When they first captured and arrested, Calhoun had feared for his life. Death in battle was honorable, but Calhoun did not want to meet death as a helpless prisoner. Fulk had faced their Saracen captors without fear or resistance, but Calhoun had struggled and grappled with every restraining hand placed upon him.
They were bound and taken immediately from the doctor’s house to the hall in the castle Zengi had appropriated. Calhoun forced himself to remain calm and copy Fulk’s cool detachment, but fury blazed within him when he saw the meek doctor who had attended them receive a handful of silver coins for his treachery.
His temper did not go unnoticed. “Does my hospitality displease you, Christian?” a sharp voice cut through the murmur of voices in the crowd and Calhoun turned toward the source of the sound. A dark-skinned man with a hawkish nose sat on a mound of furs among a group of Saracen warriors, and his eyes were fastened intently upon Calhoun. “Why do you not bear the situation with the steadfastness of your companion, young warrior? Is it the brashness of youth which fuels your anger, or have I offended in my duties as host?”
“If you be Zengi,” Calhoun said, struggling to keep his voice calm, “then I am disappointed in you. You have seized two warriors from their sickbeds, without even a chance for resistance. Your actions are totally without honor.”
The man threw back his head and laughed, and the other warriors smirked and murmured among themselves in Arabic. “So Zengi is without honor,” the man said, glancing to the men at his right hand. “The Christian infidel speaks of honor as if he would recognize it.”
Zengi turned his gaze back to Calhoun. “Do not fret, young knight,” he said, smirking. “We will display every courtesy. My friend the doctor tells me you have been injured, and I know something of medicine. I would like to see the wound.”
At Zengi’s gesture, the doctor who had treated and surrendered them came forward and unwrapped the bandage from Calhoun’s thigh. Zengi approached, gently fingered the still-tender skin of Calhoun’s the punctured skin, then thrust his dagger into the wound and twisted it. Fulk, held by four men, scowled and strained at his bonds, and Calhoun forgot every noble intention he had ever possessed. He screamed in pain and terror.
“I will show you the same honor and courtesy your fellow Christians have shown to our people,” Zengi screamed, withdrawing the dagger from Calhoun’s leg. He gestured to his warriors. “Take them to the dungeons below.”
Thus ended the first of many sessions of Turkish torture. At least once a week Calhoun and Fulk found themselves standing before Zengi and his son, Nur al-din, and they endured the pain of daggers, splinters of wood, and boiling oil until they were willing to agree that the Frankish nations had visited barbaric crimes upon the Islamic people.
“Bands of Christians have been routinely attacking trade caravans to the Turkish states,” Zengi would tell them, “and other Christian infidels have burned villages, killing women and children. Admit it, young knight! Admit that you and yours are wrong!”
“These men are not like us,” Calhoun once protested. “They are renegades. They are not honorable and noble knights.”
“I have seen those who call themselves the noblest of knights,” Zengi answered, his dark eyes narrowing in hate. “I have seen them run women and children through with the sword and then fall to their faces and give thanks to God with blood still on their hands.”
“I use my sword in defense only,” Calhoun objected.
“You fought at the battle outside Antioch,” Zengi snapped.
“To defend the city!”
“You defended the people who killed the inhabitants of Antioch one generation past!” Zengi howled, slapping Calhoun’s face with the back side of his hand. “Would you, noble knight, have defended Antioch if its inhabitants were Turkish? Jewish? Or do you only fight for Franks?”
Calhoun’s face burned where Zengi had struck him. He looked at the tile floor and chose his words carefully. “I am sworn to defend those of the true faith,” he said. “Wherever they are. I cannot account for the actions of others.”
“It is time you and those like you were called to account,” Zengi said, turning and settling back on his chair. He pulled a scimitar from his belt and ran his index finger lightly across the blade, drawing a faint line of blood. “I shall send word to your king that you are my prisoner,” Zengi said, eyeing the blood on his finger. “If he values your service, you will be ransomed. If he thinks little of you, it will be your blood that next satisfies my hungry scimitar, young Christian.”
