Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Perceval sighed. “Your heart should not be weary, my love. You have raised three noble children.”

  “Charles does nothing but watch the fields grow,” Endeline answered, pouring more of the sweetly-scented oil into her hands. “Lienor never once attempted to please me by winning a suitable husband, and we agreed with reluctance to allow her entrance to the nunnery. Calhoun alone has accomplished the goals we set for him, and I worry about him. I fear that bringing him home may remind him of the girl he pined for in his youth.”

  She pressed her hands on her husband’s skin and Perceval shuddered at the first cool sting of the oil. “Both he and she were at the chapel today, but fortunately. our son did not see her. She has grown to be a lovely young woman.”

  “Afton?” Perceval turned his head toward his wife. “Surely he does not still think of her.”

  “Remember the troubadour’s poem? Calhoun has not forgotten the girl, and a knight who pines for love is useless,” Endeline replied, warming the oil into Perceval’s skin. He settled into her lap again and hugged her knees, and she pressed her point: “What villein would fear a knight who yearns for the daughter of a plowman?”

  “We could let him marry the girl,” Perceval mumbled. “She’s a free woman now, with property; where’s the harm? As long as it is understood that Charles’ children will inherit Margate

  lands--”

  “Charles has no children.” Endeline rolled her eyes in frustration, grateful that Perceval could not see her. She forced herself to remain calm and kept her touch gentle though she wanted to slap his balding head in frustration. “And if Charles does not marry, Margate lands would go to Calhoun’s children. And of course, that would never do.” She laughed gently, as though Perceval had suggested a tremendous joke. “Would you give your father’s holdings to the children of your plowman? Would you share your grandchildren with the peasant woman who weaves for you?”

  Perceval grunted in appreciation of her words, then moaned in pleasure as his wife stroked his back. “You’re right, of course.”

  “I am always right,” she purred. She bent for a moment and ran her lips across the smooth skin of his back. “And I know what we need here in the castle--the laughter of a small child. As I told you, my lord, the child I have found is charming, perfectly formed, and intelligence shines in his eyes. He would do you honor, my lord, and serve admirably as a knight or a even a steward. He is Afton’s child.”

  Perceval’s head lifted and turned toward her again. “I suppose you have a plan for securing this child?” he asked. “The child is born free; he cannot be substituted for tribute. The king himself would not understand if I took the child without provocation.”

  Endeline stroked her husband’s hair. “Afton bears us no love, my lord, I am sure of it. Her haughty manner and words this morning assured me that she will place her loyalties elsewhere, and time will reveal her disloyalty to you, her lord. We must have Hector watch her, and her fault and treachery will reveal itself.”

  Perceval turned onto his back and drew his wife’s head down for a kiss. “As you say, my dearest love,” he replied.

  Nineteen

  The village buzzed with the news of Calhoun’s homecoming, and Afton could not help but overhear it. She had few thoughts of him while Hubert lived, save for the night Hubert died and she thought Calhoun stood by her side. But now she found herself wondering about him. Had he changed? Would he remember her? Had he really written the poem the troubadour sang?

  Corba came to her house one night, breathless with news. “Perceval’s holding a fair in honor of Calhoun’s dubbing,” she said, collapsing on the edge of Afton’s bed. “Merchants from all over the country are coming to show their goods. They’ll be camped around the walls of the castle for miles.”

  “Why should people from all over the country come here?” Afton said, rocking Ambrose to sleep in her arms.

  “Because King Henry himself will dub Calhoun,” Corba went on, waving her hands in her excitement. “People for miles around will come to catch even a glimpse of the king.”

  “Murderers and pick pockets will come, too,” Afton said, shaking her head. “Trouble follows in the king’s footsteps.”

  “You are too bitter,” Corba answered. She retied her shawl around her shoulders and looked curiously at her daughter. “Have you seen young Calhoun since his homecoming?”

  Afton didn’t lift her eyes from the baby, but shook her head. “No,” she answered.

