“There is only one lady remaining at Margate Castle,” Calhoun said, a frown settling over his forehead. “My mother, Endeline. Lienor is gone to the nunnery, and Afton--”
“Who?”
“Never mind. You’ll have to come up with better reasons than those if you want to go home with me.” Calhoun paused and looked toward the southern horizon. “Fulk and I leave in two weeks, you know.”
“I’ll find better reasons,” Gislebert said. “And you won’t regret it.”
***
Two weeks later, Fulk repressed a smile as he watched Calhoun and Gislebert at their farewell dinner in the hall of Warwick Castle. The younger boy had convinced Lord Thomas to allow him to go with Calhoun, and Fulk knew Thomas was probably glad to be relieved of responsibility for the boy. If Gislebert had held property or possessed great skill, Thomas would have been reluctant to free him, but Warwick had little need for small, dreamy ten-year-olds who did little but tell stories. Yes, Thomas would be glad to see Gislebert go--and he would probably breathe easier when he was rid of Calhoun and Fulk, as well. The animosity between Calhoun and Arnoul had divided Warwick’s knights for too long.
It had been over three years since Fulk had seen Margate, and he was not sure he wanted to take up residence in such a civilized and courtly castle. His tenure with Gerald had been satisfyingly rough, and training Calhoun at Warwick had been a worthy challenge. But at seventeen Calhoun was a man grown, and as skilled in the knightly arts as Fulk. Responsibilities at Margate Castle now called them both southward, but Fulk was not sure he would find his next duty to his liking.
Lord Thomas raised his cup: “To squire Calhoun, who now truly embodies the ideals of true knighthood. He is brave and loyal, faithful to his king, a defender of the Christian faith, and a protector of widows and orphans. Salute!”
The other knights raised their cups, and Calhoun nodded in appreciation. After they had drunk, he stood to his feet and raised his cup. “To Lord Thomas, who opened his home to welcome me as a son, and to the fair Clarissant, whose beauty has inspired countless acts of greatness.”
Fulk covered his smile with his left hand as his right held his cup aloft. Over the course of the last year the boy’s passion for the fair lady had burned from the flames of madness to the steady glow of infatuation. Love was one subject about which Fulk had little knowledge to impart--Calhoun would have to learn its lessons for himself, as all men did. At least the boy could now speak Clarissant’s name without sweating away ten pounds.
Fulk stood and raised his cup. “To squire Calhoun,” he called, his voice echoing through the hall. “A knight is not fit for battle until he has seen his own blood flow, heard his teeth crunch under the blow of an opponent, and felt the full weight of an adversary upon him.” Fulk paused and the corner of his mouth raised in a wry half-smile. “My master is truly fit for battle, having endured all, and more, from me and you, my comrades.”
The hall erupted into noisy laughter, and Fulk noticed that Calhoun joined in with the rest. Across the hall, Arnoul rose to his feet, his face scarlet in his eagerness. “To my most worthy adversary,” he roared, and the crowd grew quiet. “Whom I saw thrown from his horse twenty times, yet twenty times he rose up to fight again.”
Arnoul stared intensely at Calhoun, and the knights present drew an expectant breath. There was no teasing in Arnoul’s voice, and his eyes fastened upon Calhoun as a hawk spies its prey. “You have bested me in every contest this past year, but I have not finished with you. I, too, shall rise again to fight when next we meet.”
Arnoul raised his glass and every eye shifted toward Calhoun, who raised his glass in frosty agreement. Lord Thomas broke the tension by proclaiming, “May these two always fight on the same side!” and the knights roared their approval. The entire company raised their glasses and drank.
***
Gislebert and Calhoun knelt in front of their horses at the priest’s feet, but Fulk was uncustomarily absent. “Go ahead,” Calhoun told the priest impatiently. “We are anxious to be off.”
The priest traced the sign of the cross above their heads and recited a benediction of peace. When the holy father had turned back into the castle, Fulk approached from out of the stable and mounted his horse. “What?” he snapped, catching Calhoun’s eyes upon him. “I had farewells to say, young squire. Do not question me further.”
