Afton of Margate Castle (49 page)

So she answered simply: “Ambrose was all I had left.”

***

“Do you sense it?” Calhoun asked Fulk as they sat on the floor of their prison. “Something unusual is afoot today.”

“I have noticed it since this morning,” Fulk answered, not opening his eyes. “A different jailer left our food this morning, a man that did not walk with a limp. The guards have not changed since before sunrise, and I have not heard the sound of horses tethered in the courtyard.”

“Has the garrison been emptied?” Calhoun asked, standing up. “Could we escape?”

“The door is still locked and the window still barred,” Fulk answered. “Wait, young friend, until the day is past. Then we will see what the winds of change have brought.”

The winds of change did sweep through the palace after dark, and they brought more than Calhoun had imagined. He and Fulk had just settled on their dirty cloaks to sleep when the door to their cell opened and three other men were roughly pushed inside. In the darkness, Calhoun could not make out who or what these men were, but they smelled of blood and death. One of them moaned through the night and tossed with pain in his sleep; the other two lay still.

As the rays of morning light came through the high narrow window, Calhoun rose on his elbow and studied the men who lay in the cell. All three wore the white tunics of the Knights Templar. The first two men gazed at the ceiling with the glassy stares of the dead, but the third still tossed in delirium. Calhoun looked at the clean-shaven face and felt the shock of recognition: “Reynard!”

Fulk jerked awake and they examined their old companion. Delirious in his pain and burning with a raging fever, Reynard stayed far from consciousness. Fulk rose and furiously kicked the heavy oak door. “Water!” he cried out, cursing every Saracen chief he could name. “Water, or the man will die!”

Fulk’s rough cries brought a response from the lethargic guard, and soon a gourd of water was thrust through the opening in the door. Calhoun wiped Reynard’s flushed face and dribbled water between his parched lips. The wounded man shook his head and grasped Calhoun’s shoulder with an iron fist: “Do not trouble yourself, my friend,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am ready to meet God.”

“Not yet, you’re not,” Fulk answered, dropping to one knee beside the knight. “We’re not allowing you to escape us yet.”

While Calhoun bathed and cooled Reynard, Fulk found the oozing wound in Reynard’s stomach and cleaned it as best he could. He ripped Reynard’s surcoat into shreds and bound the wound, laughing as he did so. “I hate to tear the cloak of a holy man, Reynard,” he said, wrapping the strips around Reynard’s belly. “And we’d have used our cloaks but they’ve got several years’ dirt on them.”

 
Reynard opened his eyes and managed a weak smile. “Fulk, you insolent devil, it is good to see you,” he croaked. “I scarcely recognized you behind that beard. Could it be that this ragged specimen with you is Calhoun of Margate?”

“It is,” Fulk answered, knotting the ends of the makeshift bandage.

“Praise God for His goodness,” Reynard whispered, wincing as he struggled to sit up. “I’ve been praying for your departed souls for these many years, and now I find you haven’t departed at all.”

***

The cell door was opened again that night, and the two dead bodies taken away. Fulk propped Reynard up against the wall and Calhoun fed him a generous portion of their daily meal, gruel and hard black bread. Reynard was not a good patient. “It is my place to suffer as a servant of the Lord,” he said, weakly gnawing on the crusty bread. “I ought to be giving you my portion.”

“We wouldn’t take it,” Calhoun retorted. “And wasting it would violate your vow of poverty, would it not?”

As he ate, Reynard related the story of his capture. He was riding with a small party of pilgrims on the road to Nazareth, when Zengi and his war party swept over the sand dunes and attacked. “The bloody Saracens killed the men, women, and children,” Reynard muttered, wincing in pain. “And we fought until we could fight no more. My two brothers fought more valiantly than I, and they have paid the price with their lives.”

“You fought smarter,” Fulk said, lifting the water gourd to Reynard’s lips. “Drink.”

Reynard drank noisily, then turned his head from the gourd. “They hoped to ransom us, of course,” Reynard said, as Fulk lay the gourd aside. “But those of my Order have vowed to give our lives, not trade them. Here I will die.”

He smiled weakly at Calhoun and Fulk. “I had supposed you both long dead. When you did not return to Jerusalem, I surmised you had met with bandits or murderers on the way. Many of my brothers and your fellow knights searched for some sign of you on the road.”

“We were surrendered to Zengi by a physician,” Calhoun grumbled. “We were not even granted a fair fight.”

“Then why are you not ransomed?” Reynard asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Surely the king or the Earl of Margate would pay any price to have you released.”

“We fear the message was lost long before it reached England,” Calhoun answered. “And I will not ask Zengi to send another. We stay alive here by taunting the Saracen prince.”

“He enjoys our company,” Fulk added dryly. “Every week or so he calls us out to insult the entire Christian world to our faces. We return the insults, then we are beaten and spared for another week.”

“You may not realize it, but Zengi does you honor by sparing your lives,” Reynard answered. “He has killed others for no reason at all, and his name now carries great influence with the Saracens. His son, Nur al-din, follows in his footsteps to rouse and unite the people. Many in Jerusalem fear that our foothold there may be weakening.”

 
“Impossible!” Calhoun protested. “How could it be?”

“The world has changed since you left it,” Reynard answered. “Some say England’s King Henry is near death, and there is already turmoil over whom will claim the throne. There is talk of anarchy and uprising among the earls.”

