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  Afton of Margate Castle

  by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Beautiful, headstrong Afton is taken from her parents at an early age and raised in the castle, a companion to the earl’s daughter. Schooled in the ways of kings and surrounded by splendor, Afton falls in love with the earl’s son, brave, Calhoun, her childhood protector.

  But Calhoun’s mother, the Lady Endeline, has much different plans for him than marriage to a villein’s daughter. Suddenly Afton’s world is torn viciously apart. She is cast out of the castle, given to a man she fears and despises as a reward for his loyalty—an all too clear reminder that, for all her dreams, she is nothing but a villein.

  Now all she has left is a burning desire for vengeance . . .

  What people have said about Afton of Margate Castle:

  “Forgiveness and reconciliation are strong words—as is the word reality. All three are here in Angie Hunt’s Afton of Margate Castle. I recommend it to you.”

  --Eugenia Price

  “A great story demonstrating the universality of human nature, which is the foundation for the relevance of all history. Afton’s search for her own identity within a traditional cultural context is as contemporary as tomorrow’s newspaper.”

  --Thomas O. Kay, Chairman of the History Department, Wheaton College

  Copyright 1993 by Angela Elwell Hunt

  Originally published by Tyndale House Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission from the publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  Other Novels by Angela Hunt

  The Troubadour’s Quest

  Ingram of the Irish

  Doesn’t She Look Natural?

  She Always Wore Red

  She’s In a Better Place

  The Nativity Story

  Magdalene

  The Face

  The Elevator

  The Novelist

  A Time to Mend

  Unspoken

  The Truth Teller

  The Awakening

  The Debt

  The Canopy

  The Pearl

  The Justice

  The Note

  The Immortal

  The Shadow Women

  The Silver Sword

  The Golden Cross

  The Velvet Shadow

  The Emerald Isle

  Dreamers

  Brothers

  Journey

  For a complete listing, visit www.angelahuntbooks.com

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Epilogue

  Author Biography

  For Gary

  The heart of the human problem

  Is the problem of the human heart.

  --Anonymous

  He who learns must suffer.

  And even in our sleep,

  pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart,

  And in our own despair, against our will,

  Comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.

  --Aeschylus

  One

  Wido

  1119 A.D.

  Wido grunted with satisfaction as he settled into his bed next to his wife, Corba. It had been a full day, but a good one filled with hard work in his own furrows. He laced his fingers together across his broad chest and breathed deeply. Across the room, he could hear the regular breathing of his six children, five strong boys and Afton, the girl. Next to him Corba’s pregnant body was enticing in its warmth and fullness, but he decided to let her sleep. It felt good to lie alone in the dark and think.

  Not that Wido never had time alone. As a plowman he was often alone in his narrow field or solitary in the fields of Lord Perceval, but his thoughts behind the plow were centered on the incessant cycle of plowing, sowing, and harvest. Which fields should be planted with drink grains, which with bread grains, and which should lie fallow? Of course, in Lord Perceval’s fields he did as he was told, but in his own meager strip he was careful not to offend the laws of God and nature. One miscalculation, one failed crop, and his family or his livestock might not make it through the winter.

  Today his mind had been of the upcoming festival of Hocktide, when he and Corba would have to present a full basket of eggs to Lord Perceval’s steward. Sixteen eggs they would have to bring, two for each person who lived in their small hut. Sixteen eggs! Wido crossed himself and hoped that Corba had said the proper incantations and prayers to keep the hens laying. If they were even one egg short, Wido would have to load timber for the castle or spend an extra day in Lord Perceval’s fields while his own chores waited.

  As if she knew his thoughts, one of Wido’s hens stuck her head out from under his bed and squawked. “Yes, little friend, you have work to do,” Wido whispered, his gruff voice breaking the stillness of the night. “We cannot be an egg short.”

  Corba stirred, the hay in their mattress creaking softly. “Is all well?” she whispered, raising her head from her pillow. Her beautiful wide-set eyes were drowsy. “Are the children all right?”

  “All is well,” Wido assured her, turning on his side to look at his bride. Dim moonlight streamed through the open window, and Wido was struck again by his wife’s beauty. He loved her, and was frankly amazed that he loved her more now that he had on the day they were wed in front of the church. “I was reminding the hen of our need for sixteen eggs.”

  “Ah,” Corba nodded, and her head dropped back on the rough wool of her pillow. “Lord Perceval must be satisfied. What do you think his steward will do if we only bring fifteen?”

  “Old Hector will want to extract an arm or a leg,” Wido answered, his voice light. He nuzzled his wife’s shoulder. “Or perhaps Lady Endeline will covet instead your golden hair. But I will not let you pay the price. My life would be forfeit instead.”

