Afton of Margate Castle (62 page)

Calhoun did not waver. “My father has cast me off. I am no longer his son.”

“But I asked of his loyalty.” Stephen’s voice was clipped, and his eyes narrowed.

“He has always been loyal to the throne.”

“What of his loyalty to Matilda?”

“I do not know--”

“Think, man!” Stephen slammed his hand down upon the table, and his aides jumped in surprise. Stephen took a deep breath. “Captured prisoners told my captains they have been for many months sustained by tributes from Perceval, the Earl of Margate.
Do you know this to be true
?”

Calhoun knelt silently before the king, silently cursing the family pride that kept him from betraying Perceval’s treacherous dealings.

“Do you know?” Stephen roared.

“I cannot answer.”

Stephen sprang from his seat and came out from behind the table to stand in front of Calhoun. He nodded toward two guards, who moved to Calhoun’s right and left hand.

Stephen made an obvious effort to lighten his voice, but he stood with his hands at his belt, his legs apart as if preparing for a duel. “I hear disturbing things, son of Perceval. You fight bravely for us, then you go home for a marriage that does not take place. Then you are to fight a knight--one sworn to Matilda--but you do not kill him, but ride off and spare the villain’s life. Then you reappear here weeks later and offer yourself while your father aids my sworn enemy this very hour. Does this suggest something to you?”

“He is a spy!” a bearded man at the table hissed. “Perceval sends his son to spy on us.”

“He is a traitor,” another man chimed in. “He bragged of killing Matilda’s captain, Arnoul, but that rogue is alive and well, terrorizing the king’s loyal citizens.”

“Arnoul is alive?” Calhoun’s astonishment showed on his face, but not plainly enough to convince his accusers.

“So it would seem.” Stephen’s eyes held him in an unblinking gaze and Calhoun knew he had no defense. Who could trust a man who had turned against his family and shown mercy to the king’s enemy? Both were unthinkable.

“I offer my life in service to you and to God,” Calhoun spoke boldly. “My heart is true. Do with my life as you please.”

A light flickered in Stephen’s eye, and the trace of a smile passed across his face. “Very well, Sir Calhoun. I will have you imprisoned and hold your life as a test of your father’s loyalty. That is my plan. God’s plan for your life remains to be seen.”

Stephen looked to the guards. “Take him to the tower,” he commanded. As the guards led him out, Calhoun heard the king’s parting words: “Have my company readied at once. We ride for Margate castle within the hour.”

***

“It is good you are up and dressed,” Corba said, offering Afton a slice of thick brown bread. “There are reports of trouble at the castle, and things may be skittish in the village.” Corba’s hands were shaking as she nervously wiped them on her apron. “A messenger from Matilda’s troops rode through last night and demanded aid from Perceval at the castle. The men are saying that Matilda’s knights may pass through here today.”

“It would serve justice if they cleaned out Perceval’s storehouse,” Afton answered, dipping her bread in a jar of honey. “Perceval deserves it, after taxing us twice to pay for his tributes.”

“But do we deserve to starve if they burn our village?” Corba’s voice trembled, and she sank onto a bench at the table. “Calhoun does not deserve to die,” she added.

Afton’s eyes widened. “Why would Calhoun die?” she asked. “Surely he fights for Stephen again.”

Corba shook her head. “Lord Perceval and Lady Endeline pretend they do not care, but it is rumored that Calhoun is a prisoner of the kings, his life held in ransom for Perceval’s loyalty. If Perceval aids Matilda--”

“Shh, mother!” Afton snapped. Her brain raced ahead of her heart. Her first thought was for Ambrose. If Matilda’s men reached the castle, all would be well for Ambrose, but if Stephen learned of it, Calhoun would surely die for Perceval’s disloyalty. Afton shuddered. Despite Calhoun’s foolish faults, he did not deserve to die for the folly of his father. He had spared her son, and if she could spare his life, she would.

“Matilda’s men come by day?” she asked, staring into space across the table.

“So they say,” Corba answered.

“Does anyone know where Stephen’s men are?”

Corba shook her head. “I’m a old woman, girl. I only know what the other women tell me.”

Afton stood up and grabbed a scarf, quickly tying it around her head. She kissed Corba gently on the cheek. “Do not fear, mother,” she said, placing her hands tenderly on Corba’s shoulders. “I love you.”

***

She did not know from where Matilda’s army would come, but the only clear road to Margate Castle lay through the village. She ignored the glances of the village women as she walked, and felt the familiarity of the old mill house at her right as she passed the mill and the stream.

There Agnelet and Ambrose had been born. If all went according to her plan, she and Ambrose would live there again. Now that the boy was of age, she would demand that he be released from Perceval and given his lawful inheritance. By the king’s law, Ambrose was not a knight, but a miller. The mill was his, and as his mother, she and he would live there together, and all would be well.

The warm sun offered the promise of spring as she followed the road past the mill. When she came to a fork in the road, she sat on a grassy knoll and waited, untying her scarf so her hair could dance in the slight breeze. Hair, as Endeline taught her, was a marvelous distraction. For some silly reason, men seemed to be captivated by it.

There were few visitors on the road. A traveling priest and his companion glanced at her surreptitiously, and a passing washer-woman and her servant paused to give her a disdainful look.

