Afton of Margate Castle (13 page)

What Lienor did with the chaplain’s advice Afton did not know, but she found a peculiar comfort in praying in the stillness of night. She did not yet know all the Latin prayers that Lienor and Endeline recited frequently throughout the day, so her prayers typically reflected both the elegance of Endeline and the brute strength of Wido: “Our Father, who are in heaven, blessed be the fruit of the earth. Blessed be Endeline, and Lienor, and Lunette and Morgan. Blessed be the fields and the knights and the villeins. And blessed be Calhoun. But may King Henry not be blessed. Amen.”

After praying, Afton would roll over on her father mattress and feel greatly comforted.

***

Abbot Hugh came for his annual visit in the late spring and Afton was relieved that his visit did not turn the household topsy turvy as did King Henry’s. Each family member stayed in his own room, the meals were no more plenteous or fragrant than usual, and Abbot Hugh arrived only with the company of one young monk, whom he called his “son.” Afton instinctively liked the abbot, even if he did have a bald spot cut into the top of his head.

She was more than a little surprised when Abbot Hugh sought out her company one afternoon in the orchard. Endeline and Lienor retreated quietly, and the abbot looked Afton squarely in the eye. “I will be honest with you, child, I have been concerned about your presence here at the castle,” he began, his clear voice resonating in the orchard. A small flock of birds flew out of the tree where they were nesting. “My sister Endeline tells me you have been here for almost a full year. You are a villein of lowly birth, but you are consorting with noble men and women. What say you about this arrangement?”

Afton was baffled. No one had ever asked her opinion. “I have nothing to say,” she said, spreading her hands in the familiar gesture of speechlessness that Endeline often used. “I was brought here, taught to read and speak and behave as a gentle woman, and I do what I am told.”

“Do you never long for your parents?”

Afton cringed involuntarily. The frightful scene with Corba was still a painful memory, one she could not put behind her. “No, sir, I do not. I try not to think about the day of our parting.”

“Do you pray, my child? Do you love God?”

“Oh, yes sir. Every morning and every night I pray. The chaplain here has taught me.”

“And do you listen to the chaplain as you would listen to the voice of God?”

Afton considered a moment. She thought of the chaplain as a rather dour teacher, not a spokesman for God. She answered slowly: “I listen for the voice of God in the wind, in the fields, and in here.” She touched the side of her head.

The abbot shook his head. “That is a dangerous heresy, my child. The voice of God is relayed to man through his ministers, his priests. Your heritage as a villein is showing, for with your talk of wind and fields you are reverting to a pagan practice.”

He sat down on a garden bench and motioned for her to sit next to him. “How shall I explain it to you?” he said, gazing off into the distance. “In the beginning, my child, the entire world was much as this garden. The trees brought forth fruit bountifully, and roses bore no thorns. Adam and his wife, Eve, were equal, and they spoke with God.”

He looked down at her to see if she was listening, and Afton squirmed uncomfortably.

“Then sin entered into the world,” the Abbot continued. “The perfection of earth was ruined, and sin stood between man and God. The trees gave fruit grudgingly, and to enjoy the flawless beauty of the rose, men had to bear the suffering of her thorns.”

He paused as a sparrow lit on a nearby apple tree. “Do you see what I am saying, child?”

Afton grimaced, then lifted her head with hope. “That I shouldn’t pick roses?”

Abbot Hugh sighed and shook his head. “No, my child. I would have you know that sin and suffering has brought division into the world. A great gulf stands fixed between man and God, and between men and other men. A priest is nearer God than a nobleman, and a pious nobleman is nearer than a villein. You, child of the earth, should remember that you cannot be what you are not, and listen to the priests who speak God’s truth.”

“Yes sir.”

The abbot stood up and shook out his dark robe. “Be a good girl, and I will tell my sister no harm will come to anyone if you stay here. Obey your mistress, and be a good companion for Lienor.”

“I will, sir.”

The abbot traced the sign of the cross on her forehead and left Afton alone in the orchard.

***

Endeline was nearly through the castle doorway when she heard her second son’s impassioned cry. “Gawain!” Calhoun called, racing across the courtyard from the doorway of the tower. “In the distance, a royal messenger approaches! He carries the king’s banner!”

Endeline felt her knees weaken. There had been no news from the king in the many months since his visit, but despite the ghastly scene at the final dinner, she still had high hopes that a match would be made between Lienor and Prince William. Was this the news the messenger brought?

She dropped the armful of roses she was carrying on a bench and strode purposefully for the stable. “Get a fresh horse for the messenger,” she snapped to a groom who lingered outside. “He will doubtless be in a hurry.”

Perceval and Gawain came out of the mews in the same moment the breathless royal messenger galloped into the courtyard. The man saluted Perceval: “Greetings in the name of the king. I am come with a woeful message for his highness, and I need a fresh mount to speed my journey to London.”

“A horse is being made ready for you,” Perceval said, taking the reins of the lathered horse. “What is this terrible news?”

“I have come from the seaport,” the messenger said, sliding out of his saddle, his face contorted in anguish. “Prince William, fresh from victory in Normandy, has been lost at sea with all his companions and many other noble souls. The ship was split on a rock, and not a soul has come safe to land.”

Endeline’s hand flew to her throat. Could it be true? Was William truly gone?

Perceval was stunned. “We will pray for their souls,” he managed to answer, “and for our king.”

