Afton of Margate Castle (56 page)

At York Calhoun watched the lady of the castle writhe in anguish between two guards as her husband was murdered. Her noble brother, who fought for Stephen, ran her husband through with a sword as penalty for his aid to Matilda. Though Calhoun tried in vain to dissuade him, the offended brother then cursed his sister and threw her two infant children from the castle tower in the King’s name.

The countryside, now in the full throes of winter, reminded Calhoun of an old woman, afflicted and decrepit with age, nearing death. After hours on his stumbling horse in the blowing wind and snow, Calhoun wished that he were anywhere but in a warrior’s camp, but stern reality reminded him that he had no place in the world but this.

One cool, crisp winter day he led a small group of archers and foot soldiers on a purge of the country north of London. The scout he had sent ahead appeared from the bushes as they approached, breathless and red-faced. “Arnoul’s company lies ahead, just off the road,” the poor man gasped, his eyes wide with fright. “I saw ‘im myself, I did. The devil’s man himself waits ahead for us.”

Calhoun raised his head defiantly. “Then it is time we cut off this limb of hell,” he answered, “and send evil away from King Stephen’s land. If Matilda relies on Arnoul as heavily as is reported, the end to this bloody war may lie within our grasp.”

He divided his men into two lines, a line of archers and a line of foot soldiers, most of whom were runaway villeins from warring manors. He then led his troops in an advance, and paused at the crest of a hill.

Below him, Arnoul’s men lounged around a stream, watering their horses and filling their gourds with fresh water. A small village church stood less than a stone’s throw from the gathering.

 
“There,” the scout whispered, pointing to a burly man standing next to a handsome red horse. “That’s Arnoul. He’s the biggest man I’ve ever seen.”

Arnoul stood taller than any man on the field, and seemed as wide as his horse. With one huge hand he held his helmet, and Calhoun noticed that Arnoul stood as proudly as he had in the days of Warwick Castle.

Calhoun motioned for his archers to surround the hill. Arnoul was too confident and unsuspecting. If the archers did their job well, it would be the last day Arnoul championed forces for Matilda.

When the men were in place, Calhoun raised his sword and brought it down. A hailstorm of arrows fell upon the unsuspecting men below, and they scattered as ants when a mound is disturbed. Calhoun’s eyes did not leave Arnoul’s face, and he felt grim satisfaction when Arnoul raised his eyes to the crest of the hill and the spark of recognition flashed between them.

There was no time for further personal remonstrance, for the battle was on. Calhoun motioned for his foot soldiers to advance even as the archers positioned arrows again into their bows. Another barrage of arrows rained down upon Matilda’s men, then Calhoun gave the order for his foot soldiers to sweep forward upon the startled men in Matilda’s camp.

It was not an easy battle, for Matilda’s soldiers were well-trained. Those who were not killed by the rain of arrows fought bravely, and a few fled to the nearby church and barricaded themselves inside.

“What do we do now?” a breathless archer asked Calhoun. “They are inside a holy place.”

Calhoun managed a wry smile, seeing Fulk in his mind’s eye. “They have defiled it,” he said resolutely, knowing what Fulk would advise. “Burn it.” Calhoun’s men immediately sent flaming arrows into the church, and his men encircled the structure to prevent any escape.

Through the crackle and roar of the blaze, Calhoun’s heard the cry of his name. “Calhoun of Margate!” a voice from above called. “We meet again! I have not yet had my vengeance!”

Looking up, Calhoun saw Arnoul in the bell tower, surrounded by dancing flames that seemed to lick his feet. He cursed Stephen and Calhoun repeatedly, his voice carrying over the sound of the blaze. As Calhoun and his men watched, a river of melting lead from the tower roof splashed over Arnoul’s face. Though Calhoun winced in imagined pain, still Arnoul refused to halt his streaming vituperation.

Several of Calhoun’s men looked away as the flames rose, the tower crumbled, but Calhoun’s eyes never left the burning church as Arnoul disappeared from sight. Six hours later, Calhoun’s men reported that no survivors were found in the burned-out shell that remained. Calhoun insisted that they carry forth the charred bodies of the victims, throughout the night if necessary. Though the sight of so many twisted and blacked bodies was sickening, Calhoun examined all of them carefully to determine if Arnoul was indeed dead. The next morning Calhoun concluded that none of the corpses could have been Arnoul.

“He was a big man, and none of these woefully departed knights were above average height,” Calhoun told his men. “Check the church again, thoroughly, for that root of hell must not be allowed to escape. When you have brought me his sword or his body, then will I rest.”

They did bring him a sword, but the twisted molten lump could have belonged to any of Matilda’s knights. “Perhaps the fire shrunk ‘im,” one soldier offered hopefully, eager to be gone from the place. “We will never know for sure what ‘appened in that church.”

Calhoun reluctantly agreed and led his men away, leaving the blackened church behind
. I wonder if Fulk would consider this a mortal sin
, Calhoun thought idly as they rode.
I have burned my enemy beyond recognition in a place of sanctuary. Can God forgive even this?

***

Winter’s cold and appalling misery brought sickness and hunger to the battle camps. Matilda and her men scorched the bare earth as they traveled, burning the dry fields and storehouses of manors in allegiance with King Stephen. Calhoun’s men wanted to burn the manors in allegiance with Matilda, but Calhoun stopped them. “All of England will be a burnt wasteland if this continues,” he told his men. “And who knows but that by sparing the manors we shall not win hearts for our merciful king? Therefore we will not burn any barn or house, nor will we be the cause of any innocent man’s death.”

