Calhoun gritted his teeth, ignoring his limp right arm and the pain that coursed through his body. He gripped his sword more firmly. If his time had come, he would go down fighting, as a man of honor.
***
Afton crept quietly in the shadows of the castle wall and wiped the mud from her skirt. She shivered when a breeze struck her, for her clothing was wet and cold. The pool at the back of the castle used by the washer women opened up outside the castle walls, and she had been surprised to discover she was still small enough to fit through the narrow underwater pipe that brought water inside the castle courtyard.
She took a moment to wring out her heavy skirt, then froze when she heard a taunting voice. Darting toward the sound, she saw the man she knew as Arnoul with Calhoun in the courtyard. A long, bloody arrow hung from Calhoun’s lifeless arm, but he wielded his sword threateningly while Arnoul’s laughter rang from the castle walls.
She could not bear to watch. Why didn’t someone help him? Where was Ambrose?
Arnoul taunted Calhoun, cursing and screaming, but Afton knew the tirade would soon end. Arnoul’s sword swung angrily toward Calhoun, punctuating his curses, but his dagger still rested in its sheath on his right hip. If she could only reach the dagger!
But if she struck Arnoul, she would surely steal the last of Calhoun’s pride. He might well hate her forever.
“But if I do nothing,” she whispered, slipping off her wet slippers, “Calhoun will surely die here today.”
When Hubert took her infant daughter, she did nothing. When Endeline took Ambrose, she did nothing. “This time--” she gathered up her heavy skirts-- “I will do what I can.”
She raced toward the two men, her feet skimming the ground, thankful that Arnoul was berating Calhoun so loudly that he did not hear her approach. His bellowing crescendoed into a roar just as he held his sword aloft and advanced to strike, and she ducked under his upraised arm and grabbed for his dagger. He felt the pressure of her grasp and turned in her direction, and she used his backward momentum to spring up under his arm. As he roared in surprise, she thrust the dagger into his heart.
***
Calhoun held his sword aloft, intent on striking at least one blow before his head was taken from his shoulders, but something ran at Arnoul from the shadows, and the villain’s face froze in a paroxysm of terror. Arnoul shuddered, then fell back into the dust. Above him Afton stood like an avenging angel, the bloody dagger in her hand, her face streaked with tears.
Calhoun let his sword fall weakly to his side. “I should thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse with relief. “You have saved my life.”
She cast the dagger aside and covered her face with her hands. He noticed for the first time that she was dripping wet and shivering.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she answered stiffly, lowering her hands from her face, but averting her eyes from Arnoul. “I know you don’t want to. I suppose you’d rather be dead than alive by a woman’s grace, but I could not let him kill you.”
Calhoun lifted his face to the brightening sky and laughed. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “I would not trade places with this knave who kneels now at hell’s door. I do thank you, Afton, most sincerely.”
“You thank me,” she echoed softly. So this was how it was going to be. She saved his life, and he gave her polite thanks, as if she had picked up a trinket that had fallen from his lap to the floor. Had her bitterness toward Endeline made her such a fiend in his eyes that he felt nothing for her? Had her lust for revenge killed his love for her?
She turned away and covered her eyes with her hand, unwilling that he should see her weep. She had told him of her love, she had offered undying gratitude, and she had risked her life for his own. She had nothing else to give.
She heard the crunch of his footstep upon the gravel in the courtyard and felt him draw nearer. “I thank you,” he said, his voice deep and low, “and I love you. There is not a woman in the world with your courage.”
She opened her eyes; he stood within arm’s reach, but he grimaced in pain. “I would kiss you now, but I have to help Gislebert raise the gate for King Stephen and his men,” he said, pointing to the gate with his uninjured arm. “I don’t think I can pull the rope.” He turned toward her and smiled gently. “Will you help?”
Afton returned his smile, and the first rays of daylight broke over the eastern wall of the castle, lighting the straggling tendrils of her hair like golden fire. “Is it not dishonorable for a knight to ask a mere woman for help?” she asked, her eyes glinting up at him.
