Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (11 page)

Patrick groaned again and threw his pillow at the wall that separated his chamber from that of William of Monmouth. The stocky merchant's son had entirely too much energy and liked to rise early every morning to vent it. Patrick could hear the boy moving noisily around his room as if he were moving heavy wood furniture. Patrick found that he liked the Hall for Guests much better when it was empty. The Avangarde didn’t have to put up with such indignities every morning.

He was supposed to take his turn on the keep walls. There was nothing to guard against, as far as he could tell. But then again, you could not exactly have walls and knights who did not use them. The Benefactors on the outside would probably be at a loss were they to find out that the keep and all its important inhabitants were needlessly invaded because the knights sworn to protect it decided to sleep in an extra hour.

Still, Patrick had to force himself to get dressed. Halfway through putting on his surcoat, he just sat on his bed with the garment hanging over his head, blanketing his face.

The Irishman was painfully aware of the fact that he was performing only the minimum of what was expected of him as an Avangarde Reservist. He did not mix with the Guests or even with the Avangarde. He spent much of his time with the other Reservists. Patrick mused that if this behavior continued, it would be entirely possible that he would be asked to leave Avalon. And where would he go then? Not home, not yet. He had nothing to show for his journeys except stories. With that thought, the image of himself on his knees staring at bloody hands came to mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. No, this place was his chance to make his life normal again. He could not leave. He certainly could not leave in dishonor. He needed this.

He knew something needed to be done, but didn’t know what. He found it difficult to be the carefree knight ready to settle the disputes, disruptions, or just plain homesickness of the Guests. Dealing with challenges of the social realm did not come to him easily. Worldly dangers, however, did not pose a problem.

Patrick smiled. It was too bad that the keep really was not being attacked from outside. Now
that
he could handle;
that
he had experience with.

Perhaps wishing for such a thing is not so wise, he thought.

A noise from his door brought him back. He pulled the surcoat all the way over his head, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and stared at a corner of paper someone was trying to force under his door.

He walked over to the door and opened it.

A young woman was bent over and holding the rest of the paper in her hand. She jumped up and gasped. She was stout and wore a servant’s veil and shapeless gown. She was not one of the Greensprings’ servants.

“Can I help you, mademoiselle?” Patrick asked.

The woman just stood there, wide-eyed, and began to make funny noises. At first Patrick thought that she was perhaps in pain, even though she wore a bit of a smile, but then he realized that she was laughing. Her laughs were contorted, and Patrick further decided that she was perhaps a mute. Not knowing what to do or say, Patrick said, “Is there something that I can do?”

The woman looked about, making her laugh-grunt sounds, and held the piece of paper up for him to see. It was addressed to William of Monmouth.

“Oh,” Patrick exclaimed, finally understanding. “You had the wrong door. Here, I believe he is home. Let us knock and see...” He started towards the door, but the woman shoved the paper into Patrick's hand and ran down the corridor, laughing.

The letter was scented with a woman’s perfume. The door to William's room opened and he came out.

“What's all the noise about?” William snatched the letter out of Patrick's outstretched hand.

Patrick's frown deepened. “What?” he said, snatching the letter back. It was his turn to read it. It was an anonymous, brief love letter announcing someone's amorous intentions. “It is not from me,” Patrick protested, getting red in the face.

William raised his eyebrows.

“It was from a short servant woman,” Patrick said, “with big brown eyes and cherubic cheeks who couldn’t talk. Just sort of grunted and laughed.” William's expression was getting more receptive. “She was trying to force it underneath my door. She thought it was your chamber.” William turned and beat his head against his door.

“She is such a nuisance!”

Patrick smiled. “It seems you have a lady admirer.”

“No, you do not understand.” William explained, scrunching up his shoulders and clenching his hands into fists. “The message is not from her mistress. It is from her, the servant herself. We were on the same boat coming to Avalon. For some reason, she fell in love with me. She has been a nuisance ever since.”

Patrick laughed. “If this is all the trouble you have, you are a lucky man. If you will forgive me, I must attend to my duties. I will see you later, and I trust you will wake me up again tomorrow morning as you have faithfully done since you arrived. Good day, Willy.”

