Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (3 page)

“By way of the Holy Land,” Patrick replied.

“Do you fight in the Crusade?”

“I did. It is a very long tale.”

Marcus seemed intrigued. “I plan to stay in the abbey for a few days, and I would be interested to hear it.”

Patrick gave a slight, almost tired smile. “It is not exactly the stuff of ballads and epics. I really do not think you would want to hear it. And what is an Englishman doing at Mont St. Michel?”

“I am completing certain research. You might say that I am on a crusade myself.” Marcus replied. The woman from Alsace was now talking to others at the table, allowing the two men to talk.

Now Patrick was intrigued. “How is that?”

“I belong to a certain order of knights,” Marcus explained. “And we must occasionally replenish our number, as many in our order move on to other missions in life. That is what I have been doing this year past, searching for new candidates. I am close to finding all that I need to complete our regiment, as well as six reserves. I came here because I have heard that in Les Salles Des Chevaliers there are documents describing the whereabouts of knights throughout the kingdoms.”

Patrick leaned forward, pushing his plate aside. “What is this order?”

“It is very select,” said Marcus. “Many of us go on to become royal or elite guards for the nobility. We are called the Avangarde.”

Patrick frowned. “I never heard of it.”

“Of course not,” Ionus said. “It is a small, private, and almost secret group.”

“Is it a Holy Order?” Patrick asked.

“Religious? No, not at all. It is quite secular. We guard knowledge and guests who seek safety and learning, most of whom are the children of nobility, sent for an education away from possible harm in their homelands.”

“I have heard of such schools in Paris and in Rome, but I have never heard of them using an order of knights to protect them,” Patrick said.

Marcus Ionus bobbed his head from side to side as if thinking carefully in choosing his next words. “It is not just a school per se, but a way of life—an environment, if you will. And since there is such a large concentration of noble lineage present, the great houses of the world have insisted, quite reasonably, that their noble offspring be protected.”

Patrick stroked his chin as he sat back on the bench. The concept was confusing. He was not sure if he understood, but he liked the idea of being a part of an order of knights given such a responsibility. A
secular
order. He had had his fill of fighting for religious reasons. And by the sound of it, it could lead to good references for a life afterwards.

“You say you still look for men?” Patrick asked.

“Yes,” Marcus replied.

“What must one do to become an Avangarde?”

“One need only take audience with me for a while, answer many questions and, of course, demonstrate some amount of fighting skill,” Marcus explained. “That is but a small portion, in any case. It is much more complex than that,” Marcus paused for a moment while swirling wine around in his goblet. While sipping from the cup, he looked at the Irishman over its rim. “Are you interested?”

Patrick didn't respond right away. He was afraid of looking to eager.

“I should warn you, however,” Marcus continued, “not to get your hopes up. I have found all that we need in the main regiment. Now I am but looking for reserves.”

Patrick’s brow furrowed. “And the difference between the two?”

Marcus replied, “The main regiment of Avangarde receive room, board, clothing, equipment, and a stipend each month. Nothing to make them rich, mind you, but enough to make them comfortable. And of course, there is the prestige and other intangible benefits that go with the station.”

“And the reserves?”

“They,” continued Marcus, raising again his goblet, “receive room and board and get the opportunity to work and function side-by-side with the other Avangarde.”

Patrick rubbed a hand over his face. Of course there had to be some kind of caveat; he was never so lucky.

“Make no mistake,” Marcus offered quickly. “The reserves are essential to the existence of the Garde. Without them, we would have no guarantee of maintaining our numbers in the event that some of the main corps of men fall. They hold high position and are respected.”

I wonder about that, Patrick thought.

“It is not at all uncommon for reserves to become Avangarde within a short amount of time,” Marcus continued. “Avangarde are always being offered positions which are closer to normal civilization and their positions must be filled.”

This last point caught his attention. “What do you mean ‘normal civilization?’”