His fellow knights grumbled, and Calhoun knew they thought him as “soft” as King Stephen, but he refused to change his opinion. And so they continued throughout the months of winter, chasing the elusive armies of Matilda and Robert, and trying to save England from self-inflicted starvation.

“Y
our son fights for Stephen.”

Endeline’s sharp words disturbed Perceval’s game of chess, and he glared at her. He was aware of the eyes of his knights upon him, and he did not want a confrontation with his wife in the great hall for all to see.

“Later, woman.”

“Your son is making quite a name for himself. His reputation has spread far and wide as the merciful leader of Stephen’s army.”

Perceval toyed with the ivory chess piece in his hand. “What shall I do about my son? He is man grown, and does what he pleases.”

Endeline put her hand on her husband’s arm and whispered intensely: “If Matilda’s nobles hear these stories, they will be on us in an instant. They will burn the fields, the castle, and kill you, Perceval.”

Perceval jerked his arm from her grasp. “Leave me, woman. My knights and I concentrate on amusement today.”

Endeline gathered her skirts. “Play your games, my lord, while there is time,” she said clearly, striding out of the hall.

***

Nighttime found Perceval more willing to hear reason, as Endeline knew it would. His later years had left him a toothless lion, all bluster and bravado in front of his knights, and all fear and trepidation in the solitude of their chamber. As he climbed into bed beside his wife, he explained his reasons for the day’s brusqueness: “I cannot stop Calhoun, nor can I stop his reputation,” he said, slipping beneath the heavy furs on their bed. “So what am I to do? Surely his bold adventures for Stephen will be our undoing.”

“You must bring Calhoun home,” Endeline said, her dark eyes gleaming in the glow of their candle. “Write him a letter, promise him anything, just bring him home.”

“What do I promise him? He wants nothing to do with us.”

Endeline shook her head. “If I know my son, there is yet one thing he desires. He would have your blessing to marry Afton. For that, I believe he would come home.”

“Afton?” Perceval scratched his head. “What leads you to believe this, woman? The girl has not been seen in years. Does she still live in the village?”

“Aye, with her mother. And I have it on good report that Calhoun visited her the very day after his return home.”

Endeline slipped out of bed and took a sheet of parchment and a bottle of ink from the table in the room. She brought both to Perceval. “You must write and suggest that Afton is willing and able to marry. You must also tell our son that you have given your permission and your blessing to this marriage.”

Perceval’s had shook as he took the parchment. He looked up again at Endeline, and the expression on his face was that of a confused child. “Do we really want them to marry?”

“Of course not!” Endeline snapped, then she forced herself to remain calm. “She will be married already before he arrives here, so you will not lie, my dear husband. You will say nothing in the letter that can be used against you, so write what I tell you, my lord.”

“Yes.” Perceval took the quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.

***

Calhoun broke the embossed seal and read the letter hastily, then slowly, not believing what was written there. Was the message a trick? Or had God smiled upon him at last and provided deliverance from his life of blood and battle?

I have decided that it is time for my vassal Afton to marry again, his father had written. And knowing that she is the love of your life, I give my blessing and permission for this marriage. Come home, dear son, as soon as you can.

Marry Afton? What had changed in her situation? Why had she agreed to this marriage? He refolded the letter and placed it inside his tunic, over his heart, as he paced up and down in his tent. Winter lay heavy and dead upon them, there would be no more fighting until the spring. Stephen would allow him to go home, of that Calhoun was certain. He had served his king ably and well, and Stephen had no cause to doubt Calhoun’s loyalty.

“I must go!” Calhoun muttered to himself. He stepped out of his tent and gave the order for his company to mount up. They would return to London immediately.

***

“My lady Afton.” The man’s voice hesitated shyly, and Afton looked up from her sewing with surprise. No male visitor had called upon her at Corba’s house in years.

“Josson!” She stood, her cheeks flushing in pleasure at the sight of him. He was still thin, but less so, and his dark hair was tinged with gray at his temples. But he was nicely dressed, and handsome, and she was thrilled by the presence of an old friend and a reminder of happier days.

Afton let her sewing fall from her lap and went to the gate to greet him. “It is good to see you!” she said sincerely, taking his hands in hers and leading him through the hedge. “Please come in.”

“It is good of you to welcome me.” His eyes shone at her greeting, and he licked his lips nervously.

“Where have you been these many months, Josson? First you haunt my days for years, then you disappear entirely from my life. I was beginning to think you no longer enjoyed my companionship.”

“That was not the situation, I assure you,” Josson answered. He took off his hat and shuffled his feet in the dusty courtyard, looking around uncomfortably. “I did not come earlier because I have been busy, and--” his voice faltered, “I was sure you did not wish to see me.”

Afton looked away as a group of children ran by, laughing. “I did not wish to see you,” she said, her cheeks flushing as she remembered her days of forced labor. “But much time has passed since those days.”

Josson nodded. “I come today with good news, Afton. I could scarcely believe it myself, but Lord Perceval has passed his fiftieth year, and sometimes people try to amend for their past deeds--”