Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (8 page)

“Do you think we will ever be Avangardesmen?” Patrick asked.

“They say it is quite possible. There are Gardesmen leaving all the time, from what I understand. I have been talking a lot with the men here. You know, getting to know them and getting myself known so that when the time comes, maybe they will take me into consideration before the rest.”

Tricky fellow
, Patrick thought. “So how do they choose from among the Reservists when an Avangardesman leaves?” Patrick asked.

Jon shrugged. “I believe they just vote on it.”

As they continued their journey through the keep, Patrick found the Englishman to be a great source of information. With Sir Jon’s help, Patrick found out where to have his travel-stained, smelly clothes washed and his arms and armor mended. He also received a thorough tour of Greensprings. Before the end of the day, he felt he had his bearings.

Upon entering the main hall, he followed Jon to locate a place to sit in order to avoid a faux pas. Sir Jon took a seat among the men in the swan-embroidered surcoats, and Patrick sat beside him. There were nods in his direction. He ate the plentiful food and was silent, looking on occasion for a hooded figure lurking in the shadows.

#

After dinner, he took his leave of Sir Jon and decided to test his knowledge of the grounds. Not only that, he wanted time to reflect.

He thought of David of York and his sudden departure, and whether or not he would see him again. He thought about the Apparition. He wondered if he would ever have a neat Avangarde surcoat. Then, deciding that he was brooding too much, he turned his thoughts to his time in the Crusade. As much as a trial the experience was, there were good times as well; the taste of a new spicy food, the sight of the veiled women, the high-pitched ululations the Muslims made before they attacked, and the sheer heat of the day. There was the camaraderie among the knights; tasting the same dust, getting bitten by the same insects, feeling the same fear and feeling the same thrill of victory. Sharing experiences with men he could relate to. He missed that here in Avalon, but it would probably change once the Guests arrived. He had heard at dinner tonight that they would arrive in less than a month. The last of the Reservists had come, and training would commence tomorrow. Once a routine was set, he would begin to fit in, feel comfortable.

He leaned against one of the battlements and felt its coolness. Stone. Solid. Unmovable. Ah, to be a rock. What worries does stone have? He let his hand linger on the grainy surface and imagined it conducting the heartbeats of the inhabitants of the keep. Yes, soon there would be hundreds of new such heartbeats. New people who didn’t know him. People he could have a fresh start with. This new season would be better than the previous one. Anything would be better than what he had experienced. It
had
to be.

#

Von Fiescher stood at a lectern in the amphitheater.

“Those of you, who cannot read, please listen carefully as we go over the Creed of Greensprings. Please refer to your text that should already be in your possession or that was recently given to you by Sir Marcus Ionus.”

Patrick opened the book that he had meant to read so many times but never did. He felt a pang of guilt and hoped that it was not all that important.

There were all manners of men in the amphitheater. They sat on the stone benches that formed ever rising levels in semi circles around the stage at which Wolfgang stood. There were close to a hundred in all. They came from many and varied backgrounds: English, Norman, Scottish, Flemish, and Bulgarians. As far as Patrick knew he was the only Irishman. It was a hodgepodge, not unlike his experience in the Middle East. Knights who might have been enemies elsewhere were friends here.

He and Sir Jon sat with the other Reservists, Jeremiah and Gregory, a short blond, blue-eyed Londonite who had just arrived the previous day with a swan-sealed invitation. He had come through the gates much the same way Patrick had: in the company of Wolfgang von Fiescher and atop a new horse. There were two others. They sat together, but not because anyone had told them that they were supposed to.

“Page xi, introduction, preface...” began Wolfgang, reading out loud the mission statement of Greensprings in a long dry manner. He turned the page, and without looking up, continued in monotone a verbalization of the next verse of the
Creed
. Page after page this continued, and the fighting men gathered in the amphitheater began to fidget.

Just when von Fiescher was starting to show some sign of animation (he was starting to delve into the exciting topic of Avangarde being soldiers of the spirit…or some such) he paused for a moment and looked out from underneath his bushy eyebrows into the audience of assembled men. Patrick, as well as everyone else, looked in the same direction. The red headed Highlander, Jason McFowler, sat with his hand in the air.