Calhoun did not answer, but spurred his horse and led the way out of Warwick Castle. Perceval’s chaplain had once told him that some men held to a private form of religion, and while that theology bordered on heresy, still it existed. Surely Fulk was such a man, else why would he have branded his own cheek with the sign of the cross?
He had no time for further reflections upon Fulk’s religion, for other thoughts demanded his attention. The day marked an ending and a beginning. It was the ending of his childhood, his training, and his time under the sublime influence of Clarissant; it was the beginning of his manhood, his service to God and King, and the assumption of his proper role in the family of Perceval.
The three of them traveled without escort, for no sane thief or highway brigand would dare to attack two armed warriors and a boy on horseback. The three-day journey passed pleasantly for Calhoun, for now he found the saddle as comfortable as his bed. Fulk seemed lost in thought on much of the trip, but Gislebert peppered Calhoun with questions.
“Is Margate a large estate?”
“One of the largest in England. My grandfather, Lionel, was awarded it from William.”
“Is your mother as beautiful as Clarissant?”
Calhoun frowned. It seemed indecent to compare his mother with his love, for they fulfilled two completely different roles in his life. “They are as night and day,” he answered. “Clarissant is day, golden and sweet, while my mother is night. Her hair and eyes are dark.”
“And your father? Is he like Lord Thomas?”
“In some ways. My father is closer to King Henry, and the short distance from the crown influences all he does.”
“And there’s a village? Fulk said there’s a village nearby.”
“Aye. For the villeins who work on the main estate.” Calhoun cast a critical eye at his young friend. “You ask too many questions. A knight must know how to control his tongue.”
Gislebert shook his head. “I told you, I’m not going to be a knight; I’m going to be a troubadour and tell tales. How else am I to learn? I have been at Warwick for too many years; I know of nothing else.”
“Then learn quickly, my friend, because we are nearly there,” Fulk interrupted. The forest thinned beside the road ahead of them, and on the horizon smoke poured from a village chimney. Calhoun touched his spur to his horse’s side and raced away from his companions.
***
“Lady Endeline!” Morgan ran up the stairs, her cheeks rosy and her breath coming in gasps. “The lookouts have seen three riders coming up the road from the village. One of them carries Perceval’s standard.”
“Calhoun!” Endeline put down her sewing and flew to the window. Her beloved son, the most perfect of all her offspring, was coming home. She hesitated only a moment at the window, then sped down the stairs and out into the courtyard.
Perceval flew out of the garrison, alerted by the tower guard, and Endeline took her place by his side as three riders galloped through the castle barbican. Endeline scanned their faces quickly. The nearest dust-streaked rider was an unfamiliar boy, the second was Fulk, as impassive as ever, and the third was her dearest son.
How Calhoun had changed! He slipped from his saddle, a tall stranger, and embraced Perceval. Her knees turned to water beneath her; only her skirts held her up. She had sent a smooth-faced boy with knobby knees to Warwick, but now a muscular, mail-covered warrior whirled around to embrace her. The freckles of the boy had disappeared beneath the swarthy tan and bearded stubble of the man, and the knobby knees had long been overgrown by muscle.
“Mother.” Calhoun spoke softly and held out his arms to
her.
“Calhoun.” She extended her arm, stiffly, and saw puzzlement in his eyes, but he took her hand, bowed, and kissed it with great ceremony. The growth of beard on his face raked across her hand, and she shuddered.
“We are glad you have come home,” Perceval said, beaming at his son. “King Henry plans to join us for your dubbing next month, as well as your uncle the abbot. We have made a room ready for you in the castle, of course, and your companions may lodge in the tower garrison.”
“Thank you, father, but my place is in the garrison,” Calhoun answered. He reached out a hand toward the urchin-faced boy on the horse, and the boy awkwardly dismounted and stood shyly next to Calhoun. “This is Gislebert,” Calhoun explained, putting his hands on the boy’s slender shoulders. “He is a former ward of Lord Thomas’. He has served me well, Father, and appeals to be placed under your guardianship.”
“We are always pleased to show generosity,” Perceval replied, placing his hand on Gislebert’s dusty head. “Come, I’ll show you to the garrison.”
