Afton’s emotions swirled like a cyclone. “If I had known, I would have made her happy! We could have gone away--”
Lienor held up her hand. “Agnelet could not run from herself. In this place she came to an understanding and acceptance of God’s will. She was dearer to God than the rest of us, and that is why He drew her to Himself.”
“I killed her. A fresh recognition struck Afton. “She lay here and forgave me--” her voice cracked and she spoke through sobs, “and I killed her and she said she loved me. She loved me, Lienor! How could she do that?”
“The love of God flowed through her.” Lienor stood and placed an awkward hand on Afton’s shoulder. “The mercy of God works in strange ways,” she whispered softly. “Do not think ill of me for not speaking sooner. But I could not destroy her happiness.”
Lienor slipped out of the room, and Afton buried her face in the burlap mattress and screamed.
Thirty-eight
The morning of her departure from the convent, Afton knelt for three hours in the chapel, praying for comfort that would not come. When her knees were numb from grating on the stone floor, she left the convent for the road that led to the village. She took nothing from the nunnery but the cast-off tunic she wore and a knowledge too terrible to be denied.
She needed a safe place to think, a place away from the black-robed women who only reminded her of her loss. She no longer cared what fate, if any, Endeline and Perceval had planned for her, for any pain they might have intended would be eclipsed by the yawning emptiness of her heart.
Corba welcomed her home with a warm embrace and, after one look at Afton’s face, asked no questions. Afton lay down on her straw mattress and slept twelve hours without stirring, then she awoke in the dead of night and sat quietly, thinking.
Agnelet had been her daughter, that much she knew for certain. As she stared into the darkness, she saw Hubert clearly, grinning as he lifted the babe from between her legs. “And God has given me a sign,” he bellowed, as Afton struggled to lift her head through her pain. “For the child is marked as the offspring of an adulteress. I read your sin in the child’s face.”
She had been too overwhelmed with suffering to comprehend his words, but now she understood what Hubert had seen. The birthmark. The mark of Afton’s sin, Hubert had called it. She lowered her head upon her arms. Was the child marked for her sin of loving Calhoun? Even though she had been physically faithful to her husband, had God punished her for loving another? Was He punishing her still, by taking her daughter from her a second time?
She could not escape her guilt. I did not look for her. Afton drove her fist into her open palm. I should have gone throughout England looking for her little body, but I did not! And just as I hated Corba for giving me to Endeline, so she must have hated me!
But she did not. A cool voice of reason crossed Afton’s mind. Without ever knowing you, she loved you. She was grateful to you. She prayed for you.
Was it possible that Agnelet had been better off in the convent? What sort of life would she have had in the village? Afton’s tears began anew when she realized that Lienor was right--no matter where they had gone, Agnelet would have been feared, scorned, or even accused of being a child of the devil. Her life would not have been secure, and vain, ambitious Ambrose might have been unspeakably cruel to her.
Afton raised her eyes to the thatched roof of Corba’s hut. She could not bargain with God. In infinite wisdom, He had known and chosen the best path for Agnelet.
Afton mourned in silence for two days, speaking and eating little. On the evening of the second day, she clasped Corba’s hands and poured out the entire story, beginning with Agnelet’s birth and ending with her death. “She lived and died in peace and joy,” Afton whispered, as tears flowed freely from Corba’s dim eyes. “Surely that is all a mother can ask for a child.”
“That is all,” Corba agreed, sniffling noisily. “But heed the words of your daughter, Afton.”
Afton cocked her head. “What words?”
“Didn’t she tell you to get better for the sake of your children? you still have a child on this earth. Do not forget Ambrose. He is not living in peace and joy, but in the castle.”
Afton released Corba’s hands and sank to the floor. What was she to do with Ambrose? How could she help him while he lived in the castle, the lair of ambition and vanity?
On the third day, Afton rose from her bed and dressed herself, determined to do what she could for Ambrose.