The shadow of a smile played across Zengi’s face. “I hear this method of commerce is common in England. We Turks have little patience for trading with Franks, but I find you and your notions of nobility interesting, young knight. For the sake of my entertainment, I shall keep you and your brave companion alive--for now.”
***
One day was very like another. Even the seasons varied little in this arid land, and Calhoun lost all track of time. Had he and Fulk been imprisoned for two years or twenty?
If it had not been for Fulk, Calhoun was sure he would have gone mad. Except for the hour or so each week that Zengi summoned them to berate them for the crimes of the “Christian infidels,” Calhoun and Fulk were imprisoned in a small room with moldy stone walls, a dirt floor, and a bucket that served as a lavatory.
For men accustomed to open spaces and the sweet breath of the outdoors, the prison cell was a torture in itself. Fulk encouraged Calhoun to think of their confinement as an opportunity for further training, and they resumed their roles of teacher and pupil, exercising and conversing as much as possible. Calhoun felt his wiry muscles growing even more defined as his body fat melted away.
The tedium threatened to push Calhoun over the edge of his endurance, and he spent hours pacing back and forth in the room until Fulk commanded him to stop. “Sit down,” Fulk would say, sitting himself. “They can cage your body but they cannot cage your spirit. Free yourself of this place. Close your eyes and see yourself most where you want to be.”
Fulk sat cross-legged for hours with his eyes closed, but Calhoun found that sitting still was contrary to his nature. Yet, one day, out of desperation, Calhoun tried to imitate Fulk’s peace and calm. He sat erect and forced the dank green walls of his prison to become the sandy road that led to Margate Castle. With the road before him in his mind’s eye, he turned his back on the castle, walked through the meadow and into the forest. There he dodged through the greenery at his feet and followed deer trails until he found the place he sought.
The twin oak trees stood there still, twisted about each other and rising tall through the greenery until they brushed the blue of the sky. Calhoun put out his hand and felt the rough bark. The air was sweet, and moist in his nostrils. A leafy fern obscured his vision, but he brushed it away and saw before him the pool he had not seen since his childhood. And now, as then, Afton swam in the pool. She smiled at him, and her smile was at once insecure and enchanting. Her eyes filled with love and concern for him, and she swam to the edge of the pool, rose from the water, and took his hands.
He gave in to the impulses which had long burned in his imagination and wrapped his arms around her soaked skin. He buried his head in her wet hair, felt the coolness of her damp cheek, and thrilled to the smoothness of her skin and the flutter of her breath in his ear. Her lips waited for his, and his hungry mouth found them, drinking in all the love he had missed, gasping for air as a man who has never had enough--
“Calhoun.”
The vision evaporated.
“What?” Calhoun snapped at Fulk, exasperated.
“Pardon the intrusion.” Fulk grinned through his bushy beard. “But I think it is time we recognized that England has forgotten about us. Two years without a word is a long time.”
“Perhaps the king is in Normandy. Travel is slow in the winter, and a messenger could take many months--”
“I rather doubt that the message will reach King Henry. I fear Zengi’s lett
er lies in the purse of a man murdered for the some bauble hanging about his neck. It is not very likely that the letter reached England at all.”
Calhoun sighed. “Why do you tell me this?”
“You are growing weak. You cannot sit and daydream, for your mind and body will become unfit for service if you use one more than the other. Reality lies here, my friend, and you must not leave it too often. We must remain strong if we are to survive captivity. And if a means for escape comes our way, we must be up to the challenge.”
“And if we cannot escape?”
“We must give attention to understanding Zengi. He knows as well as we that his message did not reach England. He keeps us alive because you interest and amuse him. If you grow predictable or dull, young knight, you will no longer be of value to him.”
Calhoun reared back in indignation. “I amuse him? Fulk, he is our enemy. I am not his court jester.”
“You amuse him with your anger and your sense of nobility.” Fulk’s dark eyes sparkled from behind the stringy hair that hung in his face. “He cannot understand how so seasoned a knight clings to an impractical and quite useless sense of honor and integrity.” Fulk shook his head slowly. “The desire for glory and honor usually costs a knight his life, but in your case, it has preserved you.”
