Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Why can’t you be trained here at Margate?”

  Calhoun shook his head. “A knight must not seek preferential treatment. Here I would always be Perceval’s son. At Warwick I will be just another squire.”

  He would always be more than that to her. Her arms tightened around him.

  She thought he understood what she was feeling, because he patted the arms she had entwined around him. Then he made a clicking sound with his tongue and kicked the horse into a gallop.

  The trees on the roadside flew by in a blur, and Afton blinked back tears as the wind stung her eyes. The castle would no long hold happiness for her if Calhoun was gone. He was the only person who cared for her at all.

  Calhoun gave the reins a sudden jerk and the animal reared, his front hooves pawing the air. Off balance, Afton frantically grasped Calhoun, and he calmed the animal expertly. The horse stood still, twitching his ears as if wondering why they had stopped on a moonlit road, and Calhoun turned on the horse’s broad back.

  “It was here in this field that I met you,” he said, pointing to the broad field outside the castle walls. “We picked flowers for your sheep. You took me to your special swimming place in the forest. Do you remember?”

  “I have not thought of that day in months,” Afton answered, laughing softly. “But I remember you would not swim. And our sheep died, the very next day.” A new thought struck her--”Maybe there was something poison in our wreath--”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Calhoun said. Afton had never seen such seriousness in his eyes. “It is not our place to question God’s providence. Whatever means He used, He brought you to me.”

  Afton couldn’t answer. She could only think that if God had brought her to Margate Castle, it was highly unreasonable of Him to take Calhoun away.

  Calhoun leaned toward her and placed his lips briefly on hers, a boyish kiss that was both startling and welcome. Then he turned and kicked the horse once again, and before she had collected her thoughts, they were through the castle barbican.

  “Who’s there?” a guard called out. Afton heard the unmistakable clink of metal as a sword was withdrawn from its sheath.

  “It is Calhoun,” Calhoun answered, slowing the horse.

  Gawain showed himself in the torchlight. “By the sword of St. Denis, it is Perceval’s second son,” Gawain said, sheathing his sword. He grinned at Calhoun and winked. “The boy who has grown to be a man.”

  Afton slipped off the horse and hurried toward the castle while Calhoun dismounted and walked with Gawain into the stables. What they talked about, she didn’t know. She only knew that the embers that had glowed in her heart at the mention of Calhoun’s name were now flaming.

  Eight

  Once a month Perceval opened the castle doors to his vassals and dispensed justice to any and all that required intervention. On these occasions, the hall was cleared of tables, the best tapestries hung on the walls, and evidence of Perceval’s wealth and power was conspicuously exhibited. It was a display designed to intimidate, and the villeins and lessor lords from the outlying manors seemed usually to creep into the hall, no matter how bravely they strutted outside the castle.

  Endeline considered it educational for the children, including Afton, to witness the proceedings in the great hall from a side room. Calhoun loved these trials, and usually sat on the edge of his seat as he heard the cases the petitioners brought before Perceval. Often he whispered to Afton what his verdict would be if he were presiding, and Afton found that she usually agreed with him. If they talked too loudly, either Endeline or Hector, who served as a scribe during the hearings, would glare at Calhoun and Afton and remind them to be quiet.

  On this day the first dispute was between two knights. One had insulted the other’s honor, the second had promptly returned the insult. To settle the dispute and keep them from killing each other, Perceval sent each of them away: one to join with the knights Templar who protected pilgrims to the Holy Land, and the other to tour the outlying manors in a two-year cavalcade. “After two years you may return to Margate and we will see what kind of love you hold toward each other,” Perceval said, nodding to each of his knights. “In the mean time, you will do service to your lord and to the king.”

  The second case involved a forester and a villein caught trapping badgers in the king’s forests. “You have stolen from the forests of King Henry,” Perceval said, motioning for the aged Hector to write. “Therefore your house and lands are confiscated in the name of the king. Your house will be razed and your animals will be paid forfeit to me. A decree regarding this judgment will be forwarded to His Highness, the king.”