Thirty-nine
“Halt in the name of King Stephen!” the guard on the London road called. The silver of his sword gleamed in the sun. “Identify yourself.”
“Calhoun, of late in the service of the king,” Calhoun answered, his hand on his own sword. “I wish to join the king’s ranks for a lifetime of service.”
The guard whispered to his companion, who nodded. “Proceed,” the first man announced, waving Calhoun through.
Calhoun rode immediately to Stephen’s palace and found a company of the king’s knights preparing to ride out. He gave his horse to a page and gathered his courage to approach the castle. He did not know what, if any, news had reached Stephen in the weeks since the disastrous duel, but perhaps the king had been too involved in his war with Matilda to pay any attention to rumors about a cowardly knight. In any case, Calhoun had decided to spend the rest of his life in the king’s service.
He gave his name to a messenger, who reappeared shortly. “The king will see you right away,” the messenger announced, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Calhoun nodded, and proceeded into the main hall.
Stephen sat at dinner, flanked by his aides. “We eat on the run, Sir Calhoun,” he said, acknowledging Calhoun’s presence. “Matilda and her forces are on the move in the south. We go at once to stop them.”
“I am at your service,” Calhoun said, kneeling on the stone floor.
“What of your marriage?” Stephen asked, waving a chicken leg imperiously. “I thought you took your leave some weeks ago to be married.”
“The marriage did not take place.” Calhoun raised his head defiantly.
“I am not so concerned with the marriage,” Stephen answered, taking a tremendous bite of chicken. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then swallowed. “Where have you been in the intervening time?”
Calhoun lowered his eyes to the stone floor, and was uncomfortably aware that the noise of forty dining knights had subsided. All eyes and ears, it seemed, were trained upon him.
“I have been riding through the countryside, collecting my thoughts,” Calhoun answered. “I needed to find a new purpose for my life--”
“Have you found it?” the king questioned.
“I offer it to you,” Calhoun finished. “My life and my service.”
“As the son of Perceval?”
Calhoun flushed. “As myself.”
The king put down his chicken and wiped his hands fastidiously on the linen table cloth. “Before I accept this valiant offering, I want to know of your father’s loyalty.”
Calhoun did not waver. “My father has cast me off. I am no longer his son.”
“But I asked of his loyalty.” Stephen’s voice was clipped, and his eyes narrowed.
“He has always been loyal to the throne.”
“What of his loyalty to Matilda?”
“I do not know--”
“Think, man!” Stephen slammed his hand down upon the table, and his aides jumped in surprise. Stephen took a deep breath. “Captured prisoners told my captains they have been for many months sustained by tributes from Perceval, the Earl of Margate. Do you know this to be true?”
Calhoun knelt silently before the king, silently cursing the family pride that kept him from betraying Perceval’s treacherous dealings.
“Do you know?” Stephen roared.
“I cannot answer.”
Stephen sprang from his seat and came out from behind the table to stand in front of Calhoun. He nodded toward two guards, who moved to Calhoun�
�s right and left hand.
Stephen made an obvious effort to lighten his voice, but he stood with his hands at his belt, his legs apart as if preparing for a duel. “I hear disturbing things, son of Perceval. You fight bravely for us, then you go home for a marriage that does not take place. Then you are to fight a knight--one sworn to Matilda--but you do not kill him, but ride off and spare the villain’s life. Then you reappear here weeks later and offer yourself while your father aids my sworn enemy this very hour. Does this suggest something to you?”
“He is a spy!” a bearded man at the table hissed. “Perceval sends his son to spy on us.”
“He is a traitor,” another man chimed in. “He bragged of killing Matilda’s captain, Arnoul, but that rogue is alive and well, terrorizing the king’s loyal citizens.”
“Arnoul is alive?” Calhoun’s astonishment showed on his face, but not plainly enough to convince his accusers.
“So it would seem.” Stephen’s eyes held him in an unblinking gaze and Calhoun knew he had no defense. Who could trust a man who had turned against his family and shown mercy to the king’s enemy? Both were unthinkable.
