Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (7 page)

“Oh Kellie,” he sobbed. Patrick relaxed his embrace and looked into the face of the woman as she removed her veil.

“I've missed you, too, Patrick. I've been waiting for you,” she replied. Her face was Aimeé’s.

And he woke. There was a scuffing noise, and his neck ached.

The noise from across the hall, he realized, had awakened him. Still rubbing his neck, he got up from the windowsill, went to the door to investigate, and poked his head outside. Across the hall and to the right, it sounded like someone was moving furniture in a room. A shadow moved back and forth across the wedge of light at the foot of the door, which was ajar.

He knocked on the door, and it swung open.

Inside in the doorway stood a heavy-looking man. His mane of shaggy blond hair crowned a beaming moon face.

“Good afternoon,” Patrick said, extending a hand. “I am Patrick Gawain, and I am new. I guess we are neighbors.”

The man took the Irishman's hand and pumped it, smiling all the while. “Most pleased to meet you. Jonathan of Northumbria, but you can just call me Jon. I am a Reservist.”

Jonathan wore a simple tunic similar to Patrick’s. Had he not mentioned that he was a Reservist, Patrick would not have guessed him to be the knightly type. He seemed more like the happy baker type.

“Sir Jon...” Patrick said, smiling.

“Yes?”

“You can stop shaking my hand now if you like.”

Jon looked down and stopped pumping Patrick’s hand and withdrew his in a hurry, smiled even more broadly, and bobbed his head. “Sorry.”

“That is all right,” Patrick said. “I am glad to know that you are happy to meet me.”

Jon invited Patrick inside a room that was not all that different from his. They talked for a while, first about nothing in particular, then about what brought Jon to the Misty Isle. “My uncle was an Avangarde. He did not really tell anybody about it. He just kind of disappeared one year and was gone for a while. He came back a little bit richer and went on to be a guardsman for an earl in Manchester. It was then that he put in a good word for me with the Avangarde. A man named Marcus Ionus came to the family estate asking for me.”

“How long ago was that?” Patrick asked.

“About six months ago, but he told me that I was not to come to Avalon until later. I arrived about two weeks ago. I was one of the last to be picked. I guess there is you and then another who has not yet arrived.”

Patrick nodded. “I remember Marcus Ionus saying something about going to London.”

And so the conversation continued. Jon fussed with his room, moving what little furniture there was, straightening out a framed icon, and rearranging his belongings. He seemed to take great pride in his new dwelling. After a while, Patrick apologized and left, as he was tired. The little nap had only primed him for more sleep. Jon promised to rouse him when it was time to go to the gathering, and this pleased Patrick. He had made a friend.

He slept soundly, but after some long seeming amount of time had passed, his subconscious began warning him that perhaps it was getting late. The notion that he should be at the gathering plagued him. What if he was missed? That would hardly be a proper first impression.

After some tossing and turning, he got out of bed and saw that the sun hovered over the horizon, and the shadows in the room had become much longer.

Patrick went to Jon's room and knocked. Probably fell asleep himself, Patrick mused.

Several moments passed and no one answered. It was evident that no one was home. A little peeved, Patrick stalked off in the direction of the stairwell and the exit of the Hall.

#

Patrick left the Hall for Guests, crossed a dusty corner of the training grounds and found his way into the keep via the gardens. That much he remembered. Upon entering the keep, however, he became instantly lost. He could not find his way to the dining hall but managed to find the front entrance with the ornate tree-shaped columns. From there, he decided to go to the stables and visit Siegfried.

He had no trouble finding either the stables or the horse. At the sight of the Irishman, the horse shook its mane, pawed at the ground and then trotted over to the side of the stall.

“What do you think, boy? Was it a mistake to come here?” Patrick asked. Siegfried neighed and shook his head in a flurry of black mane. Patrick smiled. “I will take your word for it.”

It was getting dark. Straightening his tunic and cloak, he resolutely walked back to the keep’s entrance.

