Afton of Margate Castle (19 page)

Could this marriage be a blessing? If Calhoun could put her out of his mind and go away, possibly forever, couldn’t she put him out of her mind and marry Hubert? Sudden anger overwhelmed her. How could Calhoun leave her without complaint or a second thought? He cared for her, she knew, but he cared more for glory and honor and adventure. How satisfying, how pleasing it would be if they should meet in the future and she could walk up to him as his equal and say, “Greetings, Calhoun. See my children and my house. See my garden and my sheep. See my husband--”

No, she could never say that with pleasure.

“There is something else to consider,” Corba began reluctantly. “If you hold any regard for us, your parents, you may consider that all has gone well for us since you came to live in Perceval’s castle. The steward has not demanded undue rents of us, and Wido has not had to perform more than his expected share of service in the lord’s fields. But if we now incur the lord’s displeasure--”

Afton understood immediately what Corba meant. If she disobeyed Perceval’s wishes, all would not go well for her parents. Their rents could be increased, their workload doubled, their other children traded or sold.

“If you do not marry Hubert, Perceval may marry you to someone else, a villein, or a scoundrel,” Wido pointed out. “We should trust the lord’s decision.”

Afton got up from the bed and walked to the window. The road which had carried Calhoun away to his precious adventures and the pursuit of glory lay quiet in the gathering stillness of late afternoon. Perhaps it could carry her, too, to adventures and freedom.

She squared her slender shoulders and turned to face her parents. “I will marry Hubert tomorrow,” she said, raising her chin. “Though I do not love him or even know him. There is wisdom in what you say.”

***

Endeline kept her promise to have nothing else to do with Afton, even after Wido told the lady that Afton had consented to the marriage. Endeline rose early the next morning and left the chamber with Lienor, but she did allow Lunette and Morgan to dress Afton in the best clothes in the wardrobe, for Afton’s wedding attire would testify to the entire village of Perceval’s generosity. After a warm bath, Afton was dressed in a fine linen chemise, a silk tunic of royal blue trimmed with fur, and a red surcoat of velvet that had been embroidered with gold thread. Over her bridal costume she wore a blue mantle edged in gold lace.

Morgan braided Afton’s hair and Lunette dressed it with a small lace veil held in place by a narrow gold band. “Au revoir, lamb, we will miss you,” Lunette sniffed as she adjusted the veil.

“I will miss you,” Afton replied, her heart heavy in her chest. “You must come and see me.”

“In the village?” Morgan answered, her eyes growing wide. “I don’t think so. But perhaps you will come to the castle with your ‘usband on feast days. We’ll see you then, dearie.”

“Aye.” Afton agreed.

Dressed for her bridegroom, Afton was led downstairs and out of the castle to a gaily-decorated wagon. Wido and Corba sat among bundles of spring flowers in the back of the wagon, and Hubert stood at the castle doorway, his hat in his hand. He was wearing a fine tunic and surcoat, and Afton thought that he looked cleaner than usual. He held out his broad hand and assisted her into the wagon as Morgan and Lunette sniffed and waved good-bye.

As the wagon made its way from the castle to the village, Afton studied the pasture outside the castle walls and relived the time when she and Calhoun had ridden together in the twilight. Had an eternity passed since that night? Her fingers went absently to her lips as she remembered his kiss. There had been no promise in it, only affection and warmth. That was what he had to give, no more.

But the man who now rode beside her could give freedom, security, and babies. Afton wasn’t sure how babies came into the world, for there had been none born in Perceval’s castle in years. But Corba knew, and she would share her knowledge, Afton was sure. And if she couldn’t love the man she would call her husband, Afton was sure she could love a baby.

W
ido breathed a sigh of relief when the wagon pulled up outside the village church. The girl hadn’t bolted. Father Odoric and several villagers were waiting there, and the marriage might yet succeed. Lord Perceval would be pleased.

Hubert had already alighted from the wagon by the time Wido had helped Corba from the vehicle, so Wido jumped over the side and walked to where his daughter sat stiffly, a bouquet of flowers on her lap. He took her hand in his, and was startled to find that it was cold, like a dead man’s. “God help us,” he muttered under his breath, but as tradition demanded, he led his daughter to the steps of the church and stood between the bride and bridegroom to answer the priest’s questions.

Father Odoric cleared his throat and squinted at the assembled crowd. “Are these two persons who wish to be married of the proper age?” the priest asked, his hand quivering slightly as it held the book of sacraments.

“Yes,” Wido answered. “My girl is nearly thirteen years and the groom is--” he faltered and looked at Hubert.

“I am of age,” Hubert answered, his voice gruff. “Pray continue.”

“Do you swear you are not within the forbidden degree of consanguinity?” the priest asked.

“We swear it,” Hubert answered. “We are not related and have no common ancestors within five generations.”
How does he come upon this information?
Wido wondered.
I know of no one who has done the necessary study of my family tree
. But Wido remained silent.

“Do their parents consent to his union?” the priest asked.

“My parents are dead,” Hubert barked.

Wido nodded toward Corba, who stood behind him. “Her mother and I consent,” he replied.

“Do the bride and groom both freely consent to be married?” “I do,” Hubert answered.

Wido thought Afton went a shade paler than she had been, but through trembling lips she answered: “I do.”

