Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  “Patrick, that is a normal thing,” David said.

  Patrick shook his head. “But everyone? Always? A curse is on me, I tell you, and I know not why.”

  “Maybe it is your wonderfully optimistic attitude,” said David, giving Patrick a playful punch to the stomach and grabbing his head in a wrestler's hold.

  They were both grown men in their early twenties, and soldiers to boot, but they wrestled around for a few moments like boys.

  “Stop it,” Patrick gave a muffled cry from under David's arm. “Or I'll get sick on you.”

  David backed off. He had seen Patrick get sick before.

  The Irishman made a face when he was released and suddenly lunged at David, cupping his hands over his mouth. David cried and jumped back. Patrick’s face beamed and he began to laugh.

  David smiled also. “Bastard.”

  They walked back arm in arm.

  “Well, Irishman, you do not have to worry about me leaving you. I have too much pleasure beating you,” David said.

  “You can only say that because I am sick, otherwise I would thrash you.” They laughed together.

  #

  In the following days, Patrick got increasingly better, and David grew steadily more restless. He talked increasingly of his family and friends in York and complained that there was little to do on the island.

  One morning, he was simply gone.

  He hadn't said anything to Patrick or anyone. Just left. He hadn't even left a message or a way of how he could be reached in York.

  For days Patrick just looked out windows onto the wind swept expanse of wet sands. He couldn't understand what happened. He thought perhaps he had done something wrong. But he knew that he hadn't. David was just eager to be home and didn't know how to say goodbye, so he made it easier on himself by saying nothing. Could Patrick blame him? Or could he? All that he knew was that it hurt.

  “Why the long face, Patrick? It's not like this is the first time,” he lamented to a mirror. Shortly afterwards, he had a relapse. Not a serious one, but serious enough to discourage him from traveling.

  His throat became so sore he could barely eat. The evil-looking phlegm it produced woke him prematurely in the mornings with racking coughs, but at least it didn’t choke him to death.

  And that is when the Apparition first came to him.

  It just stood there, pointing, though Patrick could not fathom what he was accused of. At first he thought it was one of the monks in strange garb. But then it turned, moved away toward the door, and then faded right through the door.

  The thing, which he named “Apparition,” appeared to him in the mornings, in the evenings before he went to bed, and on his walks in broad daylight down the cobblestone streets. It never approached, but watched coldly.

  One night, Patrick awoke and knew the creature was in his room. He could neither hear it nor see it in the darkness, but he knew it was there, peering over him. He knew that it was leaning closer and closer to put its face near his own. He had never seen the face. He had a feeling that he did not want to. He pressed his body into his mattress as much as possible and began to shake and sweat with the effort. He tried convincing himself that it was not there; it had never harmed him, so why should it do so now? But a yell escaped his throat and he bolted for the door. He ran down the corridors screaming in a panic. Monks came from all directions, blocked his path, and wrestled him to the ground. They demanded to know what was wrong. Patrick stammered an explanation, but they seemed incredulous. His room was checked and there was nothing there.

  “There!” Patrick shouted. “It comes! Can you not see it?”

  The ghostly Apparition moved down the hall, walking slowly, taking deliberate steps toward the gathering of monks. It passed through objects and bodies in its path, and the living monks took no notice. The elder monk, who was closest to Patrick, shook his head.

  “Mon seigneur, je ne vois rien.” I see nothing, my lord.

  As the thing approached, Patrick cowered on the flagstones with his eyes closed and held on to the nearest monk.

  “Monseigneur? Monseigneur?” The monk shook Patrick. The Irishman opened his eyes and the robed figure was gone.

  “It is only the fever,” the monk said. “You will be fine. We will take care of you.”

  #

  For the following nights, Patrick slept fitfully. He was still feeling unwell.