  ***

  The rough bag of grain was worn, and Afton had trouble covering a hole with one hand while she poured with the other. So intent was she on her task that she didn’t hear footsteps behind her.

  “He injures a fair lady, that beholds her not.”

  Afton whirled around, and smiled in relief when she saw Josson leaning against the door frame behind her. “Oh, Josson!,” she said, catching her breath. “You startled me. I thought you might be someone of importance.”

  He frowned as if upset. “I am not of importance? You insult me, Madame.”

  “You know what I mean. Here, help me with this bag, will you? It leaks.”

  Josson held his large, bony hands over the hole in the bag as he explained his visit. “Hector has given me strict instructions for you on how to handle the new business from merchants at the fair,” he said. “Some will barter with flour and grain, and you are to be sure Perceval’s portions are free of weevils and bugs.”

  “I don’t grind grain with weevils or bugs,” Afton answered, lowering the now empty bag onto the floor. She reached for another bag of grain that stood against the door. “And it would please me, sir, if you would continue to help or move out of my way.”

  Josson moved back so Afton could proceed toward the millstone, and his strong arms encircled her as he helped her open the mouth of the sack over the upper stone. She was startled by the touch of his flesh upon her hers, and she lowered her hands quickly once the bag was opened.

  “Hector, um, is also concerned that your house is near the main road,” Josson added quietly as the grain poured into the funnel. “He worries about your--the mill’s--safety. The fair crowd will doubtless attract thieves, and if it is known that a woman alone lives here--”

  “I can take care of myself,” Afton answered, pulling away from him. She stepped toward the door and smiled at him, trying not to appear nervous. “I have my husband’s dagger, which has done damage before.”

  Josson held up his hands and backed away. “Hector only seeks to preserve your safety. If you want to go to the fair, and desire an escort, why--”

  “I’ll go alone if I choose to go at all,” Afton replied. “My son is fine company.” She wiped a trickle of perspiration from her forehead. “Thank you, Josson, but you can tell Hector that my mill and my safekeeping are in good hands--my own.”

  ***

  “Calhoun, why didn’t you tell me about the joys of a fair?” Gislebert’s exclamation could barely be heard above the caterwauling and hawking of the merchants, but Calhoun smiled indulgently at the boy’s enthusiasm and tossed him another pomegranate. It had been many years since a fair had appeared in Margate, and Calhoun himself was enthralled with the strange and eclectic mix of merchants, merchandise, and medicine.

  In the hubbub of voices Calhoun could hear the strange accents of merchants from Saxony and Frisia, Spain and Ireland, Roven and Lombardy. Walking through the myriad of booths, Calhoun breathed in the tang of salted fish, the sweetness of perfumes, and the rancid odor of sweaty peasants who had traveled miles to see the unique and tantalizing items never before seen in Margate: purple and silken robes with bright orange borders, stamped leather jerkins, peacock’s fathers, and the scarlet plumage of flamingos in abundance. One stall displayed scents, spices, and pearls from the Orient; its neighbor offered almonds and raisins.

  “I see by your dress that you are a brave knight,” a dark-skinned merchant called to Calhoun. “How would your lady like a new pet? Ladies dote on such creature
s as this.” An excitable monkey perched on the man’s shoulder and blinked golden eyes at Calhoun. The merchant waved the end of the monkey’s leash in Calhoun’s direction. “A baby monkey would certainly warm her heart.”

  “No thank you,” Calhoun answered, moving on. “I have no lady’s heart to warm.”

  “Why haven’t you a lady?” Gislebert asked, hurrying to catch up. He turned to gawk at a pretty peasant girl in a colorful tunic. “There are many fair maidens in this place.”

  “You talk too much,” Calhoun replied, watching the crowd. He knew the people of the land well enough to recognize the villeins from Perceval’s manor almost by instinct, and the merchants shared a certain largeness of mouth and brashness of manner. But one man in the crowd belonged to neither group. Dressed too richly for a villein and too simply for nobility, the man wore only a long white robe under a dark cloak.

  “Do you see that short man with dark hair?” Calhoun whispered in Gislebert’s ear. “The one in the long cloak?”

