Afton of Margate Castle (3 page)

The deforested pasture surrounding Margate Castle gleamed in the sunlight, and the castle’s imposing stone walls were gilded in a covering of early morning dew. Flags with Perceval’s family herald fluttered in the slight breeze from the imposing twin towers, and Wido idly wondered how a place built for battle could look so inviting. The gates were open and the drawbridge down, with the men, women, and children of Perceval’s manor, free and unfree, streaming into the castle for their annual reward.

The outer courtyard had been filled with tables, and soon the castle servants would serve the Easter feast. But first there was necessary business. Under a canopy near the gate, Hector the steward had set up his accounting table and was making notes in his ledger book. Hector was ruthless in his devotion toward Lord Perceval. Wido crossed himself and thanked God that the hens had come through. Not only were there sixteen eggs, but Corba, his wise wife, had set two extra eggs aside for their unborn child.

“If he asks eighteen, you will be prepared,” Corba had told Wido as she placed the basket in his hand. “And if he asks sixteen, the two extra will bring you favor in his sight. That favor may do us good in months to come.”

In her twenty years as a villein, Corba had learned the advantages of bribing the lord’s steward. Wido had to consciously smooth his face when he thought of her, so great was his urge to beam with pride. His friends would have considered him addled if they knew how much he adored his wife; their admiration was reserved for oxen, fields, and sheep. A young and fertile wife was something to be desired, but to adore a wife was mere foolishness.

But Wido adored Corba more fervently than he adored the Blessed Virgin. She had suckled six healthy children who all survived infancy, an unheard-of accomplishment, and she remained strong enough to carry yet a seventh. Best of all, five times she had born sons stamped in the image of dark-haired, wiry Wido himself. Lord Perceval would not have as many fine sons, probably not even King Henry.

And there was the girl, the first-born. Wido had been bewildered at her birth
. What is this squalling, red-skinned creature?
he had wondered when the midwife showed the child to him
. Surely it is not bone of my bones!
Time had not lessened his confusion. Eight years had passed and the girl had grown tall, blonde, and fair like her mother. Once as Afton trudged alongside the ox with the goad, Wido had studied her profile and realized that not one bit of him was reflected in the child, save perhaps his temper.

She was not a brawler, as Wido had occasion to be when he was under the influence of ale, but he had seen her eyes flash fire and steely determination when she was angry. Wido first saw her anger when as a babe she came naked out of the baptismal font, wet and shivering, and she glared at the priest before bursting into furious wailing. Since then Wido had been careful to keep those cool gray eyes from turning too often in his direction, but common sense told him his behavior wasn’t natural. A man should not be afraid of any woman, especially his own daughter.

***

“Wido.” Hector looked up appraisingly, seeming to weigh even the flesh on the plowman’s bones. “Six children, one wife, and yourself--that will be sixteen eggs.”

“If it please you,” Wido said, proffering Corba’s basket, “my wife sends eighteen eggs for you and Lord Perceval.”

Hector nodded and dipped his quill pen into the ink-filled cow’s horn attached to the table. His left hand took two eggs out of Wido’s basket and disappeared under the table. “Wido’s tribute is paid. You may sit at the upper tables.”

 
Breathing a sigh of relief, Wido moved away. Behind him, Bodo, another plowman, was explaining why he was five eggs short. It would not go well with him, for Hector did not appreciate shortages.

Wido led his family to a long table where they sat and waited for the food to arrive. In front of each of them was a trencher, a large, stale piece of bread that served as a plate, and each place had its own knife and fork. Wido was pleased. The upper tables were furnished with utensils, but the tables farthest away were bare. Poor Bodo would certainly be sitting at a lower table.

A flush of excitement lit Corba’s face; her cheeks glowed like roses. Afton squirmed next to Corba, the baby on her lap, and next to Afton Wido’s five sons lined the table like a neat row of growing corn.

The flourish of a trumpet silenced the restless peasants, and a barred wooden shutter on the second floor of the castle keep was thrown open. A handsome man in a white and purple tunic approached the window and held up his hand.

The crowd stilled as if God had signaled them. At twenty-eight, Perceval, the Earl of Margate, was a commanding presence. He stood taller than most men, his height accentuated by his straight carriage and regal bearing. His shoulders were broad and tapered neatly down to a trim waist, where his polished sword hung ever ready. Like his father before him, Perceval tolerated no ambition but his own.

“My people.” Perceval’s voice carried easily over the crowd. It was a voice accustomed to giving orders. “As a father welcomes his children for dinner, so welcome I you.” He smiled down on his tenants. “It has been well said that May is the joy-month. After dinner, select for yourselves a lord and lady of the May to preside over your games and dances. Perhaps we can even get Lady Endeline to crown your lady of the May.”

The crowd cheered, and Wido saw Endeline obediently draw near to the window as her husband gestured to her. Younger than her husband, she was tall, thin, and regal, but there was no trace of a smile upon her face.

Perceval clasped the hand of his lady and outstretched his free arm to the crowd. “Eat, drink, and enjoy the hospitality of Margate Castle,” he said. “And long live England’s King Henry!”

“Long live King Henry!” the people responded, Wido joining in with the others.

Perceval withdrew, the barred window was again shut, and Wido and his family set about enjoying the food set before them. The people did not need Perceval’s instructions, for this was their holiday, long established in tradition and mutual agreement. They worked for the lord all the year long, in return he gave them a feast at Easter and Christmas. They gave him three days a week; Perceval gave them a week’s holiday at Easter and a two-week vacation from Christmas Eve to Epiphany. They brought firewood for the castle, and Perceval allowed them to cut wood for their own fires from his forests. Each man knew his place in the scheme of things.

