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.
#
The following day, news arrived that several ships were approaching, laden with Guests. The knights shined and oiled their armor, and donned the ceremonial pieces with bright surcoats and long swords. Horses were saddled, polished helms were crowned, and flags unfurled. Patrick's green and gold surcoat was well mended and washed, and, astride Siegfried, he felt proud to be there, even if he and the other Reservists made up the rear of the long procession of mounted knights as they headed for the sea to meet the Guests.
“Well,” said Jeremiah. “Let us hope that the coming year is a favorable one for us all.”
The knights rode forward.
Chapter Three
Wolfgang von Fiescher raised a gloved hand to halt the regal procession of mounted knights. Up to this moment Patrick and the other Reservists had been ribbing one another; or mostly it was the other Reservists ribbing the Irishman for having actually gone through the effort of bathing and fastidiously combing his hair for the occasion.
“The Guests won’t be able to see your hair underneath your helmet and mail,” Sir Jeremiah pointed out, smiling. “And besides, we probably won’t be close enough for them to notice how pretty you smell now.” The Reservists laughed.
“Better safe than sorry,” Patrick returned, not really minding the attention.
The multitude of horses was restless now that the column had paused. Their tack and harness jingled noisily, and the beasts snorted as if to question why they had stopped.
The harbor in which Patrick had arrived several weeks before lay below them, at the end of the road. The day’s bright new sun, which had sparkled on the polished armor and made the colored banners glisten, had grown hazy behind a mist that engulfed the island shore. A strong breeze carried the smell of salt and seaweed. Sand blew about in whispers, and seagulls drifted in the air, crying down at the horses. Farthest away was the ever-present crash of the waves rolling into the surf, just beyond the harbor. Inside the harbor the waters were calmer, lapping against barnacle-covered piers.
On the dock stood three men. Patrick did not recognize them. They were all dressed in some sort of uniform which consisted of a red tunic with black border and a matching sash that hung over their shoulders and down their backs. On their heads were black caps. These men stood near a ladder―the one Patrick had ascended from the ferryman’s dinghy. Three similar such vessels were moored there now. Von Fiescher motioned for the Avangarde to remain while he galloped down to the dock and greeted the men. From their vantage point, Patrick and the Reservists could not hear the conversation, but watched their exchange.
The strangers pointed out into the misty sea and made gestures as if demonstrating something quite large. They also enumerated on their fingers, adding up some quantity. After some more brief words, they all nodded in assent, and Wolfgang abruptly turned and galloped back while the men descended the ladder and entered the boats—one in each. Once leaving the noisy wood of the dock, the hooves of Wolfgang’s horse became muffled in the sand, and he was not long rejoining the Avangarde.
“Men, make way for the wagons and keep servants,” Wolfgang shouted. “When they have passed, I want you to evenly split up and position yourselves on either side of the roadway.” Von Fiescher’s horse was restless beneath him and he struggled with the reins in one hand, while gesturing with the other. “Put up your lances so that you form an arch. Space yourselves far enough apart that you allow plenty of room for the Guests to pass underneath on their way to the carriages, but not so far apart that the banners hang too low to the ground.” With that, Wolfgang was again off, this time to the rear of the procession where the keep staff made up the rest of the colorful caravan.
“You heard the man,” Sir Mark shouted. “Let’s get moving.”
The knights parted to different sides of the road and let the wagons rumble by. Once they had passed, the knights arranged themselves as von Fiescher had commanded. Patrick had to admit, it was an impressive sight; some hundred knights to a side forming a corridor of draped banners fluttering in the breeze.
As they were taking up their positions, the Irishman noticed the three rowboats pass the harbor mouth and then take divergent paths. He expected the boats to gradually fade into the mist, becoming ghost-like, and disappear altogether. But they just blinked out
of existence.
“Hey, did you see…” Patrick started to say, but everyone was too busy jockeying about. He paused and stared out into the waters with his disbelieving eyes until mist started to collect on his eyelashes. Finally, someone grumbled for him to get in line and he complied. The banner-streaming lances began to lift like an undulating wave to allow the returning Wolfgang to pass. Evidently he had finished giving instructions to the carriages, which were to transport the Guests back to the keep.
