Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  She got up and drew her cloak about her, walking not in the direction of the village, but deeper into the forest. She did not know where she would go, but she did not care. There are hungry winter wolves in this forest, she thought idly, and I will not care if they attack.

  She stopped ere nightfall, though, and rubbed her frozen feet. They were blue with cold, and bleeding from the rough cuts of briars and stones, but the pain was blessedly sharp. Her physical aches distracted her attention from the misery of her soul.

  She took refuge in a quiet thicket, sleeping on a bed of fallen leaves, shivering like the dogs that used to lie at Perceval’s kitchen door in hopes of a handout. In the morning she rose and walked again, her sore feet throbbing and her stomach aching with hunger. The damp silk of her wedding tunic offered no protection from the sunless chill, and her hair tangled in the bushes and branches she trudged through.

  As she walked, she did not even know in which direction she traveled, for the sun hid behind a veil of gray clouds. She felt as though she moved in an ocean of cold mist, with unseen predators lurking behind every rock and shadow.

  Once she heard the piercing snarl of an animal, and she lost her sense and ran, loosing her slippers and her veil in her mad rush of terror. Another time she heard men’s voices and the braying of dogs, and she crawled into a rotting log to hide until their voices faded away. Though she shuddered at the closeness of the rotting wood and thought of the grave, she did not dare stir from the place until all was silent once again.

  For two days she wandered in the woods, and on the third day she saw light at the edge of the trees and stumbled blindly toward it. A road stretched before her in the distance, and she staggered across a clearing, hoping to beg mercy from a passing stranger.

  But the winter sun shone too brightly upon her and its light caused her head to swim. Weak from exhaustion and exposure to the cold, she collapsed in the field, face down, her arms extended out to the sides.

  When the convent housekeeper found her, she remarked to the abbess that God had surely willed that the woman be rescued. She had been lying, after all, in the shape of a cross.

  Thirty-seven

  “Bring her in carefully,” Madame Hildegard told Trilby, holding the heavy oak door open. “Do you need help?”

  “She’s nothing but skin and bones,” Trilby answered, shaking her head. She lay the woman carefully upon a bed in the infirmary. “She weighs no more than a sack of potatoes.”

  Madame Luna, who presided over the infirmary, checked the woman for wounds and then covered her with a wool blanket. “What do you think?” Hildegard murmured quietly. “Is she mad? For what cause would a woman wander in the forest and lie in the field?”

  “I do not know,” Luna answered, eyeing the woman’s pale face. She flicked a dead leaf off the clean blanket. “Her tunic is fine, though torn, but her hands are callused and worn. I am sure she will tell us her story when she is awakened.” She lay her expert hand upon the woman’s forehead. “She has fever. We had better call a doctor and a priest.”

  “Call the doctor,” Hildegard nodded, giving permission. “We will call a priest only if it is necessary.”

  ***

  Before Madame Elfgiva began the devotional reading at dinner, Hildegard raised her hand for the nuns’ attention. Every eye turned soundlessly in her direction. “Our prayers are needed for a woman in our infirmary,” she announced, smiling gently first at the nuns on her left, then at those on her right. “Madame Luna will be nursing her. She would appreciate your prayers as well.”

  The nuns nodded in sympathy and agreement, and Madame Elfgiva began to read from the Holy Scripture. Down at the end of the table, Lienor sipped her clear broth and idly wondered what woman lay in the infirmary.

  ***

  “Madame Abbess, may I nurse the sick woman?”

  Hildegard always found it hard to refuse the sincerity in Agnelet’s rare requests, but she shook her head resolutely. “Madame Luna is a fine nurse. You are needed elsewhere, my child.”

  “But even Madame Luna cannot nurse without sleep. I could spell her during the evening hours. ‘Tis what Jesus Himself would do.”

  Hildegard sighed. Only two years old in the religious life, Agnelet was already a stronger nun than many of those who had vowed their lives to God twenty years before. Still, to expose her tender soul and heart to a woman who might possibly be mad. . . .

  “You may relieve Madame Luna in the evening hours only. Then you are to observe the grand silence and not speak.”