  “A good judgment,” Calhoun whispered to Afton. “The king will be pleased.”

  “A boring case,” Afton whispered back, concentrating on her embroidery. “Only a fool steals from the king’s forest. Who are the next petitioners?”

  “Two villeins from the village,” Calhoun answered.

  Afton did not even look up until she recognized the voice that reached her ears--Wido stood before Perceval. She lost custody of her eyes as she stared in fascination at the father she had not seen in over three years.

  He was as she remembered him, broad and strong, but now there were streaks of gray in his dark hair. He stood tall and resolute before Perceval, his peasant’s cap in his hand, and Afton felt an unfamiliar and unwelcome flush of pride in his appearance. Beside him was another peasant whose name she couldn’t remember.

  “I am Wido,” he said.

  “I know the name,” Perceval answered dryly.

  “My son, Matthew, was killed last week by this man’s dog. My wife grieves deeply.”

  Afton counted on her fingers--Matthew had been five when she left home. He was eight, then, maybe nine--and he was dead? Killed by a dog? She gasped in horror.

  “What’s wrong?” Calhoun asked, turning to look at Afton. “It is not so horrible--it happens all the time in the village.”

  Afton blinked. Calhoun didn’t even know this man was her father. Matthew was--had been--her brother.

  Perceval stared at the nervous man next to Wido. “Your name?”

  “Geoffrey.”

  “Geoffrey, is this man’s report true?”

  Geoffrey kept his eyes on the floor in front of him. “Aye, my lord. Sad but true.”

  “What is it you wish me to do?” Perceval asked, turning back to Wido.

  “He was but a child, but his life had value to us and to you, my lord,” Wido spoke again. “We ask for recompense for his life.”

  “That is true. Now there will be one less villein to work in my fields.” Perceval gestured to Hector the steward. “Make sure this Geoffrey pays two sheep for the life of the boy. One sheep to Wido, the father, and one to me.” Perceval glanced up at Wido. “Is that not a worthy price for one life?”

  Afton saw a muscle shift in Wido’s jaw, but her father did not answer. Perceval smiled. “Make it so,” he told Hector. “Next.”

  Geoffrey and Wido bowed and left the hall. A tear fell on Afton’s embroidery. Her father had not even glanced in her direction.

  ***

  The next morning Afton heard the far-off blare of a trumpet, and she flew to the window of Endeline’s chamber. Four knights on horseback approached on the road, and something was wrong--one of them was thrown over his saddle like a sack of potatoes. Afton’s heart froze in fear. Had Calhoun gone out with the knights that morning?

  She was about to run down the stairs, but a stern look from Lienor stopped her. “Stay here,” Lienor said calmly, picking up a Psalter. “We will do no good when there is men’s trouble afoot. It is better to stay here and pray.”

  “Pray?” Afton’s voice squeaked. What good was praying when it could be Calhoun out there on his horse, possibly wounded, possibly dying? He was too young, too untrained. He should never have been allowed to go out with the knights before his training was completed.

  She paced in the chamber while Lienor chanted psalms in a voice like fl
owing rainwater, and soon Perceval burst into the chamber, Endeline and the knight Denton in his wake. “Tarry, my lord, tarry a day or two,” Endeline was begging. “Surely this vassal Gerald knows what folly it is to displeasure you. This rebellion is only in his mind, he has not yet raised an army against you.”

  “I will not give him time to do that,” Perceval snarled between his teeth as he sat on a bench and cast off his soft boots in favor of sturdier footwear. “It is enough that one of my own men has died from his wounds. Our honor, lady, is at stake. We ride today. Gawain is in the village now, equipping the free men to fight.”

  “In the village?” Afton covered her mouth with her hand; she should not have spoken. One did not speak to Perceval unless spoken to first.

  But he seemed not to notice. “All free men who go with me today shall have a share in the honor,” he said as Denton expertly pulled a suit of mail over Perceval’s tunic. Perceval rubbed his hand over the smooth chain link of his suit and picked up his sword. A faint smile flickered across his handsome face. “Prepare a feast for our return, lady. Your lord will doubtless return the victor.”

