Afton of Margate Castle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Endeline smiled at Gawain’s joke, and dismissed him. But a nagging certainty rose in her heart, a suspicion that she dared not voice to anyone. She was sure her son did not love Clarissant, for he had been happy to be home up until recently. Surely if he pined for the lady of Warwick, he would have been miserable from the day he arrived home! No, if it was love, he had found a woman here. And if he had not confided in her, his mother, he had lost his heart to the one woman she despised.

  She could not explain her thoughts to Perceval, for surely he would tell her again that no harm lay in Calhoun’s marriage to Afton. But perhaps she was mistaken--perhaps there was another reason for her son’s melancholy indifference.

  “Why isn’t Calhoun home more often?” Endeline cautiously asked Perceval as they lay near sleep in their chamber. “He has not even been at dinner in the last three days. What distracts our son from his purpose here with us?”

  “It is nothing but youthful enthusiasm,” Perceval said, his eyes closing in sleep. “He has a new horse, new armor--why shouldn’t his life be an endless cavalcade?”

  “But he is not enthusiastic.” Endeline folded her arms and stared at the ceiling. “If anything, our son is melancholy.”

  “Then it is the inevitable sagging of the spirit that follows dubbing,” Perceval mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep. “I remember the feeling well. The excitement flees, the routine begins, and a young knight wonders what is to come of the rest of his life. It will pass, my dear, the feeling will pass.” “Whatever it is that occupies our son,” she whispered quietly to her sleeping husband, “I will understand it, and correct it.”

  ***

  Calhoun’s horse snorted impatiently in the darkness. “Silence, my friend,” Calhoun whispered. “Or you will reveal our presence.”

  He and his mount stood in shadows outside the miller’s gate, his self-assigned post. Every night for the past fortnight he had come here, waiting in the darkness for terrors that had not yet come. The girl might think herself invincible, but ‘twas not seemly or safe for a woman to live alone. Only hermits and the mad women who roam the woods sought such solitude.

  He could smell the hickory logs on her fire, and guessed that she sat before a late supper after putting the baby to bed. What did she feel for him, this child of Hubert’s? Did she love him as a mother loves a son, or as a wife loves the child of her husband? What tender mercies rose in her heart when she looked into her child’s face? Were they the same emotions that had risen, night after night, within his own breast?

  The crunch of hooves upon gravel warned Calhoun that other knights approached from the castle, probably the regular patrol, and he reined in his horse so that the shadows of the forest trees concealed him completely. No one knew of his nocturnal visits here, and he did not want to arouse speculation or gossip by being discovered. Fulk would only laugh at his devotion, but Gislebert might understand even better than Calhoun why he rode to the spot night after night.

  The patrol passed, four noisy riders more interested in the bawdy joke one of them told than in promoting peace on Perceval’s road. When they had gone by, the quiet of night descended again, but a movement from the house caught his eye. Afton had moved to the solitary window in her chamber, and she stood before the window, combing her golden hair. Calhoun caught his breath, for she stared boldly out into the darkness as if she knew he waited there. She raised her chin in resolute defiance as she pulled the comb through her long locks, and he wondered again what had happened to the soft, trusting girl who had once ridden on the back of his horse.

  Afton put down her comb and blew out her candle. Calhoun was left alone in the darkness with his questions.

  ***

  Endeline rubbed Charles’s shoulders playfully as he sat at supper. “I would know what keeps your brother from us at dinner,” she said, her voice light. “For a fortnight now, he’s been absent from our table.”

  Charles shrugged. “He’s sleeping. He rides out each night in the darkness and doesn’t return until morning. He sleeps through dinner and eats later in the garrison.”

  Endeline frowned. “Does Fulk know of this?” she asked, sinking onto a bench next to Charles. “What sort of assignment has he given our son?”

  Charles shrugged. “I assume it is the nightly patrol through the village.”

  Endeline’s gown rustled as she stood and moved away. “We shall see.”