“Well done, handsomely done, lads,” he said. His mount kicked up sand as he rode past. The lances fell back into place behind him, only to lift again in another undulation. This time Father Hugh Constant galloped wildly by on a braying donkey. The Avangarde laughed as the portly man struggled to slow the beast down. Eventually he did, and joined von Fiescher on the dock. The two elder statesmen of Greensprings dismounted and waited, looking out to sea.
The conversation among the knights died, and they held vigil in the same direction. The gulls quieted as if sensing the anticipation, but the breeze gusted and threw whispering sand along the shore. Waves crashed against rocks outside the harbor, then pulled back in a bubbling hiss, marking time as the procession waited. How many cycles of waves, Patrick could not say, but it seemed many. He started to wonder if anything was going to happen at all, let alone the arrival of Guest. Then, just as the little rowboats had blinked out of existence, three enormous galleys appeared out of nowhere.
They were fat-bodied wooden vessels with a single billowing sail. Men moved quickly about the decks of the ships, pulling on ropes and working winches that caused the sails to be gathered into the mast, effectively slowing the ships down as they approached the docks. Patrick could see now that the strangers’ clothing was a sailor’s uniform. Many of the active figures on deck wore them, but there were many more people gathered around the railings gawking at the island, and none of them wore a uniform. These appeared to be richly dressed civilians.
The galleys took little time mooring to the docks. With precision, the large vessels gently bumped sideways into the wooden structures and almost simultaneously dropped iron anchors into the water with a loud splash, chains rattling behind them. The sailors threw ropes to the waiting Greensprings servants, who tied them to the dock pilings. The servants then hurried back to their wagons and positioned them closer to the boats so that chattering hoists could lower luggage, supplies, and crated items onto them. There, the diligent servants disengaged the items from the hoists and lashed them down.
Wolfgang von Fiescher approached one of the gangplanks lowered from a ship, and Father Constant another, and Patrick saw that Mother Superior had been among the keep servants all along. She too positioned herself near the third galley gangway. Though Patrick still could not hear from this distance, he saw them welcome the passengers as they descended from the ships. First usually came a man in a sailor’s uniform, but with a more elaborate sash and cap, followed by a parade of young men and women, finely dressed but with rather blank looks on their faces. Wolfgang, Father Constant, and Mother Superior directed the Guests towards shore.
They tottered on the wooden dock with uneasy steps, which became almost outright stumbling when they came onto the sand that approached the Avangarde, but by the time they reached the mounted knights and their bannered archway, they had found their land-legs.
As they passed by on their way to the waiting carriages, Patrick and the others got a good look at them. They were all young―ranging from eleven years of age to their mid-twenties. None were older than that. Many wore rich clothing and jewelry. The Crusades had done these clothes service: once-rare silk from the Far East now fluttered abundantly among the Guests, and the variety of colors dazzled the eyes. It wasn’t just the spectrum that was startling, but their brightness and newness. And even more astonishing than the variety of colors in cloth was that of jewels and gems. Gold was common, even at Greensprings, but here, gold was inset with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Even the misty air could not deaden their sparkle.
The Guests themselves were almost as varied and intriguing in appearance. Most were female. Patrick saw the black hair of the East, the brown of middle Europe, strawberry blonde among some of the younger children, and all manner of blondes―straw-gold to snow-white. There were strong-built boys and lanky ones, young ladies ample and willowy. Most of their complexions were the milky tones of Western Europe, but some had darker complexions common to Moorish Spain or the Southern Italian states, yet these Guests had eyes that glittered like the jewels they wore about their necks and on their fingers. They numbered several hundred; a handsome bunch, the lot of them. Not just nobility, but royalty. They chattered to each other as they gawked and looked around with innocent abandon at the soldiers and the Isle of Avalon.
#
Patrick’s first duty after the arrival of the Guests at the keep was to make rounds and welcome them. He was assigned to the Scottish knight, Jason McFowler, who led the charge in this diplomatic mission. Patrick and the Reservists met Jason and several Avangarde outside the Hall for Guests, as they were already residents there.