  Agnelet nodded gratefully and her smile lit up her entire face, bathing even the hideous birthmark in a serene glow. She bowed reverently and left the room, and Hildegard thought once again that she understood why God allowed the birthmark upon Agnelet’s tender face. Without it, Agnelet’s beauty would be flawless, and perfection was not within the reach of mortals.

  ***

  For days the woman had been delirious in fever, whispering hoarsely and crying piteously. Whoever she was, some great sorrow had torn her soul, and tears coursed down Agnelet’s cheeks as she wiped the woman’s gaunt face with a cool cloth. Over and over she wiped the woman’s face until the cloth grew hot in her hand, then Agnelet dipped it into fresh water and began again, ministering silently to the woman in her care.

  But tonight Agnelet noticed a change in her patient. At first the woman’s tongue had been coated with a white substance, but on this evening it seemed raw and red. Her face burned crimson with fever, except for a pale area around her trembling mouth, and her body was spotted with a scarlet rash.

  The woman had sunk deeper in delirium. “Calhoun,” she whimpered once, her body curving in pain and longing, then she stiffened, and thrashed back and forth in pain. Her hands held her head, tore at her long hair, and scratched at the rash on her body. Agnelet feared the woman was dying, and she moved toward the bell that would alert Trilby to fetch a priest.

  Suddenly the woman sat upright in bed and her dark eyes flew open. “Don’t kill my son!” she cried, staring at Agnelet, who froze, her hand on the bell rope. “Don’t kill my daughter!”

  Agnelet rushed toward the woman, grabbed her shoulders, and gently pushed her back down on the mattress. Though her conscience pricked at her heart, she disobeyed the grand silence: “There, there,” she crooned softly, as the woman relaxed slightly. “No one is going to hurt your children.”

  “My children,” the woman echoed, her eyes closing again. “Don’t let him kill my children.”

  The woman drifted off to sleep, but her ragged breaths came in spurts, and Agnelet could hear the death-rattle in the woman’s throat. She moved toward the bell rope again. Surely the end was near.

  Overcome by a sudden impulse, she fell on her knees by the side of the bed. “Our Father and Blessed Savior,” she prayed, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. “Don’t take this woman’s life. Some one has hurt her, someone has threatened her children. Loving Father, if you must take a soul, take mine, O Lord, for it knows the pain this woman feels. Don’t take her from her children.”

  She mouthed the words over and over again, as if the repetition of them would assure God of her sincerity, and when Madame Luna came in the next morning she found Agnelet crouched by the side of the bed, her hands folded for prayer. The woman slept easily, her fever broken.

  ***

  The doctor said Agnelet’s illness was a simple case of contagion. The woman brought the disease into the convent and somehow gave it to Agnelet. He promptly declared the infirmary off limits to all the nuns but Madame Luna and Abbess Hildegard.

  But as she lay on a mattress next to the woman, Agnelet knew God had honored her prayer. The woman would live.

  Her own head was throbbing beneath her veil and headbands when the woman sat up and looked around curiously. Her eyes caught the young nun’s and Agnelet saw a momentary flash of sympathy. “I must be at a convent,” the woman whispered shyly. “But near what town?”

  “Margate,” Agnelet replied, t
he whisper ripping her sore throat.

  The infirmary door opened and Madame Luna’s eyes widened in surprise. “You are better!” she announced. “We have prayed and waited for this day. May we send for someone to care for you? Surely someone is worried about where you are.”

  The woman shook her head. “No one cares for me,” she answered, her dark eyes closing in resignation. “There is no one to send for.”

  Madame Luna bowed slightly. “As you wish. You are fortunate to be alive.” Madame Luna crossed to Agnelet’s bed and lay a practiced hand across the young nun’s forehead. “And you, dear sister, are burning with fever. I shall call the doctor.”

  “Don’t.” Agnelet tugged at Madame Luna’s sleeve. “Do not trouble him. I am in God’s hands.”

  Madame Luna hesitated, then nodded. “As you wish,” she said simply, laying a heavy woolen blanket over the young girl. “But rest.” She turned back to the woman. “I shall bring you some soup and bread. You must eat your way back to health.”