  ***

  Fulk bowed slightly and smiled at Endeline when she summoned him to the hall, but she had the distinct feeling he did not trust her nor ever would. “Your son rides at night by his own request,” he said simply.

  Endeline sensed that he measured his words carefully, and his caution annoyed her. “You have not assigned him to this onerous duty? My son was away nearly three years, noble Fulk, and I would like to see his face before me at dinner. Entreat Gawain to assign him to castle duty, please, for I have sorely missed his company.”

  Fulk bowed again, but his dark eyes seemed to be gauging the truth of her words. “As you wish, my lady,” he replied.

  ***

  Calhoun kicked a stool across the room and the tower rang with his cry. “No! I am not a child! What right has she to ask this of me?”

  “Then do not act like a child,” Fulk replied smoothly. “She is your lady and your mother, and she desires the pleasure of your company.”

  “She wants to tie me ever more tightly to her side,” Calhoun lamented. “She is not happy unless she is smothering someone.”

  “That may be,” Fulk answered, twirling the corner of his moustache. “But I think she is more concerned with keeping you from the village.”

  Calhoun turned and looked sharply at Fulk. Did he know where Calhoun had spent his nights? He had not asked, but Fulk possessed unerring instincts.

  Calhoun knelt by Fulk’s side on the garrison’s stone floor to confess all. “I watch her every night, Fulk, for she is not safe, living alone in the miller’s house. It has not been a month since one villain attempted to harm her. What danger will next month bring?”

  Fulk’s somber eyes searched Calhoun’s face. “Tell me the truth--did you really kill the man?”

  “No.” Calhoun looked down at the floor. “She killed the man herself. I let the others believe I had done it to spare her from inquisition.”

  The corner of Fulk’s mouth rose in a half-smile. “I thought so. A dagger in the heart is not your style. You would have slit his throat.”

  “I would have cut out his heart if he had touched her!” Calhoun’s hands closed into fists. “But what if she is not prepared next time? How can I protect her if I am tied to the castle?”

  Fulk opened his hands in a submissive gesture. “My young friend, consider your position. You have servants, do you not?”

  “None that I trust. All that serve me serve my mother and father also.”

  “Do you have friends?”

  Calhoun thought a moment. “I trust only you and Gislebert.”

  “Then enlist the aid of your friends, young knight, and avoid arousing your mother’s ire, lest you be sent away again.”

  ***

  Beginning the next day, Calhoun presented himself at dinner and made a great display of kissing his mother’s hand. He ate at Perceval’s table, and showed himself conspicuously at the castle in the afternoons when Endeline sat with her ladies in the gardens or the orchard. But he rose every morning before daybreak and rode through the village until smoke coming through the hearth chimney of the miller’s house assured him that all was well. In the evening, Fulk took the same route and did not return to the castle until the miller’s widow had extinguished her candle.

  The villagers did not notice that anything out of the ordinary, for Perceval’s knights often rode through the village on their way to the outlying manors or simply for the purpose of intimidation. Besides, in their shirts of mail, surcoats, and helmets, one knight looked much like another, and rarely did the knights speak to the villeins except to harass th
em.

  Afton paid no attention to the knights on the road, but she did meet an unusual new customer who appeared regularly at the door of the mill house. A thin boy with wide brown eyes, he told her his name was Gislebert. He would not say where he lived, only that he was an orphan under the care of a free man. Her heart went out to him, and she always ground his small bag of rye without charging him the multure.

  He loved to talk, though, as much as any woman she ever knew, and often did not leave after she had ground his grain. He would stay by her side and tell her riddles, or sing silly songs of love or jest while he checked her fish traps. His gossip involved not only the villeins but men and women in the king’s court itself, and he invented riddles that stumped her. “If I didn’t know better,” she said one afternoon as he helped her set traps in the stream, “I’d think you grew up in the court of a lord.”

  Gislebert grinned slyly. “Oui, Madame,” he answered. “I cannot fool you.”

  Afton blinked. “And you speak French, too?”