  “The one whose eyes dart from booth to booth?” Gislebert answered. “What of him?”

  “I cannot place him,” Calhoun said, shifting his weight uneasily. His hand went immediately to the hilt of his sword. “He reminds me of a weasel--slippery and sly. He is not a villein, nor does he dress like the nobility, yet he is too quiet to be a merchant.”

  “Perhaps he is a knight,” Gislebert suggested.

  “He wears no armor,” Calhoun inserted.

  “Perhaps a religious brother, then.”

  “He walks too boldly.”

  The man in the long cloak darted away through the crowd, and Calhoun stalked after him. “Find Fulk,” Calhoun called to Gislebert. “We may need his assistance.”

  ***

  After an hour of searching, Gislebert kicked the ground in frustration. How was he supposed to find Fulk? And why should Fulk, captain of the knights, listen to him? “What a bother you are,” Fulk would say when Gislebert squeaked his request. “Can’t Calhoun take care of himself?”

  Gislebert wandered among the merchant booths, hoping for a glimpse of either Calhoun or Fulk, and the sight of a familiar face made him stop in mid-step. Was that woman truly Clarissant? Calhoun would thank him for finding her! But as Gislebert pressed through the crowd, he realized the woman at whom he stared was younger than Clarissant, and somehow more appealing. She stood at a booth of fabrics, her head enveloped in a length of purple silk. Laughing, she unwrapped her head and returned the silk to the merchant, her long golden hair falling from her face in tendrils of gold. “I’m afraid this won’t do,” the woman told the merchant, blushing. She murmured something in fluent French; the merchant replied sympathetically.

  “Now this is a woman my master could love!” Gislebert whispered, ducking behind a tall pile of woven baskets. He appraised her face and form, noting every detail, but as she turned away from the silk merchant he spied the burden on her back.

  She had a baby.

  She was married.

  Gislebert sighed and resumed his search for Calhoun.

  ***

  Calhoun had just sunk his teeth into a strip of salted beef when Gislebert burst forth from the crowd. “Calhoun! I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

  Calhoun glanced down at the younger boy, annoyed. “I’ve lost the man, Gislebert. By all the saints, there’s not a fox in the forest that could hide from me, but today I’ve lost my quarry.” He chewed thoughtfully on the beef, thinking. “I know the man intends evil--but where? When?”

  Gislebert shrugged. “I don’t know. But I know something that will take your mind off this man. While I searched for Fulk, I saw a woman like Clarissant, with long golden hair, fair skin and--”

  “Gislebert, you are too much a romantic,” Calhoun muttered, spitting out the remainder of his beef. “This is not the time to think of women.” He tramped off through the crowd with Gislebert at his heels.

  ***

  The curfew bell chimed from the tower at Margate Castle and the crowd at the fair dispersed quickly. Calhoun and Gislebert hung in the shadows, watching for lurking figures, but there was no sign of the man in the long cloak. Driven by an unsettling certainty, Calhoun sprinted to the castle stables and saddled his horse.

  “Are we going out?” Gislebert asked, his voice quivering. “The curfew bell--”

  “I’m going out to look for violators of the curfew,” Calhoun answered, testing the strength of his stirrup. “You don’t have to come.”

  “But there are people everywhere, crowds of them--”

  “A knight is to preserve the peace,” Calhoun replied. “And peace is more easily disturbed in a crowd.” He swung into the saddle and extended his hand to his young friend. “Are you coming?” Despite his reluctance, Gislebert took Calhoun’s hand and pulled himself into the saddle. Calhoun turned the horse out of the stable, and together they rode out into the night.

  Quiet lay upon the road like a thick blanket, for most of the villagers had returned home before the curfew bell sounded. The merchants had settled into their campsites outside the castle walls, and their campfires were steady beacons in the castle pasture. Calhoun let the horse walk slowly down the road, giving him his head in the darkness, and once they had past the pasture, Calhoun peered into the thickening forest with his hand firmly upon the hilt of his sword.

