Afton of Margate Castle (27 page)

My love for you cannot rightly be borne,

It is not my place to declare it.

Though my heart with longing is heavy each day,

I will never be able to share it.

I will fight for the honor and glory due you,

And deny what I ought not to say,

But my heart is engraved with your image so fair,

Golden hair and sweet eyes of gray.

The crowd burst into applause at the end of the song, and Charles, laughing, called out: “Who was the maiden for which the song was written?”

“There’s another story,” the troubadour said, pleased with his reception. He lowered his voice to a stage whisper: “The poem was directed to the Lady Clarissant of Warwick, but later a page in Squire Calhoun’s confidence told me the eyes of gray belong to another maiden, for the Lady Clarissant’s eyes are blue.”

Endeline clenched her fists under the table. From the corner of her eye she could see Perceval laughing at her.

She ordered the troubadour away.

A
fton’s skin prickled into goose flesh when the troubadour finished his song, but Hubert seemed to make no note of what was surely a terrible coincidence. She sat still and solemn as the servants cleared the table and prepared for the dancing to follow. When Hubert did finally turn to her, it was merely to ask if she was ready to return home. Timidly placing her hand on his arm, she whispered, “Yes, my lord. I am tired.”

She clung to him on the ride home, and he helped her out of the wagon with unusual tenderness. “Go rest in our chamber,” he told her as he led the horses away. “I will join you shortly.”

She had just crawled under the warm fur on their bed when Hubert came into the chamber with a log for the fire. Afton managed a smile. “Thank you, dear husband,” she said, struggling to lift her head to see over her bulk. “It will be wonderful to have a warm fire.”

Hubert eased himself down on the bed next to her and his fingers found their way to her throat, where he pulled the string that held her cap on her head. Her eyes flew open in surprise, but he soothed her: “Lie back. you must be tired.”

She obeyed, confident in his gentleness. He pulled the cap off her head and unbraided her hair, spreading it out on the pillow behind her. For a moment she was a child again, back in her cottage, with Corba dressing her hair. Sleep beckoned her, and she was about to obey when a sharp pain in her back brought her fully awake.

Hubert was no longer at her side. She raised her head and saw him sitting at the foot of the bed, watching her with eyes grown speculative and hard. Her pulse quickened and the old fear rose in her heart. What was this?

She smiled even though her lips quivered, and held out her hand to him. “Dear husband, lie here with me and rest,” she said, patting the fur on the bed.

“No,” he answered, his voice clipped. “I have lain beside you for the last time. you have made me feel proud in my manhood, proud of the thing you carry in your womb, and you have deceived me. Do you not know that I realize the child in your womb was conceived as you thought of the noble Calhoun? you have never ceased to love him, and together you have made a mockery of me! He writes love poetry for you and the entire world hears it, while you carry the child conceived in his honor!”

“It is your child, dear husband,” Afton said, struggling to sit up. “I have not thought of the master’s son in these past two years. My only thoughts have been of you!” The bitter truth of her words rang freely from her soul, for what comfort was a childhood love when confronted with the daily terror of Hubert?

“He writes poetry for you!”

“I do not care what he does!” she screamed. She pushed herself forward and crawled to Hubert’s lap. Placing her head against his chest, she calmed her voice and spoke clearly: “I am married to you, dear husband.”

Another sharp pain crossed her back, and she cried out in agony. The sound broke the spell she had been trying to cast, and the rough hands that had been about to caress her head gathered her hair instead and dragged her off the bed. She fell, belly first, onto the floor.

“Hair of gold!” he roared, still holding her hair. “Eyes of gray! He writes of my wife!”

Afton clutched her belly and moaned. Something wet was coming forth from her; something had happened to the baby. Perhaps she could still save it. She reached for Hubert with her free hand: “My husband, kiss me. Give me your hand, and I will kiss it. Your feet, my lord, I will kiss your feet--”

Hubert dropped her head and kicked her, the sole of his rough boots cutting into the skin of her neck. It was the only blow she felt clearly, for the others came like thundering raindrops, one after the other in an unceasing storm. He seemed to dance to fiendish music only he could hear, pounding the rhythms upon her head, back, legs, and arms as she curled into a ball.

When her mind and voice had stilled into oblivion, Hubert stopped his awful assault. She felt herself being lifted into his arms, then the softness of the bed was beneath her. She sighed and relaxed even as his hands removed the elegant gown from her. Pain stirred again in her womb, but she gave it no outlet. If she lay still, Hubert would stop, for she knew he found no pleasure in his acts unless she protested.

The room was silent. Had Hubert gone? She could not raise her eyes to look, for if he waited, he would know she was awake and capable of feeling his savagery. She forced herself to breathe deeply, and upon her third breath an agonizing pain tore at her womb and forced her eyes open.

Hubert was waiting.

***

Corba had seen Hubert’s wagon return from the castle and was anxious to gossip about the goings-on of the nobles. She allowed Hubert and Afton a little time, then she threw on her shawl and set out for the miller’s house.

All was quiet in the miller’s courtyard when she arrived, and Wilda was no where in sight. Because she had often been welcomed of late, Corba confidently entered and walked through the hall to the door of Afton’s chamber. A rhythmic snapping sound came from the chamber, a sound strangely out of place, but Corba only shrugged and knocked. The sound quieted, and after a moment, Hubert opened the door.