In the courtyard, he came across a dark-haired knight in the black cape and swan-emblazoned surcoat of the Avangarde. Patrick asked where the dining hall was, and the knight offered to show him the way, explaining that he was going there himself. The knight introduced himself as Geoffrey.

He found the dining hall easily. It was just a matter of being familiar with the keep
―
main entrance, down the hall, left, right, left. The room was two stories tall. The next level had columned openings so that spectators could gather on the higher floor, convenient for court affairs, since the hall was narrow and already crowded.

The hall was filled with all kinds of people: servants, priests and nuns, scholars, and of course Avangardesmen. Patrick noted almost immediately that the knights all sported the same black-and-white surcoat as Wolfgang von Fiescher. They looked professional. They looked like a unit. Perusing the room some more, Patrick saw there were also several men wearing their own family tabards or garbed in common dress like his. Patrick guessed that they were the other Reservists, and maybe did not receive the uniform.

“Would you care for a drink, monsieur?”

Patrick looked down and saw Aimeé holding a tray full of flagons, which she extended toward him. Her smile complemented her eyes and other considerable attributes.

“Thank you.” Patrick said, taking one of the cups. Aimeé did not move, but stood there smiling at Patrick. An awkward moment passed, one he did not know how to fill, so he moved away and just as quickly bumped into someone else.

“Hello, Gawain,” Jon said.

Patrick started to apologize for bumping into him, but then remembered something. “I thought you were coming to find me,” Patrick said.

Jon's eyes widened, and he slapped his hand over his forehead. “I completely forgot. I left to take care of another matter, and did not think to go back to the Guest Hall.” Jon was all smiles again. “Oh my, there is McFowler, I have been looking all over for him! I must go. Enjoy the morsels, and I will see you about.” Jon waved a hand as if to catch someone’s attention and left.

The knight Geoffrey had made off, too. Patrick looked around. There was a wide circle of space around him in the sea of people. After an indecisive moment, he made an effort to bridge this gap between himself and the other guests by stepping over to the nearest group and throwing out an innocuous comment. He was unsuccessful. Even after mild initial success, they seemed to lose interest in him quickly. He spied Wolfgang von Fiescher in a small group of people deep in conversation. He tried getting close to be a part of the talk, or at least listen. But after long, awkward moments, the Irishman concluded that he probably just looked obvious and pathetic and moved on.

There was a long table at the side of the room and he sat down. He stared for a long time into his flagon of wine, pretending that it held something of great interest. Someone bumped into him while seating himself and a lady at Patrick’s table, which was rapidly becoming crowded. The man, a Reservist by his appearance, apologized politely.

Patrick pounced on the chance and introduced himself, and started to ask the usual get-acquainted questions. He didn’t get very far before the conversation dwindled off to nothing. The man seemed more interested in his lady friend. All Patrick learned was that the man was a Reservist named Jeremiah.

Patrick watched the people. They all looked so happy. They were laughing, and the noise in the hall was almost deafening. They all seemed to know one another, all old friends. Jon was across the room talking with a burly man in a kilt who had a shock of red hair and a mischievous smile. People surrounded him, listening and laughing at his jokes. Patrick went into another fascinating study of his wine cup. Something drew up beside him and waited. He turned.

There was the Apparition.

Patrick's blood froze, and the hair on his body prickled. He did not move, just stared. An indeterminate amount of time passed before he moved his eyes to see if anyone else had seen the Apparition. Nobody acknowledged its presence. They carried on, merry, unaware of the creature in their midst. Patrick slowly rose from his seat.

The thing did not move.

Patrick moved ever so slightly toward an exit.

The Apparition glided toward him, passing through people in the hall as if they were mist.

Patrick bolted. He slammed into people and knocked a tray of drinks out of a servant’s arms. He cleared the door and ran helter-skelter down the corridor. He found the garden, then the Hall for Guests, and then his room. He slammed the door and placed the wooden bar across it. He then sat in the nearest corner, gathered his knees to his chest, and let his body shake. His heart beat in his brain and pounded in his ears.

Heavy, booted footsteps slowly approached down the hallway. The Apparition was coming, and with every step it took, Patrick's heart beat faster and louder. He had nowhere to go. There was nothing he could do. How can you hide from something that passes through walls?