Endeline stood in silence and watched the four men go. Her son was now a man, and no one remained to take his place in her heart but an uncivilized and cast-off boy from another castle. She turned her head so the assembled household staff could not see the turmoil reflected upon her face. Calhoun’s manhood signaled one unavoidable fact--at thirty-three, she had no more children to rear. Soon she would be past the age of childbearing.
I will have another child, she thought, curling her hands into fists at her side. I will have the child I long for. She would mention the matter to Perceval again at dinner, and at supper, and at bedtime, till he grew weary of the subject. Then he would find her a child, and Endeline would be young again.
***
Matins and Lauds in the middle of the night, Prime, breakfast, and Tierce: when the villagers began their daily labor, the nuns had already eaten one meal and said four of the seven daily offices. With her arms crossed and hidden in her voluminous sleeves, Hildegard inspected her community of nuns during morning prayers. As the nuns knelt in private meditation, Hildegard walked smoothly up and down the chapel aisles with her eyes downcast. But she missed nothing.
Without wasting a particle of effort, Hildegard’s glance read the very souls of her nuns. A nun with bitten fingernails was guilty of a lack of faith and self-control. The frayed edges of another sister’s tunic displayed her wastefulness, a lack of the spirit of poverty. A sister who frowned at another lacked charity, or battled secret pride. A nun who passed the porridge bowl without partaking to starve her soul into obedience needed to learn moderation in all things. By such tell tale signs, Hildegard inspected the soul as well as the body and knew full well what struggles each of her nuns faced.
After gleaning in her field of nuns, Hildegard stood in the front of the chapel and spoke in a voice measured to reach only the ears of her audience, and not an inch beyond. “Today our sister Lienor will take her final vows and join us in our service to God,” she announced, smiling serenely. “Lift her to our Blessed Lord in prayer, as she dedicates her life to Him.”
There was no noise or visible movement, but Hildegard felt approval radiating from the eyes and hearts of the women before her. “Let us attune our hearts to God’s voice,” she said, turning toward the altar. “And anticipate receiving the kiss of peace from our new sister after her vesture.”
***
Endeline stood between Perceval and Calhoun in the guest section of the nun’s chapel and pretended to be joyous for having given her only daughter to God. But under her clear countenance and slanting brows, her eyes were hard. The nunnery had succeeded where she had failed, for they had managed to strip the athletic walk from her daughter and refine Lienor’s mannish ways into gentility. As the black veiled forms moved past the benches toward the altar, it was impossible to tell which of them was Lienor.
When the entire family of nuns had taken their places in a long row at the altar, Madame Hildegard lifted a circlet of blossoms and lay it on the veil of one slender nun. The nun bowed to the abbess, then genuflected before the altar. Her small white hand appeared from under her dark cape and she signed the parchment on the altar: the order’s vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. The young nun then turned to face her sisters and pressed her cheek into the veils of the other nuns present.
Finally the new nun, Madame Lienor, stood before her earthly family. Endeline tried to mask her surprise, for surely this refined-looking personage could not be her rough-and-ready daughter! Lienor hugged Calhoun and Charles, her eyes misting over with tears, and embraced her father. She paused before Endeline, though, folded her arms into her voluminous sleeves. Endeline stiffened. What reaction was this?
“You are looking thinner,” Perceval said, oblivious to the slight Endeline had received. He rocked back and forth on his heels. “I trust the feast I’ve prepared will help you plump up a bit.”
Lienor smiled demurely but did not answer, and Endeline felt her anger rise. “You ought to speak to your father,” Endeline said sharply, raising her voice.
Madame Hildegard stepped into the family circle. “Our sister Lienor has taken a vow of silence,” she explained, her voice perfectly modulated in an even whisper. “She had originally intended to end her silence today, but apparently she does not feel at liberty to do so. I know she would ask you to respect her vow.”
Lienor’s eyes shone in gratitude toward the abbess, and Endeline closed her eyes in resignation. She had done nothing to deserve such an unsociable and unnatural child, but she would endure it. If Lienor preferred the mothering of the smugly spiritual abbess to her own careful guidance, so be it.
