Afton of Margate Castle (47 page)

Madame Luna turned her head slowly toward the abbess, and Hildegard knew her answer would make the rounds of the convent. “The Lord sends babies from the wombs of women,” she said, weighing her words carefully. “Just as Jesus grew in the womb of the Virgin Mary. When it is time for the babies to be born--” she paused delicately and spread her hands in the air “--they come into the world.”

Agnelet placed a trusting hand on the abbess’ arm. “In what woman’s womb did I grow?”

Hildegard patted the child’s hand. “The Lord God knows, my child, but I do not.”

Agnelet’s chin quivered. “Does God know why I have this mark upon my face? Is it because the woman lost me? Did I disobey her?”

Hildegard placed her hand on the child’s face. “Each of us disobeys, Agnelet, that is why we all stand in need of God’s mercy. Most of us carry the marks of sin on our souls, and I tell you truly, I would rather have ten thousand marks like yours on my face than offer a sin-scarred soul to God.”

The chime of a bell echoed through the convent, cutting off all further conversation, and the nuns and the child stood and strode in unison toward the chapel for prayers.

***

Perceval stalled his task as long as he could, then mounted his horse and rode alone toward the village, dismissing the knights who offered to accompany him. Keenly disappointed that Endeline had rejected his suggestion of the tanner’s son, he resented the fact that he was on his wife’s errand. “The woman is obsessed,” he muttered as his horse carefully picked its way over the rough road. “I give her three honorable children, and still she pines for another. I would do well to shut her up in the tower.”

The image of an imprisoned Endeline brought a smile to his lips, but he dismissed the idea immediately. Endeline was too powerful and too useful to put away. With every year she grew more cunning, and though she was not the beauty she had been in younger days, her loyalty and sharp intelligence served Perceval well. Her only flaw was her demented obsession with motherhood, but Perceval had managed to distract her odd fixation for months. “Her madness will be stalled no longer,” Perceval mused aloud. “It is time to appease my lady, no matter what the cost.”

He smiled and kicked his horse, urging the beast into a canter. Confronting Afton would have a pleasant consequence, after all. If she were removed from the mill, the property would go to her son, and as her son’s guardian, Perceval would once again be in direct control of the mill. His revenues would increase, and he could charge whatever he pleased for flour and the fish from the creek.

He tied his horse at the miller’s gate and wiped his hands awkwardly on his tunic. The house and courtyard were clean and neatly swept, with nothing out of place, and Perceval recognized the plowman coming from the mill house. Upon seeing Perceval, the plowman set down his bag of grain and bowed.

“Is all well at the mill?” Perceval asked, coming through the gate. “Does the woman Afton run a fair enterprise?”

“Aye, my lord,” the plowman replied, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Very fair.”

“You have no cause for complaint, then? Has anyone in the village voiced a complaint?”

“Their complaints come against the wind and rain, not the woman at the mill,” the man replied, ducking his head awkwardly. “She runs a fair mill.”

Perceval grunted. If no one in the village would testify that Afton cheated in some way, large or small, it would be hard to prove her incompetence. Perhaps there was another way to gain control of the mill and gain the boy for Endeline.

“May I go now, my lord?” The plowman looked up timidly, his cap in his hand. Perceval dismissed him with a wave of his hand and adjusted his tunic. Very well. He would interview Afton and see where her weaknesses lay.

He found her by the side of the creek, and for a moment Perceval forgot that the shapely woman standing with her back to him had lived under his roof. The thin girl-bride he had sent away years ago had grown into an enchantress. Her hair, still long and woven into a golden braid, adorned her more beautifully than any crown or veil. Her hips had ripened to an enticing fullness, and her arms were slim and strong as she lifted a fish trap from the water.

Perceval’s upper lip curled into a smile. Why, Endeline had known that he would find Afton pleasing. He knew his wife well. Her insistence that he visit the mill was but a gentle way of granting him a favor in return for her request. Years before, when she had wanted permission to travel to Canterbury, she had gently suggested that he interview her new maid in the privacy of the bedchamber. Afterward, he would have granted her permission to fly to the moon. What a clever woman she was!

Perceval’s pulse quickened in his confidence and desire. Yes, the scrawny child who had once slept outside his own bed had become most worthy of it. Of course he could never take her to the castle, but he was lord of all he surveyed, even here at this rustic mill. He would sleep with her, and when he was done, she would be quiet and submissive like the others. It would be a simple matter to take the boy, and he could even leave Afton in possession of the mill.

He licked his lips in pleasant anticipation of many afternoon visits to the mill. “Afton of Margate, I would speak with you.” He kept his tone low and soothing, the voice he had often used with the maids.

Afton whirled around and the fish trap tumbled from her hands. Her face was lovelier than ever, her dark eyes wide with surprise, and her cheeks flushed with the exertion of her labor. Perceval stepped toward her and bowed gallantly. “Shall we go inside?”

“Whatever you need to speak, my lord, can be spoken here.” A light shone in her eyes--fear? He would soothe her as he had soothed the others; he would assure her that he would not humiliate her later, or bring her pain.

“I am a man of power, but I will not do you harm,” he said smoothly, taking her hand. “Our business here will be concern only two.”