“No,” Calhoun answered, reaching out for her hand. He squeezed it gently. “My honor today lies in you, Afton.”
Forty-one
Afton found dry clothing in the wardrobe and put her hands over her ears to drown out Calhoun’s muffled cries of pain as the king’s physician removed the arrow. When at last Calhoun was silent, she stepped into the chamber, where the physician wrapped fresh linen around Calhoun’s upper arm. “He’s fortunate, the arrow did not break a bone,” the doctor said, smiling up at her. “He’ll be wielding a sword again within the year.”
“I hope not,” Calhoun muttered weakly, and his eyes caught Afton’s. He managed a smile, a decent imitation of the mischievous grin that had set her heart to pounding in childhood days. “Shall we go downstairs, my lady, and see what the cat has dragged in?”
Her hand felt warm and welcome in his as they went downstairs to the great hall where the king and his officers sorted through their prisoners.
“Ah, Calhoun,” Stephen said when they entered the room. “If it were not for Arnoul’s men leaping light frightened lizards from the garrison, I would have though you a traitor. You took far too long to open the gate.”
“Aye, far too long indeed,” Gislebert echoed from his place by the king’s side. “I was frozen in terror the entire time, fearing you had surely been killed. And when you finally appeared in the courtyard, and I saw that Arnoul would certainly strike you down, I must confess, I closed my eyes and wished to die with you.”
“I am glad that you did not,” Calhoun answered, smiling at his friend, “for we need fewer soldiers and more poets in this place.” He bowed stiffly to King Stephen. “I am in your service, Your Highness, and I lay before you all that Margate Castle has to offer.”
“Well put, good knight,” Stephen replied, looking around the room. “Now let us see what that booty is.”
Thirty of Matilda’s men had been captured as they leapt from the burning garrison, and twenty of Perceval’s knights, including Ambrose, were in chains as well, for fighting against Stephen. Five dead bodies had been found within the castle walls and lay in the hall before the king: Perceval, Arnoul, two of Arnoul’s men . . . and Charles.
Afton gasped as she recognized Calhoun’s brother, who looked as if he merely slept. The soft fringe of his lashes framed lids that seemed reluctant to release the pink glow of life. A sudden cry from the doorway of the room drew Afton’s attention, and she saw Endeline sagging against the two guards who had led her into the room, her pale face registering grief and shock as she stared at her eldest son’s lifeless body.
“Charles!” Endeline’s voice was ragged with pain and disbelief. “With what enemy did my Charles meet?” She turned to Ambrose. “He departed in your company, Ambrose. What happened to my son?”
“Charles escaped with me,” Ambrose answered calmly, then turned to the king and bowed respectfully. “I do not deserve these chains, Your Highness, for we have just undergone a terrible ordeal. All of Margate Castle were held hostage, and count ourselves most fortunate that Your Glorious Highness arrived in time to allow us to escape with our lives.”
“Pray, then, can you explain this death,” Stephen commanded, pointing to Charles’ body. “He wears no dagger, he carried no sword. How did a man of peace come to die here?”
Ambrose nodded gravely. “I do not know, sire, but I weep for him as I would a brother. Arnoul held us captive, but Charles and
I managed to slip away. Arnoul or one of his men must have killed Charles as he attempted to flee the castle.”
Endeline moaned softly and fell on the body of her firstborn son, but the company was distracted by the sound of shrieking from outside the hall. Two of Stephen’s knights entered, half-carrying, half-pulling a hysterical Morgan. The maid’s eyes were blank in her hysteria and her body twisted frantically as she struggled to free herself from the guard.
“We found this wench hiding in the chamber storeroom,” one knight explained. “She nearly scratched my eyes out as we carried her down here.”
“I know this woman, she is my mother’s maid,” Calhoun told the king, stepping forward. He looked at Morgan and held out his hand in a comforting gesture. “Calm down, Morgan, all is well. The king has delivered the castle.”
