Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (37 page)

So Patrick accompanied the Lady Katherina on horseback to a locale of her choosing, which turned out to be a pleasant spot past the orchards along a brook.

“I am not sure we should be this far from the keep,” he complained.

Katherina flashed her eerie eyes. “Why?”

“Since the attack, the land may not be safe.”

“Everyone who is anyone at Greensprings says this attack was once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. And where is your sense of adventure?” She clucked her tongue.

Patrick hated her.

She dismounted and tethered her horse without aid. She also set out a blanket and the midday meal. She was a very capable person, unlike most of the Lady Guests who needed to be hand-held and pampered.

They sat and ate silently for a while.

“Why did you want to come out here for a picnic?” Patrick asked.

“I told you, I wanted to get away,” she replied.

“All right then, why me? You could’ve asked anyone to be your chaperone.”

“Because, I wanted to come with someone I would feel comfortable with. You were Jason’s friend. If you were his friend, then I imagine that I could feel at ease with you.”

“Jason was friends with everyone, and I, arguably, the least of them.” Patrick felt uneasy. He knew this would happen.

“You didn't approve of him then?” She seemed to be prying him open with her eyes.

“On the contrary, I loved him like everyone. It's just that I don't think he felt anything special for me. I was just another colleague, and to his credit, he treated us all equally. McFowler did have his true friends, but I dare not say I was one of them.”

Katherina poured more wine into her cup, but only looked at it. Finally she said, “I believe this is correct. I was not close to him, either. But I felt comfortable with him.”

Patrick realized he had been holding his breath. Then there was no special relationship between the two as first he thought. McFowler really just wanted her to sing his music.

“And,” she continued, “you intrigue me. You are not like other knight. You are not like other noble. You are different. Don't talk much. Other knight try make conversation, involve Guests. You hide.”

He shrugged. He had no idea it was that obvious. He had hoped that his personal shortcomings had faded more by now. He didn't feel like discussing them either.

“Other knight are predictable, you are not. I don't like conventional.”

“So I've noticed,” Patrick said. So she had singled him out because he was different. He didn't know whether to be flattered or offended, considering the source.

She stood and tugged none too gently on his surcoat. “Let's go exploring.” He hesitated to leave the open blanket, plates and cups, but she was already working her way down the bank to the water. She pulled up her gown and kicked off her slippers, then waded ankle-deep into the water.

The forest lay on the opposite shore. It was fairly clear, not densely wooded, and it made poor cover for attackers (well, earthly ones in any case; otherworldly and shadowy ones were a different matter). At least it was broad daylight. The goblins that had attacked had come at night
―
perhaps that was all they could do. Maybe Katherina was right, maybe that had been a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. Still, he kept one hand on the hilt of his sword. He was not enjoying escorting the Lady Katherina.

“Maybe we should be going now,” he suggested. He was met by a cold stare, and she started to meander upstream. Patrick paralleled her on the bank.

“Tell me something about yourself,” she said.

Patrick sighed. “I'm Irish, I'm a knight, I carry a big sword.”

She gave him a sarcastic look. “I mean it. Tell me something personal about yourself. You were Crusader, right? Tell me about this.”

Patrick paused. Though his face had become devoid of expression, his hand seemed to move of its own accord to his head. He began to rub his temple with his fingers as he squeezed his eyes shut. For a brief moment, he heard the distant din of battle; metal on metal, cries of men.

“Sir Gawain?”

Patrick realized that the princess was staring at him.

He did his best to make his temple-rubbing gesture look natural by running his hand through his hair. He smiled wanly. “It was terrible. The worst thing anyone could do.”

Katherina frowned. “But it was for good cause, to take the Holy Land back from heathen.” She fingered the crucifix about her neck. It was an oddly shaped one. Its cross was angled rather than straight, with rope cords wrapped around either end.

Patrick swallowed hard. “It...was not...the purest of missions. Believe me. It was hard; physically, emotionally and...spiritually.”

