Afton of Margate Castle (65 page)

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 use 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.

Calhoun gritted his teeth, ignoring his limp right arm and the pain that coursed through his body. He gripped his sword more firmly. If his time had come, he would go down fighting, as a man of honor.

***

Afton crept quietly in the shadows of the castle wall and wiped the mud from her skirt. She shivered when a breeze struck her, for her clothing was wet and cold. The pool at the back of the castle used by the washer women opened up outside the castle walls, and she had been surprised to discover she was still small enough to fit through the narrow underwater pipe that brought water inside the castle courtyard.

She took a moment to wring out her heavy skirt, then froze when she heard a taunting voice. Darting toward the sound, she saw the man she knew as Arnoul with Calhoun in the courtyard. A long, bloody arrow hung from Calhoun’s lifeless arm, but he wielded his sword threateningly while Arnoul’s laughter rang from the castle walls.

She could not bear to watch. Why didn’t someone help him? Where was Ambrose?