Afton of Margate Castle (4 page)

“I’m gathering flowers,” she said simply, stooping to pick another bunch of daisies. “I’m going to make a garland for the queen of Sheba.”

“I’ve never heard of her,” the boy answered, coming closer.

Afton cocked her head and studied the boy. He was not from her village, but the castle was filled with people from many of Perceval’s estates. The boy was finely dressed, though, without even one hole in his tunic or surcoat. His eyes were the color of the creek water when it ran clear, with the same sparkle. His hair reminded her of the golden flax of wheat, and his smile was open and frankly curious. He allowed her to look him over without interrupting, then he repeated himself: “I’ve never heard of the queen of Sheba.”

“She lives in the village,” Afton replied, tossing her head. “In my house.”

“Really?” His tone was curious, not challenging. “Can you show me?”

Afton considered a moment, then nodded. “If you help. I’ve got to get a few more flowers so I can weave a crown. The queen loves flowers, and I like to make her a crown as often as I can.”

“Will these do?” The boy tugged at an unfamiliar plant, breaking off a twig loaded with small white flowers and shiny black berries.

“Bee-utiful.” Afton tucked the berries into her bouquet and they continued through the meadow, running from flower to flower until their arms were full. Then they sat breathless in the grass and Afton showed the boy how to weave the flowers and twigs into a wreath.

“That’s a very large wreath,” the boy said when they were done. He frowned. “How big is the queen’s head?”

Afton’s laughter echoed through the stillness of the meadow. “It doesn’t go on her head, silly, it goes around her neck. Come, and I’ll show you.”

“All right, but tell me your name.” The boy’s eyes shone with friendly interest.

“Afton. What’s yours?”

“Calhoun.”

“All right, Calhoun, let’s go.” Together they held their wreath and walked down the road toward the village.

***

A stand of oak trees lay between the pasture outside Margate Castle and the village; lonely sentries for the army of oaks that dwelt deeper in the depths of King Henry’s forest. “I know this spot,” Afton said, skipping ahead of her companion. “Would you like me to show you a magic place?”

“There are no magic places in the forest,” Calhoun answered, lifting his chin. “My father and I hunt in these woods, and he would have told me if such a thing existed.”

“He can’t know everything, though, can he?” Afton asked. It rattled him that there was laughter in her voice. “Can
anyone
but God know everything?”

After considering her words, he nodded. “All right, show me this place.” He threw the floral wreath over his shoulder. “Lead on, girl, and I will follow.”

Afton laughed and scampered into the trees. The ground at the edge of the forest had been recently flattened by the footsteps of eager villagers searching for greenery, but Afton moved quickly into the deep woods where the brush grew thicker and footing was more uncertain. Calhoun looked up uneasily as the trees thickened and daylight disappeared from around them.

He struggled to keep up. The wreath was awkward and scraped against his side. He would have thrown it off, but he was anxious to present it to the mysterious Queen of Sheba. He also found it difficult to keep his footing in the leaves that carpeted the forest floor--his previous journeys into the forest had been on horseback, never had he actually walked through it.

He was tired and a bit cross when he finally caught up to the girl, who stood before a pair of massive oak trees. “I call them the twin trees,” she said, her eyes shining as she gazed upward. “See how the trunks have wound around each other? Why did they do that, do you know?”

Calhoun made an effort to close his mouth and quiet his breathless panting. “I suppose they grew together,” he answered, his voice sharp. “Does it really matter?”

Afton shook her head. “No. But up there, where both trunks bend together, they point to my secret place.”

Calhoun’s eyes followed her hand. Perhaps twenty feet from the ground, both trunks jutted sharply westward, then seemed to recover and reach again for the warmth of sun and sky. He looked from the tree to the west--what place could this simple girl have found?

He was about to ask when she suddenly smiled and whirled away from him. She ran about twenty paces to the crest of a hill, then jumped down and out of sight.

Calhoun followed, then gasped at his delightful discovery. Beyond and below the hill lay a perfectly round pool, shimmering like an emerald in a dark and lush earthen setting. No human footsteps had crushed the dainty vegetation surrounding this pool, indeed, the boy wondered if anyone but this blonde sprite had ever visited the place.

Afton sat on a rock at the edge of the pool, her long legs gently skimming the surface of the water. “It’s nicer than you might think,” she told him in a conspirator’s whisper. “You can swim here and no one will bother you. I call it the Pool of the Twin Trees.”

“How did you find it?” Calhoun asked, his voice sounding strangely loud in the stillness. “Does your tutor let you enter the King’s forest--”

“My what?” She crinkled her nose and grinned, and he noticed for the first time that she was missing two front teeth. “I come here when my mama says I am free to play. I learned to swim here, too. Watch.”

Without warning, she kicked off the simple slippers she wore, shimmied out of her outer tunic, and dove smoothly into the water. He was amazed that the water was transparent; the emerald quality of the water came from moss growing on the bottom. He could see every movement the girl made, and soon her head and shoulders appeared at the far end of the pool, her soaked chemise clinging to her skin. “Come in,” she called, her teeth chattering. “It’s cold, but you’ll get used to it.”

Calhoun pondered his situation. He had learned to wrestle and fight, to throw horseshoes and handle a horse. But never had he learned to swim. Yet, the girl made it look easy, as simple as jumping in and sailing underwater to the far side of the pool. But what if it were not easy? What if he floundered and sank? Drowning would be better than asking for help, but neither choice was attractive.

