Afton of Margate Castle (43 page)

Agnelet lifted the iron latch of the gate and scrunched up her face as it squeaked. Madame Hildegard had never told her
not
to go outside the gate, but Agnelet knew in her heart that nuns had no place in the world. Still, if it was not expressly forbidden--

She slipped out of the gate and took a few tentative steps over the grass. A field of bluebells and buttercups nodded in the sunshine, and she darted from flower to flower, delighting in each touch and smell of flowers and grasses. A flock of blackbirds roosting in a large bush took flight as she darted toward them, and Agnelet stood in wonder as they filled the sky.

The sky was so wide! She had never dreamed the sky filled such a wide expanse, never having seen more than a sliver of it from the small windows in the chapel. She stood quietly, breathing in the marvel of it, and wondered how Madame Hildegard and the other nuns could bear not to walk in the sunlight, breathe the sweet air of the outdoors, and dance in the flowers.

Beyond the next hill lay a stream, and Agnelet drew in her breath at the sight of it. The stream moved slowly like a garden snake, its skin shining under the sun. In its liquid surface Agnelet could see the sky, the trees, even the birds reflected. It lay as a magic mirror in the stillness of the countryside.

The sound of childish voices surprised her, and Agnelet threw herself down in the grassy bank that overlooked the stream. Two children played nearby, a boy about her age, and a little girl. Both children played in their bare feet, throwing pebbles into the water, and squealing with merriment at the resulting splash.

“Let me, Ambrose,” the girl said, pulling on the boy’s arm. “It’s my turn and I want to throw that big rock in your hand!”

The boy acted as though he didn’t hear and pitched the rock overhand into the water, and the girl seemed to forget her disappointment when the rock thunked into the water. “That was a good one! But it’s my turn!”

The guilt that had forced Agnelet down into the grass evaporated, and she found her feet skipping down the hill before she even had a chance to think about joining them. They were children, after all, like her, and surely they would welcome her as the nuns always did.

She slowed her pace and crept up behind the pair with her silent tread and habitually tucked her hands under her cape. She sought for words, and finally blurted out: “Grace to you from our Lord Jesus Christ.”

The children turned slowly. Then the boy’s eyes met hers, and he shrieked even as his hands covered his face. “Aruggggh!” he screamed, covering his eyes. “A witch! She bears the mark of the devil! Run, Laudine, run!”

The barefoot girl burst into tears and sprinted away, with the boy running close behind her. Agnelet tried to speak, but words failed her, and she sank onto a rock by the water in confusion. Why had they run? Was it because she wore a robe like the nuns’? Had she said something to frighten them?

Agnelet fought back the urge to cry and twisted her face into a crooked smile. She bent over the shining water to see her reflection, and gasped with horror at the image below her. A horrible hand-print, a bloodied three-fingered hand, had left its mark upon her face, and Agnelet could not remember how it happened. Had this scar come upon her as she slipped through the nunnery gate? Did this mark result from disobedience?

She slipped her cloak off her shoulders, dipped it in water, and began to scrub her face energetically, until the rough wool was red with blood from her frantic scrubbing. Madame Hildegard must not see, Lienor must not see, the nuns must not know that she had been disobedient.

When it became obvious that the mark of disobedience could not be erased by her efforts, Agnelet prostrated herself in the mud to wait for the judgment of God. She had disobeyed an unspoken law of the convent, and surely she would be punished.

***

Trilby found her later that night, after Vespers. She wrapped the child in a warm cloak and brought her to Hildegard much as Lienor had brought the baby to the abbess six years earlier. And just as Hildegard had blanched when she saw the birthmark upon the infant’s face, so she blanched when she observed the raw places where Agnelet had tried to rub the offending mark from her face.

“We will wash her wounds and let her sleep,” Hildegard said, calling for Lienor. “Let no one speak of this until the morning. I will talk to the child then.” She paused and rubbed her crucifix as if for inspiration. “I think it necessary, as well, to have the Vestiaire make a new veil for Agnelet, with a veiling for the face as well as for the head.”

Trilby nodded, understanding, and went for warm water and clean cloths for cleaning the child’s skin. Hildegard sank to her knees and prayed for wisdom.

***

Endeline paced impatiently in the hall and rang again for Hector. She had been out riding, and had ridden past the mill and seen Ambrose playing in the yard. She could no longer bear the infernal waiting for the child. Was five years not long enough for the steward to catch Afton in a fault?

Over the past months Perceval had tried to dissuade her from taking Ambrose, in fact, he had brought her two other children from the village, villeins’ children, and Endeline had disdainfully cast them off and set them to work in the kitchen. She would not rear slaves! She had endured Afton only for Lienor’s sake, and if she reared another child, it would be for her own pleasure. She wanted a child who would reflect upon her, and no child less beautiful than Ambrose would do.

Hector shuffled into the hall, his weak legs barely carrying the weight of his ponderous stomach, grown fat from years of eating the bribes of villeins.

“Hector! Have you no reason yet to procure the child Ambrose for me? Surely there is something Afton has done to indicate her disloyalty to her lord Perceval.”

Hector shook his head. “Nothing, my lady. My assistant Josson goes there as often as his schedule permits and watches her like an eagle, but he reports nothing amiss. If anything, the mill’s revenues for Perceval have grown in the last two years--”

“Josson goes there? You do not go yourself?” Endeline sank onto a bench and snapped her riding whip against the edge of a table. “You fool! Josson is young and unattached, and you send him to the home of a widowed woman who seeks a husband! Can you not see that she has bewitched your assistant? He pines with love for her, that is why he reports nothing amiss!”