“My life is in God’s hands,” Calhoun muttered, stretching out on the floor.
Fulk shook his head. “My life is not,” he answered calmly, “and since my life is enjoined with yours, I beg you not to throw our lives away.”
***
Perceval threw off the fur covers of his bed and lumbered toward the fireplace. Endeline felt him go, and warily raised her head to see if he was merely restless or genuinely worried. Perceval had been troubled by many things lately.
“Come to bed, my lord,” she called, her voice husky with fatigue. “Tomorrow will come soon enough.”
“Another day without a word from the king,” Perceval fretted, clenching and unclenching his hands in front of the fire. “And without word of Calhoun. For months we received good reports, then my son fell into a dark hole. And when our knights returned without my son--”
Endeline closed her eyes; she did not like to think of Calhoun’s bones bleaching in the hot eastern sun. “I’m sure he is fine, my lord,” she said, pulling her bare arm out from under the furs on their bed. “He is a man grown, and perhaps he has found a life apart from England. A new enterprise, perchance. . .”
“I spoke with Gawain, who interviewed those who returned,” Perceval went on, turning to his wife. “He said Calhoun and Fulk fought with a band of Knights Templar in a skirmish outside Antioch. They were victorious, and they rode safely away together.”
Perceval sank wearily onto the bed. “They were not seen again.”
“Perhaps Calhoun is still exploring,” Endeline said, struggling to keep her own feelings under control. “He was always riding off on his own. Remember how he wanted to ride with the knights as a very young boy?”
“Gislebert does not think Calhoun will return,” Perceval remarked. “He took leave of me today, thanked me for my guardianship, and said that his allegiance to Calhoun was finished.”
“The lad did not take Calhoun’s absence well,” Endeline remarked softly. “How like a boy, he has no patience to wait! But it good that he goes, for he is seventeen, and no longer in need of a guardian. Though I shall miss him, it is time he went out to seek his own fortune. Perhaps we need another young man in the castle, someone else to amuse and divert us.”
She sat up so the bed covers fell away from her. Reaching out to her husband, she pulled his graying head down onto her breast. “There,” she whispered, “You need a diversion, my lord, to take your mind from these troubling thoughts. Why don’t you ride through the village tomorrow? The fields are ready to harvest, and your plentiful tribute to the king this year will place you ever more firmly in his good graces. Go out to the mill and prepare the miller for the bounty your estate will yield this year.”
“The king has not called for me in months,” Perceval mumbled, but his words were softer now. His hands clutched his wife.
“You are more than secure in the king’s favor,” Endeline assured him, stroking his hair. “Your name is mighty and honored in his majesty’s court. Do not fear, my lord. Take your pleasure in life, wherever you find it. You are the master of all you survey, villein and free man alike.”
Perceval lifted his eyes to hers, and Endeline delicately ran her finger over his brow. “Yes, my lord, you are master of all you survey.”
***
Endeline stretched luxuriously as Morgan and Lunette scurried about the room preparing her bath and clothing. She had given Perceval pleasure last night, and relieved his mind from his troubles. She smiled. For the moment, at least, he was in her debt.
She heard his step outside the chamber door, and she modestly covered herself with the furs, pretending embarrassment when he burst into the chamber. “My lord! I am not yet dressed.”
“Never mind,” Perceval said, his eyes sparkling. “I have a gift for you, my dearest wife.”
“For me?” She arched an eyebrow and sat up, keeping herself covered. “What is it?”
“Bert the tanner cannot pay his annual tribute. He has offered his young son, one year old, as substitute instead.” Perceval clapped his hands in delight. “Is it the diversion you suggested last night? The son of a free man, a child you can raise as you will?”
Endeline sighed in exasperation, then smoothed her face. It would not do to put Perceval out of his good humor when he was finally willing to obtain what she wanted.
“Thank you, my good lord, but I have already chosen another boy,” she said smoothly. “One that will reflect upon you much more graciously.”
