Forty
Endeline watched their supper guest warily. Arnoul was brutish and coarse, but there was no denying his quick intelligence. He reminded her of a chameleon, always changing, always rising to the challenge of the moment. It would do them no good if he suspected Perceval had been anything other than a faithful backer of Matilda. As long as Charles and Ambrose held their tongues. . .
“I suppose now that you have routed the king’s army you will leave in the morning,” Endeline said smoothly, passing Arnoul another heaping plate of veal. “But of course you are welcome to stay as long as we may do service to your cause.”
“I suppose my purpose is done,” Arnoul answered, smiling in satisfaction. “Routing the king’s army was an unexpected pleasure. I had but one purpose in coming here, and that was to take the life of your son, Calhoun.” Arnoul grinned, and Endeline felt her skin crawl in fear.
“What?” Perceval asked dully. Endeline was not sure that Perceval had even understood the events of the last two days. His mind had not been clear since Arnoul’s men appeared on the road.
“I have nothing against you, my lord, but if Stephen heard that you were giving me aid--and I made certain that he would hear--then I knew the royal wrath would be kindled against Calhoun. It was he that took my eye and left me with this bloody scar.”
“Calhoun did that?” Endeline gasped, pretending more horror than she felt.
Arnoul’s face darkened. “My men and I sought refuge in a church, but your son set fire to the place. I am sure Calhoun thought me dead, but I found a trap door and a tunnel dug by some wandering priest, so I escaped the fate your son had planned for me.”
“You came here to--” Perceval gestured weakly, unable to follow the conversation.
“Calhoun is either dead, or nearly so,” Arnoul said, tearing a chunk of veal with his teeth. “My vengeance is complete.”
“Mine is not,” Ambrose interrupted from the end of the table. He stared intently at Arnoul. “Calhoun ran from my sword in a duel, thinking to show me mercy. I have not forgotten the insult, nor shall I.”
Arnoul grinned and slapped Ambrose on the back. “So you’re the young knight who made Calhoun run. Ride with us tomorrow. Swear allegiance to Matilda and serve her well.”
“My place is here.” Ambrose looked at Endeline and smiled. “I am needed here.”
“You certainly are,” Endeline purred, thankful that at least Ambrose was still thinking clearly. “What would we do without you?”
***
The horses stomped and snorted quietly in the darkness and Afton crept quietly to where Calhoun stood alone. He seemed thinner than when she had last seen him, and the hard look of determination in his eyes frightened her.
“I am sorry,” she said when he looked at her. “I know you would rather die than owe a woman for your freedom--”
“It matters not,” he cut her off. “Tonight I have a chance to redeem myself in the eyes of my king and my fellow knights. I will succeed or die.”
“Calhoun!” Gislebert walked over from the clearing and extended a hand to Calhoun. “It is time for you to get ready.”
Calhoun walked past her without another word.
***
The knights slept in two-hour shifts without the comfort of a campfire, and Afton could feel their uneasiness mounting as the night grew blacker. What if their plan failed? It sounded so simple, but these were men of war, and thought her foolish! What if she sent Calhoun to his death? What if Ambrose was killed in the fighting?
She rose from her place at the foot of the twin trees and crept to the small circle of knights that surrounded Calhoun.
“I will go over the wall at the south tower,” Calhoun told the knights who crouched around him. “You must follow me on foot, but keep low in the grasses. You will not be seen from the castle, for the darkness of night will cover you.”
“On foot?” one knight interrupted. “We are not common foot soldiers.”
“On this occasion you must be,” Calhoun answered, one corner of his mouth rising in a half-smile. “Half of you remain hidden in the trees on your horses, the other half must follow on foot. When you see that I have safely climbed over, run to the gate with your swords in hand. I will barricade the door to the garrison, then open the gate.”
“One man alone cannot open the gate,” Stephen inserted, shaking his head. “It is too heavy, and even if you could, the noise of the gate will alert the enemy. You would have Arnoul’s sword in your back before the gate is opened.”
“I will help Calhoun open the gate,” Gislebert said, placing his hand on Calhoun’s shoulder. Afton could not believe her eyes. Gentle Gislebert, poet to the king, had crept into the circle. He wore a knight’s tunic with a sword strapped to his side.