Hector stepped back in indignation. “Indeed, lady, you could not be more wrong. Josson is an equitable judge, and he assures me--”

“Do not send him any longer,” Endeline snapped, standing up. “Go to the mill yourself next week, and the next, if you have to, until you catch the widow of Hubert in some large or small act of treachery. Then run to me, that I may hear of it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady,” Hector answered, backing out of the room. “I will go myself.”

***

The next afternoon Endeline heard a careful rap on her chamber door. “My lord and lady,” Lunette said, pushing the door open, “Josson wishes to speak with you.”

“Bid him come in,” Endeline said, rising eagerly from the bench where she had been half-heartedly embroidering. “Has he news for us?”

“Urgent news,” Josson answered, coming in behind Lunette. He walked to the bed where Perceval reclined and respectfully bowed his head. “My lord, Hector is on his death bed. He was taken suddenly taken ill, and the doctor has been summoned. The barber bled him last night, but it does not seem that Hector will recover.”

Perceval nodded reflectively. “It is expected,” he answered. “Hector is an old man. Well, Josson, his station is now yours. Upon Hector’s death, you will become my chief steward. The house inside the courtyard is yours, as is the right and duty to collect tribute from the vassals on my estates.”

Perceval reached for a stick and handed it to Josson, who knelt and received it. Endeline recognized the ceremonial gesture of receiving a fief, which Josson would now hold until his death. She and Lunette had witnessed the transfer of property, there was nothing else to be done.

“Do you wish to speak to Hector before--” Josson began, but Perceval waved him away. “No, there is nothing to be said. Call Father Odoric, if you like, from the village. Make whatever arrangements you need to make. I leave him in your hands.”

“Did Hector say anything about the mill?” Endeline interrupted, her hands tense and still in her lap. “Has he visited the mill as I requested?”

“I do not know, my lady,” Josson shook his head. “Hector fell ill yesterday and took to his bed. He has not been to the village in over a month.”

Endeline lowered her eyes back to her sewing, fuming in silence, as Lunette opened the door for Josson to leave.
Hector will soon be dead
, Endeline thought,
and that too-soft Josson would remain in his place.
She would have to find another way to discover Afton in a fault. If it took another five years, she would find a way to claim Ambrose as her own son.

F
or two years Calhoun and Fulk spent most of their days in the company of Reynard and the Knights Templar, escorting pilgrims through Outremer and always on guard against the persistent bands of raiding Saracens. Calhoun was constantly frustrated in his search for meaning in the bloodshed, for he had yet to see or fight a fair battle. Either the Saracens crept upon his people in the dark, striking brutally, or he was ordered to run down desert dwellers who happened to be on the road at the wrong time.

Calhoun could not bring himself to kill the unarmed Arab men, women, and children who ran from his horse’s thundering hooves, yet his brain hummed in fury when the enemy struck and killed those under his protection. The only moments in which he found rest from his frustration were those in which he rested at Khalil’s house and thought of Margate--and Afton. Afton had hated war, cruelty, and even his sword. Years ago, he had thought her foolish. Now he was beginning to think her wise.

The years in Jerusalem opened Calhoun’s eyes to the ways of the world. The Christians in Jerusalem, many of whom came to seek God, were those who stayed for the comfortable climate and the promise of easily-obtained wealth. The knights, who came, like Calhoun, for the glory of defending the Holy City, tarried in Jerusalem for the promise of bloody battles, plunder, and rich booty.

Calhoun was not sure why he remained in Jerusalem. He supposed it was simply easier to stay than go home, but an inner voice reminded him that he remained because he had not accomplished what he set out to do--forget about Afton.

It was not the glory of battle that kept him in Outremer, for the barbarism he discovered there turned his stomach and tortured his sensibilities. Barbarism was not confined to the Saracens. Once Calhoun happened upon a victorious party of knights who had just raided a Saracen camp in the desert--from the saddles of their horses dangled the heads of women and children. Calhoun had expected that battle would be honorable and victory untarnished, but he discovered that battle was often dishonest and victory a one-sided slaughter.

One hot afternoon Reynard pulled Calhoun and Fulk aside in Khalil’s house. “It is rumored that Zengi marches on Antioch soon,” he whispered gruffly. “We are to go at once to help fortify the city.”

“At once?” Calhoun echoed, standing to his feet. “A real battle?”

“Perhaps more than a battle,” Reynard replied. “Zengi may attempt to besiege the city. Antioch cannot hold out indefinitely.”

“I am ready,” Calhoun replied without hesitation. He glanced at Fulk and smiled. “Finally, my teacher, an honest battle for honest men.”

***

After two days in the saddle, Calhoun had no idea they were near Antioch until he mounted the crest of a hill and saw the battle lines drawn before him. A circle of knights, many emblazoned in the familiar uniform of the Knights Templar, surrounded the city walls, and line of Saracen warriors stood below the hill at a distance, watching warily.

“Good, we’re behind them,” Reynard muttered. “Hold your position, brothers, until we see the battle forming.”

There were few trees to conceal their company of thirty knights, and Calhoun felt uncomfortably exposed in the desert. At any moment the Saracens would turn around, see them, and lead off in an outward charge to scatter them.