Wido caught Bodo’s eye at a table on the far side of the courtyard. “Bodo!” Wido called, waving a loaf of brown bread to catch his friend’s eye. “How did it go with you?”

Bodo grinned, his black teeth showing plainly. He walked over and folded his scarecrow frame to kneel in the dust behind Wido. “I’ll be cleaning the stables for a month now,” he said, putting a hand on Wido’s shoulder. “Would a friend like you be willing to join me?”

Wido took a bite of bread and answered while he chewed: “And who’s to finish planting my ridge and furrow?” He swallowed. “Corba wants oats, peas, beans, and barley this year.”

“That’s what it will take with another mouth to feed,” Corba answered quietly, chewing a piece of the rough bread. She took a chewed bit out of her mouth and gave it to her youngest. “You should have had a talk with your hen, Bodo.”

Bodo raised an eyebrow. “‘Twouldn’t do any good. But that reminds me, Wido, I have need to talk to you.”

“Talk.” Wido took a drumstick off a platter that was being passed.

“My son is ten, you know, and I want you to remember I’ve come to you first.”

“About what?” Wido turned a bewildered gaze upon his friend.

A corner of Bodo’s mouth slowly curled in a half-smile. “Marriage. Your daughter and my son. We could arrange it now and let them marry when you are ready.”

Wido was stunned for a moment, then erupted in a hearty laugh. “Are we putting on airs now, Bodo? Since when do we arrange marriages like the master? It is not our choice, anyway. Lord Perceval must agree to any marriage in the village.”

“You know full well the lord does not care what we villeins do. Did he object to your marriage? To mine? I do not think he will object to this, either.”

Wido shook his head. “I don’t understand your hurry. They are yet children.”

“Yours is a special child, Wido. Have you looked at your daughter?”

Bodo’s eyes had left Wido’s face and were turned toward Afton and her brothers. Wido turned to look over the head of his wife at his daughter, while Bodo spoke: “Straight nose, gray eyes, little red mouth, high forehead, pink skin--you have a beauty in your house, Wido. Men will pay dearly to take their pleasure in such a wife.”

Something in Bodo’s words and tone made Wido’s skin crawl. His hand grabbed Bodo’s tunic roughly and held the scrawny plowman in a fierce grasp. “I’ll not talk of this,” Wido snarled, the words hissing between his teeth. “You’ll not look at my daughter in that way. Now leave.”

Wido’s powerful hand thrust Bodo away, and the hapless plowman fell back into the dust. “‘Tis a pity you were not born a knight,” Bodo said, raising an eyebrow. He stood and wiped the dust from his rough tunic. “Such a sense of honor! But, my friend, if you don’t give her to wife, someone will take her, and then where will you be?”

Wido snarled and made a move to stand, but Bodo threw his hands up in defense and backed away, smiling. “Peace be unto you, brother,” he said, chuckling as if at a bad joke. “It will be as God wills it.”

A
fton was bored with the feast. The food was a treat because figs, dates, raisins, oranges, and pomegranates never found their way to Wido’s house, and for a while it was interesting to watch Lord Perceval and Lady Endeline as they ate on their raised table at the entrance to the huge stone castle. But they ate little and talked even less, and after a while Afton tired of looking at them.

After the tables were cleared and the games begun, Afton found that the holiday had become sheer torture. Corba expected her to watch her five younger brothers, and Jacopo, Marco, Matthew, Kier, and Gerald had more room to run and more avenues for mischief in the castle courtyard than at home.

She was too young to be a candidate for lady of the May and too busy watching her brothers to join the May dancers. After two hours of chasing the energetic boys, Afton noticed Wido leading Corba toward a quiet bench in the shade of a tall hedge around the women’s quarters. Afton herded her brothers toward their mother and stood silently at her side.

She and her mother had always understood one another. As the boys swarmed over Corba’s lap, Corba saw the question in Afton’s eyes and nodded. “Yes, daughter,” she said, sighing. “You may go play.”

Afton turned and scampered away.

There was much to see within the castle walls. Outside the kitchen buildings, two sheep and a calf were penned, awaiting slaughter for the lord’s dinner. A group of richly-dressed nobles lounged on benches outside the mews where the lord’s hunting hawks roosted, and Afton slipped quietly by them, not wanting to attract attention. She paused outside the stables--horses were so beautiful, so majestic! Just like the rich people who owned them.

After circling for the space of half an hour, Afton decided there was no safe place to play inside the castle walls. She knew she ought not to visit the horses, for they were the lord’s, and she was frightened to death of the knights who lounged outside the huge stone tower that served as a garrison. The castle itself was off limits, of course, for the lord and lady actually lived inside, and Afton feared she would be clamped into prison if even her shadow fell upon one of those august persons.

She tiptoed quietly through the rowdy crowd of merry makers until she spied an open field of green grass through the imposing barbican that opened the castle to the world outside. In a flash she was through the castle gate, bolting for the meadow.

The meadow was delightful, not at all stuffy like the castle courtyard. She skipped through tall grasses that had not yet been devoured by hungry sheep and cattle and collected an armful of flowers: bluebells, buttercups, daisies, dog roses, and red poppies.

“What are you doing there?” An unfamiliar voice startled her and she nearly dropped her load of flowers. Was it against the law to pick the lord’s wildflowers? For a moment she was frightened beyond reason, but then she saw who had spoken. It was a boy, about her age, and obviously he had been overwhelmed by the feast, too. Why else would he be out here in the meadow?