Currently, there were many women washing clothes in the pool, and several more were taking buckets full of water away.
There were also many men dressed in Avangarde surcoats and many who appeared to be some sort of cleric. Many of them hailed von Fiescher as the horses plodded past, around the keep to the stables.
“You will keep Siegfried here,” von Fiescher said. “Here in Greensprings, everything you need for him can be found inside. The animals, especially the horses, are treated almost like royalty.” Siegfried neighed as if in agreement.
A boy came out of the wood-gabled building and gathered the reins. Patrick gave Siegfried a friendly goodbye pat on the hindquarters. Siegfried bucked and tossed his head, but finally relented to being led away.
“Do not worry about your belongings. Someone will bring them to your chamber. Right now, you will need to see the rest of the keep.”
#
Inside the central keep was a steep staircase, and they climbed for several minutes. Then they came out on top of the structure.
Wolfgang led him to the back so they could look out over the other side of the fortress. They leaned on the defensive wall and Wolfgang pointed to various buildings and named them.
“We are now on top of the keep itself, where almost all functions of importance take place. The throne room, which is also the ballroom and dining hall, is below our feet as well as the library, class auditoriums, personal chambers of the staff...” Wolfgang rattled off the names of the structures. There was the spartan Avangarde bunkhouse, the smithy,the armorer pouring out sooty smoke,elaborate gardens just behind the keep, and the chapel with its impressive dual stained-glass domes.
“What is that?” Patrick asked, extending his finger. Beyond, opposite the Avangarde building, was a much larger structure with a more elaborate architecture.
“That is where our Lady Guests stay,” Wolfgang replied, and then added in a fatherly fashion. “Do not go there unless you have a chaperone. The powers that be like it that way. And as you can see, beyond the garden and between the Hall for the Ladies and the Avangarde bunkhouse is the training ground for the Avangarde. We hold all kinds of drills there. Past that is what we call the 'Back Door,' which is the rear gate that leads into the apple orchard.”
Patrick looked past the dusty training grounds and the rear gate and could see the long rows of lush apple trees. Beyond was green wilderness.
“They produce some very good hard cider there,” Wolfgang added.
“They?” Patrick asked.
“Yon village,” von Fiescher replied, gesturing towards the front of the stronghold.
“I did not know that there was anything here other than the Keep at Greensprings.”
“Why yes, there is a small village that takes care of our foods and supplies. The villagers have been here almost as long as the keep. They were originally pilgrims who came with Father Chanceroy so long ago. Most of the servants at Greensprings are from there, although some come from across the sea like the Guests and the Avangarde.”
Von Fiescher gave Patrick a moment to take in the sight.
He then was led back down the stairs and through the various rooms. By now, Patrick was lost and did not bother keeping track of all the places he went, how to find them, and all the people he met briefly as von Fiescher introduced him as “Sir Gawain, our new Reservist.” Patrick was discovering that he was very tired and that he had a lot to learn about Avalon.
At last they exited the keep and gardens, and they headed for the Guest Hall for men.
“Why are we going here?” Patrick asked.
“The Reservists are housed here as well,” Von Fiescher was curt. This did not please Patrick at all.
They entered into a stone hall with many wood tables and chairs and a large fireplace. They went up a stairwell to the second floor, where there was a long hallway with many doors on both sides. Many of the doors were slightly ajar, and it was fairly evident that the place was empty.
Von Fiescher led Patrick to the end of the hallway to the last door on the left. A scrubbing sound reached them as they drew near. Von Fiescher knocked on the door and gently pushed it open.
Inside, and right before them on the floor, was what Patrick at first thought was a pile of white linen rags. Then it moved and proved to be a woman. She had her back to the door and had been on all fours scrubbing with a brush, but, as von Fiescher and Patrick entered, she stood up with a gasp.
“Oh, m’lords! Forgive me, I did not know you would be here so soon!”
The woman before them, or girl, came up to Patrick’s chest in height. She had the strong build of a peasant, broad shoulders, muscular limbs, and a thick midsection.
“Mademoiselle, Sir Gawain's room was to be prepared quite a while ago,” Wolfgang, said.
The maidservant moved forward with a rustle of clothing. Her hair was blond and full, and was not encased in a bonnet. Strands of hair fell across her cheeks. She was dressed in typical servant fashion, a floor-length white linen skirt and a wool under-tunic with short sleeves for free movement. She was buxom, and to ease the weight, she wore a laced bodice over her tunic. The thick yarny laces were undone at the top for comfort's sake, but the next set of laces still strained, and she was almost bursting out of her clothing.
“I am sorry, Herr von Fiescher,” she said. She had a strong French accent, though it was different than that of the Mont St. Michel’s monks. “But we were not quite sure as to what room the monsieur would be staying in,” she continued. “I have just finished scrubbing the floor.”
Von Fiescher still did not seem pleased. “You still should have been gone once you saw that Sir Patrick's belongings had arrived.” Patrick saw that his belongings were indeed in the room, piled at the foot of a large bed that took up most of the room.
