Afton of Margate Castle (53 page)

If they knew I killed my master, they would not welcome me at all,
Calhoun thought bitterly.
But if God has any mercy, I will carry that dark secret to my grave.

 
At Constantinople he fell in with a band of pilgrims returning to England and learned that King Henry had been dead for five years. Stephen of Blois now wore the crown, and “a more mild and genial king we’ve never known,” the Lord of Lydd told Calhoun. “He’s a good man and gentle, but what England needs now is a rod of iron.”

The lord looked carefully at Calhoun. “I see that you are a knight, and battle-scarred,” he said, seeing the marks of Zengi’s whips upon Calhoun’s arms. “Can I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

“Calhoun. I have been away for many years.”

“Do you return home, or to service, noble Calhoun?”

“I return--” Calhoun faltered. Did he still have a home? “That remains to be seen,” he said, bowing politely.

“It is enough that you return,” the lord nodded. He extended an arm to his campfire. “Come, join our feast. If you have been away, you will want to know of England.”

“I do.” Calhoun bowed to all assembled and settled himself comfortably around their campfire. He ate with relish, delighting in the familiar tastes of foods he had not seen in years. How wonderful the food was, how delightful were spices and honey-sweetened breads!

While they ate, the lord described the civil war that currently divided England. Robert of Gloucester, the illegitimate son of Henry, had joined forces with Matilda, Henry’s daughter. Together they vied for the throne of England, and Matilda herself had abandoned the gentle ways of women and put on armor to lead an army against her cousin Stephen. “Things are at a strange pass when a woman wears armor and the king is clothed in mercy,” the lord remarked. “But England runs with blood these days. Family wars against family and neighbor against neighbor.”

“Truly?” Calhoun asked, dipping his bread into a bowl of porridge.

“Indeed. John Marshall, a fierce and loyal ally of Matilda’s, was forced to hand his son to Stephen as a hostage,” the lord said, leaning forward confidentially. “Then Marshall, who fought for Matilda, sent a message to the king that he didn’t care if the boy was hung, for he had the anvils and hammer with which to forge still better sons. Well,” the lord laughed, “the king set out to hang the boy for his father’s treason, but at the sight of the poor lad upon the tree, Stephen couldn’t do it. He cut the boy down, took him back to the castle, and spent the afternoon playing ‘knight’ with the child.”

Calhoun shook his head in disbelief. “This man is descended from William the Conqueror?”

“You would never have known it, but he is the Conqueror’s grandson,” the lord nodded. “But he is too good for England’s throne, and he does no justice. My lord and I have allied our houses with Matilda’s forces.”

“And your lord is?” Calhoun asked.

The Lord of Lydd puffed out his generous chest. “The Earl of Margate, Lord Perceval,” he exclaimed proudly.

***

Six months later, as the land around him gave up its harvest and prepared for the coming winter, Calhoun left the Lord of Lydd and his party at their estate without revealing more of his identity. He thanked his host profusely, and then mounted his stallion to ride for Margate. The stallion, who had spent all his days in the desert suns of the East, was not accustomed to the chilly winds that assaulted him and his most recent master.

As they journeyed toward Margate, Calhoun wondered what changes lay in store at home. Why had his father turned against a long-standing loyalty to the throne and allied himself with Matilda? Did this mean that the knights of Margate now served in Matilda’s army? Would his father expect him to disobey his vow of fealty to the throne of England?

On a deserted stretch of road, two mounted knights rode toward him, the royal ensign of England flying proudly. “Halt,” one of them called through his iron visor. “Identify yourself, sir, and state your purpose for traveling on the king’s highway.”

Calhoun rested his right hand on the scimitar at his side, but forced himself to speak agreeably. “I am Calhoun, son of Perceval, Earl of Margate,” he said clearly. “I am journeying home.”

The knight who had spoken raised his visor and peered uncertainly at Calhoun. “I know of Charles and Ambrose,” he called, frowning. “But I do not know of Calhoun of Margate.”

“I have been on the expedition of Christ for many years,” Calhoun answered quietly. “I return now, to show my father that I am alive, and seek service in the name of my father and king.”

“Swear your allegiance to Stephen, and you shall pass,” the other knight barked. “For Perceval has allied himself with the forces of King Stephen.”

Calhoun raised an eyebrow, then called out his answer: “Gentlemen, if God has ordained Stephen king, then I swear my allegiance without benefit of my father’s alliance.” He pulled the reins taut and his horse jolted forward. “By your leave, sirs, I am going home.”

***

Darkness lay over the village like a blanket as his horse clip-clopped over the well-worn road, and Calhoun guess that while candles were plentiful in Outremer, they were still a luxury for villeins.
It might as well be a town of ghosts,
he thought
, much like the burned Saracen villages we saw on our way to Jerusalem.
Not a light flickered at a window, not a soul disturbed the stillness, save his own.

The mill lay on his left, and it too lay quiet and gloomy. Calhoun scrutinized the mill and house carefully as his horse walked past, and even though path to the mill house shone clear in the moonlight, the garden plot was overgrown with yellowed weeds, and tall grass blocked the entrance to the house. Calhoun sighed. Fulk was right. Afton had surely married and left this place; perhaps she lived in another village or even a city.

He spurred the stallion and the animal cantered smoothly down the castle road through the familiar forest and past the open meadow. Soon he glimpsed Margate Castle itself, its tall twin towers majestic against the purpling night sky. Calhoun noticed with approval that Perceval had updated the castle walls. The square towers had been rounded, leaving an enemy no place to hide.
Lessons from the East,
Calhoun thought to himself.
The Saracens’ influence extends even here.