“What are you doing?” Calhoun asked, a honest smile of amusement on his face.
“I am going with you,” Gislebert announced. “I can climb better in my bare feet than any knight in a suit of mail. And I know the castle. I can help open the gate after you have secured the garrison.”
Stephen cocked his head. “It is a reasonable plan,” he said finally. “But I shall miss you, Gislebert, if you fall in this endeavor. Calhoun--” the royal eyes narrowed, “I still do not trust. If he is lying and runs to Perceval and safety, I have lost nothing. But you, Gislebert, I would miss.”
Gislebert bowed. “It is time I did things poets only write about,” he joked weakly.
“You were the shadow of my younger days,” Calhoun said, looking at Gislebert with affection in his eyes. “You were always underfoot. Come with me, old friend.”
Afton watched as they knelt together before the king to receive his blessing. The entire company parted as they walked resolutely out of the forest, and Afton realized they would be soon readying for battle. If the plan did not succeed, Stephen would kill her.
She hesitated to watch Calhoun and Gislebert vanish from sight before she slipped away from the king’s men. She crept through the forest silently, stopping occasionally to gather her bearings. Unless her memory failed her, she knew of another, more secluded route into the castle, and she planned to find it.
***
Calhoun crept through the tall grass of the pasture soundlessly, praying the sun would hold its advent for another hour. Gislebert followed behind him, matching step for step, until he darted away to scale the lavatory shaft on the north tower.
Calhoun waited in the grass until he was sure no guards stared sleepily in his direction, then he sprinted for the southern tower. When he felt its aging stone beneath his fingers, he kissed the wall in relief. He could bear what was to follow. He had been most afraid of being stopped by an unfair arrow from the wall.
But the foolish guards would watch the stars and listen for hoof beats.
Calhoun moved to the lavatory shaft and searched for a foothold. The lavatory shafts were rough and of new plaster, and he found it easy to grip the outcroppings of rock and pull himself up. He passed a slotted arrow loop and boldly peered through the narrow opening. No life stirred in the courtyard below. The rooster in the hen house was still dreaming.
At the top of the tower, where the shaft began, Calhoun swung for an outcropping of the machicolations. He felt himself falling, but caught the stone in time and hoisted himself easily through the opening intended for pouring boiling oil onto attackers below.
He crept carefully along the catwalk at the top of the wall, then descended a staircase that led to the courtyard. He saw a movement in the distance and stiffened, but when the figure waved, Calhoun sighed in relief. Gislebert. The younger man ran in the shadows toward the gate, and Calhoun sprinted along the inner walls toward the garrison.
A sleepy guard sat on a bench outside the door, his head hanging over a cup of ale, and Calhoun expertly slid behind the man and held his dagger to the guard’s throat. Calhoun felt the man’s chin jerk upward as the cup fell to the ground. Calhoun whispered intensely: “How many are inside? Don’t talk, just us
e your fingers.”
The startled guard held up ten fingers, then clenched his fists twice more. “Okay,” Calhoun whispered again. “How many of Matilda’s people sleep not in the garrison, but in the castle?”
The guard shrugged, and Calhoun adjusted his dagger so that its edge bit into the top layer of the man’s skin. The man’s eyes widened, and he lifted five fingers.
“Only five? And Arnoul is among them?”
The guard nodded carefully.
“Good. Now you are going to enter the garrison and bolt the door behind you. I will have my spear trained on this door, and if you or your fellows make a sound or come out in the next hour, you will be speared like a trout, do you understand?”
The guard nodded again, and Calhoun helped him to his feet and through the doorway. Calhoun closed the door firmly, then heard the bolt sliding into place. The poor fellow’s scared to death, Calhoun thought as he dragged a bale of hay from the barn and piled it in front of the door.
Calhoun then ran to the deserted kitchen, where the supper fire still smoldered in the hearth. He scooped a red-hot coal into a copper cup, then ran to the garrison and tossed the coal into the dry hay. The coal gleamed, then flickered and flamed. Calhoun grinned in grim satisfaction. If anyone tried to leave the garrison in the next several minutes, they’d have to first walk through fire.
