Afton of Margate Castle (52 page)

He whooped in glee as the Saracens stirred like angry bees in a hive, then circled around the camp and caught up with Fulk, who rode southward. “You fool!” Fulk roared as Calhoun galloped past, but Calhoun only grinned and clenched his sword more tightly. He would not only escape Zengi, he would cover the act in glory. This would be a tale fit for telling a company of valiant knights.

Fulk’s horse galloped only a few paces behind, and Calhoun’s heart raced as their desert stallions raced over the sand dunes like the wind. In the distance Calhoun heard the pounding of other hooves, and knew that some of the warriors were in pursuit, but he urged his horse ahead in the mad rush of victory. He had escaped, he had killed an enemy, and even if one of the pursuing warriors’ arrows found its way into his heart, he would still have won a victory.

He knew he had chosen his horse well. He and Fulk outran their pursuers, and when Calhoun was certain no warriors lingered in their trail, he slowed his mount to a canter, then to a trot. Fulk’s horse still followed, but when Calhoun glanced back, he saw that Fulk’s head was down. “What’s wrong, old man?” Calhoun called. “Don’t tell me you wanted to leave without saying farewell.”

Fulk’s horse slowed to a walk, and as Calhoun watched, Fulk slowly slid off animal’s broad back and landed in a heap in the sand. Calhoun’s smile froze--a long arrow protruded from Fulk’s back.

“Fulk!” Calhoun shrieked, and he clumsily slid off his horse and ran to his teacher’s side. Fulk’s eyelids fluttered weakly as Calhoun sat him upright. “Should I pull the arrow out? Tell me, Fulk! What should I do?”

“I want--to--lie--down,” Fulk managed to whisper, and Calhoun knew the arrow would have to be removed. Biting his lip, he braced Fulk’s back with his left hand and tugged on the arrow with his right. The bloody instrument came out in his hand with a hissing sound, but the triangular arrowhead tore the flesh more severely during its exit than in its entrance.

Fulk screamed in pain, and Calhoun hastily tore a strip of wool from his tunic and stuffed it into the wound to staunch the bleeding. “Be still, Fulk, and I will take you to a doctor,” Calhoun babbled, reclining Fulk in the sand. “The sun is not yet up, so you will be cool, and the doctor will make you well. Then we will be on our journey.”

“You be still,” Fulk whispered, grasping at Calhoun’s cloak. “And help me!”

“What?” Calhoun asked, bewildered. His stoic teacher’s eyes were now as frantic as a woman’s. In eyes that had never shown fear, Calhoun now saw unmitigated terror.

“I am going to die,” Fulk said, spitting his words out with effort. “And I am frightened.”

“You’re not going to die,” Calhoun said, tearing another strip of cloth from the edge of his tunic. “This is just an accident, and it’s all my fault. If I had not been so intent on showing myself, we could have escaped with no trouble. I don’t know what possessed me, Fulk, but I--”

His words died off under Fulk’s wide, wild gaze. “Your main fault, your damnable pride, has killed me,” he wheezed. “And it will kill you, too, young Calhoun.”

“Forgive me,” Calhoun whispered, ripping his cloak. “Just let me make another bandage.”

“There is no need for a bandage,” Fulk answered, spitting blood on the sand. His trembling hand sought Calhoun’s and held it tightly. “What I need is a companion. I journey alone to death, and I’m frightened, young friend, for I go to everlasting hell.”

 
Calhoun covered Fulk’s trembling hand with his own. “Perhaps you do not go to hell,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “Even if a man commits a mortal sin, is not God merciful?”

“Miranda,” Fulk answered. He gurgled the word, and pulled his hand from Calhoun’s grasp. He struggled to sit upright, and Calhoun supported him as Fulk spat another mouthful of blood and drew a slow, shallow breath. “I loved Miranda. She was all to me, and she was beautiful, much like your Afton. I was terribly jealous.”

He coughed, and blood spew out of his mouth. Calhoun wiped Fulk’s face with a shred of cloth, and Fulk inhaled slowly. “One day I accused her of loving another, and I struck her,” he said. “She fell against an oil lamp and the cottage caught fire. As I ran to help her, she fought me off, screaming, and a priest ran into the house to aid her.”

He wheezed frantically, and Calhoun waited until Fulk got his breath and continued. “I pushed the priest out of the way, and he fell upon a chair I had broken in my anger. The splintered wood pierced his body, and as I watched him die, I knew God could never forgive that murder, or my jealous temper.”

“You don’t know that,” Calhoun answered softly.

Fulk nodded impatiently and drew a quick breath. “Yes, I know. The priest died, the house was afire, and Miranda ran out, screaming that I was the devil himself. I threw myself upon the priest’s burning body, thinking to burn myself alive, but villagers pulled me out of the house and preserved my wretched life.”

Fulk struggled to catch his breath, and Calhoun nodded slowly. “The scar upon my cheek,” Fulk continued, lifting his hand weakly to the cross-shaped area of dead flesh upon his face, “was the imprint of the cross on the priest’s rosary as I flung myself upon him. I knew God had marked me forever as a man beyond redemption, beyond love.”

 
Fulk drew a breath and erupted in a violent fit of coughing, and Calhoun lowered him gently to the ground. “Fulk, I have never had a better teacher or more loyal friend. The priest’s death was an accident, man! If God is God, and all-powerful, then surely He has the power to forgive the greatest of sinners!”

Fulk could no longer speak, but he clasped Calhoun’s tunic tightly. Desperation gleamed in his eyes. Calhoun searched for words and pulled Fulk upright again. They were face to face, master to pupil, but now their roles were reversed. “Fulk, can you forgive me for bringing you to this place? Can you forgive my damnable pride?”