  Patrick was from the green hills of Eire and his Celtic heritage was strong. He believed that he was sicker than he thought and the monks would not tell him. He thought that a Bain Sidhe, a banshee, had come to herald his death. He had never heard of a banshee that was utterly silent; they were supposed to wail terribly. Patrick imagined footsteps around his bed.

  He began to accept his fate as the haunting became more frequent. He became resigned to the fact that he was going to die and no longer gave notice to the creature. He mostly lay in bed, wondering what he should write to his family. After a while, it seemed to lose interest in him and came less and less frequently. Remarkably, he started to feel better as well, and the haunting almost ceased completely. Patrick thought perhaps that was the secret to defeating death: to accept death for what it is and embrace it.

  Or perhaps it really all had been a fever-dream. Patrick did not care. The Apparition appeared to be gone.

  Once again his health was improving, and this time he meant to keep it that way. He made sure that he had plenty of sleep, ate regularly and well, and kept warm. He had become pale and thin since his illness, but he knew that would change with his renewed appetite and increased activity. The monks commended his improvement and commitment to health. Patrick sensed they were eager to be done with him, being the nuisance that he was, although they never said anything to him and were always polite.

  To tell the truth, Patrick wished to leave. He had stayed at the monastery for almost two months now, and it was closing in on him. He was incredibly bored and could not stand to feel useless. He did not feel he deserved the hospitality bestowed upon him. And worse, he did not know where to go once he felt well enough to travel again. He had only been traveling with David and the other veterans in the first place because David was going in the same direction, and it was in the general direction of his homeland. But, now that he was here, he had no idea where he wanted to go. He had been moving toward Eire, but he knew that he would not be happy there, that the series of events which caused him to leave in the first place would resurface and he would leave again. So why go there now?

  In a sense, he felt trapped in the Mont Saint-Michel monastery. Nothing kept him there but his own indecisiveness. He could go in search of David of York, but he questioned the wisdom of that. Perhaps David did not want to be found. Or maybe Patrick felt it would damage his pride to chase after him, no matter how good friends he believed they had been. In any case, he did not think that was an option and he again felt depressed.

  As it turned out, he needed only wait a while longer for chance to step in and offer a choice to him.

  Travelers had come to rest at Mont St. Michel to break their journey, and Patrick met them in the Common Hall for a meal. Such events were common. The abbot was always hosting visitors and temporary guests and thought it quaint to have them dine together. News from abroad could be exchanged this way, and mutual traveling arrangements could be made. Even friendships, too.

  At the meal, Patrick was conversing with a young lady from Alsace and her male escort when he noticed a gentleman sitting across from him. He was unabashedly staring.

  “You are not French or Norman,” the man said in Latin, the lingua universal.

  “Is my accent that bad?” Patrick had always been conscientious of his French, even after being a long time among Franks during the Crusade.

  The man smiled. “No, that was not my meaning. I could not help but notice that you are not from these parts.”

  “Neither are you,” the Irishman pointed out. The man was tall and lanky, even taller than Patrick. His face
was long and pale, not with the pallor of illness, but a natural lightness of complexion common among the Anglo people. He had brown, whimsical eyes with smile lines around them. He was dressed in a plain surcoat with a broad leather sword belt wrapped around his waist. Although he saw no scabbard, Patrick could tell from the man's hands and mannerisms that he was a knight, if not some other kind of soldier.

  “My name is Marcus Ionus.” The man extended a hand.

  “Patrick Gawain.” Patrick took his hand. Marcus's eyes narrowed. “Gawain? The name seems familiar to me.”

  Patrick laughed. He was used to it. “You are doubtless thinking of the Sir Gawaine, nephew of King Arthur and Knight of the Round Table.”

  “Perhaps a relation?” he inquired.

  “No relationship of which I am aware,” returned Patrick. They talked for a while about current news. Patrick had been cut off from the world by his illness and geography. He found that he had missed much, but nothing that really interested him.

  “So tell me, sir, how is it that an Irishman comes to the coast of Normandy?” Marcus asked.

  “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.

  #