“Who goes there?” Two guards called out their warning from the tower post as he approached, the arrows in their bows aimed at Calhoun’s unshielded chest
. A trifle slow
, Calhoun thought, his eyes warily eyeing the men’s weapons.
If I had intended damage, I could have already inflicted it.

A sudden surge of emotion threatened to block his words, and he cleared his throat awkwardly, as a boy who asks a maid for his first dance. “Calhoun, son of Perceval.”

The two guards conferred for a moment, then a third guard in stout armor moved to the edge of the tower and peered down at Calhoun. “Prove yourself,” the man commanded, his voice rough and familiar. “The night is thick with traitors.”

“I know you, Sir Gawain,” Calhoun answered, shifting easily on his horse. “And I long to see my brother, Charles, and my sister, Lienor, who resides in the nunnery.”

“And?” one of the young knights asked, keeping the line of his arrow upon Calhoun.

“And what?” Calhoun shrugged. “I have no other brothers or sisters. Would you have me name the servants as well?”

“You do not know Ambrose?” There was a faint trace of wonder in the young knight’s voice, and Calhoun was irritated by it.

“No,” Calhoun’s voice sharpened. “But I know he is no son of my father’s.”

Gawain smiled in satisfaction. “Praise be to God, raise the gate,” he commanded. “It is Calhoun, returned from certain death. Let him pass!”

Calhoun heard the chink of the chains that operated the castle gate, and he nudged his stallion forward.

***

Calhoun thought the walls of Margate Castle had not heard such weeping and wailing since the day Henry smote his own grandchildren in the hall. Awakened from sleep, his father had bounded down the stairs, red-eyed, to embrace his son. Endeline wept and screamed hysterically that her son was back from the dead. Charles came from his bed, bewildered, and Calhoun noticed with surprise that the years had left his older brother nearly bald.

Morgan and Lunette, now middle-aged women, kissed his hands and showered him with tears. A new maid hung back shyly against the wall and smiled coyly in his direction, but Calhoun forgot about her when the knights entered the hall to welcome him home. The older knights in Perceval’s service bowed stiffly in almost reverential respect, and the young knights saluted him in awe. All but one. One well-appointed young knight regarded Calhoun coolly, as one would scrutinize an opponent.

“You are here. You are alive!” Perceval kept repeating, and Calhoun answered over and over that he had been a prisoner, but, with Fulk’s help, had escaped. “The honorable Fulk endured until the end, Father,” he said, grasping Perceval’s hand as he led his father to a chair. “He kept his vow to you with his life.”

“Bless Fulk,” Endeline answered, her eyes spilling over with tears. Her long hair flowed down her back, and Calhoun was startled to see that the hair at the crown of her head was quite gray. “Sit, son, and eat, and tell us of your journey.”

The servants brought food and fresh clothing, but Calhoun waved them away. “I have come home to serve you, Father,” he said, bowing to Perceval. “But first I need to sleep.” The crowd laughed, and Calhoun patted his brother affectionately on the back. “After my tired body sleeps, I want to talk to each of you and discover what the years have brought to your lives. I’ll visit Lienor at the nunnery, and I’d like to visit Afton in the village, if she still resides there.”

Endeline’s smile froze. “Why do you want to see her?” she said, her eyes faintly worried. “You need to be in the bosom of your family, beloved son. And you should get to know Ambrose.”

She gestured with a delicate hand to the young knight who had scrutinized Calhoun so carefully. He wore a knight’s hauberk and a tunic embroidered in Perceval’s family colors, and at the mention of his name, he stepped forward and bowed stiffly.

“Who is this?” Calhoun asked softly, knowing full well who stood before him.

“He is your father’s ward,” Endeline explained. “We supposed that you were dead, dear son. Ambrose has been of great joy to us for many years. He was dubbed a knight earlier this year--”

“This boy?” Calhoun asked, raising an eyebrow.

“He is sixteen,” Endeline answered, her tone registering disapproval. “You were but fifteen at your dubbing, Calhoun.”

“That was different,” Calhoun answered, studying the boy again. He seemed so young, so delicate--the image of his mother.

“I am pleased to meet you, Calhoun,” Ambrose spoke, his words cutting sharply through the room. “It is not often that I meet a living legend.”

Calhoun sputtered. “He speaks of me as if I am an ancient artifact,” he said, scowling at his mother.

“You may still think of yourself as a young knight,” Endeline said, raising her chin. “But you are a man, my son. It has been thirty-two years since you sprang from my womb, and the house of Perceval has cried out for the freshness of youth.”

 
Her words deflated his joy and Calhoun suddenly felt very old and very tired. “I know I am no longer young,” he said, rising from his seat. “But I am glad to see you all. Now I would like to most to sleep.”

“By all means, take your leave of us,” Ambrose nodded, bowing and extending a hand toward the door. “I am sure you need your rest, valiant knight.”

Calhoun stood and walked out of the hall, but something about Ambrose irritated him dreadfully. Never had the words “valiant knight” sounded so insulting.

***

The news of Calhoun’s homecoming spread like wildfire and Corba hurried home from the women’s quarters to tell Afton. Afton’s mind reeled in shock at the announcement, and her first reaction was an impulse to fall on her knees and thank God that Calhoun had been spared so that she might see him again. Overwhelming gratitude welled up in her heart, and she dropped her broom and instinctively lifted her hands to the sky in praise to God.