The hand on his tunic relaxed somewhat, and Fulk slowly nodded.

“Fulk, if you can forgive me the act which has cost you your life, then surely God can forgive any act which you have committed. You don’t need a priest to make your case with God, for if He is all-powerful and all-knowing, then He knows and forgives your repentant heart.”

Fulk gasped in reply, but his eyes closed slowly and he placed his hand protectively on Calhoun’s shoulder. He gasped three times in quick succession without exhaling, and then his hand fell limply to his side.

A
fton straightened her back and groaned. Though the dark of Perceval’s forest was cool and shady, still berry-picking was back-breaking work. She and Corba worked to fill their hungry stewpot and anything edible Afton could find went into the pot for supper.

The past eight years in Corba’s house had taught Afton how hard life as a villein could be. In the castle, Afton had been sheltered and pampered. At the mill, she knew the luxury of a steady income and a comfortable home. But in Corba’s cottage there were no luxuries, and few of life’s most basic necessities.

While Corba went to the castle to perform her boon work for the estate, Afton wove on the loom, toiled in Corba’s little garden plot, or tended the chickens. In the garden she grew cabbage, lettuce, leeks, spinach, and parsley, and two or three times a week she ventured into the forest to look for berries or primrose.

Here in the forest Afton forgot her situation and became a child again. She stretched her weary arms and put down her basket of berries, moving past the prickly berry bushes to a bush of climbing roses. She silently cursed the thorns that obstinately pricked her callused fingers, and tucked several bright buds in her hair. She laughed softly. Corba would never understand what drove her to do these things, but there were many things Corba did not know. . .

Afton grabbed her basket and sprinted through the forest, heading by instinct to her favorite place. She saw the twin oaks from a distance, their green limbs high above the other trees, and soon she stood in front of the massive trunks of the two trees that surrounded each other in a supportive embrace.

Four years ago, in a fit of melancholy, she had carved names upon the trunks, and the names were there in the scarred wood still, grown deeper and darker with time. She touched Calhoun’s name tenderly as she always did at this place, and whispered a prayer for his soul.

She moved quickly past the trees to the cool green pool. Leaning forward upon a rock, she examined her reflection in the still water. “Thirty years old and you still fancy yourself a maiden,” she told her reflection, laughing. The water was kind to her, softening the tired lines around her eyes and the resolute line of her jaw. The rosebuds in her hair winked brightly back at her from the water, and Afton rose and imagined herself once again in front of a mirror and in a lovely gown.

She hiked her skirts to a manageable length, curtseyed gracefully to the oak trees, and began a slow and graceful dance to music that played from her memory. The soft dead leaves on the forest floor made no sound as she danced lightly over them, and the water did not protest when she fell breathless at its edge to splash water on her flushed face.

She reclined upon the rock by the lip of the pool until her gaiety had passed, then she straightened her tunic, released her skirt so that it fell once again to the ground, and gathered her basket. She touched Calhoun’s name on the tree trunk as she left, a final offering to days past. The pool of the twin trees was the only place she could climb out of her protective shell. As soon as she left the forest and stood on the road to Margate Castle, she fortified her soul again.

She knew many of the villagers thought her mad or bewitched. She did little to dispel the notion, and with the village women and her brother’s wives she was silent. They knew little of life except its hardships, and Afton often thought them more fortunate than she. They did not miss the comfort of a soft bed, nor did they curl their noses in distaste when their clothing smelled, for they had never known perfume or taken a bath. Their tongues did not rebel against a bland soup of strawberry leaves, not did they complain when their hair matted with dirt. They calmly accepted all life had to offer because they had never known anything better.

Corba seemed to be aware of Afton’s discomfort, and once suggested that Afton enter the convent. Afton did not have the heart to remind her mother that the nunnery was reserved for the daughters of rich men who could afford to pay the dowry the convent demanded. Even so, she might have entered the nunnery as a servant, except for two things: a most unspiritual desire to take revenge upon Endeline, and the hope that Ambrose would one day choose to return to her.

She waited patiently for those two desires to be fulfilled. As she rocked the infant children of her brothers, she remembered her own children and swore once again to avenge them. Endeline had married her to Hubert, father and murderer of Afton’s daughter. Endeline had stolen Ambrose, Afton’s beautiful son. Endeline had taken the mill, Endeline had sent Calhoun away to his death, Endeline stole Afton’s own childhood and made her ashamed and afraid of her rightful heritage. . .

“I will kill her with a wooden stake from the forest,” Afton thought absently one afternoon as she rocked Jacopo’s infant daughter. “I will walk into the castle, go straight up the stairs and into her chamber, and kill her as she sleeps in her bed. Then I will be hung, of course, but I will have my revenge.”

She only had to wait until Corba was safely in the grave and out of Perceval’s reach. If Afton attempted anything rash, her mother would surely be punished, so Afton stalled her anger and worked, waited, and watched over her aging mother as the days and months passed.

***

Calhoun felt as if he had aged more since he began his solitary journey home than he had during his years of imprisonment. Fulk was gone, and Calhoun realized how much he had relied upon his master and friend. “It is as you said, Fulk,” he muttered aloud one day as he rode his black stallion northward from Damascus. “God sent my moment of revelation, and I saw myself for the prideful fool I am. May God have mercy on me for the pain I brought to you.”

His eyes gleamed now with the dark knowledge that comes from introspection, and those who met him on the road smiled timidly and then stayed far out of his way. “Calhoun of Margate is surely a tormented man,” he overheard one knight tell another around the campfire outside Constantinople. “He speaks little, but it is rumored he killed a thousand Saracens in Outremer.”