Jason McFowler like Marcus Ionus, was a long time veteran. And because of that, Jon had almost completely stopped talking to Patrick so he could spend all his time trying to win McFowler’s favor.
Jason cavorted about like a child and was joking around. With his mane of red hair braided into tails and his prominent blue-tattooed arms, he looked more a Viking than a Highlander. He fought more like a berserker with his claymore on the drilling ground than a rule-abiding knight. There was a rumor that he had actually spent a stint as an ocean going raider among those Vikings and was now a fugitive in hiding.
McFowler led his band to the first floor of the Hall for Guests. As the Avangarde split up on the floor to introduce themselves and offer their assistance to the still-arriving Guests, McFowler and Patrick meandered through the crowd. Servants were busy with trunks, boxes, bags, and other assorted luggage. McFowler led Patrick toward Patrick’s chamber, but they did not go in. Their destination was the room next to his and across from Sir Jon's.
Jason rapped on the door loudly so that it could be heard over the din in the corridor, which was a tremendous change in the Hall compared to the previous weeks’ cavernous silence. The door readily opened and inside stood a short, strong boy of perhaps fifteen years.
“Greetings. We are Sir Jason McFowler and Sir Patrick Gawain,” the Scotsman said cheerily. “We are Avangarde, and we would like to personally welcome you to the Keep at Greensprings upon the Isle of Avalon. We would like you to know that we are at your service. You see, we are not just protectors, but also a veritable well of aid.”
The boy straightened and visibly blinked at the sight of the knights on his doorstep.
“Pleased to meet you,” he stammered. “I am William of Monmouth.” By now the tone in the corridor was changing from the sounds of toil and moving, to that of raucous conversation with the Avangarde. William just stood there with big eyes. Jason leaned forward a little with an expectant look on his face.
“Well boy, you’re in a new place,” he said. “Isn’t there anything you are dying to know?”
William shrugged. “Where can I get something to eat around here?”
McFowler shook his head and laughed at the boy’s nervousness and gave him quick directions to the keep kitchen.
Over the course of the next several minutes, Patrick watched the Scotsman expertly soothe the boy’s discomfort and slowly draw him into conversation. Patrick felt like he should be doing something other than just watching, but every attempt to jump in and join the discussion was rebuffed by the charismatic McFowler.
“So, if I need help of any sort, I can find you where?” William asked.
“If not around and about the keep, then I would try the Avangarde Hall,” McFowler replied.
“Or you can find me right next door to you,” Patrick offered, finally finding an opportunity to say something. He gestured to his d
oor.
William looked confused. “Right there? Why are you not also in the Avangarde Hall?”
Patrick did not like William’s tone, but did his best to smile as he explained the difference between him and Jason, Avangarde and Reservist. William did not seem to understand or care.
“So, William of Monmouth.” Jason inquired. “Who are you? And what brings you to Avalon?”
“I am from Monmouth,” William said, puffing out his chest as if the place was important. “My father is very rich. Several other houses are jealous of his power, and they threatened my family. So my father decided to ship me off here, out of harm’s way, wherever here is.” He sniffed. “I doubt it is really Avalon. If there ever was a real Avalon, it sank beneath the waves along with Lyonesse.” William crossed his arms.
Jason’s eyes went round and his smile broadened. “So tell me then, where are you if this is not the Avalon?”
William shrugged. “Some uncharted island, I guess.”
“So you are rich, are you?”
William puffed up. “Why yes, I suppose you could say that. My father is powerful enough to incur the jealousy of his peers and influential enough to send me here, and at no small price.”
McFowler leaned against the doorframe and withdrew a long dagger from his belt, with which he began to clean his nails.
“So tell me, Willy boy, does your father care for yea?”
William backed up a step. “I suppose so. Why yes, of course he does.”
“Does he care enough for yea that he would be willing to pay a ransom for your worthless hide?” Jason blew on his nails and held them out to inspect them.
Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) Page 7