  “Doesn’t everyone in a castle? My father was a knight, and my mother a ladies’ maid, and both are now dead. The subject is painful for me.”

  Afton decided to let the matter drop. She set her last trap into the water and tied it securely to a stake on the bank. “Well, the grain you bring is finer than that grown by the villeins,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you certain you didn’t steal it from someone’s house? Perceval would have your hand cut off if you were found a thief.”

  Gislebert leapt to his feet and raised his hand. “By all the saints, I swear I do not steal,” he answered. “And I give my thanks to you, good lady.”

  Before she could beg his pardon, he sprinted away through her gate.

  ***

  “How is she today?” Calhoun asked Gislebert in the orchard. “What does she say? How does she fare?”

  Gislebert frowned in annoyance. “She is well. She warned me not to steal grain. She sang while the grain was ground.”

  “Did she say anything--” Calhoun hesitated and looked toward the ground. “Does she ever speak of me?”

  “Nay.”

  “Does she have other visitors?”

  “Many. She does run the mill, and everyone visits her.”

  “Do people come to talk? Anyone?”

  “Her mother has come two or three times in the last week. And Josson.”

  “Hector’s man? For what reason does he visit the mill?”

  Gislebert shrugged. “Once he came while I was there, and I barely got away without being seen. But I watched him through the hedge around her house.”

  “What does he do?” Calhoun snapped, his patience ebbing away.

  “He marks in his ledger and watches her grind the grain. On occasion he helps her lift the heavy bags. He plays with the boy.”

  “The child?”

  “Yes. Ambrose.”

  Calhoun turned away from Gislebert and pretended to study the branch of an old apple tree. It would not be unusual for Josson to go periodically to check on the running of the mill, but it was highly out of character for the steward’s assistant to play with a vassal’s child.

  Calhoun sighed. “Gislebert, I am so torn!”

  “How so?” Gislebert jumped up, swiped an apple from the tree, and wiped it on his tunic. Calhoun saw the blank innocence of childhood on his young friend’s face--how could Gislebert understand the burden of a hidden love?

  “I love the lady, yet my heart trembles at the thought of speaking to her.”

  Gislebert bit into the apple and muttered with his mouth full: “This woman is far below the rank of Clarissant, yet you spoke to her.”

  Calhoun waved his hand helplessly, trying to find the words to explain his feelings. “I did not know Clarissant. This woman knows me like no other.”

  “You are a brave knight. You can do anything.” Gislebert grinned like a little monkey, and if Calhoun hadn’t been so tormented he would have boxed the boy’s ears for his impertinence.

  Twenty-one

  Afton had just finished sweeping the rough stone floor of her hall when she heard hoof beats. She peered through the door--a knight dismounted at her gate, one clothed in the violet and white surcoat of Perceval’s garrison.

  She took a deep breath and lay her broom aside. Had Josson found some irregularity in her bookkeeping? Or perchance this knight was sent to investigate the killing of the man in her courtyard.

  She left Ambrose to amuse himself on the floor and stepped out into the sunshine of her courtyard. The knight’s horse blinked its ears at her as it stood at her gate, and the knight approached, removing his helmet. That gesture itself startled her, for none of Perceval’s proud knights ever removed their helmets unless they stood in the presence of the lord or the king himself. Her eyes took in the man’s strong frame, his confident step, and wandered to his face. Calhoun! She found herself leaning against her door for support.

  “Good day to you,” he called pleasantly, then he cleared his throat. “I hope you and your child are well.”

  She shook her head in gentle confusion. What brought him here? “We are well, as you are,” she finally answered. “What brings you here?”

  “I wish to speak to you, Afton.” The sound of her name on his lips made her dizzy, and she fought to keep her voice under control. His voice had deepened, but still rang with the friendly and familiar tone he had always used with her. It was as if he had only yesterday ridden away to Warwick and had now returned to pick up the heart she had left at his feet.

  “Then speak, sir,” she answered, more harshly than she intended.