Morgan’s eyes went wide. “No he ‘asn’t,” she said, her eyes rolling in fear. She pointed a trembling finger at Ambrose. “The devil is still here! I see ‘im there! I saw ‘im upstairs in the chamber. I ‘id in the storeroom, as my mistress told me, and I saw young Ambrose lead Charles into the chamber. He killed the young master! He drew a dagger and stabbed ‘im in the back, ‘e did! I saw it with my own eyes!”
She spread her bloody hands before the king. “Here’s ‘is blood! It fell upon the ground where he lay! I tried to help ‘im, but I was too late!” She collapsed on the ground, sobbing.
Stunned and horrified at the woman’s accusation, Afton looked at her son, who stood as still as a statue. Standing thus, with his eyes darkly gleaming, he was the embodiment of Hubert. My son is lost to me. The thought hit Afton forcefully. He never really belonged to me, for he is his father’s son. A wave of grief and loss swept over her, threatening to buckle her knees as the king turned to Ambrose.
“What say you to this charge?” the king asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I say nothing,” Ambrose answered, stepping forward. He pointed at Morgan. “This hysterical woman is a murderer. She hid in the storeroom to steal from my lord and lady, and she is the one covered in blood, Your Highness. Surely it was her dagger that killed my brother Charles.”
“He was not your brother,” Calhoun inserted. “And Morgan has no motive to kill the gentle Charles. But you, Ambrose, thought to inherit Perceval’s estate, did you not? With Charles dead and the second son cast off--”
“--it would be easy enough to blame the death on the raging fight,” the king finished Calhoun’s thought. “I see the situation clearly.”
Afton felt as though her heart had been dipped in ice. Ambrose’s crime was too monstrous to be believed, but she knew of nothing in his word or character to contradict the deed. He was like his father, grasping, ambitious, and greedy. As much as she wanted to love and forgive him, she could not deny that Calhoun’s words rang true. Her knees gave way and she sank to the ground, covering her face with her hands. She and Endeline had each lost a son today.
“I find Calhoun’s words reasonable,” King Stephen pronounced. “And I find the maid credible. I hereby sentence you, Ambrose, to be hung by the neck in this courtyard where you once took vows of obedience and loyalty. You have proven this day that you are capable of neither. May your neck be as easily broken as were your vows.”
Two of Stephen’s knights seized Ambrose immediately. As they dragged him from the room, he flung angry words at Endeline: “It was you who told me to take action, to be a man! My dagger acted only to slake your bloodthirsty ambition!”
As Ambrose’s words died away, King Stephen looked at the less-than-regal form of Endeline, who sat weeping by Charles’ side. “You are not without fault in this, lady. You and your husband divided your loyalties, lying both to your king and the one who would usurp this rightful throne. You propagated the falsehood that led me to think your most noble son Calhoun a spy, and you nearly brought about his death. The nobles and villeins have carried the rumor that your loyalty is cheap, easily bought and easily traded. Have you not heard that you cannot serve two masters?”
Endeline did not answer, nor did she raise her eyes to the king. Stephen’s voice softened. “Your husband is now beyond the reach of man’s justice, and he must account of himself to God. But you, Lady Endeline, kneel before me and must confess your wrongs or pay the penalty.”
Endeline clasped her hands and began to rock back and forth, her long dark hair shining upon her upturned face. But instead of answering the king, she reached out to lift Charles’ cold hand and hold it tenderly. “Sweet baby mine, how long will you sleep?” she began to sing hoarsely.
Stephen’s eyes widened for a moment, then filled with a sad pity. He turned away from the sight to look at Calhoun. The knight was kneeling beside Afton, who saw everything through the gray haze of her own grief over Ambrose.
“Calhoun,” Stephen said, and the knight, upon hearing his name, rose to face his king. “Good knight, I have found only three people with honor in this entire household: you, the lady Afton, and the maid, Morgan. To the maid, I grant freedom. And to the Lady Afton—”
Calhoun reached down to take Afton’s hands, and she looked up at him, startled. Then, realizing that King Stephen was addressing her, she rose to stand beside Calhoun. The king lifted his chin and regarded her with frank curiosity. “To you, fair lady, as reward for your part in the day’s victory, I present the fate of this hapless woman, Endeline, who has advocated treason against king, country, and family. Perhaps she will make a more worthy slave than royal subject. Then again . . . “ The king spread his hands. “Mayhap her execution would please you more. What say you regarding her?”