Katherina was now wading into knee deep water. She hiked up her gown even farther. In doing so, she exposed more leg and thigh than Patrick was used to seeing on most men. His heart beat faster.

“Then why did you do it?”

He flashed a brief smile. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I wasn't aware that Irish-men went to Crusade,” she said.

“They don't, normally. I knew of few others who did.”

“Then why did you leave...” she struggled with her memory.”...Eire? Were you running from something?”

Patrick must not have guarded his look well enough, because she looked immediately contrite. “I really don't want to talk about it,” he said. “Why don't we talk about you for a while, shall we?”

She pulled up her gown a bit more. Patrick couldn't help but glance at the long white legs. “Very well,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“Where are you from?”

“
Uhkraani
,” she said. The sound of the word almost hurt Patrick's ears. She smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry, I don't know word for it in Latin or French...or Gaelic for that matter.”

“Where on earth is it?”

She shrugged. “Far away. It is beautiful land. It has golden fields in the good season. Eternal snow in the bad. It is much different than here. Our language, our clothes and customs, even our buildings are shaped different.”

He was puzzled. “Just how are your buildings shaped?”

“They are like, um, onion.” She struggled again with the explanation. Patrick nodded. He had seen the roofs of the palaces and mosques in the Eastern lands with their spiraling and bulbous shapes.

“We have contact with Europe, though. We know of warring brothers in England and Normandy, of scheming French Phillipe, of Crusade, of Pope Urban, of Antipope Clement. We are not barbarians like...” She shrugged one shoulder.

“Me?” Patrick leaned forward on one knee. Katherina blushed. She continued to stroll through the water. They came to a tiny stone chapel along the brook. He reached down to help her up the bank.

“You are much stronger than you look,” she commented when placed back down to earth.

“Thanks, I think.”

She plucked a flower from the edge of the brook and offered it to him. “For your efforts today.”

Patrick reached for its stem, but then cried out and withdrew his hand. He held his fist gingerly and looked at the flower as if it were evil.

“What happened?” Katherina laughed.

“A thorn or something,” Patrick said angrily.

“That should be lesson to you
―
you shouldn't reach for beautiful thing so quickly. Do you care to try again?” She continued to laugh, holding the flower forward.

Patrick shook his head. “I never did like flowers that much anyway.”

“Would you not give flower to woman?”

“No.”

She tossed the flower aside. “That is too bad.”

The chapel was crumbling and obviously hadn't been used in years. There were intricate carvings on the walls on the inside. No villager made these; they were of too high a workmanship. Patrick wondered who had made this place. It seemed older than the village or the keep. Was there a race of people who had been here before the original knights of Greensprings? Were they the same people who had set the numerous standing stones on the isle?

“Why did you come to Greensprings?” he asked. It was impolite, but she had made him uncomfortable by asking personal questions.

She did not readily answer. When she did, she put on an exaggerated smile. “Would you believe that my mother sent me away so that I would not be captured by the powerful sorceress Baba Yaga, who flies over the land in her cauldron in search of children to eat?”

Patrick smiled. “No.”

She put her head down and toyed with her crucifix. She sighed. “My mother, actually, did send me away for my protection. Though it wasn't because of an evil sorceress...” Her voice sounded thin.

Patrick felt a pang of guilt. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't like.”

She waved him off. “No, I want to.” She tucked the crucifix back beneath her collar. “My uncle wants to take throne away from my family now that my father has passed away. My little brother, who is rightful heir, is still too young to rule. My uncle wants to seize power now. So, to secure his position, he wants to...marry me.”

Patrick's stomach turned. Katherina hugged herself and rubbed her arms, but shrugged to cover the gesture.

“That wouldn't be completely out of ordinary; royalty do this sort of thing for the sake of politics. And ironically, I am normally attracted to such man as my uncle: older, commanding, confident. But he made me feel like object. Like one of his horses or worse, like one of his other women.” Her eyes were wet, and she quickly turned so that Patrick would not see, but he did. “He try several time, married or no. He has no scruple. And when I resist, he hit me often. So, my mother send me to associate in Rome. Then I come here. That is why I am here.” Katherina sighed and her shoulders sagged.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked.”