“Yes, McFowler. You have a question?”

“I did not quite get all that. Could you repeat it?” he said. Laughter erupted in the auditorium, and the place was alive.

When the noise had died down, Wolfgang looked sternly at the Highlander. “We will have none of that. You have been through this many times, but we must all go through the same experiences to form a kinship that bonds this order together. And I mean
all
experiences.”

With that, McFowler rolled his eyes, grabbed up his kilt, chewed on it, and leaned his head on the neighboring knight's shoulder.

Laughter erupted in the room again.

#

None of his mother’s churchgoing or schooling had prepared him for the Greensprings sense of discipline. When there was no study, there was mass to attend. They listened for hours to Father Hugh Constant give homilies that illustrated the necessity to not only defend the Guests from worldly harm, but from spiritual danger as well. To truly be soldiers of God.

Patrick shook his head over the notion. He had seen first hand in the Holy Lands what “soldiers of God” were capable of doing. He still believed in God, but he no longer claimed to understand Him.

In two weeks, he did a lot of sitting and listening, and it was driving him mad. By the look of it, he was not alone. At each day’s end, the group of stalwart knights was edgy and exhausted. The veterans, taking it blow by blow like everyone else, slept in the auditorium. Most were startled into wakefulness by von Fiescher and a long wooden pole, but many, like Jason McFowler, were left undisturbed. It seemed that Wolfgang had his favorites.

#

“Humility!” shouted Wolfgang von Fiescher one morning from the battlement walls surrounding the courtyard. “Humble before God and each other. This will make you a better knight as well as a person. Trust me!” Wolfgang laughed wickedly.

The Avangardesmen were on their hands and knees, dressed in simple clothing, washing the courtyard cobblestones with hand brushes. They were performing all manner of menial labor unbecoming to noblemen. They were roused early every morning and herded like cattle into the dining hall where they ate a quick meal prepared by the servants. Then it was their turn in the kitchens to cook under the servants’ supervision. Then, to the great dismay of the Greensprings staff, they were served half-burnt or undercooked meals by Avangardesmen who were covered in flour and soot.

Avangardesmen painted, pounded nails, piled and mortared stones, and washed linens in the fountain with their pant legs rolled up while maidservants pointed and giggled.

Each night the men went to bed exhausted, wondering what they had gotten themselves into, and were roused what seemed only moments later to do it all over again.

Despite the hours, the knights rarely went to bed right away but stayed up and recounted their “war” stories about the chores that they had to perform that day, and complained pitifully about the ones they were to do the next. But social or personal differences began to melt away in the torrent of labor, as Wolfgang von Fiescher looked on.

#

“Heave-ho, boys!” the portly Father Hugh Constant cried. His voice echoed in the building. He was the spiritual leader of the Greensprings community and caretaker of the church, and von Fiescher had sent the Avangarde to help him with manual labor. Patrick was one of many pulling on a chain that hoisted a huge stone crucifix skyward into the stained-glass dome above the pulpit.

Father Hugh thought that it would be spiritually inspiring to suspend the massive piece of art at an angle in the colorful dome, high above the pews. The knights heaved and groaned as they pulled on the thick chain.

“Why don't you come over and give us a hand, Father,” somebody grunted.

“I'm busy myself, lads. I must clean the chalices for communion, not to mention my own cup here.” With that, he lifted a goblet full of wine. “Here’s to your health, laddies!”

The Avangarde thought it could get no worse, but they were wrong. The day when the labor ceased, the lessons in manners began. “Manners?” somebody cried. “What the hell is that for?”

Von Fiescher tsked. “We are not barbarians here in the Avangarde. Some of you, perhaps all, may be cultured, but we are going to make sure.” So commenced the training in bowing, greeting, eating in the presence of women, and dancing. “You will be expected to rub shoulders with the nobility of the world. You will not set a bad example.”