Perceval’s servants had arranged a vast celebratory feast, and the other nuns filed out of the chapel to the refectory, a neat row of black-robed supplicants edging the hall like orderly ants. Calhoun led Lienor out to the garden, filling her ears with tales of his trials and triumphs at Warwick Castle. Perceval and Charles followed, but Endeline hung back, still feeling the smart of her daughter’s cool rejection. Had she been such a terrible mother that Lienor preferred black robes and silence and prayer to life itself?
Endeline spied her brother, Abbot Hugh, across the room in conference with the abbess. She gathered her skirts and moved gracefully toward him, hoping that he could explain the reason for Lienor’s apparent coldness and the senseless vow of silence. Endeline suspected the girl wanted nothing more than to insult her, for since her childhood days Lienor had never willingly done anything that would have brought Endeline pleasure. “Why should she begin pleasing me now?” Endeline whispered under her breath.
She was startled by the abrupt appearance of a small blonde head. From under a rough pew in the spectator’s section, a small boy raised his head and broke into a giggle. Endeline froze in her place and slowly drew in her breath, lest she frighten the child. In all her dreams, she had never imagined a child as beautiful as this! Dancing blue eyes like Calhoun’s, milky skin, rosy cheeks, golden wisps of silken hair--and he was yet a toddler, probably no older than a year. The boy grinned at her with a mouthful of dainty baby teeth and laughed aloud again, a startlingly deep and utterly charming belly laugh. “I’m going to get you,” a woman called from the back of the chapel, and the boy laughed again and ducked under the pew.
“Ambrose! Where are you?” The woman’s voice was familiar, and Endeline whirled around. For a moment she was confused, for Afton stood there, in a common mourning dress. Afton had no children! But then she remembered that Afton had been with child, and was now a widow. So this perfect child was the fruit of Afton’s womb?
“Afton?” Endeline whispered.
Afton nodded with grave dignity. “Lady Endeline.”
Endeline stared with fascination at the young woman before her. The natural beauty she had admired in Afton had been altered somehow. As Lienor’s features had grown more refined in this holy place, it seemed as though Afton’s fragile beauty had become more earthy. Her figure was full and w
omanly, her eyes shone with confidence and a certain wariness.
The corner of Afton’s red mouth drooped, and Endeline realized the girl had realized she was under scrutiny. Afton held out her hand to the baby, who staggered toward her on strong, chubby legs. “Good day, my lady,” Afton said formally, lifting the child onto her hip. “Give my regards to your family.”
Endeline put out her hand. “Tarry a moment, Afton, it’s been too long since we’ve seen you. Did you greet the others? Who brings you here today?”
Afton turned slowly. “I sat in the back and saw no one, Lady Endeline. Lienor herself sent word to invite me.”
“How delightful,” Endeline purred. “Will you join us at the feast?”
“No. Ambrose and I must go home.”
“Wait!” Endeline made an effort to keep her voice calm. She was nearly frantic with curiosity and desire for the baby in Afton’s arms, but Afton must not know. She raised an eyebrow and asked casually, “This child is yours? He is a charming boy.”
Afton’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but motherly pride seemed to overcome her reserve. “Yes. Did you not know Hubert had a son?”
Endeline shook her head, but she could not take her eyes off the baby. “I may have heard something of it,” she finally answered. “You must bring him to the castle. Surely he would like to see the place where you grew up?”
Afton’s eyes gleamed in the cool shadows of the chapel. “I think not, my lady,” she answered. “This is Hubert’s son, the son of a free man, and no villein to you.” She lifted her head defiantly as she carried her baby away.
Endeline’s hand caught her throat as the mother and child left the chapel. The courageous spirit of the mother would surely be reflected in the child, an unexpected benefit. Endeline forgot about talking to Abbot Hugh and hurried to the garden to find Perceval.
***
Later that night Endeline rubbed Perceval’s back with perfumed oil as he lay across her knees. “I have found the child I seek,” she said smoothly, caressing her husband’s back. “He is a free child, perfect in every way. We could rear him here in the castle, my lord, and he would bring honor to you and delight to my weary heart.”
Afton of Margate Castle Page 21