“Who contends for the crown?” Fulk asked quietly.

“Matilda, the daughter of Henry, feels the throne is her right, and many agree with her,” Reynard said. “But Henry is disposed to look upon his nephew, Stephen of Blois. There are others who feel the throne of England should go to Robert of Gloucester, Henry’s illegitimate son.”

“Never!” Calhoun shook his head.

“I agree,” Reynard nodded. “If the throne is optioned to Henry’s illegitimate offspring, half the world would vie for the crown.”

“The rivers would run with blood,” Fulk added, laughing, and Calhoun suddenly remembered the sickening sight of Henry’s granddaughters, their faces running with blood in the hall of Margate Castle.

“I want no part of Henry’s cruelty,” Calhoun interjected, turning his face to the wall. “Though I have vowed to serve him ably, he is a hard man. I hope his successor renounces his bloody ways.”

“We shall see,” Reynard said, rising stiffly to his knees. “Now if you will excuse me, my brothers, it is time for prayer.”

“You should rest, you have been ill,” Fulk protested.

Reynard smiled and folded his hands together. “If I need strength, I shall find it in prayer.”

***

The days and nights Fulk and Calhoun had spent together in solitude bound them in a knowledge of each other so complete that they found it odd to have a third man in the cell. Their conversations were often interrupted, their journeys of imagination curtailed by Reynard’s insistence that unholy thoughts be banned from their minds.

Though Calhoun respected Reynard the knight, he found he did not always agree with Reynard the monk. Reynard served a strict God, one that demanded sacrifice and pain and led men to forswear every possible pleasure. Calhoun had always envisioned God as a beneficent giver of gifts and favors, a kindly parent one must be careful not to offend.

One night as they waited for sleep in silence, Reynard posed a simple question. “Would you, my brothers, rather have leprosy or commit a mortal sin?”

“That’s easy,” Calhoun answered, stretching his arms, then propping them behind his head. “I’d rather commit a mortal sin. Life with leprosy is not life at all, but slow death.”

“And there is your folly, young Calhoun,” Reynard answered smoothly, “but I’ll give my reasons in a moment. Fulk, what say you?”

Fulk exhaled a long, contemplative breath. “The question is not debatable, for a mortal sin already exists on my account. I cannot be forgiven, and the only mercy I have seen of God is that He allows me to continue in earth’s misery instead of consigning me to hell.”

Calhoun raised up on one elbow to examine Fulk’s face for signs of pretense. Was he telling the truth? Did this confession explain Fulk’s eternal skepticism? What had he done? Murder? Blasphemy?

“Confession is good for the soul, brother,” Reynard whispered in the dark. “Perhaps God will not deprive your soul of sanctifying grace if you confess and repent.”

“I am already doomed to hell and no amount of repentance will change that,” Fulk snapped. “So you have your answer, priest.”

They lay in silence and finally Reynard spoke again. “I would rather have leprosy than commit a mortal sin,” he said slowly. “For when I stood before God at life’s end, my leprous flesh would be cleansed, but what can cleanse a polluted soul? For this reason I cannot take my own life, as my cowardly heart would like to do. Soon, though, I will stand before Zengi and die, and I hope you will pray for me on that day.”

His words proved prophetic. A few days later a guard beat on their door. “Priest Templar,” the guard roared through the small window in the door, “Prince Zengi craves amusement. You die within the hour.”

The guard moved away, and Reynard fell to his knees in prayer. Calhoun stood in the corner of the room, cursing his impotence, and Fulk turned his back upon the monk.

After a few moments of prayer, Reynard stood and placed a hand on Calhoun’s shoulder. “Good-bye, young friend,” he said, smiling. “I am glad to see your courageous spirit has not been dimmed by this captivity. Keep faith, and you will yet again walk free in the light of day.”

“Argue with Zengi and stall for time,” Calhoun said. “Suggest that my father will ransom you. He would, I know it! You don’t have to die today, Reynard!”

“I am ready,” Reynard answered. “It is my calling.” He placed his hand on Fulk’s shoulder. “Farewell, faithful Fulk,” he said simply. “I give you one last chance to confess to me, for your sin may not be as grievous as you suppose.”

“Go, Reynard,” Fulk answered, shaking his head. “God go with you.”

“He does,” Reynard replied. His big hand pounded the door as he called out, “Guard! I am ready!”

D
uring March, April, May, and June, the plowing months, Afton reported to the fields every day but Sunday. The months of plowing toughened her. After the first season her hands developed deep calluses that did not wear away, and every time she took up the plow she strengthened her resolve to seek revenge upon Endeline and the house of Margate.

She despised all of them: Perceval, vile and lecherous, Endeline, cunning and cruel, Charles, weak and addled, and even Lienor, who suffered silently in a house for religious fools. To think she had gone to Lienor, hoping that her confession and promise to love Calhoun again would somehow bring him back! Her love for Calhoun made no difference now. As she plowed the fields and wallowed in mud or dust, she reminded herself that Calhoun was surely in the earth, dead beneath some farmer’s feet in an Eastern land. God had not been pleased with her promise or her change of heart, and Afton was beyond bargaining with Him.

As her heart hardened, so did her appearance. The pleasing softness of her body disappeared as a result of malnutrition and hard labor, and her eyes grew wild and wary. She knew many in the village thought her mad; even Josson approached her gingerly when he happened to meet her in the fields.