Wido took his daughter’s right hand and placed it in Hubert’s. The act was the common symbol of transferring a gift, but Wido was suddenly overcome by the old feeling that Afton was not his to give. This girl had been born to him, but he had not understood her when she lived with him or known her when she did not. Now she was more of a stranger than ever, but when he looked at her face he was astonished to see her gray eyes upon his, frankly pleading for help he did not know how to give.

Wido stepped back, leaving his daughter alone beside Hubert. “Our Lord saved married creatures at the great Flood,” Father Odoric continued, looking around at the assembled crowd. “And he allowed the Blessed Virgin to be married. It is His will that men and women marry and provide for domestic peace, mutual fidelity, and the religious education of children.”

Father Odoric lowered his black book and looked at Hubert. “My son, you may now give the ring.” Hubert withdrew a ring from his pocket, and he slipped it first onto Afton’s index finger, then her middle finger, and finally on her fourth finger. Wido knew this act, a symbol of the trinity, was supposed to protect the couple from demons and evil, but he wished the priest could do something more. This couple would need all the protection the saints could muster.

Tradition demanded that the bride should then prostrate herself at her spouse’s feet, but Afton simply stood at Hubert’s side. Wido wondered if she was merely ignorant or deliberately stubborn, but Hubert was apparently willing to let the matter pass. He proceeded to the next order of business and withdrew a small pouch of jingling coins and gave it to Afton, who handed it to the priest as an offering for the poor. Father Odoric nodded to Hubert, who recited his vows: “With this ring I thee wed, with this gold I thee honor, with this dowry I thee endow.”

Father Odoric then kissed Hubert and Afton, and opened the church doors for the couple to take mass together. Corba and Wido followed, and Wido sighed in relief as he entered the church in front of the assembled villagers. The espousal was now official, but the wedding had yet to follow.

***

In titled families the ceremony of espousal often occurred years before the actual wedding, but Afton had no title and Hubert had no need for patience. After mass, the wedding party and interested onlookers trooped to the miller’s house for the nuptial feast.

The walled home to which Hubert conveyed his bride consisted of a typical village house of wattle and daub with a timber framework, but it was larger than most with a hall of its own and a separate bedchamber. Afton noticed that there were two large outbuildings: one was a large kitchen, for smoke billowed from a central vent in the roof, and the other, situated next to the creek, was apparently the millhouse.

The hall was not nearly as grand or large as that of the castle, but it was clean-swept and well-aired. Pleasant-looking tapestries hung on two windowless walls and the tables had been strewn with flowers. A small girl gave each of the guests chaplets of blossoms, and an older woman greeted the guests and ushered them to a seat. When the toothless old woman greeted Afton, she gave a small curtsey. “I met you before in the castle yard, remember? I’m Wilda, and now I’m serving master Hubert here at his house, with Lady Endeline’s permission, of course. I’m part of you dowry, from the good lord Perceval.”

Afton gave the woman a weary smile and followed Hubert to their table. Small candles, precious commodities even at the castle, burned at each table, and two minstrels had been engaged to play songs for the guests.

It was well known in the village that Hubert had lately been highly favored by Perceval for killing the rebellious Gerald, and the other villagers were quick to share their congratulations and their appetites. They gazed with envy at Hubert’s bride, gorged themselves on his food, and loudly congratulated him on his upward progress.

Afton found it strange to sit at a raised table, and she had to remind herself that in this house, at least, she was the lady of the manor. The single servant was hers to command, the chairs, furnishings, tapestries, were hers to arrange. Tomorrow she would order the food that passed before her, but for today she was glad that Wilda had arranged everything.

Afton sat between her father and her espoused husband and watched both men eat as though the meal were to be their last. She had no appetite, and she merely picked at the pottages and pastries set before her. The people who surrounded her were rough and coarse, with bawdy laughter and dirt under their fingernails, but Afton sternly told herself that she was one of them. Endeline had brutally reminded her that she was only the daughter of a plowman, and if this was to be her life, she could tolerate these new circumstances. Perhaps she could find friends among the women in town.

But why? her heart cried out, why had she worked so hard and long to be a gentle lady? Why had she striven to please Lady Endeline? What was the use of reading Latin and French here in the village? Who here would appreciate her songs and poetry? Which of these peasants could make sense of the mathematical riddles she and Lienor had devised? None of these people would have time to even consider her talent for small talk and gossip, for they were too concerned with the daily toil of staying alive and serving the master.

Afton bit her lip. She had learned her past lessons to please Endeline and in the hope of loving Calhoun; now she would have to learn to please Hubert. Perhaps love could be found in the miller’s house as well.

***

As the sun set in the afternoon sky, Wido grew impatient. His daughter was pale, the food was nearly gone, and the groom was more than a little drunk. “Say, Hubert, are you to be married today or not?” Wido asked, trying to be pleasant.

“By all the saints, I am!” Hubert stood and thrust his cup toward the crowd in an unswerving punch. “Who gives this woman to be married?” he called, motioning to the priest.

Father Odoric took his cue and fumbled for his black book. He rose from the feast table and repeated the question.

Wido glanced at his daughter and tenderly took her hand. He stood up. “I am her father, and I give her to you,” he said, and he placed Afton’s small hand in Hubert’s.

The guests stood in anticipation, and Hubert put his broad hands on Afton’s shoulders and helped her rise from her seat. The priest led the way out of the room, reciting prayers for the couple’s happiness together, and Afton and Hubert followed him out of the hall and into the bedchamber.