Afton of Margate Castle (31 page)

“She is not your lady!” Hector growled. “She is the child of a villein, and a stiff-headed child at that!”

“Stiff-headed enough not to bribe you as do the villeins,” Afton replied icily. “I am no slave, and no peasant. I have purchased my freedom through marriage, and I will not feed your appetite for more than your due.”

Hector’s mouth snapped shut, and Josson smiled. “Perhaps our lord did not think this situation through to the end,” he said, laughing lightly. “He should have thought better of giving the mill to an old man with an honest young wife.”

Hector stomped toward his horse, muttering under his breath, and Josson nodded toward Afton. “We will speak to Perceval about this,” he said agreeably.

“Josson!” Hector yelled, and the younger man hurried to help Hector mount his horse. Once in the saddle, Hector took the reins and pointed a yellow-nailed finger at Afton. “We will examine your mill at our leisure to see if your accounts agree with your practices,” he said. “And we expect you to greet us with hospitality.”

“You may come to the mill whenever you like,” Afton replied, drawing her cloak about her. “You will find my words to be true.”

Josson mounted his horse and tipped his cap to Afton in a gentle act of deference, but Hector turned his horse. “At our leisure, we will come,” he called over his shoulder, and Afton took great pleasure in slamming her door as they rode away.

***

The steed that approached from the castle the next day bore not Hector, but Josson. The young clerk tied his horse to Afton’s fence and seemed apologetic in his approach as he met her at the front door of her house. “My master Hector is ill and cannot be bothered with such a routine task,” he explained, his brown eyes meeting Afton’s almost bashfully. “So he sends me to oversee the mill’s operation and certify that all is in order.”

Afton lifted Ambrose onto her hip and led the way to the mill house. “Does he not expect the mill to be in order? Has a single villager complained?”

“No,” Josson answered, following behind her. “But, after all, you are a woman alone and--”

“As a woman alone I have learned to do many things, sir,” Afton told him, pulling open the heavy door to the mill house. “But I do not cheat the rich or the poor. Honor is not solely a trait of the nobility, if indeed the nobility can lay claim to it at all.”

Josson had no answer, but quietly stood in a corner of the room as she pulled on her work apron and settled Ambrose to play with his straw dolls. A village woman waited outside the mill house already, her donkey loaded with two large sacks of grain.

By midday, Afton had to admit that having a man around the mill was helpful. At first Josson stayed out of her way, allowing her to greet her customers and tend to the mill, and when she had nearly forgotten about his intruding presence, he offered to help her lift a particularly heavy bag of wheat to the funnel in the upper millstone. His slender frame possessed more strength than she had guessed, and soon he was working silently behind her, doing whatever he could to make her work easier--entertaining Ambrose, scraping flour from the grinding stones, measuring or bagging the ground flour.

When the last villager’s grain had been ground, Josson tabulated her income and profit and declared that he would probably have to come still another day or more, “for my master Hector is a skeptical man, not given to easy assurances. As for me, I am certain that you are as honest as you are fair, mistress Afton.”

He did appear at the mill two or three days a month, and probably would have come more often, but he traveled now in Hector’s stead to Perceval’s outlying manors. Afton gradually overcome her resentment at the sight of his horse tethered outside her house, for when he visited the mill he seemed to care only for increasing Afton’s profit and lessening her work load. He pretended that his concerns and suggestions were prompted only by his interest in Perceval’s enrichment, but Afton saw through his pretense. How did Perceval benefit from Josson’s suggestion that Ambrose have the toy wagon collected from the carpenter?

One slow spring morning, Josson pointed to the stream that bordered Afton’s property. “You ought to augment your living by fishing,” he said, walking to the bank and peering into the water. “In the winter months, people would pay dearly for fresh fish or eels. I could have a servant at the castle fashion fish traps for you. In all months you could harvest a goodly amount of fish.”

Afton smiled up into his warm brown eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You are most kind.”

Josson frowned. “Not at all. I’m only thinking of Perceval. Two of every ten fish caught here are Perceval’s, and of course, a portion must be due for me, as well.”

Afton scowled. “And what portion is that?”

“You shall feed me dinner when I am here,” Josson returned, folding his arms in a poor imitation of Perceval’s dignity.

Afton turned away so he would not see her smile. There was no anger in his voice, as hard as he might try to put it there. “So be it, sir,” she answered.

“G
et up,” Calhoun demanded impatiently as Gislebert writhed on the ground under the quintain, struggling to catch his breath. “You didn’t duck soon enough. Hit and duck in one motion. Next time you’ll know better.”

Calhoun whistled for the horse from which the boy had fallen and the animal trotted over for the carrot Calhoun always carried in his pocket. While the animal nuzzled Calhoun’s hand, Gislebert sat up and glared at his older friend.

“I’ll never be a knight,” he said obstinately, through clenched teeth. “I’d rather be a troubadour.”

“You live in a castle as the son of a knight, and a knight you’ll become,” Calhoun answered, laughing. He patted the horse’s rear and held out his hand to Gislebert. “Come. Let’s go see if dinner is ready.”

“I think there is something else I might become,” Gislebert said, clasping Calhoun’s hand and pulling himself up. “Since my father died, I think Lord Thomas might be willing to let another assume the role of my guardian. Perhaps he would allow me to become the ward of Lord Perceval.”

Calhoun’s right eyebrow shot up. “You do?” His eyes danced with mischief. “And why would Lord Perceval want you as a ward?”