“I offer my life in service to you and to God,” Calhoun spoke boldly. “My heart is true. Do with my life as you please.”
A light flickered in Stephen’s eye, and the trace of a smile passed across his face. “Very well, Sir Calhoun. I will have you imprisoned and hold your life as a test of your father’s loyalty. That is my plan. God’s plan for your life remains to be seen.”
Stephen looked to the guards. “Take him to the tower,” he commanded. As the guards led him out, Calhoun heard the king’s parting words: “Have my company readied at once. We ride for Margate castle within the hour.”
***
“It is good you are up and dressed,” Corba said, offering Afton a slice of thick brown bread. “There are reports of trouble at the castle, and things may be skittish in the village.” Corba’s hands were shaking as she nervously wiped them on her apron. “A messenger from Matilda’s troops rode through last night and demanded aid from Perceval at the castle. The men are saying that Matilda’s knights may pass through here today.”
“It would serve justice if they cleaned out Perceval’s storehouse,” Afton answered, dipping her bread in a jar of honey. “Perceval deserves it, after taxing us twice to pay for his tributes.”
“But do we deserve to starve if they burn our village?” Corba’s voice trembled, and she sank onto a bench at the table. “Calhoun does not deserve to die,” she added.
Afton’s eyes widened. “Why would Calhoun die?” she asked. “Surely he fights for Stephen again.”
Corba shook her head. “Lord Perceval and Lady Endeline pretend they do not care, but it is rumored that Calhoun is a prisoner of the kings, his life held in ransom for Perceval’s loyalty. If Perceval aids Matilda--”
“Shh, mother!” Afton snapped. Her brain raced ahead of her heart. Her first thought was for Ambrose. If Matilda’s men reached the castle, all would be well for Ambrose, but if Stephen learned of it, Calhoun would surely die for Perceval’s disloyalty. Afton shuddered. Despite Calhoun’s foolish faults, he did not deserve to die for the folly of his father. He had spared her son, and if she could spare his life, she would.
“Matilda’s men come by day?” she asked, staring into space across the table.
“So they say,” Corba answered.
“Does anyone know where Stephen’s men are?”
Corba shook her head. “I’m a old woman, girl. I only know what the other women tell me.”
Afton stood up and grabbed a scarf, quickly tying it around her head. She kissed Corba gently on the cheek. “Do not fear, mother,” she said, placing her hands tenderly on Corba’s shoulders. “I love you.”
***
She did not know from where Matilda’s army would come, but the only clear road to Margate Castle lay through the village. She ignored the glances of the village women as she walked, and felt the familiarity of the old mill house at her right as she passed the mill and the stream.
There Agnelet and Ambrose had been born. If all went according to her plan, she and Ambrose would live there again. Now that the boy was of age, she would demand that he be released from Perceval and given his lawful inheritance. By the king’s law, Ambrose was not a knight, but a miller. The mill was his, and as his mother, she and he would live there together, and all would be well.
The warm sun offered the promise of spring as she followed the road past the mill. When she came to a fork in the road, she sat on a grassy knoll and waited, untying her scarf so her hair could dance in the slight breeze. Hair, as Endeline taught her, was a marvelous distraction. For some silly reason, men seemed to be captivated by it.
There were few visitors on the road. A traveling priest and his companion glanced at her surreptitiously, and a passing washer-woman and her servant paused to give her a disdainful look.
At last her patience was rewarded. A cloud of dust appeared on the road near the horizon, and as it drew closer, Afton stood and judged her surroundings again. She would have to be close enough to arouse interest, but not so close that she could be scooped up into a saddle and carried away as booty. She had been enough acquainted with men of the sword to know that it was prudent to keep her distance.
She walked ten paces into the field, a good distance from the road, and as the party of knights drew near she waved her hands in greeting. “Stop a minute,” she called, aping Corba’s common accent. “Be you goin’ to Margate Castle?”