Calhoun knew Gislebert waited at the gate, but he turned instead toward the castle. His family lay inside. The time had come for him to reclaim his heritage.
***
“Perceval! Wake up!” Endeline shouted, shaking her husband’s shoulder. “I smell smoke! Are we under attack?”
Perceval sat up, and Ambrose burst into the chamber, clad already in his hauberk. Behind him came Arnoul, his eyes squinting in the darkness. “The enemy is upon us,” Arnoul snapped, flinging the covers off Perceval’s bed. “Up, Lord Percy, and take us to the upper floor.”
“The upper floor?” Endeline squealed, slipping into her tunic. “Morgan! Lizette! Help me dress!”
“There’s no time for that!” Arnoul’s rough hand grabbed Endeline’s arm and thrust her toward the door. “Call your son, and all in the house.”
“My son sleeps on the upper floor,” she answered. “Here there are only my maids.” She gestured toward the room where Morgan, Lunette, and Lizette slept. Arnoul went to rouse the maids, and Endeline stepped nearer the doorway to peer down the staircase. Was the pounding sound she heard her heart, or was someone beating on the door? Three guards at the lower door looked up at her. Another knight stood on the landing and waited to lead them upstairs.
“I must have a moment with my maids,” Endeline said, holding her head proudly. “A lady does not step outside her chamber without suitable clothing.”
Arnoul leered at her with his one good eye, then pulled the astonished Perceval out of bed. “Quickly, then,” he said, and Endeline turned to her maids and whispered. Lizette and Lunette quickly threw a cloak over her thin tunic, and Morgan sank back into the shadows of the room.
“We are ready,” Endeline commanded imperiously, and Arnoul pushed Perceval through the doorway. Ambrose followed reluctantly, then Endeline slipped out into the hall.
Though Ambrose walked in silence beside her, Endeline shivered in fear. She had not planned anything like this. She and Perceval had been clever, but Calhoun, by his damnable heroism, had provoked this attack. Why hadn’t one of her sons inherited her shrewdness? Charles waited meekly at the top of the stairs, concerned for nothing but the next wheat crop, and Ambrose--
She reached out for him, her fingers gripping his arm like a vise, and brought her lips to his ear. “Do something, you fool!” she whispered intensely. “If you would be a man of Perceval’s house, take action! Prove yourself!”
Ambrose’s dark eyes shone in the torchlight. “What action would you have me take, precious lady?”
“Do you see this?” Endeline stopped on the stairs and swept her hand in a wide gesture. “The castle, the manor, the estates--all will be gone if Stephen defeats Arnoul now. Perceval’s lands will be confiscated and we will all be hanged for treason!”
Her voice softened even as her lips brushed his cheek. “If you wish to save this even for yourself, Ambrose, take action. Arnoul trusts you.”
Arnoul smiled and lifted his head. “Never fear, my lady. I will do as you command.” He let her pass, and then turned his most winning smile on Arnoul, who followed Lizette and Lunette up the stairs. “Faithful Arnoul, surely you can use my service on the lower floors. Take the others to the upper floor, but let me and my fair brother Charles assist you downstairs.”
Arnoul paused, but then jerked his head in agreement, and Endeline watched, perplexed, as Ambrose fell out of their group and Charles came down the stairs. She could not watch long, however, because Arnoul pressed her to continue to the upper floor.
***
As he placed a fresh bale of hay upon the smoldering blaze at the door of the garrison, Calhoun heard sounds of movement within. Good. The knights had no escape unless they showed themselves upon the castle wall or jumped from the window to the grass of the pasture. Either way, Stephen’s men would be waiting.
But now he faced a particular problem. He could not gain access to the castle keep, for the door was strongly barricaded. Was his enemy Arnoul so vengeful that he would kill Perceval or Endeline? Calhoun stepped into the courtyard and looked into the castle windows. All was still, but for movement at an upper window, the rooms where he and Charles had slept as boys.
“Surrender to the forces of King Stephen!” he called boldly over the noise of the fire. “Defeat is inevitable, Arnoul!”
