Afton of Margate Castle (55 page)

“You could be arrested for this threat,” Calhoun said, trying to discern if she spoke truly. “Have you spoken this intention in the village? Think, Afton, and be reasonable. Forswear this vow of yours and come with me. We must forget the sorrow of the past.”

Afton stood stiffly and turned calculating eyes upon him. “So you threaten me, son of Endeline,” she said, holding her head regally. “So be it, then. Have me arrested, if you like, but know that my heart is fixed upon my determination.”

He turned away in confusion. Why had God brought him home to find a lonely and bitter woman instead of the girl he loved? Had he been spared to choose between his mother and his love? Calhoun whirled around to argue with Afton again, but she had gone. He stood alone with his reflection in the pool by the twin trees.

P
erceval’s family shared a quiet supper that evening. Calhoun ate without speaking and reflected upon his visit with Afton. The forest of his memory had stood green and delightful in its vigor, but the forest of today was dyed a yellowish color and robbed of leaves. Autumn had brought decay to the forest, just as time had embittered Afton’s heart.

There is nothing here but change and mutability
, Calhoun thought, studying his parents at the supper table. He noticed for the first time the crescents of flesh below his father’s eyes and the crinkled complexion of his mother’s throat. His parents were aging, and would not be many more years on the earth.

“So how fares the manor, father?” Calhoun asked, breaking off a piece of fine wheat bread. “I met the Lord of Lydd on my journey here, and he spoke highly of you.”

“I know the estate,” Charles interrupted eagerly. “A bountiful wheat crop they had last year. Their harvest put even ours to shame.”

“As always, your brother’s head lies in the fields,” Endeline answered, smiling tenderly at Calhoun. “Tell us of this Lord of Lydd. What did he say of us?”

“He did not know of my affiliation with this house,” Calhoun answered carefully, dipping his bread into the pottage. “He told me Perceval’s castle was aligned with Matilda’s forces.”

Ambrose snickered. Perceval smiled.

“Matilda’s people have no reason to doubt our loyalty,” Perceval said, leaning toward Calhoun. “And we remain loyal to Stephen as well.”

“How so?” Calhoun asked. “You cannot feed a two-headed snake equally, father. Sooner or later one of them will bite you.”

“Bah!” Endeline pouted. “Those warring factions have no business with us, and we send each of them equal tribute. Are they not both descended from William the Conqueror? It was to him we pledged our allegiance, and now we honor both his descendants.”

“But Stephen wears the crown,” Calhoun pointed out gently. “And knights dubbed in this castle swear loyalty to the crown.”

“I didn’t,” Ambrose interrupted. “I swore allegiance to my lord Perceval, and him alone.”

Calhoun examined Ambrose carefully. Clear and handsome, his countenance presented a strong jaw and bold eyes, but his demeanor hinted of some hidden devilish quality, something slippery and untrustworthy. For a moment Calhoun was reminded of Zengi’s favorite executioner, the guard who regularly tortured the prisoners. “Judas,” Fulk had christened the man, for when he had finished plying the whip and the prisoner had allowed himself to breathe freely, Judas would whirl around and begin again, more forcefully than before.

Calhoun gave Ambrose a careful smile. He felt sorry for the young knights who trained with this brash boy, for Calhoun would bet his life that Ambrose did not fight fairly.

“What noble knight gave you training?” Calhoun asked pleasantly.

The corner of Ambrose’s lip rose in a smirk. “The honorable and aged Gawain was the only knight suited for my training. I bore every contest and vanquished ever challenger without every once feeling the scratch of a sword.” He noted with a downward glance the scars upon Calhoun’s forearms. “I can now best any knight in this castle in any event. I am the champion of Margate.”

“Yet an untried champion,” Calhoun added gently. “The practice tourneys of knighthood are nothing compared to the brutality of real battle.”

“You think not?” Anger flared Ambrose’s nostrils, and his eyes gleamed darkly. “Does not blood flow as freely when one is pierced with a noble tournament sword as with the cowardly dagger of the enemy? Who is more valiant, the knight who wields a lance in competition or one who sits in prison for over a decade and does nothing?”

Calhoun stood, his blood pounding in his veins
. He is an upstart, unworthy to wear the family herald,
Calhoun thought, his hand going automatically to the handle of the scimitar strapped to his side.
And he is far too much like Hubert his father.

“Sit down, Calhoun,” Endeline said, her voice sharp. “Ambrose may not speak wisely, but he speaks the truth. He is a valiant knight, and you would do well not to doubt him.” Her voice softened and she held out her hand to her son in supplication. Her slanting eyebrows lifted in her face, and Calhoun was struck by the abundance of fine lines upon her skin. “You must understand, son, we thought you dead because we were sure no prison could hold you. Apparently we were mistaken.”

Ambrose grinned from the end of the table, and Charles lowered his head in the awkwardness of the moment. Perceval said nothing, but gulped his ale.

“It is clear I have no business here,” Calhoun said, still on his feet. He looked at Perceval. “I trust, Father, that I may have a suit of armor, and a sword? I am yet a knight of this family.”

“Of course,” Perceval answered, waving his hand carelessly. “Whatever you need, my son. We are pleased to have you as a knight at Margate, and welcome the sight of you again wearing the colors of our house.”

“I do not wish for our colors, nor the role of Margate knight,” Calhoun answered, eyeing his father steadily. “I will take the armor. I cannot remain here, honored parents. I will take my sword elsewhere.”