The room fell totally silent, and every eye turned to Afton—every eye save those of Endeline, who continued to sing a soft lullaby.
The king’s question seemed to ring in Afton’s ears. She glanced over at Endeline, who sat between the lifeless bodies of her husband and son, her sources of joy and pride. She had lost everything: home, family, position, power . . . . The scene should have brought Afton joy, but as she watched Endeline distractedly rub her son’s dead hand, she remembered another pale hand that had reached out to her in love: Agnelet’s.
A year ago Afton could have taken a dagger and plunged it with pleasure into Endeline’s heart. Six months ago she could have dressed the lady in sackcloth and sent her into the forest to fend for food like a wild animal. But that was before she had met, mourned, and come to understand Agnelet . . . before she had come face-to-face with forgiveness.
Agnelet, flesh of her flesh, had suffered the lack of beauty and mother and brother, yet she had borne all through the power of faith. Instead of hatred, she had known peace; instead of vengeance, she had sought to bring joy.
Suddenly Afton knew that the divine purpose in sending her to her daughter, at least in part, was to prepare her for this moment. With Endeline’s fate in her hands, Afton had the opportunity to choose forgiveness or vengeance. And again, she could hear the small voice that had been beseeching her since Agnelet’s death . . . but this time she understood.
She drew a deep breath before speaking. “I once thought myself a victim of this woman’s evil schemes,” she said slowly, looking up at the king. “My suffering blinded me to the truth of my own pride. For me to assuage that price now—” she crossed the room, putting her hand on Endeline’s shoulder—”would be a greater wrong than all those visited upon me.”
Endeline did not respond to her touch, but Afton continued. “I forgive you, Lady Endeline, and pray that you would forgive the hate I have borne you these many years.”
Responding to her name, Endeline turned slowly, but the dark eyes that had always been so proud and scheming now reflected only the black void of madness. Shocked, Afton withdrew her hand and stepped back.
“So what say you?” the king demanded. “What shall be done with her?”
Afton looked up into Calhoun’s blue eyes, which searched hers and waited. She held his gaze as she answered the king. “Let the lady be given a house on the castle grounds and a nurse
to care for her,” she said, moving to Calhoun’s side. She placed her hand on her love’s arm. “And let her be kept near her son, for children and their mothers should not be forced apart.”
Stephen raised his brow in surprise, then nodded. “It shall be done,” he said. Then, turning to Calhoun, the king cocked his head as a pleasant, almost teasing, smile crossed his features. “Can it be that Afton is the young woman you were promised in marriage?”
Calhoun stepped forward. “Yes, sire.”
“And would it please you if I were to offer her to you now?”
Calhoun looked down at Afton, who knelt on the floor at his feet. His eyes shone with unspoken desire, and she knew he still loved her, indeed, that he had never stopped loving her. His pride had come between them, as had her bitterness, but pride and anger had vanished in that instant when Arnoul lay dead at their feet. They had conquered more than an enemy army in the last few hours. They had conquered the worst parts of themselves.
His voice was low and quiet. “If she will agree, sire, it would please me greatly.”
The king nodded and held out his hand toward Afton. “Do you agree, Lady Afton?”
She rose to her feet and placed her hands in Calhoun’s. It was all she wanted, to stand by his side forever. “Yes, sire. I most surely do agree.”
“Then upon my decree, you two shall be married two days from now. For a wedding present I present you, Calhoun, with all the estates and lands formerly held by Perceval of Margate, to be held by you and your progeny for all time.”
Gislebert clapped his hands in delight.
“So be it!” the king called out. “Calhoun! Order dinner at once, my new Earl of Margate, for your king is hungry.”
Afton of Margate Castle Page 44