Perceval’s grizzled face appeared in the large window, and Calhoun stared in amazement, barely recognizing his father. Could a man change so much in such a short period of time? “Calhoun! Is that you?” Perceval called. His voice was that of an old man.
“It is your son,” Calhoun answered, an odd feeling of pity sweeping over him so strongly that his knees threatened to buckle. “Come down, father, and meet the king.”
“I don’t know,” Perceval answered, peering into the dimness. “I shall have to ask Lady Endeline.”
Perceval disappeared from the window and another voice roared “Calhoun!” Arnoul stepped into view, his scarred visage on full display, and Calhoun recognized the grim evidence of his escape from the burning church. “So you are not executed!” Arnoul bellowed. “It is true, then, that King Stephen is merciful to those who least deserve mercy. Draw near, my friend, and meet your fate.”
Arnoul gestured with his hand and a red-robed knight armed with a long bow and arrow appeared with Arnoul in the window and took aim. Calhoun stood still, transfixed. He had climbed the wall with only his sword; he had no shield. His hauberk would not stop the penetration of an arrow, and he doubted if he could outrun it.
“Fire when ready,” Arnoul told the archer casually, stepping away.
Calhoun was close enough to see the archer smile in the early morning light. He glanced around; he stood in the center of an open courtyard with nowhere to hide.
The archer stepped back, giving himself more room to maneuver if Calhoun decided to run. Calhoun knew the force of an arrow from a long bow would not only penetrate his body, but likely pin him to the ground. The archer curled his targeting finger around the bow and inhaled, steadying the arrow for release. Calhoun closed his eyes.
“No!” He heard the spring of the bowstring and a dull sound of impact, and he opened his eyes to see Perceval falling out the window. He fell slowly, suspended with the arrow through his body as if in a dream, and Calhoun realized his father must have thrown himself into the path of the arrow.
The dream ended with a sickening thud. Perceval lay on the ground, his eyes wide open, and Calhoun ran to his father’s side. Perceval looked at Calhoun as he clutched the arrow in his breast. “My son,” he whispered, his breath rattling in his throat. “Yes, father, I am your son.” Calhoun reached for the
old man’s hand and held it over his heart until the Earl of Margate drew his last breath.
A scream from above caught his attention, and saw Endeline at the window, her face frozen in horror at the sight the ground. Calhoun was about to speak to his mother, but another arrow sprang from an upper window, and Calhoun did not have time to run. The arrow released, Calhoun flinched in anticipation, and the arrow hit him squarely in his right arm, passing cleanly through and stopping only halfway down its four-foot length.
“Skewered like a chicken, Sir Calhoun!” Arnoul’s voice came from behind Calhoun, and he whirled around to see Arnoul standing behind him in the courtyard. The castle door stood open. “Shoot no more, for I will take care of this,” Arnoul called up to the archer in the castle. “Come down and aid your brothers in the garrison.”
Arnoul grinned tantalizingly at Calhoun. “The door is open, my friend,” he said jerking his head toward the open door. “I do not stand in your way. Go in and take your castle--if you can.”
Calhoun tried to move his right arm toward his sword, but the arrow in his arm struck his body and grated across torn flesh. Calhoun gritted his teeth and slowly drew his sword with his left hand. This duel would be his final shame, for he had never been good at fighting left-handed.
Arnoul held his sword in his right hand and jiggled it casually, as if this were but another duel at Warwick Castle. He approached with catlike steps and leered at Calhoun. “Remember the days at Warwick Castle, my friend? Remember the times you beat me? Well, this is no contest, my brother knight. This is battle, and before the sun is fully risen we shall know who is the most able knight.”
Arnoul raised the hilt of his sword to his lips and kissed it. “Confess your sins and prepare to die,” he said, eyeing Calhoun over the blade of his sword.
“I am more fit for death than you, Arnoul, and less likely to find it,” Calhoun answered, gripping his sword in his awkward left hand. At best, he could use it as an effective shield, blocking Arnoul’s jabs. He tried to reach for his light dagger with his right hand, but pain raked across his nerves as he flexed his fingers. He felt like a bird with a clipped wing, like one of the meek messenger pigeons of the Saracens which were routinely torn from the sky by the Christians’ trained falcons.
Afton of Margate Castle Page 43