  “You would not have married a fool,” Wido answered, caressing her pregnant belly with his rough hand. The child within her womb was awake, too, and Wido felt a decisive kick against his palm. “Did you feel that? Our child agrees that his father is a wise man.”

  “You talk like a fool,” Corba answered, smiling drowsily.

  “A wise plowman,” Corba answered, her blue eyes closing. “What is the use of such a man? Does the ground care who plows it? Does the ox know who drives it
? Does the seed notice who throws it?”

  “No,” Wido agreed. “But the wife knows what her husband is, and the children follow in the footsteps of their father. Wisdom has its place even among unfree ploughmen.”

  “Does it?” Corba asked softly. She turned toward her husband and gently kissed the tip of his nose. “Will wisdom make your eggs sweeter than those of your friend Bodo?”

  Wido held her hand and squeezed it. “No. But I have wisely chosen a wife even more beautiful than Lord Perceval’s.”

  Corba smiled and a dimple appeared in her cheek. “Alas, Wido, I was wrong. You are wise beyond measure.”

  ***

  The day dawned bright with rare sunshine. Wido and Corba hustled their children out of their hut and joined the other villagers on the road to Margate Castle. The air was filled with cries of merriment, and Wido noticed that even dour Friar Odoric seemed jovial. “Who knows but that even Friar Odoric will dance today?” Wido asked Corba as they followed the crowd.

  “That’s not likely,” Corba answered, breathing heavily. She was carrying their basket of eggs on her right arm and balancing their youngest child on her left hip. Wido stopped and lifted the baby into his arms.

  Corba was right, of course. The Church took a dim view of dancing and merriment, especially on religious holidays. Wido often wondered how God could create such wonderful things as animals and sunsets and babies and women and yet make work so hard and church so somber. Wido made a mental note to ask the priest for an answer.

  The castle road led the stream of villagers out of the village and through the forest, where they gathered greenery and wild blossoms. The procession then wended its way to Margate Castle, home of Perceval, Earl of Margate, and his wife, Lady Endeline. Their village was one of many manors overseen by Perceval and his steward, Hector, but it was the only one directly affiliated with Margate Castle.

  Wido had occasion to talk with plowmen from other manors and knew that his lot was often better than theirs. Lord Thomas of Warwick, a knight who had received his estate from Perceval’s father after the first mighty expedition of God to the Holy Land, charged his tenants three eggs per person at Hocktide. Wido understood the discrepancy. Those who held land owed tribute and service to their lords, and the tribute was ultimately paid by the villeins, the feudal slaves on the estate. The villeins of the estate belonging to Thomas of Warwick paid service and tribute to Thomas, who gave tribute to Perceval, who gave tribute to King Henry. “The more lords a man ‘as,” another plowman once confided to Wido, “the less a man eats.”

  Wido and his family ate--usually--depending upon the land’s bounty. Wido wasn’t sure whether he held land or the land held him. As a villein on Margate Land he and the land could be bought, sold, or traded at Perceval’s pleasure. But within the Margate acres he had his own furrows to plow, a garden to plant, and a hut in which to shelter his wife and children. He had a bed, a sheep, a cow, four chickens, two pigs, four bowls, and two complete sets of clothing, gifts from Lord Perceval at Christmastide.

  Wido’s time was more or less his own. True, he did owe three days of work each week to Perceval’s fields, and the call for boon work came frequently during the harvest. These days of work on demand were usually rewarded though, and the villeins had pet names for them: hungerbidreap, when the villeins were given nothing; waterbidreap, when they were given water at the end of the day; and the alebidreap, when each villein was allowed a long draught of the lord’s ale.

  Corba was not exempt from Perceval’s service. Three days a week she left Afton to care for the little boys and went up to the women’s quarters behind the tall walls of the castle. In a private hedged area, the villein women and the female servants of the castle wove linen, wool, or vermilion. Sometimes they were dispatched to the sheep pens for shearing. Wido had the distinct impression that Corba enjoyed these days with the other women. She always came home with a secret gleam in her eye, and she would never tell him what it was women talked about. Wido finally stopped asking. Other men assured him that women were tools of the devil, and the less a man had to do with them, the better off he’d be. Wido could believe nothing bad about Corba, but still--better to be happily ignorant than wisely sorrowful.

  The deforested pasture surrounding Margate Castle gleamed in the sunlight, and the castle’s imposing stone walls were gilded in a covering of early morning dew. Flags with Perceval’s family herald fluttered in the slight breeze from the imposing twin towers, and Wido idly wondered how a place built for battle could look so inviting. The gates were open and the drawbridge down, with the men, women, and children of Perceval’s manor, free and unfree, streaming into the castle for their annual reward.