“Because I bear great love and loyalty to the squire Calhoun,” Gislebert said, counting on his fingers. “And I can tell stories that hold the other knights spellbound. And I can dress a knight faster than anyone, and sing so beautifully the ladies swoon.”

“There is only one lady remaining at Margate Castle,” Calhoun said, a frown settling over his forehead. “My mother, Endeline. Lienor is gone to the nunnery, and Afton--”

“Who?”

“Never mind. You’ll have to come up with better reasons than those if you want to go home with me.” Calhoun paused and looked toward the southern horizon. “Fulk and I leave in two weeks, you know.”

“I’ll find better reasons,” Gislebert said. “And you won’t regret it.”

***

Two weeks later, Fulk repressed a smile as he watched Calhoun and Gislebert at their farewell dinner in the hall of Warwick Castle. The younger boy had convinced Lord Thomas to allow him to go with Calhoun, and Fulk knew Thomas was probably glad to be relieved of responsibility for the boy. If Gislebert had held property or possessed great skill, Thomas would have been reluctant to free him, but Warwick had little need for small, dreamy ten-year-olds who did little but tell stories. Yes, Thomas would be glad to see Gislebert go--and he would probably breathe easier when he was rid of Calhoun and Fulk, as well. The animosity between Calhoun and Arnoul had divided Warwick’s knights for too long.

It had been over three years since Fulk had seen Margate, and he was not sure he wanted to take up residence in such a civilized and courtly castle. His tenure with Gerald had been satisfyingly rough, and training Calhoun at Warwick had been a worthy challenge. But at seventeen Calhoun was a man grown, and as skilled in the knightly arts as Fulk. Responsibilities at Margate Castle now called them both southward, but Fulk was not sure he would find his next duty to his liking.

Lord Thomas raised his cup: “To squire Calhoun, who now truly embodies the ideals of true knighthood. He is brave and loyal, faithful to his king, a defender of the Christian faith, and a protector of widows and orphans. Salute!”

The other knights raised their cups, and Calhoun nodded in appreciation. After they had drunk, he stood to his feet and raised his cup. “To Lord Thomas, who opened his home to welcome me as a son, and to the fair Clarissant, whose beauty has inspired countless acts of greatness.”

Fulk covered his smile with his left hand as his right held his cup aloft. Over the course of the last year the boy’s passion for the fair lady had burned from the flames of madness to the steady glow of infatuation. Love was one subject about which Fulk had little knowledge to impart--Calhoun would have to learn its lessons for himself, as all men did. At least the boy could now speak Clarissant’s name without sweating away ten pounds.

Fulk stood and raised his cup. “To squire Calhoun,” he called, his voice echoing through the hall. “A knight is not fit for battle until he has seen his own blood flow, heard his teeth crunch under the blow of an opponent, and felt the full weight of an adversary upon him.” Fulk paused and the corner of his mouth raised in a wry half-smile. “My master is truly fit for battle, having endured all, and more, from me and you, my comrades.”

The hall erupted into noisy laughter, and Fulk noticed that Calhoun joined in with the rest. Across the hall, Arnoul rose to his feet, his face scarlet in his eagerness. “To my most worthy adversary,” he roared, and the crowd grew quiet. “Whom I saw thrown from his horse twenty times, yet twenty times he rose up to fight again.”

Arnoul stared intensely at Calhoun, and the knights present drew an expectant breath. There was no teasing in Arnoul’s voice, and his eyes fastened upon Calhoun as a hawk spies its prey. “You have bested me in every contest this past year, but I have not finished with you. I, too, shall rise again to fight when next we meet.”

Arnoul raised his glass and every eye shifted toward Calhoun, who raised his glass in frosty agreement. Lord Thomas broke the tension by proclaiming, “May these two always fight on the same side!” and the knights roared their approval. The entire company raised their glasses and drank.

***

Gislebert and Calhoun knelt in front of their horses at the priest’s feet, but Fulk was uncustomarily absent. “Go ahead,” Calhoun told the priest impatiently. “We are anxious to be off.”

The priest traced the sign of the cross above their heads and recited a benediction of peace. When the holy father had turned back into the castle, Fulk approached from out of the stable and mounted his horse. “What?” he snapped, catching Calhoun’s eyes upon him. “I had farewells to say, young squire. Do not question me further.”

Calhoun did not answer, but spurred his horse and led the way out of Warwick Castle. Perceval’s chaplain had once told him that some men held to a private form of religion, and while that theology bordered on heresy, still it existed. Surely Fulk was such a man, else why would he have branded his own cheek with the sign of the cross?

He had no time for further reflections upon Fulk’s religion, for other thoughts demanded his attention. The day marked an ending and a beginning. It was the ending of his childhood, his training, and his time under the sublime influence of Clarissant; it was the beginning of his manhood, his service to God and King, and the assumption of his proper role in the family of Perceval.

The three of them traveled without escort, for no sane thief or highway brigand would dare to attack two armed warriors and a boy on horseback. The three-day journey passed pleasantly for Calhoun, for now he found the saddle as comfortable as his bed. Fulk seemed lost in thought on much of the trip, but Gislebert peppered Calhoun with questions.

“Is Margate a large estate?”

“One of the largest in England. My grandfather, Lionel, was awarded it from William.”

“Is your mother as beautiful as Clarissant?”

Calhoun frowned. It seemed indecent to compare his mother with his love, for they fulfilled two completely different roles in his life. “They are as night and day,” he answered. “Clarissant is day, golden and sweet, while my mother is night. Her hair and eyes are dark.”