She had never seen his eyes so stony, devoid of all expression save a certain grim pleasure. His brows lifted when he recognized her, and he took her hand and drew her into the chamber. “It is good you have come,” he said, taking the rough shawl from her shoulders. “I believe your daughter is about to give birth.”

Corba smiled and pushed past Hubert to the bed where Afton lay, but the wounded creature upon the bed could not be her daughter.

“I have whipped her,” Hubert said simply. “As her husband, it is my right. Now it is my right to witness the birth of this child.”

As a villein, it was not the first time Corba had been in a situation that called upon her instincts of self-preservation, and after a brief moment of shock, she casually smoothed her skirt as though this were an ordinary visit and she an ordinary midwife. “It is not customary for the father to be present,” she said, calmly washing her hands in the wash basin. “Wouldn’t you rather wait outside?”

Hubert’s eyes narrowed and he smiled bitterly. “No. I will wait right here.”

Corba soaked a cloth in water and began to wash the wounds of her unconscious daughter. The baby was coming, Corba knew the signs well, but it could be hours yet, possibly even days if Afton did not have the strength to deliver the child. Corba heard Hubert settle into the fireplace chair, and she silently prayed for the soul of her daughter.

***

Pain. Afton did not know that such pain could exist without bringing merciful death. Her skin stung, a sharp pain in her side stabbed with each breath, and her womb felt ravaged, as though a monster struggled to break free of her. The blanket she lay on was bloody, she was drenched in sweat, and in the corner of the room she could feel Hubert’s malevolent presence. Every humiliation she had borne was for nothing. He would kill her after the child was born.

Corba was doing her best to ease her daughter’s pain. She rubbed Afton’s belly with oil, unknotted her tangled hair, and wondered aloud how she would get Afton off the bed and onto the floor into the usual crouching position for birth.

“Leave her where she is,” Hubert said, watching the scene through half-closed lids.

Afton dropped her guard and her pretense, for neither were of any use. As she lay on the bed, her body torn by pain, she struggled for breath and flung hoarse words at her husband: “I spit on you! I hate you! You may kill me, for I do not care!”

Corba’s eyes went wide in horror, but Hubert merely sat in his chair, his eyes upon her belly as if his purpose for living was contained there. Once he smiled at Afton, and the malice in his eyes stirred Afton to find new strength. She could hate, too! She would never, ever again be passive before him. In her remaining weeks, days, or hours, she would never willingly submit to him.

“Sit up now,” Corba commanded her, lifting Afton’s shoulders. “Push!” Afton pushed with every ounce of energy and hate in her soul. She felt a tremendous, ripping pain, then release.

Afton sank back onto the bed in relief and Corba held up the baby, the bloody cord still dangling. “It’s a beautiful boy,” Corba cried, clearing the baby’s nose with a cloth.

At the sound of the baby’s cry, Hubert sprang up and pulled a dagger from his boot. Afton weakly thrust her hand toward him to save her child, but Hubert only sliced the cord with one quick movement, then took the baby from Corba. “My son,” he said, his voice filled with pride.

Afton could not believe her ears. He still acknowledged the child? Hubert lay the baby on the bed, wrapped it in a wool blanket, and placed it in Corba’s outstretched arms.

“You must take the child immediately to the church and have him christened,” he told her. “I will tend to my wife.”

“What is his name?” Corba asked, cuddling the baby. “What do I tell the priest?”

Hubert did not pause. “Ambrose,” he answered. “For now that I have a son, I am immortal. Ambrose, son of Hubert, will bear sons, as well, and I shall forever be on the earth.”

“Please,” Afton whispered, waving a feeble hand in Hubert’s direction. “I want to see the baby.”

“No,” Hubert answered. He turned back to Corba, who hesitated by the door. “Hurry, woman. Don’t let the babe catch cold. And send word for a wet nurse; we will need one.”

Corba left with the baby. Afton was about to steel herself for a final confrontation with Hubert when another ripping pain made her scream. She pressed her hand on her belly and felt movement again. “I think there’s another baby,” she whispered hoarsely. “You must stop my mother.”

Afton had seen Hubert roar in anger and seethe in silence, but now his face flushed red and his breath rasped in his throat. “Another child?” he said, clutching the wall for support. “You
have
been with another man!”

“No,” Afton shook her head in her pain.

“If a woman has two babies, she has been with two men, any fool knows that,” Hubert whispered, sinking to his knees beside the bed. His eyes were level with Afton’s, and his hand brought forth his bloody dagger. Afton closed her eyes, expecting to feel the blade in her heart, but instead she heard the sound of ripping fabric. When she opened her eyes, Hubert had slashed her mantle and was ripping it into strips. “I will bind your legs together,” he muttered. “This babe will die with you. It will not be born.”

“No,” Afton screamed, kicking as the urge to push overcame her. “The baby must be born!” She screamed as another pain tore at her, and the noise seemed to drive Hubert into a frenzy. He put his hands on his head, and his face purpled even as the baby he did not want arrived into the world.