At last her patience was rewarded. A cloud of dust appeared on the road near the horizon, and as it drew closer, Afton stood and judged her surroundings again. She would have to be close enough to arouse interest, but not so close that she could be scooped up into a saddle and carried away as booty. She had been enough acquainted with men of the sword to know that it was prudent to keep her distance.

She walked ten paces into the field, a good distance from the road, and as the party of knights drew near she waved her hands in greeting. “Stop a minute,” she called, aping Corba’s common accent. “Be you goin’ to Margate Castle?”

A large brute in armor turned his scarred face toward her. A red scar dripped down his left cheek, and a dark patch obscured his left eye. “Aye, wench,” he snarled, reining his horse in tightly. His smile turned in a gruesome grin. “Would you like a lift?”

The other knights laughed uproariously, and Afton involuntarily stepped back. “Not with you, sir,” she answered lightly, throwing her scarf back over her head. The knight laughed again and struck his horse with the whip, and the procession moved forward. Afton remained aware of the knights’ eyes upon her, though, and she walked slowly beside them and pretended to stumble. “Please, please let one of you be as chivalrous as Calhoun,” she breathed.

She lay in the dirt for a few moments as the tramp of hooves slowly passed her by, then one horse broke from the rear of the company and cantered toward her. Upon reaching her, a young knight smiled down at her. “Are you hurt, miss? Can I offer you a ride into town? We will never let it be said that Matilda’s knights left a maiden in peril.”

“Thank-you,” Afton sighed, pointing to her ankle. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to help me up.”

The young knight dismounted and pulled her to her feet, keeping his arm around her waist. The remaining knights jeered and rode away. “Your company is leaving you,” Afton remarked, placing her small hands in his.

“It does not matter,” the knight smiled. “I can catch them in a moment. My horse is the swiftest in the company.”

“How wonderful,” Afton answered. He supported her as she limped to the left side of the horse. The knight put his hands under her arms and lifted her easily into the saddle, then placed the reins in her hands as he prepared to mount behind her. As soon as Afton felt the smooth leather of the reins, she turned the horse and kicked with all her might. The startled horse lunged away and though the knight shouted and ran after her, Afton leaned forward and urged the animal on until she was out of reach.

Afton kept the horse at a gallop until she had passed the convent, then she allowed him to slow to a trot. She did not know where to find Stephen or Calhoun, but if mercy existed in heaven, she would find one of them.

***

She rode through the afternoon and at each village asked the whereabouts of Stephen’s army. No one gave her an answer until one old woman took pity on her. “A rider came through this morning,” the woman said, grinning toothlessly. “Stephen’s forces are just north of here, making camp for the night, they tell me. But he won’t have nothing to do with a woman, I can tell you that.”

“Be that as it may, I must find him,” Afton answered, bowing to the old woman. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“Long live the King!” the woman crowed in response, and Afton pointed her horse toward the north.

It did not take long to find the king’s encampment, for lazy campfires were already sending lazy tendrils of smoke into the sky. She left the road and moved in the direction of the fire, and soon two mounted knights hurried to intersect her path. “Who goes there?” one of them called, his sword glimmering in his hand. “Name yourself, woman.”

Afton felt her stomach turn over. What was she doing? Was this impulsive action only destined to make matters worse for all? Would she be waylaid here before even reaching King Stephen?

“I am Afton of Margate Castle,” she answered, reining in her horse. She held her head high. “I demand to see the king.”

“Who are you to demand anything of the king?” the other knight asked, laughing. He leaned forward in his saddle but kept his sword at his side. “You’re a pretty thing. Did the king send for you? One of the captains, perhaps?”

Afton recognized the leer of lust, for Hubert had often worn the same expression. Though she felt her cheeks flame, she answered defiantly. “I demand to see the king, for I bring news of Matilda’s army.”

The other knight lowered his shield. “Why is your horse arrayed in red?” he asked, suspicion in his eyes. “Red is the color of Matilda’s army.”

“Because it is Matilda’s horse,” Afton answered, with a bold toss of her head. “I stole him from her knights. Now let me pass, for I need to see the king!”

“Let her pass.” Afton whirled around to see who had spoken. Another man on horseback had quietly ridden up behind her, but this man was not dressed in armor, but in a simple bright tunic. He was tall and thin, with auburn hair, but it was the eyes that stirred Afton’s memory. They were deep and dreamy, not at all the eyes of a warrior.

“Gislebert?” she asked. “Can it be you?”

The young man, now full grown, nodded gravely. “Yes. I will be happy to escort you to the king, my lady. I am sure what you have to tell us is of great worth.”

***

Afton had imagined that King Stephen would travel in a magnificent shelter, but she was led to a spartan tent of coarse wool containing only a rough table and a simple cot. The tent was filled with men in armor, but they all gave attention to a plain-looking man who sat on a bench enveloped in a tapestry. The man’s nose and eyes were red and puffy, and he was blowing his nose with great force as Gislebert led her into the tent.

“It’s a ruinous thing, this war,” the man told his counselors as he wiped his ample nose. “It may cost England more than she knows. Not only are we killing our own fair land and its people, but the French have begun to watch us with a wary eye. How can we keep the peace abroad if we cannot maintain it at home?”

“Your Highness,” Gislebert interrupted, bowing from the waist. “I present to you Afton of Margate Castle, a free woman. She has urgent news for Your Highness.”