“Pray, too, for William’s new bride, now left a widow,” the messenger said, untying the banner with the king’s herald from his saddle. “It is a mournful day for England, to be sure.”

“His new bride?” Endeline asked, her voice choking on the words. Henry had allowed William to marry someone else?

“Aye,” the messenger answered. He swung expertly into the saddle of the fresh horse Calhoun held for him. “A bride now with neither husband or heir. The throne of England has no heir but Matilda, the king’s legal daughter.”

“Go in peace,” Perceval replied automatically, and the messenger situated his banner in his stirrup, saluted Perceval, and spurred the horse.

Endeline marveled the exchange of a few breaths could change the course of life so completely. She walked to Perceval’s side and stood there numbly, like one who walks in sleep.

“Our plans have come to naught,” she remarked as they watched the messenger gallop away.

“Perhaps greater glory lies ahead,” Perceval answered, folding his arms. “Matilda is a woman, and not a worthy heir. Soon England’s throne will sit empty, and when it does, noble men from many families will rise to hold England and Normandy together. The next king must have noble qualities, and we have three excellent and suitable children, my lady. Charles will learn how to control and enlarge lands. Calhoun will study fighting and battle for glory. And Lienor--” Perceval shrugged. “If she does not marry a king, she can bring us to God.”

T
wo years passed, and the rhythm of life in the castle changed little. By the time she passed her eleventh birthday, Afton’s education was nearly complete: she knew how to cultivate rose bushes, how to keep linens clean, how to dance and sing. She could play cards and handle a hawk with ease. She stumped visiting ladies with her clever riddles and arithmetic games, and she could recite the age-old formulas of women to provoke fertility in animals, prevent nightmares, and prompt the earth to productivity. She was, quite simply, a graceful, accomplished, and confident young lady in the bud of womanhood.

One afternoon Afton took her usual place by Lienor in the garden where Endeline was entertaining several visiting ladies from other manors. “You must be quite proud of your daughters,” one of the ladies remarked. “They are quite a study in opposites, one fair and dark, the other fair and light.”

Endeline’s smile was brief. “Yet they are not both my daughters, my lady, for one came from my womb and the other from my hand. Afton is Lienor’s companion, brought from the fields of the villeins.”

The ladies gasped in surprise, and Endeline tilted her head delicately. “Yet she has brings honor to this house, does she not? She and Lienor have been most excellent pupils.”

Afton recognized the unspoken command to prove Endeline’s words. She gave the women a genteel smile and lowered her sewing. “I’ve heard it said,” she began, “that to make a man prefer one son to another, he should be made to eat the half the tips of his dog’s ears. If the child eats the other half, by the truth of the Gospel they will scarcely be able to bear being apart.”

“Is that true?” a visiting lady asked, leaning toward Endeline. “I’ve noticed how Lord Perceval favors your eldest, Charles. Did you feed him the tips of his dog’s ears?”

Endeline dropped her embroidery into her lap. “By the relics of St. John, I did not,” she sniffed. “It was not necessary, for love of the land pulls Charles and Perceval together. Charles is destined to be Perceval’s heir, and it is his right to take his father’s place.”

“And what of your handsome second son, Endeline?” The question was asked by an older woman, whose eyes gleamed brightly over the crescents of flesh time had imposed upon her cheeks. “What purpose have you for that worthy boy?”

Endeline raised her chin proudly. “Calhoun knows it is his place to honor his father’s valor in knighthood.” She picked up her embroidery and stabbed the needle into the cloth with short, abrupt stitches. “He will be leaving soon to serve as a squire at Warwick Castle. Whether he serves in this household, the king’s, or another, it is his choice.”

Afton stopped sewing. Was Calhoun leaving? It was impossible! She should have known. He would have told her. Endeline must be mistaken, for Calhoun would never leave without discussing it with Afton. For three years he had shared his innermost secrets and dreams with Afton and Afton alone, and the one constant thread of emotion that ran through her years at the castle was her love for Calhoun.

So Endeline was mistaken or deluded, there was no doubt about it. Or perhaps this was a subtle prodding of Afton’s heart, for Endeline seemed to resent the friendship between the young girl and her affectionate son. In the past months Afton had realized how fickle Endeline’s affections could be. Although Endeline had not done anything to separate Afton and Lienor, she seemed to grow increasingly less interested in the girls’ instruction. Last year she had taken a baby boy from a villein and now her passion was devoted to raising that chubby child.

Lienor had not seemed to notice that her mother no longer took an active interest in her upbringing. Since the news of Prince William’s death, Lienor had become more and more introspective, giving up her boyish ways in exchange for a burning religious devotion born of gratitude to the Virgin. She played games only when begged to, spoke only when directly addressed, and gradually exchanged roles with Afton. Afton became the leader, the bold and brash explorer; Lienor was content to be a mere shadow.

Afton gave no thought to her role in the castle, for like all children, she had a poor concept of time and future consequences. Charles, now fifteen, was still as distant as Perceval, and neither of them acknowledged her presence. Morgan and Lunette regarded her as a bright little pet, the other servants deferred to her respectfully, and she often caught the knights peering at her with open curiosity. The only person who talked with her as a friend was Calhoun.

Afton stopped listening to the drone of the women’s’ conversation and pretended to concentrate on her stitching. She would ask Calhoun tonight if this rumor was true. If he went away, what would she do? Her heart froze and her hand stopped pulling the needle in midair as she thought for the first time of the future. What would castle life be like without Calhoun?