She smiled. “Why not? It is truth. It is life. No point hiding it. Besides, it is good to talk about it. If you keep bad things inside you, they will eat you up.” She looked at him as if she knew something. “You should try it sometime. Talk. Get it out. Before it eats you.”

Patrick averted his gaze. “What's mine is mine.”

She shook her head, and her eyes glistened as if still wet with tears. “No man is island.”

“What of the island who is a man?” Patrick countered.

She didn't seem sure how to respond to that. “You are poet.”

The Irishman shrugged. There was a moment of silence while they surveyed the walls of the chapel, admiring the rich engravings. Katherina placed a finger on a particular image, which was part of a story line. She had a mischievous air about her.

“Sir Gawain, what do you make of this?”

He came forward and scrutinized the picture. It was of a knight, bearing arms and armor, leaving a battle. A woman was running to meet him. She was weeping. Patrick explained this much to Katherina.

“Yes,” she said, “but what does it mean? Why does woman cry?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. The meaning is lost long ago to the original patrons of this place. Perhaps there are some villagers today who can...”

Katherina smiled while shaking her head. “No, Sir Gawain.
You
tell me what it means. Tell me story. You are poet. You can do this for me. Tell me what it means.”

Patrick's brow lifted; such a request had never been made of him before. He pulled back from the wall and examined it from a distance. “The woman,” he began, “is the lady of the knight. He is returning from battle.”

“What was the battle about?” Katherina asked, standing closer.

“It...was about her. You see, another knight in the land wants her, but she will not go to that knight, for she loves her man very much. So, the other knight, in jealousy, tells everyone in the land that the woman was once a harlot and unworthy of any man. This angers the husband of the woman—that man there—and he must defend her honor, so he goes to meet the man in personal combat. But when he arrives, he is ambushed by the evil knight and his henchmen, for they have no honor.”

“Obviously he survives, for there he is arising victorious,” Katherina said, gently touching Patrick's forearm. “But how, if he is only one man?”

“You are getting ahead of the story, my Lady
―
you see, the good knight is just and right. No man who is just and right can be defeated. Yes, he is ambushed by three times his number, but because of his cause he suddenly has five times their strength, and can defeat them all. He fights long and hard, and is victorious, and saves the honor of his lady. He returns home to his wife, who cries with tears of joy to see him still living. That is what it means.”

Katherina's clear blue eyes were glowing in the dim light of the chapel. She still held on to his forearm. “You are not just poet, Patrick, you are romantic. Even if you would not give flower to girl.”

Her touch made him uneasy and he pulled away. “Well, one man's romance is another's foolishness. It was just a story. I meant nothing romantic about it.”

Lady Katherina pulled her hands behind her back and strode to the entrance. She looked over her shoulder at Patrick and said, “You're right. It wasn't romantic. You're not romantic. As a matter of fact, it wasn't even very good.” She slipped out the door.

“What,” Patrick said angrily. He followed her out the door. “Just a moment ago you said it was romantic.”

Her back was to him. “Ha, you call that romantic. I can hear better from boy half your age.”

“Is that a fact?” Patrick growled. He really didn't understand this girl, and wasn't sure if he wanted to. He was already starting to see the writing on the wall. Which was fine, because he didn't need another Christianne.

“That is fact, Irish-man. A man coming to my window at night, and then reciting poetry to me, is romantic.” She returned to the picnic site and began to pack the blanket into her horse’s saddlebag.

“That would be a neat trick, considering that any boy trying to go to a window in the Hall for Lady Guests would be caught and punished.”

“A resourceful man wouldn't. A
romantic
man wouldn't,” returned Katherina, while mounting her horse. “That is what would make it romantic: the danger. Besides, what do you care? You don't have romantic bone in your body. Let us go back, I am tired.”