“I want to go see this so-called Queen of yours,” he called, his chin jutting from his youthful jaw. “My patience grows thin.”

Afton dove and again became a rippling watery angel, then reentered the world of light and air and climbed out onto the bank. She threw her tunic over her head and stepped into her slippers. “We can go now,” she said, passing Calhoun without a backward glance. “But I could teach you to swim.”

***

After passing the hedge that sheltered the village, Afton walked resolutely to her house. “I’m sure no queen lives here,” the boy said, tilting his head and peering at the rustic cottage. “My father says only villeins and a few free men live in the village.”

“Your father didn’t know about the pool of the twin trees, and he doesn’t know about the queen of Sheba, either,” Afton replied, grabbing the boy’s hand. “Come on in, and I’ll show you.”

The boy allowed himself to be led inside. Afton waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and she wondered why he looked so curiously at the furnishings: a table, a bed, several straw mattresses on the floor, chickens, and a huge presence over in the corner of the room.

“Is that--”

“The queen of Sheba, our sheep,” Afton answered, taking the wreath from his hand. She placed the wreath gently over the ewe’s head and watched while Sheba began to nibble contentedly on the flowers. “See? I told you she loves flowers.”

The boy sat uneasily on a small wooden stool and looked around. “You live here?”

“Yes.”

“You left the feast to come here? Why?”

“Because I was tired of taking care of my brothers.” She tilted her head and gazed at him. “Why did you leave?”

Calhoun shrugged. “I wanted to find some excitement. Maybe a fight. I’m a good fighter.”

“I’m not going to fight you.” Afton walked over and stroked the soft nubby wool of the newly shorn sheep. “Don’t you think Sheba is wonderful? I love her. My father loves her. She’s going to have a lamb, you see, and that’s good for us, my father says.”

“I want to find a real queen and pledge myself as a knight. I want to fight battles, maybe even in Jerusalem, and kill the infidels.”

Afton turned blank gray eyes on the boy. “What’s an infidel?”

“You don’t know? Why, they are heathens who are not Christian,” Calhoun said, pounding his palm with his fist. “The enemies of the church! My uncle the abbot tells me about them all the time.”

“Oh.” Afton grew quiet and sat on a bench. “I don’t want to kill anybody. I want to stay here with Sheba and the chickens.”

“That’s because you’re not a man,” Calhoun said, standing up. He stretched to make himself as tall as he could, and Afton was impressed, even if the boy would not swim.

“We ought to return to the castle,” Calhoun announced.

“Yes,” Afton agreed. They left the house, where Sheba munched contentedly on her wreath of poppies, berries, and daisies.

***

The next morning when he opened his eyes, Wido knew something was wrong. Flies that usually attached themselves to the shredded ferns Corba hung in the corners of the room were swarming in the darkness. There was a strange odor in the room, too, something more than chickens and sheep and eight people.

He rolled off his hay mattress and slipped on his tunic. Over in the corner, not far from where his children lay sleeping, Sheba lay on the dirt floor. With one touch Wido knew she was dead.

Wido dragged the carcass out of the house without waking Corba. Around the ewe’s neck were the remains of one of Afton’s floral wreaths. Wido fingered the usual flowers, then pricked his finger on an unfamiliar leaf with a sharp tooth. There were berries on the branch, and Wido knew instantly what had happened. “Baneberry,” he muttered under his breath, silently cursing the field where it had grown. The berries, highly poisonous, had killed not only the family’s ewe, but the lamb that was owed to Perceval at Michaelmas, only four months away.

***

Wido stood before Hector’s desk and shuffled his feet uneasily. “What is it?” Hector snapped, looking up from his ledger books. “I’ve a full day planned, plowman, so state why you’ve come.”

“It’s about the lamb for my tribute,” Wido said, clearing his throat. “My ewe has died. I wondered if you would give permission to make a substitution at Michaelmas. My wife would gladly weave the lord a tunic or surcoat, or perhaps his lady would like a linen cloak? My wife does fine weaving.”

“So does every other woman in the village,” Hector replied, scratching in his ledger with his quill. “I’ll think on it, plowman, and we’ll arrange for a substitution.”

“I could capture a wild hog from the forest,” Wido offered.

“The hogs in the forest already belong to Lord Perceval,” Hector sneered, glaring up at Wido. “And hunting is prohibited there by the king’s order.”

Wido looked at the ground in embarrassment and Hector paused to dip his quill in the cow’s horn of ink. “I’ll make mention of your dead sheep in the ledger,” he said, “and I will decide later what you shall give at Michaelmas.”

***

Lady Endeline gave a curt nod to her maids. “You may leave my chamber,” she said, her tone sharp. “Lord Perceval is on his way.”

When the maids had curtseyed and left, Endeline slipped off her heavy fur surcoat, loosened her hair, and reclined regally on their bed. Her silk tunic clung to her slim body; perhaps Perceval could be distracted this afternoon. She had already bade Hector send two cows to the church, and the priest had promised to pray for her. As an afterthought she had quietly commanded one of the village women to buy a fertility charm from a carnival witch. The charm now dangled between her breasts, and Endeline smothered a smile
.
Her brother the abbot would threaten her with hellfire if he knew she had resorted to witchcraft. But whether through the powers of heaven or hell, she wanted another child. Three were not enough.