Her eyelids fluttered, and he thought she might faint. By all the saints! Was his power over her as strong as that? This conquest would be easier than he had thought.

He slipped his arm around her slender waist and lowered his lips to her ear. “Of course, we can exchange our love here, but the house would be better, don’t you think?”

She stiffened in his arms, then a resounding crack and the sting of pain thrust him back. The wench had slapped him! The lowly daughter of a plowman had struck the Earl of Margate, confederate of the King! Perceval stood in shock, his hand covering his face where her handprint burned his flesh.

“How dare you!” Her eyes gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight and her body trembled with suppressed anger. “You forget, my lord, that I am a free woman, not a villein to you. You do not own me, and you shall not possess me!”

“I shall do both if I choose,” Perceval answered, slowly lowering his hand. He thought for a moment about wrestling her to the ground, but she would undoubtedly scream, and the villagers were still moving about outside her gate. It could never be said that the Earl of Margate was given to grappling with peasant women in the dirt.

“I hold this land and all that rests upon it,” he said.

“My son and I hold it, as Hubert’s heirs,” she corrected. “According to the law of the king, and your own decree.”

“I AM LORD HERE,” he bellowed, forgetting his dignity. “And you will be brought to realize it, Afton of Margate.” His head throbbed in sudden pain, and he turned and stalked out through her gate.

***

Endeline knew from Perceval’s countenance that all had not gone well for him at the mill. Troubled and discontent at dinner, he sent an undercooked chicken flying across the hall. So Afton still had her pride! Endeline silently cursed the days when she herself had taught Afton and Lienor to handle themselves. She had created in Afton a worthy match for any man, even Perceval himself.

“I know how to settle things at the mill, my lord.”

“What?” Perceval turned startled eyes upon her. “I followed your instructions today, woman, and was--” His eyes narrowed into slits. “Afton of Margate must pay for her wrongs.”

“She will pay, for I have a plan,” Endeline said smoothly, “and if you approve it, the mill and the boy can be yours within the week.”

Perceval smiled slowly. “Speak on, beloved wife,” he said, placing his hand on hers. “I am eagerly waiting to hear.”

***

Afton looked up from the grinding stone and her eyes widened in surprise. The girl who stood there was a stranger, and too finely dressed to come from the village.

“Excuse me, madam, but I have some rye to grind,” the girl said in a delicate French accent. “Have I come too early?”

“No,” Afton answered, pulling out her scale. “I am ready.” She looked curiously at the girl. “From where do you come? Surely you do not live in Margate village.”

“No, I am with a traveling troupe,” the girl replied, handing a rough woven bag to Afton. “You now hold, madam, my wages.”

Afton smiled as she placed the small bag on her scale. “I didn’t know a carnival had come to our village.”

The girl paused a moment to look out the window. “It has not--not yet, anyway. Oh my, what a darling boy!” The girl looked back at Afton and smiled. “He is your son? How old is he?”

Afton poured the rough rye kernels onto the grinding stone and smiled. “My son Ambrose is eight, but he considers himself a man already.”

“Isn’t that ze way with men?” The girl paused. “May I go speak to him?”

“Certainly,” Afton shrugged, but the young woman had already stepped out of the mill house and was on her way to Ambrose.

***

Later that afternoon Josson stopped by the mill as Afton ground a bag of grain for Father Odoric, now stooped with age and truly blind. Josson greeted Afton warmly as always, but he ignored the aged priest and did not offer to help her with the sack of flour she hoisted from the floor to the table in the mill house.

 
“Is your new position as steward too much to handle?” she teased, as she wiped the table clean. “Excuse his lack of greeting, Father, but Josson is usually more civil than he is today.” She stopped wiping and looked straight into Josson’s eyes. “I would find it difficult to be near Perceval, much less govern his affairs.”

“It is not too much,” Josson answered, waving his hand casually, “except that I have much on my mind.” His eyes twinkled. “Perhaps it comes from living in a house with no wife. My thoughts stay trapped inside my head; I have no one with whom to share them.”

“Share them with God, my child,” Father Odoric inserted. He pressed his palms together. “Prayer is a powerful purifier.”

“I like living alone,” Afton inserted, her voice light. “Except, of course, I’m not really alone. There’s Ambrose. I couldn’t imagine being without him.”

Josson’s brown eyes clouded a moment, but then he brightened. “At least I don’t have to feel guilty about coming here today. Perceval himself asked me to spend the afternoon here.”

“He did?” Afton turned sharply, and her eyebrow shot up.

She lifted the sack of flour from the table and placed it in Father Odoric’s arms. “Careful, now, Father. Is your assistant outside to guide you?”

As if by magic, the tonsured head of the priest’s young assistant appeared in the doorway, and his hand reached out to the older priest. “God be with you,” Father Odoric murmured in Afton’s direction.

When the two men were on their way, Afton turned to Josson. “Do you know why Perceval wants you to be here?”

“No,” Josson answered, turning his warm eyes from the priests on the road to Afton. “It is enough that I can be here.”

His easy confidence soothed her fears, and they chatted carelessly for some time before another shadow filled the doorway. Afton looked up. There stood the young French woman who had visited earlier in the morning.

“Another bag of grain?” Afton asked. “You should have brought it this morning and saved yourself a second trip.”