  “No mischief here,” Gislebert said when they made it to the village hedge without incident. The boy’s voice was heavy with relief, and Calhoun smiled. Perhaps he had been too vigilant. “Can we go back now?” Gislebert asked, the saddle creaking as he relaxed behind Calhoun. “There’s no trouble afoot here. No one would dare make trouble when King Henry is expected any day.”

  “Don’t you know the crown attracts trouble?” Calhoun asked cryptically. He turned the horse toward the road that led out of the village to the next manor.

  “I thought we were going home,” Gislebert said, his voice still full of hope. “There’s nothing out here but the mill, and then nothing but miles and miles of road, remember?”

  Calhoun held up his hand and stopped his horse. The miller’s house lay ahead, quiet in the rising moon’s light, but something alerted his senses. The stream rushed steadily in the distance, a wolf cried in the far-off forest, but there were no footsteps, no human sounds. He surveyed the miller’s house with a coolly appraising eye and saw nothing unusual. The house, the kitchen, and the mill house gleamed in the moonlight, and the gate creaked lazily on its hinges as the wind blew. Calhoun turned the horse. Perhaps he was mistaken--but why did the gate creak? Who left a gate open after dark?

  He turned to examine the gate again, and heard a sudden cry of surprise and pain. Calhoun stood in his saddle. Scuffling noises came from the miller’s courtyard, and somewhere in the darkness, a baby cried.

  “Off!” Calhoun told Gislebert, drawing his sword, but the boy had already slid off the back of the horse. Calhoun spurred the horse’s side and galloped through the open gate. A woman hunched on the ground in the courtyard, robed in black, and a baby sat wailing in the dirt. A man lay on the ground, a stain spreading darkly across his white tunic.

  At the sound of his approach, the woman whirled toward Calhoun, the flash of a silver dagger shining in the night. “Stay away!” she screamed, waving the dagger in front of him. “I’ve killed one, and I’ll kill another.”

  Calhoun waved his sword and reined in his horse in response. What was this? Had the man fallen upon the woman or the woman upon the man?

  “Is that the miller you have killed?” he asked, his voice booming through the darkness. “Speak now, woman, for I come in the name of Perceval and seek the lord’s justice.”

  He could not see the woman’s face, for it lay in the recess of her hood, but he could hear her laughter. Surely he had come upon a madwoman.

  “The miller has been dead for over a year,” she finally answered, controlling her mirth. The hand that held her dagger fell limply to her side. “This man--” she pointed offhandedly
with the dagger to the man on the ground--”thought I would be an easy prey for his villainy. But I am not an easy bird to snare.”

  Her words and voice had the ring of familiarity, and Calhoun leaned forward in his saddle to get a better look at her. Surely this bloodthirsty creature had nothing to do with his childhood, but this woman had the form and voice of Afton. “Pull back your hood, that I may recognize you,” he commanded, his voice hoarse with checked emotion.

  She did not acquiesce easily, but stared steadily at him, her eyes glowing from the darkness of her hood like the eyes of a hungry but wary dog. “Who is this that commands me?” she asked. “If you would recognize me, you must live in these parts. But if you live in these parts, you would have known that the scoundrel who lies here is not the miller. I would have your name, sir, before you have my obedience.”

  Calhoun found himself dismounting. He walked toward her, even as she cautiously backed away. “I am Calhoun,” he said simply, grasping his helmet by the noseguard and pulling it off his head. “One who once called you friend.”

  “Calhoun.” The dagger fell from her hand onto the ground, and her head reeled back as if he had struck her. The hood slipped backwards a few inches, and when she looked at him again he saw a smile flit briefly across her lips. “You saved me with your sword once, in the barn--do you remember? And now you come again with your sword, but this time your help is not needed.”

  How she had changed! She had always been beautiful, but never more so than now when she stood pale and trembling in the moonlight. There was strength in her arms now, when before there had been only grace, and there was pride in her voice, where before there had been entreaty.

  “I would give my help to you,” he finally managed to say. “I did not know you were a widow. Are you in any difficulty?”