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.
“Do you think we will ever be Avangardesmen?” Patrick asked.
“They say it is qu
ite 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.
Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) Page 6