Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Endeline felt like kicking Lienor under the table. What had the king seen? Endeline had tried to keep Lienor’s wild nature concealed, but obviously she had failed. “Aye, her grandfather’s spirit flows in her, but a more womanly girl could not be found,” Endeline answered, her cheeks reddening. “Do you not agree, my king? A free spirit can certainly be a virtue.”

  The king did not answer, but Perceval scowled in Endeline’s direction as he cleared his throat. .”We should like to host Prince William sometime,” he said evenly. “Perhaps he can share his gracious company with us after his return from Normandy.”

  Henry nodded and patted his bulging stomach. He had eaten enough for three men. “It is a convenient place for resting from the sea journey,” he said. “I will suggest it. And of course, Perceval, Earl of Margate, we thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It is no more than my duty demands,” Perceval answered, bowing his head. “It is but right, my lord, that whenever you come, all doors should be thoroughly opened to you. Whatever you desire, you have but to ask.”

  “I have asked, and you have given,” Henry said, quietly belching. Endeline blanched, but listened carefully to what followed: “And I will return the favor to you, noble Perceval,” Henry continued. “You have but to ask, and your request shall be granted.”

  Endeline sighed in relief. There. The king had given his promise. All Perceval had to do was suggest an alliance between their two houses, and Lienor would be betrothed. Henry’s visit had been a success.

  Endeline sighed in relief and slipped her arm around Lienor’s shoulder. Her Royal Highness Queen Lienor. A smile played around the corners of her mouth. Perceval will stall a moment, then he will tell the king his daughter needs a husband. William will be suggested. The two families will merge.

  But before Perceval could speak, a clamor arose outside the hall. A messenger in the king’s colors rushed up through the rows of tables and knelt before the royal table. “Your Highness, I come from the port with news of Normandy,” he replied, breathless. “An urgent letter from Prince William.”

  King Henry took the letter, broke the seal, and read it. Endeline drew in her breath--something had to be wrong, else the message would not have been so urgent. She only hoped whatever it was wouldn’t spoil the king’s positive impression of his visit to Margate.

  King Henry put down the letter and closed his eyes. The audience of nearly three hundred souls waited in silence, many with spoons and tankards upraised in suspended animation, as the king of England sat in contemplation, a frown upon his face.

  The king finally opened his eyes. “Bring me the daughters of Julienne,” he whispered, his hoarse voice carrying to the farthest corner of the silent room. A guard left the king’s side at once to escort the girls from their table, and Henry rose to his feet. “Hear me, all of you,” he roared, his face reddening. “My own daughter in Normandy, Julienne, did she not give me her three daughters in trust and faith?”

  “She did, my lord,” one of the king’s counselors spoke up from a nearby table. “To assure you of her love and familial devotion.”

  “Did I not give her to be the wife of Eustache de Breteuil, and did I not give them the chateau of Ivry?”

  “You did, my lord,” another counselor added. “A most generous gift.”

  “Why then,” Henry shouted, shaking the letter in his hand, “does our rightful son William write and tell me that Julienne, along with her traitorous husband, has stood at that selfsame chateau and fought against the armies of Henry of England?” Henry’s voice rose to a shrieking crescendo. “Why has she put on armor and shaken her fist in the face of her father and king?”

  Not a soul moved. Not a counselor dared to speak. Henry closed his eyes in resignation, and Endeline felt a trembling begin to rise from somewhere inside her chest. The king’s wrath was boiling, it would be poured out on someone, somehow--please, God, she prayed, she and Perceval had done nothing to deserve it.

  The guard sent to fetch Julienne’s daughters stepped up to the king’s table. Behind him walked the three girls, their eyes on the floor in front of them.

  “Bring Julienne’s children to me,” Henry commanded. The girls, not one of them taller than Lienor, walked silently past the knight and stood in front of the king’s table.

  “Kneel before me,” the king commanded. The oldest girl, who must have been Lienor’s age, knelt promptly at her grandfather’s feet. The second girl hesitated a moment after looking up into the king’s fierce face, and the youngest girl, a blonde cherub with baby fine hair, looked to her older sister for instruction before teetering down to her knees and putting her hands together in the traditional position of prayer.

