place at Margate, yet Calhoun did not strike.

  Afton watched as Calhoun circled his quarry yet again; then he spurred his horse and rode to the opposite end of the field. Ambrose seized the advantage and sprinted to his horse, leaping upon the animal’s back and charging again in wild fury.

  ***

  Fulk would have loved this, Calhoun thought as Ambrose approached, his sword swinging wildly in proud fury. My father challenges me with the one knight I cannot kill. God, give me wisdom!

  He waited until Ambrose was within fifteen feet, then Calhoun turned his agile horse and spurred the stallion forward, an old trick of the elusive Saracens’. Ambrose sailed past, overshooting his target, then turned his bulky horse to charge again. His mouth hung open, contorted with anger, and his face gleamed red with murderous intent.

  Calhoun whirled and turned, whirled and turned, keeping his head low behind his shield. He could not kill the boy, but he would not let himself be killed or maimed by a sixteen-year-old fledgling. Only one option remained, and Calhoun found it more distasteful than death.

  Calhoun waited until Ambrose faced him again, then took careful aim at Ambrose’s unprotected chest with his lance and charged. His lance was steady, his aim sure, and in the last second, just as Ambrose went pale and his eyes widened, Calhoun deflected the point of his lance and kept his spur to the horse, galloping out of the field of contest and through the neighboring meadow.

  At that point he knew his previous plans had to be forfeited. He would not marry Afton, he could not take her away, for he could not win the duel. Killing Josson would have been necessary according to Perceval’s judgment, but Afton would have never forgiven him had he killed Ambrose.

  As he rode, his thoughts were darkened by one other thought: many of those assembled would always believe that Calhoun, mighty knight of Margate Castle, had fled in fear of his life. But those who knew him would know the truth.

  Thirty-six

  Agnelet

  1141

  Afton’s heart raced ahead of her feet as she seized the moment and slipped out of the tower garrison. The guards stood shocked and silent at the window, watching Calhoun ride away from certain victory, and she slipped down the stairs noiselessly and ran through the courtyard and out of the castle. The confused crowd had begun to disperse when she reached the field, and she merged into the crowd of onlookers and mingled with them on the road, keeping her head low.

  She had to find Calhoun. He had spared her son, and she owed him an immeasurable debt of gratitude. Perhaps he did still love her after all.

  The crowd of peasants, disappointed and restless, trudged along the castle road toward the village. Afton forced herself to maintain their leaden pace, but as soon as the first trees obscured her from the castle tower, she bolted from the crowd and disappeared into the forest. She knew it was possible Calhoun had ridden straight away, possibly back to London, but she prayed he would not leave without telling her goodbye. If he had not yet gone, she knew where he would be.

  The forest surrounded her in cool darkness, and she thrashed through the tangled undergrowth in a blind hurry, searching for familiar bushes and trees. When she finally saw the leafless crest of the twin oaks, she gasped in gratitude and pressed on until she stood at the gnarled trunks. Laying a hand tenderly upon Calhoun’s engraved name, she peered around the tree to see if Calhoun waited by the pool.

  At first she did not see him, but the sudden whinny of a horse told her he was near. She stepped out into the clearing and saw him, standing away from the water, leaning against a tree. His stallion was tethered nearby, and the creature defiantly tossed his head as she approached.

  “Calhoun!” She smoothed her hair and took a timid step in his direction.

  He looked up, but his eyes did not snap in anticipation and he did not flash the smile she had always loved. His shoulders slumped in dejection.

  “You saved my son’s life,” she said, stepping toward him again. “You are a great hero.”

  He grunted and looked up at the bare treetops. “A hero? No, Afton, from this day forward I will be branded as a coward. I am not only outcast from my family, but my brothers in arms will shun me as well.”

  “Shun you? They will admire you! You refused to strike down a child! Even though victory was in your grasp--”

  “My opponent was a knight,” Calhoun interrupted, sinking slo
wly to the ground, his armor sliding over the tender bark of a young tree. “I ran from another knight. Regardless of my reasons, the story will spread, and no knight will ever trust me in battle again.”

  Afton rushed to his side. “I’m tired of all this talk of knights,” she cried, reaching for his hands. She sank to the ground beside him and held his hands tightly. “It does not matter what those rusty, worn-out warriors think of you. I know you are valiant, Calhoun, and you have done a noble thing.”

  He would not look at her, so she pulled his face toward her until she looked into his blue eyes. “I owe you my life, most noble Calhoun. I give you my love.”

  He raised his hand and she closed her eyes, certain that his lips would fall upon hers. But he only removed her hand from his cheek. Without a word, he stood up. “I spared your son at great price, Afton,” he said stiffly, walking toward his horse.

  She darted to his side. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “I must go away. I have no name here, no honor, and no family.”

  “But I love you!”

  He swung into his saddle and looked down at her. It was as thought she gazed into the face of a man a thousand years old. “You would not want a man with no pride,” he said finally.

  He kicked his horse and the animal began to move forward.

  “Go then,” Afton screamed at his back, her voice ringing in the trees. “Take your ridiculous pride and honor and never return to this place. You will die on a battlefield alone, Calhoun, and what joy will honor bring you then?”

  He did not answer, but kept moving through the trees. After a few moments, the trees stopped rustling and the dead leaves grew silent. She stood alone in the forest, and she threw herself upon the cold, muddy bank of the pool and wept.

  ***

  She cried until she felt sick, and she vomited quietly in the bushes, then washed her face in the pool. Go ahead, drown yourself, the reflection in the water taunted her. You have no life, either. It may well be that Perceval has a bounty upon your head, or perhaps he has given you in marriage to the vilest man in his employ. Even Josson will not have you now, for you have shamed him in front of the villagers. Her fingers closed around a rock and she hurled it into the center of the reflection, shattering it into ever-spreading rings of water.