“Yes, m’lord,” the maidservant said. Yet despite her admission, von Fiescher continued to berate her with the protocol of the keep.
Patrick did not like having people chastised in front of him, especially because of him. “It is all right, I do not mind at all,” he said. Von Fiescher turned to look at Patrick. “As I see it, it is a fortuitous opportunity to meet another personage of Greensprings. Do you not agree, Sir von Fiescher?”
Wolfgang raised an eyebrow. “Yes, of course, how thoughtless of me. Sir Gawain, this is one of our many servants here at the keep: Aimeé. Mademoiselle, this is Sir Patrick Gawain of Eire. He is to be a Reservist with us here in Avalon.”
Aimeé, who had been sheepishly looking at the floor up to this point, dared to look up and smiled. She curtsied, looked into Patrick’s eyes with appreciation, and then looked down again. Her eyes were light green, not unlike the color of the hills of his homeland.
“I am pleased to meet you,” Patrick said.
“Well, Sir Gawain,” said Wolfgang. “I hope your lodgings are satisfactory. Later this evening, around sundown, there will be a gathering in the dining hall, that is the throne room, and your presence is required. You will have the opportunity to meet most everyone here in Greensprings. In the meantime, you can situate yourself. I will see you then.”
Patrick nodded and expressed his gratitude.
“You best be going as well, Aimeé,” von Fiescher said to the maid. Aimeé’s eyes had found their way back to the Irishman, and she started at the verbal prodding from the old knight.
The gaze had not gone unnoticed by Patrick, who also noted that Aimeé's chest was heaving ever so slightly and that there was a distracting beauty mark above the globe of her left breast. Despite these enticing visual pleasures, Patrick averted his eyes as he bid good afternoon to his guests.
#
After Wolfgang and Aimeé left, Patrick went about putting away his things. What earlier seemed an inordinate load for one man to carry now appeared paltry as Patrick tried to fill his room with his personal items out of the saddle bags that held his possessions. It was impossible, and the room was lonelier, and had nothing to adorn it. The chamber was perhaps
four paces by five paces, with a simple wood armoire, a bench with a washbasin, the large bed that took up most of the room, and a wood rack for accommodating a fighting man’s gear.
When seeing this, he unclasped his sword belt and hung it over one arm of the roughly man-shaped rack, with the sheathed sword dangling. This was followed by draping his armor over it after the laborious process of shedding himself of the mail. After digging his helm out of one of the bags, he placed the bowl-shaped item on top of the rack’s center beam, nose guard facing the center of the room. He hung his great-cloak on a hook in the armoire and was thankful to be rid of it. It was warmer here in Avalon, much more agreeable than it had been at sea, and the heavy garment was damp and smelled of sweat.
Next he washed his hands and face in the washbasin, wanting to sink his entire body into it. Afterwards, he removed his old garments and put on a fresh tunic and leggings. At this point, he realized that he had plenty of time before going to the dining hall, yet he had no desire to explore the new environment in which he found himself. He sat on his bed. It was awkward being here. Von Fiescher had clarified a great deal about the nature of Greensprings and the Avangarde, but Patrick still was not clear as to what he would be doing. What were his responsibilities and duties? Were they different from those of the regular Avangardesmen? If not, then why was he not given full compensation or the right to live in the same hall as the others? What if he wanted to leave? Would that be dishonorable?
Would anyone believe him on the outside if he told them that he had been part of an order of knights of Avalon? Patrick shook his head sadly.
He no longer felt sleepy, though he was still exhausted. He tried to lie down and sleep, but could not. He stood up and paced between the bed and armoire. His heart was beating fast with the prospect of having to start all over in some place that was neither Eire nor in the company of Crusaders.
He stopped. Something had distracted him, and he remained motionless to catch the sound again. After a brief moment, he did. It was a short, strange whining noise that came from outside his window, followed by an even longer one. This became a full-blown, eerie, harmonious wail. It was not unpleasant. Somebody was playing the bagpipes.
Patrick went to the window, leaned out the stone portal, and looked about. From this vantage he could see the Avangarde Hall, the practice field, the Back Door, and a portion of the Hall for Ladies, yet he could not locate the source. He sat on the windowsill and listened.
The sound was relaxing and comforting, much as the monastic chants at Mont St. Michel. He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the stone. The music moved through and into his soul; and he let it. He let it wrap around his tense muscles and stressed nerves and drown out the voices that teased him with doubts. Even the robed Apparition could not harm him. The bagpipes rose and fell in gentle, undulating pitches. The sound washed away everything, leaving only itself. Patrick's back fell against the windowsill, his chin fell to his chest, and he was riding a horse for an interminable amount of time. Thirsty, he trudged on. He saw armed and armored men chasing children. He saw green hills along a big, slow flowing river. Sword drawn, he dismounted and ran in his chain mail. His white surcoat with the red cross was smudged with soot and blood. He ran across a field, jumped a low-built stonewall, and raced up a path to a manor house. He entered a gate topped by the Holy Cross. Beyond the gate was a veiled woman in green and blue wool. He ran to her and embraced her, starting to cry.
“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 acros
s 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.
Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) Page 5