Marcus's smile deepened the lines around his mouth and eyes. It was a light smile, which made Patrick feel as if Marcus knew something in particular that the other did not. Patrick tried imagining disliking him and found it impossible.

“Our holding is in Avalon, on the Misty Isle in the Western Sea,” he said simply. “It is far from any city of the known world.”

The room was nearly quiet now. Candle light flickered shadows along the floor as monks began clearing the table. He and Marcus sat almost alone.

“How do you expect me to believe that?” the Irishman asked after a moment of silence. “First you ramble on about this order of knights that I have never heard of, and now you tell me it is located on a mythical island.” He felt stupid. Worse, he felt gullible to have listened to the tale all along. He expected Marcus and his men sitting nearby to erupt in laughter.

Marcus continued to smile, as if expecting this outburst. “How do you know it is mythical? Have you ever been there to prove that it does not exist? How much faith and belief did you put into the tomb of Christ and the other Holy Relics until you actually saw them in Jerusalem?”

Patrick did not reply.

“I tell you, young sir, that we exist, the island exists, and if you like and if you meet the standards, you are invited to be an Avangarde reserve.”

Patrick wiped his mouth one last time and threw his napkin on the table. “If you will excuse me, sir.” He rose from the table and turned to depart. As he left, Marcus began to laugh, not a malicious laugh, but a slight humorous one.

“If you change your mind,” he called after Patrick's back, “you can find me in the apartments by Les Salles des Chevaliers.”

Patrick Gawain did not see the knight Marcus Ionus all the next day. Patrick stayed in his room, mostly stretched out on his bed staring up at the vaulted ceiling. He had not bothered getting dressed. He felt more depressed than ever.

Probably waiting to see if I come to him
. Then he will laugh, thought Patrick.

This made the Irishman all the unhappier, because for a moment, one moment, he believed that perhaps he had found somewhere to go. Somewhere that was not home and was not York. A place where he could feel useful, unlike this damned huge abbey where the monks constantly asked if he was feeling well enough to travel yet, and then looked at him askance.

“Besides,” Patrick muttered to himself. “A
reserve
? What's that all about?"

Avalon? It was a legend. It was as endearing as the legend of King Arthur; but many believed the legend of King Arthur to be true. Why else would so many inquire if he were related to Arthur's Gawaine? In the back of his mind, Patrick believed in such things, just like he believed in his own Celtic legends, such as those of Cu Chulainn. He had seen faerie circles in Eire, and heard the stories of changelings.

Have you ever been there to prove it does not exist?

He shot up from his bed and threw the metal pitcher of water against the wall. He then began to pace back and forth in the stone chamber.

It is not true. He was making jest at your expense
. He walked back and forth, rubbing his temple.

His agitated wandering came to a stop before the water stand. He stooped over and placed his hands on either side of it and looked into the mirror on the wall behind it.

“Where are you going to go?” He demanded of the pale and sullen-eyed individual in the polished copper. “What are you going to do?”

He stared at his reflection until the already-low candle burned itself out and he no longer could see in the darkness.

#

Marcus Ionus answered the knock at his chamber door and was not surprised to see the Irish knight.

“I...” Patrick did not know how to say what he wanted to say. He did not know what he wanted to say. “...Need...” his sighed angrily. “If these are stories to amuse yourself, I do not find...”

“Sir Gawain.” Marcus grabbed Patrick with both hands by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. “As Almighty God is my witness, I do not lie to you.”

Patrick relaxed. He still did not know what to say.

“Be warned though. I still must test you. I have been a year now searching for people. I do not choose lightly. It is not just a matter of swinging a sword.”

Patrick nodded.

#

The following days were strange ones for Patrick. Marcus was correct when he said he would ask all manner of questions. And strange questions they were. At first Patrick did not see the point in them. Then he came to realize that they were a form of evaluation of his character by way of example. These often took place while on long walks around the outer wall. The weather was improving, and outdoor activity was becoming the norm.

One such question: “Gawain, if you were walking down the street one day and you came across a young girl whose kitten was stuck in a tree, would you stop to help?”