Patrick cupped his face in his hands. His hair was limp and wet against his brow.

The steps stopped before the door, and the Apparition pounded heavily on it, causing the wooden crossbar to shake. Patrick cowered in his corner, crying out and scraping his boots on the floor. All he could hear was his own deafening heartbeat.

The door stopped shaking.

Patrick paused in his thrashing and spread his fingers enough to see a blade appear between the door and frame which knocked the wooden crossbar off its pegs. It clattered on the floor. And then, the door opened.

“Gawain?” a voice said.

Patrick looked up. It was Jon, holding a long dagger. “Are you well? Forgive me for breaking in, but I was worried.”

He propped his elbows on his knees and gazed at the other knight.

“I am fine,” Patrick said. He ran his hand through his hair

“Are you sure? I can...”

“I am fine!” He said. “I became sick in France. I had a fever and I am just now recovering, that is all. Now go please, and let me be.”

Sir Jon hesitated, and then obeyed. He closed the door behind him as he left, and Patrick collapsed in a heap on the bed.

#

The following morning, Patrick did not bother getting up. He knew of no engagement that committed him to be anywhere and had no special desire to go anywhere or see anybody, so he just lay there. And thought.

There was a knock. Patrick got up from the bed to answer it. It was the servant Aimeé with a tray of food.

“Sir Jon said that you were not feeling well, and I did not see you at breakfast this morning, so I thought that I would bring you something to eat,” she said, starting to enter the room.

Patrick hesitated behind the door. “I am not dressed. I am only in a nightgown.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. You are not on your horse at the moment and besides, I have many brothers and there is no one around to care.” Her voice flattened a bit. “Not that any one would care what a knight does with a servant anyway.”

She forced her way inside and set the tray on the bureau, after which she took Patrick by the hand and led him back to his bed. Patrick, shocked by her bluntness, did not protest. “Now, get in. There is a draft and you are sick. How do you expect to get better?”

Patrick crawled under the blankets while Aimeé retrieved the tray and brought it to him.

“I am fine, really. I exaggerated last night when I left the banquet.”

“You could not have exaggerated too much. You did not come back. Everyone thought you had fallen in the throne.”

“Excuse me?”

“The throne. You know,
la toilette
.”

“Oh.” Patrick smiled. “Yes, well, once I was rid of my foul spirits, I thought it best to sleep. In any case, I did not think anyone would notice me missing.”

“I did,” she said, smiling.

Patrick began to slowly pick at the morsels of food on the tray. He felt self-conscious while she stood by watching him eat. He said nothing, as he expected her to depart.

After several more moments during which Aimeé intertwined her fingers before her and twiddled her thumbs, she cleared her throat and said, “Well, I must be going, I guess. We have so many linens to wash. The new Guests will be here shortly.” She turned toward the door, and then turned back, a look of mock-sternness on her face accompanied by a wagging finger. “Now eat up; you need to get your strength back.”

Patrick smiled wanly. “Of course.”

Aimeé’s mock-sternness turned to a meek smile. “Will I see you soon?”

Patrick nodded.

Aimeé’s smile broadened. “
Très bien
.” She skipped away down the hallway. As soon as she left, Jon knocked on the open door.

“Hello,” he said. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine, thank you. Sorry for my behavior last night,” Patrick replied.

Jon shrugged. “Do not worry about it. And to change the subject,” he said, “it looks like you have made a new friend.” He jerked his head in the direction of the departing servant girl.

Patrick sighed heavily, which caused Jon's brow to furrow in curiosity.

“I try to avoid women. I have not had much luck with them, lady or not,” Patrick explained.

Jon smiled. “I am sure we all have had the same trouble at some time.”

#

A group of Avangarde immersed in a raucous conversation rounded the corridor. They were gesturing wildly and laughing, but managed just in time to avoid a collision with Jon and Patrick. As they passed, the emblem of the Avalon swan crest shone on their well-kept surcoats, and their capes danced behind them.