  Endeline’s teeth began to chatter. She clenched them together.

  Henry unsheathed his sword and handed it to a nearby knight. “Put the point of my sword into the fire until it glows red,” he said, all emotion erased from his face. “Then put out the eyes of these girls, for their mother does not recognize her father.”

  The knight took Henry’s sword and walked over to the hearth. He set the point of the king’s sword into the flames.

  “And you, loyal friend,” Henry looked at Perceval. “As you love me, noble Perceval, obey my command now.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” Perceval said, standing stiffly to his feet.

  “Draw your sword and cut the noses from these three faces,” Henry commanded, “so no man will bear their mutilation and take them to wife. The seed of my Judas Julienne must not be allowed to continue.”

  As Perceval withdrew his sword and held it above the face of the youngest girl, blackness rushed from the walls of the room and blocked the sight from Endeline’s eyes. She fell forward into her empty bowl and fainted.

  ***

  Henry was gone, but like fish fossils on high mountaintops that give evidence to powerful flood waters, traces of his brutality remained. The grisly scene in the great hall woke Afton from her sleep night after night, and Lienor did not fare much better. One night as both girls lay sleepless in the dark Lienor confided to Afton that she would rather jump from the castle tower than marry the son of King Henry. “I’ll take a vow of chastity,” Lienor mumbled, “and give my life to God rather than to the son of such a man. Every night for a month now I have prayed for William’s death. I pray that he will drown in the ocean and be eaten by sharks before he ever sets foot in England again.”

  “Lienor, you should not say such things!” Afton whispered, truly horrified. “That’s treason! Calhoun says the punishment for treason is death, and--”

  “I would gladly die rather than be married to the son of King Henry,” Lienor spoke, her whisper echoing in the stillness of their tiny chamber. “If God requires my life for my freedom, I will give it.”

  Since the king’s visit, Afton, too, had been thinking heavy thoughts of God and man. Was it honorable for any man, king or not, to disfigure three innocent children? Endeline had taught her that the king was God’s sovereign representative on earth; in fact the touch of a royal hand had been known to heal the sick. Was God good if He allowed His representative on earth to commit such deeds?

  In her childhood Afton had heard Wido and Corba pray often and loudly, but their prayers were more like incantations to the earth to bring forth food and rain than the Endeline’s eloquent prayers to a just and wise God. Though the Father Odoric had taught Wido and Corba to end every incantation with “So be it, Lord!”, they knew little about God except that His whims and ways controlled the weather, and, consequently, their lives.

  But in Perceval’s household, religion was dutifully practiced. Endeline’s brother, Hugh, was the abbot of a nearby holy house Lionel had established years before. The family still generously supported the Benedictine abbey where Abbot Hugh ran his monastery, and he counseled the family often in spiritual affairs.

  After Lienor’s horrible confession of murderous and suicidal thoughts, Afton begged her to talk to Raimondin, the chaplain who led
the family in prayers every morning. The next morning, when the family had departed from Mass and the girls confided in Raimondin, he prescribed silent prayer and meditation. “Women, being the weaker sex, are more prone to sin,” he advised the girls. “So you must guard against improper thoughts that question the king’s decisions. Because you have not husbands to watch over you, our Lord Himself will do it if you raise your thoughts and voices in supplication to Him.”

  What Lienor did with the chaplain’s advice Afton did not know, but she found a peculiar comfort in praying in the stillness of night. She did not yet know all the Latin prayers that Lienor and Endeline recited frequently throughout the day, so her prayers typically reflected both the elegance of Endeline and the brute strength of Wido: “Our Father, who are in heaven, blessed be the fruit of the earth. Blessed be Endeline, and Lienor, and Lunette and Morgan. Blessed be the fields and the knights and the villeins. And blessed be Calhoun. But may King Henry not be blessed. Amen.”