  The woman’s smile lit up her face--and Agnelet’s heart.

  ***

  Afton felt stronger with every passing day. Soon she was able to eat, to sit up, and to stay awake. Soon she would be able to take charge of her life again, but she had no idea what she should do. Only one thing was certain: no longer would she wait for Calhoun.

  As Afton grew stronger, her young companion in the infirmary grew steadily weaker. The girl’s face was constantly flushed with fever, and the horrific mark across her face darkened as her fever rose. While the girl slept, Afton studied her face with undisguised and morbid curiosity. The girl would have been quite handsome, for her features were delicate and lovely, but the hideous birthmark effectively overwhelmed the beauty of her face.

  Once the young nun opened her gray eyes while Afton was studying her face. “I’m sorry,” Afton apologized in embarrassment, lowering her gaze. “I thought--”

  “I do not take offense,” Agnelet rasped, putting her hand to her throat. “My heart is impure. Why should my face then be pure? I cannot rail against my Creator.”

  “You do not regret His choice?” Afton asked. “He could have made you beautiful.”

  The girl made an effort to swallow. “Then I would not have been brought here, and here I have found peace, love, and the joy that comes from knowing God.”

  “You were cast off from your family?” Afton shook her head in disapproval. “I would hate them forever. No loving mother would abandon her child.” She thought of Ambrose, standing tall and handsome by Endeline’s side, and her voice cracked. “Willingly, of course. If my mother had abandoned me willingly, I would hate her forever.”

  “I do not hate my mother,” Agnelet said, wearily closing her eyes. “She gave me life. She directed my path to this loving place. I could not have asked for more.”

  Afton watched in amazement as the young girl closed her eyes in exhaustion. Even in pain, she seemed as pure and demure as a statue of the Virgin Mary. But what did this sheltered girl know of life?

  “I think you have been misled,” Afton said, not caring if the girl heard her. “If I were locked behind these walls, I would be angry with God. I would be furious with those who kept me here, and I would vow revenge upon the woman who brought me to this place.”

  The girl’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. “I am sorry that such anger has found a home in your heart,” she said drowsily. “But you must get better--for your children.” The girl’s eyes closed in sleep, and Afton stared gloomily into the gathering darkness.

  ***

  The doctor visited the infirmary every day, diligent in his concern, and Madame Hildegard began to visit the sickroom more often as the young nun grew weaker. Once Afton caught the abbess staring at her. “Have you had occasion to visit our chapel?” the abbess asked. “You look familiar to me.”

  Afton shook her head. She could not arouse the old nun’s suspicion, especially since Endeline was likely to have a spy even in the convent. Afton counted herself fortunate that the threat of contagion had kept Lienor from visiting the infirmary and recognizing her.

  Later that evening Madame Luna brought Afton a simple tunic, one left by a young girl entering the convent. “I am sorry, but the fine tunic you were wearing was quite ruined,” Madame Luna explained. “My frugal sisters have already cut it up for scraps. We have this replacement, but I am sure you are used to finer materials than this.”

  “No,” Afton answered, accepting the new tunic gratefully. “This tunic will be fine. I am not high born.”

  “I suppose you will soon be leaving us,” Madame Luna remarked casually. Her tone was more a suggestion than a question.

  “Yes, I will go,” Afton answered, unfolding the new tunic. “I will leave tomorrow, if you like.”

  “Whenever you feel strong enough,” Madame Luna answered, removing the supper bowl from the table by Afton’s bed. She put it outside the door and returned with the abbess to check on Agnelet. Her manner became immediately more solicitous, and she tenderly opened the girl’s mouth and nodded to the abbess. Hildegard reluctantly pulled the bell rope in the corner of the room.

  In a moment, Afton heard the answering bell from the convent chapel, and within half an hour Father Barton stood in the infirmary, offering the last rites for Madame Agnelet.