“How so?” Perceval answered. He sank onto the bed and reached for her hand. “Bert’s child is a handsome fellow. I saw him myself last week.”
“I do not doubt your word, but my lord, I have already invested a great deal of myself in the child Ambrose. You see, dear Perceval, I reared his mother, and I am confident my gracious training has been instilled in the son. Ambrose is already a little gentleman.” She made an effort to keep her voice delicate and light. “It is Ambrose I want, and no other.”
Perceval sighed and looked away, and Endeline lifted his hand to her cheek. “An opportunity will arise, dear husband, if you seek it. Visit the mill today, and see what irregularities you find there. After all, she who holds the mill is your vassal, and is commanded to do--” Endeline paused and gently kissed Perceval’s palm, “--whatever you bid.”
Perceval withdrew his hand from his wife, then stood and squared his shoulders. “I shall think on it,” he said, striding out the door, and Endeline knew Afton would have a visitor before the day had ended.
***
Josson stopped by the mill on his way to an outlying manor, and Afton half-heartedly listened to him ramble about things at the castle as she prepared dinner for herself and Ambrose. Castle gossip rarely interested her, for she had shelved her memories of the place and pushed them to a dark corner of her mind. It hurt too much to think of the castle, for every brick, tower, and corner held a memory connected with Calhoun.
“Calhoun’s troop of knights to the Holy Land returned yesterday,” Josson said, and the mention of his name jerked her attention back to Josson.
“Oh?” she answered pleasantly, trying to disguise the fact that her heart had begun to race. She picked up a knife and began to cut the skin from a chicken. “I suppose they have tales enough to last ten years.”
“Aye, the men who returned do,” Josson said, shuffling his feet uneasily on the dirt floor of her kitchen. “No one knows what tales Fulk and Calhoun would have told. They alone have not returned. The news of their disappearance upset young Gislebert so much that he has left the castle to seek his livelihood elsewhere. I shall miss him.”
The knife in Afton’s hand slipped and she sliced her left hand instead of the ch
icken on the table. She watched a thin red line appear across her palm, and as it widened her lips parted in a gasp.
“You’ve cut yourself,” Josson cried, jumping to his feet. He reached for a basin of water. “Here, wash the wound and let me bind it.”
“It’s nothing,” Afton said, feeling faint, but Josson had already grabbed a cloth and wound it around her hand.
“Sit here and rest a moment, for you look pale,” Josson said, fussing about her like a mother hen. He gently pushed her down onto a kitchen stool. “You really need a new cook. I could arrange for one if you like. Perceval would agree, because it would free you to spend more time at the mill.”
“No.” Afton looked into his face and tried to smile. “It’s just that I will miss Gislebert, too. He visited me often.” She wrapped the cloth more tightly around her hand. “Sit down and finish your story. You said Fulk and Calhoun did not return? They have--disappeared?”
“Yes.” Josson nodded. “The company had been in Outremer for two years, when they fought together in a battle outside Antioch. Our knights were victorious, of course, but apparently Calhoun was wounded. He and Fulk rode off in search of a doctor, and no one has seen them since. The other knights searched for them for months, then decided to return home.”
Afton spoke slowly. “So Calhoun died of his wound?”
“No. Denton told Lord Perceval that Calhoun’s wound was not serious, an arrow through the leg. Denton himself took an arrow through the shoulder, and he said it wasn’t bad, just--”
Josson rambled on, but Afton’s thoughts wandered away. Calhoun had been wounded before riding off into oblivion. A wave of anger swept over her, and she had to close her eyes to keep it from erupting into a scream. By what right did Calhoun ride off and die?
He had reached for her in love on that sunny afternoon years ago, and even though she loved him desperately, brutish memories of Hubert kept her from surrendering to Calhoun. But time would have erased the memories, she thought, her brain swirling madly. If you had only waited, Calhoun! But because she had refused to become his wife, he had taken his sword into battle and become one of many men who intimidated the poor and lowly through force. And, according to God’s justice, he had surely been killed.
Afton of Margate Castle Page 30