  After praying, Afton would roll over on her father mattress and feel greatly comforted.

  ***

  Abbot Hugh came for his annual visit in the late spring and Afton was relieved that his visit did not turn the household topsy turvy as did King Henry’s. Each family member stayed in his own room, the meals were no more plenteous or fragrant than usual, and Abbot Hugh arrived only with the company of one young monk, whom he called his “son.” Afton instinctively liked the abbot, even if he did have a bald spot cut into the top of his head.

  She was more than a little surprised when Abbot Hugh sought out her company one afternoon in the orchard. Endeline and Lienor retreated quietly, and the abbot looked Afton squarely in the eye. “I will be honest with you, child, I have been concerned about your presence here at the castle,” he began, his clear voice resonating in the orchard. A small flock of birds flew out of the tree where they were nesting. “My sister Endeline tells me you have been here for almost a full year. You are a villein of lowly birth, but you are consorting with noble men and women. What say you about this arrangement?”

  Afton was baffled. No one had ever asked her opinion. “I have nothing to say,” she said, spreading her hands in the familiar gesture of speechlessness that Endeline often used. “I was brought here, taught to read and speak and behave as a gentle woman, and I do what I am told.”

  “Do you never long for your parents?”

  Afton cringed involuntarily. The frightful scene with Corba was still a painful memory, one she could not put behind her. “No, sir, I do not. I try not to think about the day of our parting.”

  “Do you pray, my child? Do you love God?”

  “Oh, yes sir. Every morning and every night I pray. The chaplain here has taught me.”

  “And do you listen to the chaplain as you would listen to the voice of God?”

  Afton considered a moment. She thought of the chaplain as a rather dour teacher, not a spokesman for God. She answered slowly: “I listen for the voice of God in the wind, in the fields, and in here.” She touched the side of her head.

  The abbot shook his head. “That is a dangerous heresy, my child. The voice of God is relayed to man through his ministers, his priests. Your heritage as a villein is showing, for with your talk of wind and fields you are reverting to a pagan practice.”

  He sat down on a garden bench and motioned for her to sit next to him. “How shall I explain it to you?” he said, gazing off into the distance. “In the beginning, my child, the entire world was much as this garden. The trees brought forth fruit bountifully, and roses bore no thorns. Adam and his wife, Eve, were equal, and they spoke with God.”

  He looked down at her to see if she was listening, and Afton squirmed uncomfortably.

  “Then sin entered into the world,” the Abbot continued. “The perfection of earth was ruined, and sin stood between man and God. The trees gave fruit grudgingly, and to enjoy the flawless beauty of the rose, men had to bear the suffering of her thorns.”

  He paused as a sparrow lit on a nearby apple tree. “Do you see what I am saying, child?”

  Afton grimaced, then lifted her head with hope. “That I shouldn’t pick roses?”

  Abbot Hugh sighed and shook his head. “No, my child. I would have you know that sin and suffering has brought division into the world. A great gulf stands fixed between man and God, and between men and other men. A priest is nearer God than a nobleman, and a pious nobleman is nearer than a villein. You, child of the earth, should remember that you cannot be what you are not, and listen to the priests who speak God’s truth.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The abbot stood up and shook out his dark robe. “Be a good girl, and I will tell my sister no harm will come to anyone if you stay here. Obey your mistress, and be a good companion for Lienor.”

  “I will, sir.”

  The abbot traced the sign of the cross on her forehead and left Afton alone in the orchard.

  ***

  Endeline was nearly through the castle doorway when she heard her second son’s impassioned cry. “Gawain!” Calhoun called, racing across the courtyard from the doorway of the tower. “In the distance, a royal messenger approaches! He carries the king’s banner!”

  Endeline felt her knees weaken. There had been no news from the king in the many months since his visit, but despite the ghastly scene at the final dinner, she still had high hopes that a match would be made between Lienor and Prince William. Was this the news the messenger brought?

  She dropped the armful of roses she was carrying on a bench and strode purposefully for the stable. “Get a fresh horse for the messenger,” she snapped to a groom who lingered outside. “He will doubtless be in a hurry.”