A large brute in armor turned his scarred face toward her. A red scar dripped down his left cheek, and a dark patch obscured his left eye. “Aye, wench,” he snarled, reining his horse in tightly. His smile turned in a gruesome grin. “Would you like a lift?”
The other knights laughed uproariously, and Afton involuntarily stepped back. “Not with you, sir,” she answered lightly, throwing her scarf back over her head. The knight laughed again and struck his horse with the whip, and the procession moved forward. Afton remained aware of the knights’ eyes upon her, though, and she walked slowly beside them and pretended to stumble. “Please, please let one of you be as chivalrous as Calhoun,” she breathed.
She lay in the dirt for a few moments as the tramp of hooves slowly passed her by, then one horse broke from the rear of the company and cantered toward her. Upon reaching her, a young knight smiled down at her. “Are you hurt, miss? Can I offer you a ride into town? We will never let it be said that Matilda’s knights left a maiden in peril.”
“Thank-you,” Afton sighed, pointing to her ankle. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to help me up.”
The young knight dismounted and pulled her to her feet, keeping his arm around her waist. The remaining knights jeered and rode away. “Your company is leaving you,” Afton remarked, placing her small hands in his.
“It does not matter,” the knight smiled. “I can catch them in a moment. My horse is the swiftest in the company.”
“How wonderful,” Afton answered. He supported her as she limped to the left side of the horse. The knight put his hands under her arms and lifted her easily into the saddle, then placed the reins in her hands as he prepared to mount behind her. As soon as Afton felt the smooth leather of the reins, she turned the horse and kicked with all her might. The startled horse lunged away and though the knight shouted and ran after her, Afton leaned forward and urged the animal on until she was out of reach.
Afton kept the horse at a gallop until she had passed the convent, then she allowed him to slow to a trot. She did not know where to find Stephen or Calhoun, but if mercy existed in heaven, she would find one of them.
***
She rode through the afternoon and at each village asked the whereabouts of Stephen’s army. No one gave her an answer until one old woman took pity on her. “A rider came through this morning,” the woman said, grinning toothlessly. “Stephen’s forces are just north of here, making camp for the night, they tell me. But he
won’t have nothing to do with a woman, I can tell you that.”
“Be that as it may, I must find him,” Afton answered, bowing to the old woman. “Thank you for your kindness.”
“Long live the King!” the woman crowed in response, and Afton pointed her horse toward the north.
It did not take long to find the king’s encampment, for lazy campfires were already sending lazy tendrils of smoke into the sky. She left the road and moved in the direction of the fire, and soon two mounted knights hurried to intersect her path. “Who goes there?” one of them called, his sword glimmering in his hand. “Name yourself, woman.”
Afton felt her stomach turn over. What was she doing? Was this impulsive action only destined to make matters worse for all? Would she be waylaid here before even reaching King Stephen?
“I am Afton of Margate Castle,” she answered, reining in her horse. She held her head high. “I demand to see the king.”
“Who are you to demand anything of the king?” the other knight asked, laughing. He leaned forward in his saddle but kept his sword at his side. “You’re a pretty thing. Did the king send for you? One of the captains, perhaps?”
Afton recognized the leer of lust, for Hubert had often worn the same expression. Though she felt her cheeks flame, she answered defiantly. “I demand to see the king, for I bring news of Matilda’s army.”
The other knight lowered his shield. “Why is your horse arrayed in red?” he asked, suspicion in his eyes. “Red is the color of Matilda’s army.”
“Because it is Matilda’s horse,” Afton answered, with a bold toss of her head. “I stole him from her knights. Now let me pass, for I need to see the king!”
“Let her pass.” Afton whirled around to see who had spoken. Another man on horseback had quietly ridden up behind her, but this man was not dressed in armor, but in a simple bright tunic. He was tall and thin, with auburn hair, but it was the eyes that stirred Afton’s memory. They were deep and dreamy, not at all the eyes of a warrior.
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