  Afton thought the nuns’ detachment unnatural. The women glided through the infirmary in a single line, women who had known and loved Agnelet for all the years of her life. Though tears shone in their eyes as they carried lighted candles and sang her soul to heaven, not one pair of eyes lifted to God in reproach. No voice questioned God’s judgment. No lips curled downward with the weight of unuttered questions, in her last moments Agnelet saw only the sweet smiles of her sisters.

  Afton lay quietly in her bed, feeling uncomfortably guilty. Agnelet lay in death’s stillness on her straw mattress, pale in her black habit, and Madame Hildegard anointed her with holy oil and placed within her folded hands the parchment she had signed at vesture giving her soul and life to God.

  “Peace to this house,” the priest sang in a rich baritone.

  “And to all who live herein,” responded the nuns, their faces shining in the semi-darkness.

  From the her bed, Afton wept, not knowing if her tears were for the brave young nun or for herself, for she had known so little peace.

  ***

  She rose and dressed the next morning, not hungry for the spare breakfast Madame Luna insisted she eat. “You will need your strength,” the nun ordered. “Eat.”

  Afton took a few bites of the tasteless bread and wished she could be more grateful. A rap on the door distracted Madame Luna’s sharp eyes, and Afton sighed in relief and stuffed a hunk of bread under the mattress.

  “You have a visitor,” Madame Luna said, opening the door wider so the visitor could enter. Afton drew in her breath quickly. Lienor stood in the doorway. What did this mean? Of course, Lienor must have seen her last night in the infirmary, but did she intend to reveal Afton’s identity?

  Lienor nodded her thanks to Madame Luna, who left the room, then Lienor walked to a bench and sat down. “Praised be Jesus Christ,” Lienor whispered.

  Afton sank onto her mattress, stunned. It had been so long since she had heard Lienor’s voice that the sound of it thrilled her, like an age-old memory suddenly revived. “You are free to speak?” Afton said. “Your vow of silence is kept?”

  “As of today, there is no need for it,” Lienor said softly, her eyes flitting to the empty mattress where Agnelet had lain. “I kept silence to protect the happiness of someone who deserved to be happy. Now I may speak.”

  “Of what?” Afton asked. “Are you going to tell the Abbess who I am? I only kept my identity secret because your father--”

  “Your happiness deserves to be protected, too,” Lienor interrupted gently. “I will not reveal your identity. But someone else must be--” she paused. “Unmasked.”

  Afton couldn’t help her curiosity. “Who?” />
  Lienor’s eyes flickered again over the empty bed. “I saw her as an infant, the day she arrived here. Such a tiny baby, and I knew the old woman at the gate could not have been her mother. But even though the crimson mark marred the beauty of her face, I saw her ancestry reflected there.”

  Lienor looked back at Afton, and her voice dropped to a nearly indiscernible whisper. “I had seen her beauty once before. Dainty nose, soft gray eyes, stubborn chin.” She smiled. “Such beautiful features could only have come from you, Afton. Madame Hildegard found that on the same day the babe came to us, St. Agnes’ Day, you were delivered of a baby boy. I surmised that you had also been delivered of a girl.”

  The room began to spin, and Afton clutched her fingers into the scratchy burlap mattress. Her baby had died! Hubert had killed her, and the cook, too, as he nearly killed her. “No, that can’t be,” she whispered. “Impossible. My baby was killed.”

  Pity shown in Lienor’s eyes. “I knew you were married to a devil, and I did not speak up at first because I feared for the child’s safety. By the time I learned of Hubert’s death, we had all come to love her, and she loved us. I knew then the best life for her was here at the convent. She was protected--”

  “You knew she was my daughter?” Afton spoke through clenched teeth, anger welling up within her. “You kept her from me?”

  Lienor shook her head. “I tried to show you once. When you came to tell me that Calhoun had been captured, I tried to lead you to the window to see her. But you would not look.”

  “I thought she was dead! How could I have known?”

  “It was as God willed.” Lienor smiled the nun’s sweet, unruffled smile. “Agnelet would not have known happiness in the world. The world is a cruel place for those who are not beautiful.” Despite her demeanor, Afton suspected that a vein of resentment still flowed from Lienor’s heart.