Afton of Margate Castle (34 page)

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?”

She closed her eyes and a sound rose from deep within her; Calhoun could not tell if she laughed or cried. “No,” she said finally, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I am not now in difficulty. But I thank you for your concern, sir. It is most unusual for a knight to be troubled with the concerns of a woman such as I.”

He did not understand the anger that bubbled beneath her words. What had happened to her? “I am not yet a knight,” he said softly, sheathing his sword. “I am to be dubbed when King Henry arrives.”

She lifted her chin. “A knight in King Henry’s service. So you always wanted to be, Calhoun.”

“Aye.” The child toddled over to her and hid his face in her skirt. Calhoun tore his eyes from her face and gave the child a cursory appraisal. “Your child is very handsome.”

“Aye,” she echoed.

He wanted to add,
He looks very much like you
, but did not know how she would react to words of flattery, sincere though they would have been. This woman was not Clarissant, who lapped up flattery as eagerly as a cat before a bowl of milk.

He turned away, but remembered something. “You promised your obedience if I gave you my name,” he said, turning back to watch her eyes carefully. “I asked you to pull back your hood.” She did not move, so he gently added: “Will you?”

Her eyes remained obstinate, not once leaving his face, but her hand moved as though it possessed life of its own and pulled the dark hood from her head. Her golden hair shone as he remembered it, long and loose as it had been on the night she danced before him in the castle.

“Thank you,” he answered. He mounted his horse and pointed at the body in the shadows. “I’ll send a sergeant to remove the scoundrel’s body shortly. I’ll take care of everything.” Then he rode through her gate and vanished into the night.

***

She couldn’t believe she had removed her hood for him. It was a simple thing, but she had yielded to him without protest, and for what reason? So he could
look
at her? So he could prove his power over her and lord his exalted position?

She placed Ambrose in his bed and fumed in the darkness. She had vowed never again to submit to a man, but she had done it without thinking because Calhoun had asked a simple thing of her. Yes, his voice had grown deeper and more powerful, and his face had not lost its attraction for her. Under the firm set of his chin there still remained something of the sweet nature she had loved as a child, and the sight of his sword had reminded her of the time he had tried to catch her in the hay.

But he had not known her. He had not crashed through her gate to rescue his old friend, he had come riding to the aid of Perceval’s miller. She told herself she was being unreasonable to expect him to know or care about her situation, but still she felt bitterly disappointed. In these past few weeks Calhoun had ridden by her house and stood in her courtyard, yet he had known nothing about her, not even that she had a child and a dead husband. In the weeks he had been home, he had asked no one of her whereabouts. He had not even been sure of her face.

Her disappointment flamed to furious resentment when the sergeant-at-arms and his men arrived the next morning to remove the body from her courtyard. “Yes, lord Calhoun himself killed the fellow when he attacked the woman,” the sergeant said, pride dripping from his voice. “It is the man he suspected and trailed all afternoon. By all the saints, Perceval’s son may grow to be a mightier warrior than his father or grandfather before him.”

She withdrew from her window and seethed in silence. Did men of his breed keep score of the souls they dispatched to heaven or hell? Was this the first, or second, or hundredth soul Calhoun claimed to boost his fame as a mighty knight? She had killed the intruder herself, and quite easily, for the man had not expected her to be carrying a dagger inside her sleeve. She had even been aware of his presence on the road behind her and in the courtyard, as he carelessly advanced his attack. And she had not been afraid when he struck. She would never be afraid of anything again.

***

The killing of the prowler would have ordinarily provided the villagers with gossip for months, but the arrival of King Henry and his entourage doubled the peasants’ workload and left no time for idle chatter. The villein women baked mountains of bread, and the men slaughtered and salted a small herd of cattle, sheep, and deer in anticipation of the king’s varied appetite.

In return for their efforts, every villager was invited to attend the great feast and tournament which would follow the dubbing ceremony, and Perceval declared that no work would be done in the week that followed the king’s departure. The work necessary in the week before the king’s arrival exhausted nobles and villeins alike.

Afton herself had worked in the mill from sunrise to sunset. Perceval had sent Josson daily to the mill with a substantial amount of wheat, and Afton’s arms and back ached from lifting and hauling wheat and flour to and from the grindstone. The night before Calhoun’s dubbing she lay on her bed and debated aloud whether or not she should attend the festivities. Surely staying home with Ambrose would be more satisfying than watching Calhoun pledge his life and sword to King Henry.

Corba would not hear of Afton remaining behind. “You must go,” she declared with unusual fervor. She stopped rocking Ambrose and shook a finger at her daughter. “You will offend the lord and lady, and, mark my words, Hector will know if you do not attend. It will mean trouble for all of us if you do not go to the castle.”

To calm her mother, Afton agreed to attend the ceremony. She would just have to steel herself for the task of watching her childhood friend take up arms in the service of a brutal king.

E
ndeline had spared no expense in preparation for her guests at the king’s banquet prior to Calhoun’s dubbing, and the tables were bountifully arrayed with silver salt cellars, gilded goblets, silver spoons, elegant ewers, and fragrant sweetmeat dishes. But King Henry had changed little during the years of Calhoun’s training, and the knight-to-be found it hard to enjoy himself at the king’s table. The royal eye turned often in his direction, and Calhoun found himself glancing awkwardly at his lap in a most cowardly fashion. Perhaps it was the setting. Only five feet in front of Calhoun and his king lay the space of blood-stained floor where the king had once brutalized his grandchildren.

So Calhoun ate much and talked little, remembering too well how the king’s eye could gleam violently at the least sign of treachery, and for the first time he realized the wisdom in Fulk’s persistent admonishment to keep a tight rein on one’s mouth. It was obvious that Perceval had never received such training, for he fawned over the king, constantly praising, flattering, and giving homage. Through the barrage of adulation, Calhoun sensed that King Henry did not love Perceval better for it.