  The outer courtyard had been filled with tables, and soon the castle servants would serve the Easter feast. But first there was necessary business. Under a canopy near the gate, Hector the steward had set up his accounting table and was making notes in his ledger book. Hector was ruthless in his devotion toward Lord Perceval. Wido crossed himself and thanked God that the hens had come through. Not only were there sixteen eggs, but Corba, his wise wife, had set two extra eggs aside for their unborn child.

  “If he asks eighteen, you will be prepared,” Corba had told Wido as she placed the basket in his hand. “And if he asks sixteen, the two extra will bring you favor in his sight. That favor may do us good in months to come.”

  In her twenty years as a villein, Corba had learned the advantages of bribing the lord’s steward. Wido had to consciously smooth his face when he thought of her, so great was his urge to beam with pride. His friends would have considered him addled if they knew how much he adored his wife; their admiration was reserved for oxen, fields, and sheep. A young and fertile wife was something to be desired, but to adore a wife was mere foolishness.

  But Wido adored Corba more fervently than he adored the Blessed Virgin. She had suckled six healthy children who all survived infancy, an unheard-of accomplishment, and she remained strong enough to carry yet a seventh. Best of all, five times she had born sons stamped in the image of dark-haired, wiry Wido himself. Lord Perceval would not have as many fine sons, probably not even King Henry.

  And there was the girl, the first-born. Wido had been bewildered at her birth. What is this squalling, red-skinned creature? he had wondered when the midwife showed the child to him. Surely it is not bone of my bones! Time had not lessened his confusion. Eight years had passed and the girl had grown tall, blonde, and fair like her mother. Once as Afton trudged alongside the ox with the goad, Wido had studied her profile and realized that not one bit of him was reflected in the child, save perhaps his temper.

  She was not a brawler, as Wido had occasion to be when he was under the influence of ale, but he had seen her eyes flash fire and steely determination when she was angry. Wido first saw her anger when as a babe she came naked out of the baptismal font, wet and shivering, and she glared at the priest before bursting into furious wailing. Since then Wido had been careful to keep those cool gray eyes from turning too often in his direction, but common sense told him his behavior wasn’t natural. A man should not be afraid of any woman, especially his own daughter.

  ***

  “Wido.” Hector looked up appraisingly, seeming to weigh even the flesh on the plowman’s bones. “Six children, one wife, and yourself--that will be sixteen eggs.”

  “If it please you,” Wido said, proffering Corba’s basket, “my wife sends eighteen eggs for you and Lord Perceval.”

  Hector nodded and dipped his quill pen into the ink-filled cow’s horn attached to the table. His left hand took two eggs out of Wido’s basket and disappeared under the table. “Wido’s tribute is paid. You may sit at the upper tables.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Wido moved away. Behind him, Bodo, another plowman, was explaining why he was five eggs short. It would not go well with him, for Hector did not appreciate shortages.

  Wido led his family to a long table where they sat and waited for the food to arrive. In
front of each of them was a trencher, a large, stale piece of bread that served as a plate, and each place had its own knife and fork. Wido was pleased. The upper tables were furnished with utensils, but the tables farthest away were bare. Poor Bodo would certainly be sitting at a lower table.

  A flush of excitement lit Corba’s face; her cheeks glowed like roses. Afton squirmed next to Corba, the baby on her lap, and next to Afton Wido’s five sons lined the table like a neat row of growing corn.

  The flourish of a trumpet silenced the restless peasants, and a barred wooden shutter on the second floor of the castle keep was thrown open. A handsome man in a white and purple tunic approached the window and held up his hand.

  The crowd stilled as if God had signaled them. At twenty-eight, Perceval, the Earl of Margate, was a commanding presence. He stood taller than most men, his height accentuated by his straight carriage and regal bearing. His shoulders were broad and tapered neatly down to a trim waist, where his polished sword hung ever ready. Like his father before him, Perceval tolerated no ambition but his own.

  “My people.” Perceval’s voice carried easily over the crowd. It was a voice accustomed to giving orders. “As a father welcomes his children for dinner, so welcome I you.” He smiled down on his tenants. “It has been well said that May is the joy-month. After dinner, select for yourselves a lord and lady of the May to preside over your games and dances. Perhaps we can even get Lady Endeline to crown your lady of the May.”

  The crowd cheered, and Wido saw Endeline obediently draw near to the window as her husband gestured to her. Younger than her husband, she was tall, thin, and regal, but there was no trace of a smile upon her face.

  Perceval clasped the hand of his lady and outstretched his free arm to the crowd. “Eat, drink, and enjoy the hospitality of Margate Castle,” he said. “And long live England’s King Henry!”