  Perceval and Gawain came out of the mews in the same moment the breathless royal messenger galloped into the courtyard. The man saluted Perceval: “Greetings in the name of the king. I am come with a woeful message for his highness, and I need a fresh mount to speed my journey to London.”

  “A horse is being made ready for you,” Perceval said, taking the reins of the lathered horse. “What is this terrible news?”

  “I have come from the seaport,” the messenger said, sliding out of his saddle, his face contorted in anguish. “Prince William, fresh from victory in Normandy, has been lost at sea with all his companions and many other noble souls. The ship was split on a rock, and not a soul has come safe to land.”

  Endeline’s hand flew to her throat. Could it be true? Was William truly gone?

  Perceval was stunned. “We will pray for their souls,” he managed to answer, “and for our king.”

  “Pray, too, for William’s new bride, now left a widow,” the messenger said, untying the banner with the king’s herald from his saddle. “It is a mournful day for England, to be sure.”

  “His new bride?” Endeline asked, her voice choking on the words. Henry had allowed William to marry someone else?

  “Aye,” the messenger answered. He swung expertly into the saddle of the fresh horse Calhoun held for him. “A bride now with neither husband or heir. The throne of England has no heir but Matilda, the king’s legal daughter.”

  “Go in peace,” Perceval replied automatically, and the messenger situated his banner in his stirrup, saluted Perceval, and spurred the horse.

  Endeline marveled the exchange of a few breaths could change the course of life so completely. She walked to Perceval’s side and stood there numbly, like one who walks in sleep.

  “Our plans have come to naught,” she remarked as they watched the messenger gallop away.

  “Perhaps greater glory lies ahead,” Perceval answered, folding his arms. “Matilda is a woman, and not a worthy heir. Soon England’s throne will sit empty, and when it does, noble men from many families will rise to hold England and Normandy together. The next king must have noble qualities, and we have three excellent and suitable children, my lady. Charles will learn how to control and enlarge lands. Calhoun will study fighting and battle for glory. And Lienor--” Perceval s
hrugged. “If she does not marry a king, she can bring us to God.”

  Seven

  Two years passed, and the rhythm of life in the castle changed little. By the time she passed her eleventh birthday, Afton’s education was nearly complete: she knew how to cultivate rose bushes, how to keep linens clean, how to dance and sing. She could play cards and handle a hawk with ease. She stumped visiting ladies with her clever riddles and arithmetic games, and she could recite the age-old formulas of women to provoke fertility in animals, prevent nightmares, and prompt the earth to productivity. She was, quite simply, a graceful, accomplished, and confident young lady in the bud of womanhood.

  One afternoon Afton took her usual place by Lienor in the garden where Endeline was entertaining several visiting ladies from other manors. “You must be quite proud of your daughters,” one of the ladies remarked. “They are quite a study in opposites, one fair and dark, the other fair and light.”

  Endeline’s smile was brief. “Yet they are not both my daughters, my lady, for one came from my womb and the other from my hand. Afton is Lienor’s companion, brought from the fields of the villeins.”

  The ladies gasped in surprise, and Endeline tilted her head delicately. “Yet she has brings honor to this house, does she not? She and Lienor have been most excellent pupils.”

  Afton recognized the unspoken command to prove Endeline’s words. She gave the women a genteel smile and lowered her sewing. “I’ve heard it said,” she began, “that to make a man prefer one son to another, he should be made to eat the half the tips of his dog’s ears. If the child eats the other half, by the truth of the Gospel they will scarcely be able to bear being apart.”

  “Is that true?” a visiting lady asked, leaning toward Endeline. “I’ve noticed how Lord Perceval favors your eldest, Charles. Did you feed him the tips of his dog’s ears?”

  Endeline dropped her embroidery into her lap. “By the relics of St. John, I did not,” she sniffed. “It was not necessary, for love of the land pulls Charles and Perceval together. Charles is destined to be Perceval’s heir, and it is his right to take his father’s place.”