“Of course.”

“But you are in a hurry, the king awaits your audience.”

“Is the girl crying?”

“Yes.”

“I would stop to help.”

Another time, while Marcus accompanied the Irishman on walks with steeper paths to challenge his health, the Englishman asked; “Gawain, you catch a man robbing your house, but he is not stealing valuables, only food, for he is poor and his family is starving. What do you do with the man?”

“I let him take the food.”

“But you are poor yourself.”

“But I have food, and he does not. I am not as poor as he.”

And then; “Gawain, you are in combat and you see your liege fall under the attack of many. What do you do?”

“I ride to his side.”

“You have no hope of survival.”

“Better dead than a failure.”

Marcus looked at Patrick curiously. The answer was quick and the Irishman looked sternly forward, deep in thought, saying no more.

And so the questions went on for days. Patrick felt that he answered most of them wisely. The ones he had doubts about, he wagered that it was best to tell the truth, what he would really do in such a situation. He also answered many questions about his family, his reasons for leaving home, his travels in the Holy Land, and his general point of view on life. Marcus seemed to find him interesting, and once, he said, a little difficult to follow.

“An Avangarde must have stability, a strong grasp on reality,” the tall knight emphasized.

Patrick did not mention the robed Apparition that had paid him visits.

His fighting ability was tested the day after the questioning. This took place at the base of the walls that formed the inner battlements, higher up on the island where there were trees and rocks, and not so many people about. There was much sunshine now. The demonstration of fighting skills was much easier than the questioning. Marcus only demanded simple demonstrations of the different defensive, offensive, and passive use of the weapons with which Patrick was already familiar. The two men fenced. Patrick found Marcus a capable fighter.

“Your methods are unorthodox but effective,” Marcus pointed out.

Patrick gave a light smile, while stroking away at his sword with a sharpening stone when the sparring was complete. “I have seven brothers and three sisters, remember? They were a quarrelsome brood.”

The third day began with Marcus bringing Patrick to the location where they had fenced and placed a rather large rock on Patrick's head. He told him to balance it there until he said otherwise. Then he went and laid down under the shade of a tree, stretching out his arms and putting them behind his head.

After an hour of sweating in the sun and listening to the sound of insects buzzing in the sparse grass among the rocks, Patrick tossed the rock.

“You know what I think?” the Irishman asked.

Marcus opened his eyes. “No, what might that be?”

“I think you have no intention whatsoever of telling me when to put the rock down. You want to keep me guessing. To perdition with that.” Patrick folded his arms, as if to challenge any response Marcus might have.

Marcus clapped his hands. “Very good, my Celtic warrior.”

And that was the end of that.

#

The following day Marcus told Patrick that he did not want to see him. He wanted to confer with his entourage about the matter.

The morning after that, however, Patrick awoke to find the knight standing over his bed. “Congratulations. You are an Avangarde reserve now.” He then poured the pitcher of water over the Irishman. “Get dressed. Let us break our fast.” And then he went out the door, laughing.

Patrick sat there pulling at the soaked sheets, shocked by the total irreverence of it all.

After they broke their fast, there was somewhat of a ceremony. Patrick was asked to recite the oath of the station and was touched on both shoulders by Marcus's blade.

“I pronounce you a reservist of the Avangarde,” Marcus said, and followed it with something in Latin that Patrick did not hear clearly.

And finally it was time for Marcus Ionus to leave.

“I must be getting back to my duties,” he said. “I consider myself very fortunate that I came across you here. You have cut my journey in half.”

He gave Patrick a small leather volume with incredibly small print. “Read this. It is the basis for all the Garde as well as the establishment that it protects. All Garde and reservists alike must know it thoroughly. You should have enough time to finish it before you arrive at Avalon. As for getting to Avalon, take this.” He handed Patrick a rolled scroll of waxed parchment with a seal on it. The seal was of a swan. “Show it to any fisherman of Cornwall. It will be recognized.”