Patrick found this extremely amusing, if not annoying. Polite behaviors seemed no more than a series of antics. He, like most knights present, was used to eating with his hands at dinner and throwing the bones to the dogs on the floor. On the other hand, it was almost worth it to see the big, masculine lads being taught to hold the cutlery “correctly” at a meal.

The dancing proved most difficult. Patrick could not dance to save his life. And worse, when it came time to be paired up with a female partner, there was none for him.

Female staff, maidservants, even nuns were brought in for the occasion but still, Greensprings suffered from a steep shortage of women.

“Well, gentleman, it seems that I have to sit this one out.” Patrick bowed an adieu and sat down in order to become a relieved spectator.

“Not so fast, Sir Patrick,” von Fiescher said among the protests of the other Avangardesmen. He was towing Sir Jon behind him. “It seems that Sir Jon is also without a partner.” The knights burst into laughter, and then cheering. There was no arguing the matter, either. Von Fiescher had made up his mind, and the Avangarde would settle for no less. So Sir Patrick and Sir Jon danced.

At first it was a joke, but as the dances became more intricate and the hours wore on, the jeering knights became too engrossed to notice the paired men. When it was certain that they had learned all the steps, von Fiescher announced that there would be a contest to see who was the best dancer.

The knights, who had become invested in their newfound skill after so much work, were all for it. “Let us show these ruffians what we have in us, my darling,” Jon said to Patrick, which was met with much laughter. The contest began as several staff members played musical instruments and others judged the contestants. When a couple was obviously out of step with the music, a judge asked them to leave. Some knights made quite a spectacle out of themselves when they were eliminated.

“We have been robbed! We were doing much better than them!”

The contest came down to two couples, Sir Geoffrey and his maidservant, and Jon and Patrick. The music became quicker and more complex, and the contestants whirled at a dizzying rate. The sidelined knights and staff were clapping and cheering their favorites.

And as the music speeded up again, and the cheers swelled, Jon and Patrick cried out almost simultaneously, “What are we doing?” They stepped back from each other and let Geoffrey and his partner continue. “You win,” they shouted, and stepped off the dance floor. Patrick leaned toward Jon and whispered. “I cannot believe we almost won.”

Jon grinned. “I cannot believe we were actually
trying
to.”

The hall still buzzed with laughter.

#

At last came the drilling of arms. The knights spent the next portion of the final week on a dusty practice field, with padded faux armor, wooden swords, large bucket helms, and jousting dummies. From sunup to sundown, the Avangardesmen thumped on each other under the skillful guidance of the Teutonic knight and several older veteran warriors. They learned new skills and honed their old ones, and all the pent-up frustrations of the previous weeks were released on the drilling grounds. From von Fiescher's beaming smile, it would appear that he had planned it that way.

Wolfgang was a harsh teacher when it came to jousting with the lances. In the beginning, just about everybody was unhorsed by the jousting dummy. The simple mechanism consisted of a target to be struck by the lance, and, if not correctly hit, it caused a counter-weight to swing around and strike the rider with a sack of dirt.

“That is terrible!” von Fiescher would shout. “Idiots! You are all idiots! My grandmother can joust better than that! And she is dead!”

But at the end, all had mastered it to some degree.

Patrick and Jon found vengeance on those knights who had chastised them for their dancing exploits. The Irishman and the Englishman proved to be formidable opponents in melée practice. They could best all but a handful, which included a robust knight named Mark and his friend, Jason McFowler, who was a veritable demon with his huge claymore sword.

#

Finally the training was over, and another banquet was in order.

Patrick was in high spirits. He knew his way around Greensprings as well as he knew his own hometown. He now knew, or at least was acquainted with, all the Avangarde and most of the staff and servants. Unfortunately, however, he was still without friends other than Sir Jon, who held himself somewhat aloof from the Irishman.

And Patrick made it a point to avoid the energetic Aimeé, who came to his room less and less often now.

At the banquet, he sat and talked with many and did not feel too terribly out of place, and nobody treated him or the other Reservists any differently
―
but he still felt different.
Patience, Patrick, be patient
, he told himself. He was happy enough, if only because there was no ghostly Apparition.