  Endeline sank onto the bed, and Perceval sheathed his sword and grabbed a silver helmet out of the wardrobe. Afton was stunned at the sight of Perceval in armor. He was a fearsome sight, tall and gleaming in his anger, and certainly a man to be feared. Ignoring Endeline’s weeping, the lord and Denton stalked out of the room.

  ***

  The battle ended as Perceval predicted. The hapless Gerald, who had grown tired of paying allegiance to Perceval, raised his voice and his sword to Perceval’s knights without preparing an army. Now he and his wife lay dead in his castle, his lands, villeins, and servants seized now by Gawain, Perceval’s own man. The few knights of Gerald’s castle who had not fled in fear immediately swore their continuing allegiance to Perceval and followed him to Margate Castle.

  Endeline instructed the servants to serve the feast she had ordered, and Afton followed behind her to help with the preparations. “We have a tournament after supper,” Perceval told his wife as Denton removed his armor. “It is not good to send knights into battle so briefly. The anger they roused in anticipation of a fight has not dissipated.”

  Afton noted with surprise that Perceval’s observations were correct. The knights, fresh from their victory, were more interested in fighting than eating. The sumptuous food Endeline had prepared was passed over quickly, and the knights were quick to leave the great hall for the pasture outside the castle walls. Perceval did not even seem offended at his knights’ lack of proper appetites. He merely shrugged and smiled at his wife. “There is a time for eating and a time for jousting,” he said, rising from his place at the table. “The time for battle has come.”

  ***

  Like a boy plunging into deep water for the first time, Calhoun found the entire experience dangerous and exhilarating. Just yesterday life had been routinely predictable, but Gerald’s fit of rebellion had brought new life into Perceval’s settled knights. The men whose highest challenge had been browbeating villeins now blazed with the ardor of victorious warriors. They had won a quick, decisive battle for Perceval! And they would win a tournament for glory, honor, and the smile of fair Endeline!

  Calhoun was offended when Denton flatly refused to allow him to ride in the tournament. He was needed on the sidelines, Denton said, to keep the spectators from venturing onto the bloody field of battle. And after the first clash of mock battle, it would be Calhoun’s job to ride out to the field and rescue wounded knights unable to continue in the tournament.

  His horse shifted uneasily beneath him and Calhoun made gentle clucking sounds. If only he were already a knight! He and Charles had been trained in jousting, horsemanship, and swordplay since they were small children, but Charles had never entered into the spirit of competition. Calhoun yearned to fight, to learn the secrets of knighthood that went far beyond mere fighting techniques. There were secrets Calhoun had yet to learn, and he was dying to know them.

  A trumpeter blew a shrill blast, and the assembled crowd of spectators from the countryside and castle quieted themselves. Lord Perceval, Lady Endeline, and Hector stood in the walkway of the castle wall, high above the crowd. Calhoun wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see Lienor and Afton hiding behind a stone machicolation of the wall. Lienor was probably praying, and Calhoun imagined that Afton’s gray eyes were wide with interest. He smiled to himself. She reminded him of a little mouse, usually quiet, but always about, watching everything.

  Perceval held up his hand, and the crowd silenced. The late afternoon sun gleamed off his golden hair and beard. “Before we begin the evening’s tournament, I wish to reward a free man who has served his lord admirably in the day’s battle,” Perceval said, his voice echoing through the field. He beckoned to someone near him and a balding man in a common brown tunic stepped out into full view. “Hubert, free man of Margate village, because it was you who killed the rebel Gerald, I bestow upon you this day a fief of the mill in Margate village, to hold forever for you and your descendants.”

  Perceval then handed a straw to Hubert, who accepted it and fell to his knees. Perceval clasped Hubert’s two hands in his own, like a father comforting a son, and kissed Hubert on both cheeks. The crowd roared its approval, and Hubert stood up and gave them a victorious salute.