#

At the end of his shift on the wall, Patrick descended the battlements and made his way across the training grounds toward the keep. He was cold, tired, and hungry. A long day's vigilance usually did that to him, and he was looking forward to a hot meal.

But as he was entering the chamber adjacent to the gardens a French noblewoman stopped him.

“Mon Seigneur Gawain?” she asked. Patrick nodded, and then realized that he should bow or at least say something polite despite his foul mood.

“I was wondering if you could help me with a matter?” the woman said.

She was as tall as his shoulders, and had long, dark, silky hair, expressive eyes, and beautifully arched thick eyebrows. Patrick did not know what sort of matter he could possibly help her with that demanded that she seek him out in particular. She was a Lady Guest, from Vichy, but he was unable to recall her name.

“How may I help you, m’lady?” he said. His French was crude compared to her flowery formality. She began to pace before him, wringing her hands.

“It is quite silly, actually,” she said. “My maidservant seems to be terribly taken by one of the other Guests. I know that he does not requite her feelings, and though he has held his temper, I can see in his face that someday he will berate her, which will devastate her. Can you see my problem, Sir Gawain?”

Patrick's mouth moved involuntarily, striving to form words that would seem appropriate, but none came.

“Oh, I have disturbed you with this ridiculous drama, have I not?” She stepped up to him and laid a hand on his forearm. “I am sure you Avangarde have better things to do, but we have been told that you knights are like family, and this is not a matter one can bring up to Father Hugh at confession, let alone seek out his advice.”

Patrick shrugged. “Mademoiselle, perhaps it would help if you told me who we are talking about and why you think I can help. And, I am terribly sorry, but I am afraid I cannot recall your name. Forgive my memory.”

The woman gasped. “Oh my manners, forgive
me
Sir Gawain. My name is Christianne Morneau, from Vichy. I am newly arrived in Avalon with my maidservant, Melwyn. She told me of the incident in the Hall for Guests, where you reside, while attempting to send a letter to William of Monmouth, the man with whom she is in love. That is why I am asking your advice, because you are an Avangarde, a neighbor, and perhaps a friend of William's.”

Patrick laughed. “I see now,” he said. “So it is your maidservant who is in love with Willy.” He stopped laughing once he saw that Christianne did not join him. “I am pleased that you came to me, of all people, to ask advice, but the best that I can offer is to let the drama unfold by itself. She is obviously infatuated, and with time, she will get over it.”

“I know that, but as I said, I am afraid William might lose his temper and hurt her. She may be only a maidservant, but we grew up together, I have known her all my life, and she is very much like a sister.” Lady Morneau’s eyes were beseeching. “Please, Sir Gawain, it is a simple matter. Speak to William. Father Hugh and Mother Superior tell us that you Avangarde are not only soldiers of arms, but also soldiers of the spirit. Can you use your position to keep her from being harmed? However silly this may sound to you, it is important to me.”

Patrick drew in a deep breath. The girl had a point. That was just what the Creed stated.

Patrick said, “You are obviously distraught over this, and it is my duty to do my best to remedy it. I will talk to William and straighten the whole matter out. You need not worry about it.” An easy promise, but he did not have the slightest idea how to fulfill it.

Christianne embraced him and thanked him. Patrick held the French noblewoman awkwardly in his arms. The form of contact was alien to him.

She was absolutely beaming. She must indeed be close to her maidservant, he thought.

“One question, though,” he asked. “Melwyn? That's her name? Does she talk?”

Lady Morneau smiled and leaned back from him, hands on his shoulders. “When it suits her. I would not say that she is touched...” she gestured to her head. “...but she is a unique girl. She laughs nonstop, though I have no problem communicating with her. Actually, I find her very refreshing.”

“That’s sweet,” said Patrick.

Jason McFowler came striding into the chamber.

“What is this? Fraternizing among the Guests and Avangarde?” Patrick eased out of Christanne's arms. He remembered the rules but also remembered Sir Geoffrey's view on the matter and wondered if Jason felt the same way.