  “Can we sit somewhere?” He motioned toward the door of the house as if he would go into the hall, but Afton couldn’t bear to have him stand in the place where Hubert had paraded her as a trophy.

  “No, the mill house,” she suggested, leading the way down the worn path. The babble of the stream seemed to come from far away, and for a moment she was sure she would turn and find him gone, that his approach had been a dream. But his heavy footsteps pounded the earth behind her, his shadow mingled with hers on the path, and the chink of metal from his spurs on the stone floor of the mill house assured her that he was real.

  She motioned toward a wooden bench, but Calhoun waited for her to be seated. When she had taken a seat, he sank onto his knees before her. “My heart is too full to begin,” he said, his blue eyes searching her face. He reached for her hand, and she gave it in surprise, amazed at his gentleness. How tender his touch was! How could this hand wield a lance and sword?

  “I have loved you for years,” Calhoun said, pressing her palm to his cheek, “and that love has grown to maturity. I must ask my father for permission to marry, of course, but I will ask him immediately if I know my plans meet with your approval. I cannot bear to see you alone, and would put you under my wing, for protection--”

  She gasped in dismay and wrenched her hand from his as if from a hot flame. “You would have me under your wing? Under your foot, you mean!” she whispered intensely; her eyes blazing. “You say you offer protection? Nay, for power like yours corrupts, Calhoun! It has torn my soul to see you carry a sword--”

  She had offended him; she could see honest hurt in his eyes. He pulled back from her, and the softness left his voice. “Obviously you do not value the mettle of a man who has undergone much to prove himself.”

  “What have you undergone?” She spat the words contemptuously. “A jousting match or two? Wrestling tournaments? The trials of courtly dancing?” In one fluid motion she stood and turned away from him. “Keep your protection and your fine mettle, sir, for I will not have them thrown over me.”

  She heard the metal creaking of his armor as he stood behind her. “Your behavior is not like you, Afton. It is quite unmaidenly.”

  She turned then, and laughed at him. “I suppose killing the man in my courtyard was unmaidenly, too, so you had to cover my error. Or did it hurt your pride that I killed him before he attacked me and gave you opp
ortunity for revenge? Is that why you let the sergeant attribute his death to your sword? Did it assuage your pride, noble Calhoun?”

  He reached for her shoulders and pulled her to him so tightly that her elbows were pinned against his chest. “No, you little fool, I let them believe the kill was mine to spare you! Do you not know that my father and Hector would do anything to wrest the mill away from you? I talked to the servants, who overheard my father charge Hector to watch you carefully and find you in a fault. They covet your income and your property; that is why Josson comes here to spy upon your weakness. He would seize any excuse to remove you.”

  She lifted her face to his. “Josson is not a spy!”

  “He is!”

  “I don’t believe you,” she whispered, but then his lips were upon hers and her fury dissolved as he claimed the kiss she would have given a thousand times in her youth. She stood transfixed, locked in his embrace, and her reason swirled in a wild cyclonic rush. Hubert had subdued her, but Hubert’s kisses had never been like this. Hubert’s embrace had never tempted her to surrender, had never hinted that joy and wonder might be found in submission to the wondrous force that bore down upon her.

  This maddening desire for Calhoun infuriated her. Emotions she had thought dead quickly sprang back to life. She felt his lips upon her throat, his hands in her hair, and she heard him groan. The sound awakened something vital within her, and she felt her resolve slipping away.

  “Mama?” Ambrose’s shrill voice outside the mill house was like cold water in her face. Her hands shoved Calhoun away, and he fell back, panting, while his bewildered eyes searched hers. She closed her eyes and shuddered. A few moments more, and he would have had her under his control as Hubert had.

  She turned from Calhoun and pointedly wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Leave my house,” she commanded.

  “You would send me away? I’ll not come back if I’m not wanted.”

  “You’re not wanted,” she replied, even though the words threatened to catch in her throat as a monstrous lie. She turned and left him in the mill house.