As he turned to leave, he heard his mother’s startled gasp: “Stop him, my lord!”

But Ambrose replied quickly and loudly enough for Calhoun to hear. “It is for the best, my lady. A knight with no spirit is of no use to Margate.”

***

He rode for four days, stopping only to feed and water his stallion and sleep under the stars. He once again wore the hauberk and carried a proper sword, but over the suit of mail was a plain blue tunic, not the white and purple uniform of Margate’s knights. No longer would he wear the colors of Perceval’s house, nor would he wear the cross of the knights of God. Like Fulk, he had become a solitary knight who sought life and an honorable cause with sword in hand.

“And like you, dear teacher, I carry the scar of revelation,” Calhoun whispered one afternoon as his horse daintily picked its way through a stream. “You carried yours boldly upon your face, but I carry mine upon my heart. May God, who used you mightily in life, lead my sword to some useful purpose.”

He rode toward London without consciously considering his destination until he drew near to Stephen’s camp. At the first sight of Stephen’s royal banner and smoking campfires, Calhoun shook his head in confusion. Did he ride to volunteer in Stephen’s service merely to spite the divided loyalties of his father? Or had his own loyalty to the crown led him to Stephen? Perhaps God would use him as an instrument to stop the bloodshed of civil war in England.

“Lofty thoughts,” he murmured to his horse, pausing on a hill overlooking Stephen’s camp. He patted the beast’s neck in affection. “Too lofty for truth. Perchance I come here merely to forget the life I would build with Afton, who now hungers for death and vengeance with more appetite than I have ever possessed. If she, the most gentle and innocent of souls, waits for violent opportunity, then surely the entire world wallows in the lust for blood. I see no escape from ferocity.”

He paused and put his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “If every man and woman, too, stands before God with blood-stained murderous hearts, then one tool is much like another in His hands, no better and no worse, except that it be willing in service. And if a man be willing to surrender, then shall God not use him in a divine plan?”

He lifted his eyes past Stephen’s camp to the horizon, where the sun was slowly sinking in the west. Drawing his sword, he thrust it above his head. “Employ me, then, God,” he cried, and the startled stallion reared up, pawing the air. Calhoun held firmly to the reins as he continued shouting to heaven: “My life is in Your hands, for no one else claims it. Use me or kill me, God, as it suits Your purpose!”

***

Two scouts found him outside the camp, and although he identified himself as loyal to Stephen, he was escorted immediately under guard to a captain’s quarters. The burly captain who whirled around to question him was Thomas of Warwick, his old master from his training days.

“Calhoun of Margate! Can it be you?” Thomas asked, his dim eyes squinting in the darkness of the tent. “I heard you gave your life in Jerusalem.”

“I gave twelve years,” Calhoun replied, removing his helmet. “And now, returning home, I find there is a need for skilled swords in England. Before God I vowed my loyalty to the throne, and I am here to prove it.”

“Well said!” Thomas smiled and patted his now generous belly. “You are as skilled a man as I have ever known, and your rightful place is over a company of men. We have been recruiting peasants of late, and they are of little use except as foot soldiers and archers.” He winked at Calhoun. “But archers will win a battle, my friend, as we have learned from the expedition of God.”

Calhoun cleared his throat. “I have not been engaged in battle in many years, Lord Thomas, and my skills may need improvement. I shall need some time to sharpen them.”

Thomas puffed out his cheeks. “Nonsense, my boy, you were the most natural soldier I ever saw. When the enemy comes upon us and you find yourself sword to sword with a man who deigns to slit your throat, your skills will reappear as if they were merely asleep.” He paused a moment and his eyes twinkled. “Whatever became of your master? A more fearless man than Fulk I have never known.”

“Fulk is dead,” Calhoun answered, his voice sounding oddly flat in his ears. “He died in the East.”

“Ah, well,” Thomas nodded agreeably. “He gave his life in a good cause, right? Come, my son, and let me assign you a tent and a servant.” Thomas walked from behind his desk and put a stubby arm around Calhoun’s shoulders. “You are needed now more than ever, my son. I suppose you know who leads Matilda’s forces?”

Calhoun shook his head.

Thomas rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Arnoul, your old rival. He’s a limb of hell and the root of all evil, as surely as I stand before you now.” Thomas chuckled as they walked. “How well I remember the contests you two had! But as I recall, you usually bested him, didn’t you?”

“A long time ago.”

Calhoun felt his flagging spirits begin to rise as they walked out of the tent and through the camp. He had not thought of Arnoul in years, but perhaps they would soon meet. His fierce sense of competitiveness begin to stir. Perhaps his sword would find a worthy opponent after all.

***

Four days later Calhoun knelt on the carpet in front of Stephen’s chair and recited the traditional vow of a vassal to a lord: “Food and clothing both for my back and for my bed, and shoes, and thou shalt procure me, and all that I possess shall remain in thy power.”

“Rise, Sir Calhoun,” Stephen said, the point of his sword nudging Calhoun’s shoulder. “As you have served God in the Holy Land, now serve your king in your fatherland.”

“I shall,” Calhoun answered, rising to his feet.

So began his journey into the bloody battlefields of Britain. Matilda and her half brother Robert had succeeded in dividing the land and turning brother against brother in a bitter strife. Calhoun found that his task was to join a company of knights who patrolled the countryside in search of Matilda’s army or sympathizers. thought he fought valiantly when they had occasion to skirmish with the enemy, his spirit rebelled against the gruesome deeds accomplished in the names of Stephen and Matilda, contenders for the Crown.