  “Now, knights of Margate Castle, do your best to declare our honor to the knights of Gerald whom we welcome in love and forgiveness.” The air was still except for the impatient pawing of horses, and Calhoun drew in his breath. Perceval’s face turned toward the east, where the line of knights from Gerald’s castle waited with the sun in their eyes. “If there be any deceit in the hearts of Gerald’s knights, may God seek it out and trample upon it today.”

  Perceval’s knights were lined up on the west side of the castle gate, the knights from Gerald’s castle facing them. Sunlight glinted off the knights’ conical, open-faced helmets, and shone steadily on their bright shirts of mail. A slight breeze blew the manes of the waiting horses who snorted in their impatience.

  Perceval gripped the standard which bore the emblem of his house, and suddenly there was no sound at all. The raucous sound of Perceval’s voice startled Calhoun. “For the glory of Margate Castle and its fair Lady Endeline!” Perceval shouted, and he dipped the standard of his colors. From opposite sides of the field, riders spurred their horses and charged each other in the open meadow.

  Calhoun had to keep a firm rein on his own mount, so great was the mare’s urge to run with the pounding hoof beats of the knights’ huge destriers, and he bent and patted her neck. The pounding of hooves gave way to the clash of lance against mail and sword against shield. Several knights from Gerald’s castle turned from the fight and fled through the forest, with Perceval’s knights in pursuit. Others lay scattered in the field.

  When the rush of knights had passed, Calhoun gave his mare a gentle kick and rode out to the open grass. The first knight he approached was merely stunned, blinking his eyes in the sunlight. The second knight, wearing Gerald’s colors, was dead. Calhoun found two other dead knights from Gerald’s house, one missing an arm. Calhoun slipped off his horse, roped the dead bodies under the arms, and tied the ends of the rope to his saddle. He mounted again and dragged the corpses through the castle gates. The servants would bury or burn the dead later.

  Any knight captured by an opposing knight would have to buy his freedom with money, horses, or armor. The victors would be pleased, for the life of a knight contained few luxuries. As the knights ended their contest and began to reenter the castle, Calhoun was relieved to see that only one knight from Gerald’s castle had bested any of Perceval’s men. This knight, a huge, surly-looking man with a livid cross-shaped scar upon his cheek, rode to the castle gate with two horses in tow, a sure sign that two of Perceval’s proud knights had ransomed themselves immediately rather than be led into the castle as the man’s captive.

  “Who is that man there?” Calhoun asked
a servant who had come with the contingent from Gerald’s castle. “The man with the scar.”

  “He is called Fulk,” the servant replied. “He was new to Gerald’s house, recently come from the expedition of God to the Holy Land. Some say he branded himself with God’s mark to mark his devotion to our Lord.”

  Calhoun nodded. If the man was righteous, surely God had willed that he be spared.

  ***

  Endeline found her eyes irresistibly drawn to the knight Fulk at dinner the next day. Even Perceval seemed to be fascinated with the man, hardly touching his meat, so intent was he upon staring at the alien knight Fulk.

  Endeline wondered why this knight should be different than any other. He was massive, a head taller than most men, and his laugh rang loudly above the timid laughs of others. He did bear that unusual scar upon his cheek, but his face would have been more remarkable if it had borne no battle scars at all.

  After studying him throughout dinner, Endeline decided that Fulk’s uncommon quality was simple fearlessness. He bowed to Perceval upon entering the room, but his salute lacked the deference ordinarily bestowed upon a master. His obsequiousness was form, not function, and even more surprising was the fact that his brazen eyes and manner did not bring a stern rebuke from Perceval.

  During the meal Perceval banged his spoon upon the table and the unruly knights quieted. “I wish the knight Fulk to approach me,” he said, and Fulk rose from his table without hesitation.

  Endeline felt herself grow uncomfortable as the man approached. She kept her eyes cast down on her soup. Hector fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat and Endeline could feel his frightened squirrel eyes dart to her face in search of assurance. Knights were a rowdy, impetuous group, and Gawain had always controlled the knights with a firm hand, leaving Hector free to manage the lord’s estate. Endeline knew that with Gawain away at Gerald’s estate, Hector felt threatened, especially when approached by the fearless Fulk.