“Sir McFowler, you devil in a kilt, how are you today?” the Frenchwoman asked. The conversation was now in Latin. Christianne went to the Highlander and gave him a warm hug. “Sir Gawain has just agreed to help me with a diplomatic matter of great importance. I am eternally indebted to him.”

“Well, then, it seems he has won himself a lovely treasure. Though I hope it can wait until later, for he is just the man I am looking for.”

“What on earth for? I have already done my duties for the day,” he started, but McFowler put up a hand. His other arm was around Lady Mourneau’s waist.

“I am sure you have worked hard and diligently and are a credit to the Reservists, as well as the Avangarde, but I just wanted to invite you and some others to the village for supper and some ale.”

“I will leave you two to go to your entertainment,” Lady Morneau said, once again coming up to Patrick and taking his hand in hers. “I do wish to know as soon as possible what comes of your 'diplomatic mission.' And, of course, I would not mind spending some time with you, Patrick. Perhaps we can sup together in the dining hall sometime? I would love to hear about your homeland.”

She walked away and waving goodbye, all smiles. But halfway through the doorway she stopped and turned. “Oh Patrick, there is one thing I have been meaning to ask you. Who is that hooded man that I sometimes see following you around?”

#

They walked to the village. Patrick was quiet. Any questions he might have had concerning McFowler's motives were forgotten in the mental clamor of Lady Mourneau’s inquiry about the Apparition

“Why so glum, Irishman? I thought everyone from the Green Isle was a cheerful drunk.”

Patrick half-smiled. “Long day.”

They entered the village of Aesclinn, and the dust under their boots gave way to cobblestone. This was Patrick's first time in the village, and he found it tidy with its stone fences and gabled earthen buildings. They found the inn, which looked small from the outside but seated many. Someone at the corner of the room hailed them.

“Look it's McFowler and Sir Sil...” He got a sharp jab to the abdomen by the knight seated next to him.

Jason led Patrick to a circular wooden table in the corner. Patrick recognized them all and noted that they were all veterans. There was Sir Mark, Sir Brian, Sir Waylan, who looked more like a warrior hermit than a knight, Sir Corbin, and Sir Eirech Bischoff, a hulking long-haired German who spoke neither Latin nor French very well. He always managed to make himself understood even though the only thing that he ever said was “Good! Good!” with a toothy grin. They called him “Bisch.”

Room was made for Patrick and Jason.

“What will you be drinking?” Sir Corbin asked.

Patrick shrugged. “What is there?” The inn brewed its own and smelled of barley oats and malt and something else even stronger. Every time the barkeep passed between the swinging door that led out of the common room, Patrick caught a glimpse of huge wooden fermenting vats.

“Oh, ale and beer, flavored with fruit or not, and dark or light ones. If you have a craving for wine, there is...”

Sir Waylan cut Sir Brian off. “Fool, it is his first time here, not to mention his first time in Avalon.” There were murmurs of assent. “Frederique, a pint of Aphelon for our companion.”

Patrick sat with back rigid and hands at his sides, waiting for the spindly old Norman barkeep to bring his drink. How to act among veterans? He had not spent much time with them, and he definitely had not expected to be among them in this manner.

Frederique brought the earthenware goblet and placed it before Patrick. It smelled of apples and alcohol—hard cider. Patrick reached for his coins, but Corbin waved him off.

“My pleasure, Sir Gawain,” he said.

The drink was tasty and potent. They told Patrick that it was made from the local apples and harvested by the villagers. The apple trees were native to the Misty Isle and had the unlikely trait of blooming year round, therefore providing an endless supply of apples, and hard cider.

Food was ordered, and they ate a splendid meal of roasts, hams, chicken, stews and soups, fresh bread, and cheese. It was different, more pleasant, in comparison to the meals served at Greensprings. Though the Keep meals were fine, they lacked a certain personal quality, most likely because they were made often and in volume.

After the meal, more drinks went around. Patrick smiled more, relaxed, and began to see the men around him as companions rather than superiors. He wondered if this had been their intention all along. Or maybe it was only Jason's.