Afton of Margate Castle (61 page)

In a moment, Afton heard the answering bell from the convent chapel, and within half an hour Father Barton stood in the infirmary, offering the last rites for Madame Agnelet.

Afton thought the nuns’ detachment unnatural. The women glided through the infirmary in a single line, women who had known and loved Agnelet for all the years of her life. Though tears shone in their eyes as they carried lighted candles and sang her soul to heaven, not one pair of eyes lifted to God in reproach. No voice questioned God’s judgment. No lips curled downward with the weight of unuttered questions, in her last moments Agnelet saw only the sweet smiles of her sisters.

Afton lay quietly in her bed, feeling uncomfortably guilty. Agnelet lay in death’s stillness on her straw mattress, pale in her black habit, and Madame Hildegard anointed her with holy oil and placed within her folded hands the parchment she had signed at vesture giving her soul and life to God.

“Peace to this house,” the priest sang in a rich baritone.

“And to all who live herein,” responded the nuns, their faces shining in the semi-darkness.

From the her bed, Afton wept, not knowing if her tears were for the brave young nun or for herself, for she had known so little peace.

***

She rose and dressed the next morning, not hungry for the spare breakfast Madame Luna insisted she eat. “You will need your strength,” the nun ordered. “Eat.”

Afton took a few bites of the tasteless bread and wished she could be more grateful. A rap on the door distracted Madame Luna’s sharp eyes, and Afton sighed in relief and stuffed a hunk of bread under the mattress.

“You have a visitor,” Madame Luna said, opening the door wider so the visitor could enter. Afton drew in her breath quickly. Lienor stood in the doorway. What did this mean? Of course, Lienor must have seen her last night in the infirmary, but did she intend to reveal Afton’s identity?

Lienor nodded her thanks to Madame Luna, who left the room, then Lienor walked to a bench and sat down. “Praised be Jesus Christ,” Lienor whispered.

Afton sank onto her mattress, stunned. It had been so long since she had heard Lienor’s voice that the sound of it thrilled her, like an age-old memory suddenly revived. “You are free to speak?” Afton said. “Your vow of silence is kept?”

“As of today, there is no need for it,” Lienor said softly, her eyes flitting to the empty mattress where Agnelet had lain. “I kept silence to protect the happiness of someone who deserved to be happy. Now I may speak.”

“Of what?” Afton asked. “Are you going to tell the Abbess who I am? I only kept my identity secret because your father--”

“Your happiness deserves to be protected, too,” Lienor interrupted gently. “I will not reveal your identity. But someone else must be--” she paused. “Unmasked.”

Afton couldn’t help her curiosity. “Who?”

Lienor’s eyes flickered again over the empty bed. “I saw her as an infant, the day she arrived here. Such a tiny baby, and I knew the old woman at the gate could not have been her mother. But even though the crimson mark marred the beauty of her face, I saw her ancestry reflected there.”

Lienor looked back at Afton, and her voice dropped to a nearly indiscernible whisper. “I had seen her beauty once before. Dainty nose, soft gray eyes, stubborn chin.” She smiled. “Such beautiful features could only have come from you, Afton. Madame Hildegard found that on the same day the babe came to us, St. Agnes’ Day, you were delivered of a baby boy. I surmised that you had also been delivered of a girl.”

The room began to spin, and Afton clutched her fingers into the scratchy burlap mattress. Her baby had died! Hubert had killed her, and the cook, too, as he nearly killed her. “No, that can’t be,” she whispered. “Impossible. My baby was killed.”

Pity shown in Lienor’s eyes. “I knew you were married to a devil, and I did not speak up at first because I feared for the child’s safety. By the time I learned of Hubert’s death, we had all come to love her, and she loved us. I knew then the best life for her was here at the convent. She was protected--”

“You
knew
she was my daughter?” Afton spoke through clenched teeth, anger welling up within her. “You kept her from me?”

Lienor shook her head. “I tried to show you once. When you came to tell me that Calhoun had been captured, I tried to lead you to the window to see her. But you would not look.”

“I thought she was dead! How could I have known?”

“It was as God willed.” Lienor smiled the nun’s sweet, unruffled smile. “Agnelet would not have known happiness in the world. The world is a cruel place for those who are not beautiful.” Despite her demeanor, Afton suspected that a vein of resentment still flowed from Lienor’s heart.

Afton’s emotions swirled like a cyclone. “If I had known, I would have made her happy! We could have gone away--”

Lienor held up her hand. “Agnelet could not run from herself. In this place she came to an understanding and acceptance of God’s will. She was dearer to God than the rest of us, and that is why He drew her to Himself.”

“I killed her. A fresh recognition struck Afton. “She lay here and forgave me--” her voice cracked and she spoke through sobs, “and I killed her and she said she loved me. She loved me, Lienor! How could she do that?”

“The love of God flowed through her.” Lienor stood and placed an awkward hand on Afton’s shoulder. “The mercy of God works in strange ways,” she whispered softly. “Do not think ill of me for not speaking sooner. But I could not destroy her happiness.”

Lienor slipped out of the room, and Afton buried her face in the burlap mattress and screamed.

T
he morning of her departure from the convent, Afton knelt for three hours in the chapel, praying for comfort that would not come. When her knees were numb from grating on the stone floor, she left the convent for the road that led to the village. She took nothing from the nunnery but the cast-off tunic she wore and a knowledge too terrible to be denied.

She needed a safe place to think, a place away from the black-robed women who only reminded her of her loss. She no longer cared what fate, if any, Endeline and Perceval had planned for her, for any pain they might have intended would be eclipsed by the yawning emptiness of her heart.

Corba welcomed her home with a warm embrace and, after one look at Afton’s face, asked no questions. Afton lay down on her straw mattress and slept twelve hours without stirring, then she awoke in the dead of night and sat quietly, thinking.

Agnelet had been her daughter, that much she knew for certain. As she stared into the darkness, she saw Hubert clearly, grinning as he lifted the babe from between her legs. “And God has given me a sign,” he bellowed, as Afton struggled to lift her head through her pain. “For the child is marked as the offspring of an adulteress. I read your sin in the child’s face.”

She had been too overwhelmed with suffering to comprehend his words, but now she understood what Hubert had seen. The birthmark. The mark of Afton’s sin, Hubert had called it. She lowered her head upon her arms. Was the child marked for her sin of loving Calhoun? Even though she had been physically faithful to her husband, had God punished her for loving another? Was He punishing her still, by taking her daughter from her a second time?

She could not escape her guilt.
I did not look for her
. Afton drove her fist into her open palm.
I should have gone throughout England looking for her little body, but I did not! And just as I hated Corba for giving me to Endeline, so she must have hated me!

But she did not.
A cool voice of reason crossed Afton’s mind.
Without ever knowing you, she loved you. She was grateful to you. She prayed for you.

Was it possible that Agnelet had been better off in the convent? What sort of life would she have had in the village? Afton’s tears began anew when she realized that Lienor was right--no matter where they had gone, Agnelet would have been feared, scorned, or even accused of being a child of the devil. Her life would not have been secure, and vain, ambitious Ambrose might have been unspeakably cruel to her.

Afton raised her eyes to the thatched roof of Corba’s hut. She could not bargain with God. In infinite wisdom, He had known and chosen the best path for Agnelet.

Afton mourned in silence for two days, speaking and eating little. On the evening of the second day, she clasped Corba’s hands and poured out the entire story, beginning with Agnelet’s birth and ending with her death. “She lived and died in peace and joy,” Afton whispered, as tears flowed freely from Corba’s dim eyes. “Surely that is all a mother can ask for a child.”

“That is all,” Corba agreed, sniffling noisily. “But heed the words of your daughter, Afton.”

Afton cocked her head. “What words?”

“Didn’t she tell you to get better for the sake of your children? you still have a child on this earth. Do not forget Ambrose. He is not living in peace and joy, but in the castle.”

Afton released Corba’s hands and sank to the floor. What was she to do with Ambrose? How could she help him while he lived in the castle, the lair of ambition and vanity?

On the third day, Afton rose from her bed and dressed herself, determined to do what she could for Ambrose.

“H
alt in the name of King Stephen!” the guard on the London road called. The silver of his sword gleamed in the sun. “Identify yourself.”

“Calhoun, of late in the service of the king,” Calhoun answered, his hand on his own sword. “I wish to join the king’s ranks for a lifetime of service.”

The guard whispered to his companion, who nodded. “Proceed,” the first man announced, waving Calhoun through.

Calhoun rode immediately to Stephen’s palace and found a company of the king’s knights preparing to ride out. He gave his horse to a page and gathered his courage to approach the castle. He did not know what, if any, news had reached Stephen in the weeks since the disastrous duel, but perhaps the king had been too involved in his war with Matilda to pay any attention to rumors about a cowardly knight. In any case, Calhoun had decided to spend the rest of his life in the king’s service.

He gave his name to a messenger, who reappeared shortly. “The king will see you right away,” the messenger announced, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Calhoun nodded, and proceeded into the main hall.

Stephen sat at dinner, flanked by his aides. “We eat on the run, Sir Calhoun,” he said, acknowledging Calhoun’s presence. “Matilda and her forces are on the move in the south. We go at once to stop them.”

“I am at your service,” Calhoun said, kneeling on the stone floor.

“What of your marriage?” Stephen asked, waving a chicken leg imperiously. “I thought you took your leave some weeks ago to be married.”

“The marriage did not take place.” Calhoun raised his head defiantly.

“I am not so concerned with the marriage,” Stephen answered, taking a tremendous bite of chicken. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then swallowed. “Where have you been in the intervening time?”

Calhoun lowered his eyes to the stone floor, and was uncomfortably aware that the noise of forty dining knights had subsided. All eyes and ears, it seemed, were trained upon him.

“I have been riding through the countryside, collecting my thoughts,” Calhoun answered. “I needed to find a new purpose for my life--”

“Have you found it?” the king questioned.

“I offer it to you,” Calhoun finished. “My life and my service.”

“As the son of Perceval?”

Calhoun flushed. “As myself.”

The king put down his chicken and wiped his hands fastidiously on the linen table cloth. “Before I accept this valiant offering, I want to know of your father’s loyalty.”