Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  #

  “Did you find it?” Waylan asked of the still-panting Corbin. Though it was technically mid-autumn, Avalon had the unique characteristic of staying springlike the year round. Perhaps there was a warm ocean current near the island. Maybe it was magic after all. In any case, Corbin was sweating heavily as he ran up to the group and huddled with them under a bush.

  “Yes, we did, but we found it at the smithies, and not at the stables like you said it was, Horse Face,” Corbin replied. Behind him came Bisch huffing and puffing and carrying a large ladder. The German grinned.

  “Good! Good!”

  “We were wondering what took you so long, Sir Chaser of Sheep,” Waylan said.

  Corbin’s eyes went wide, “That is a lie, I was only helping the sheep over the fence, honest.”

  “What do we do now, 'Merlin’?” Brian asked.

  Waylan thought for a moment then said, “First we need somebody to go on a reconnaissance. Any volunteers?”

  McFowler mimicked Patrick's Irish accent, saying, “Me! Me!” and lifted Patrick's arm.

  “Wonderful!” Waylan exclaimed. “Go then, and quickly.” They pushed Patrick out of the bush. Patrick had no idea what was going on. He was very drunk, and his last clear recollection was that he was being pulled out the door of the inn in Aesclinn. Now he found himself staggering across a well-groomed lawn in front of what appeared to be the Hall for Lady Guests.

  “No, Patrick, like this!” Waylan shouted, though considering the way he said it, he probably thought he was being quiet about it. He and the others were standing next to the bush, making hunkering down gestures. Patrick saluted them in acknowledgment, hunkered himself down, and made his way across the lawn. He went through the entrance into the small courtyard and tried to remember why he was there. As he searched his memory, someone opened a ground-floor window.

  “Who is there?” a young feminine voice asked. “I thought men were not supposed to be in here, especially at night.”

  Patrick suddenly remembered. “Uhm, I am the gardener.”

  “At night?”

  “Well, you see, slugs come out only at night. That is the only time I can get them.”

  “Oh, well, goodnight then.” The window closed and Patrick wiped his brow. He then went to the entrance and motioned for the other knights to come in.

  The knights extricated themselves from the bush and staggered across the lawn. Patrick shook his head. It was a wonder that Western Christians ever captured Jerusalem at all.

  The knights set the ladder against the building while six of them held it steady, and Mark climbed up until he could peer into a window. After a moment, and without looking back down, he waved at the assembled men below to move the ladder to the next window. This was accomplished again and again with some grunting and cursing until Mark made a halting signal. He then waited motionless for some time before coming down.

  “Next,” he said.

  They fought for a while to decide who would climb first, and McFowler took advantage of the confusion to climb up. He, too, sat for a while, chewing on his kilt as he was apt to do when excited, and then came down. This went on until it was Patrick's turn, though he was sitting with his back against the wall, feeling very woozy. They pushed him up the ladder until he reached the illuminated window. Once there, he peered in to see what all the commotion was about.

  This was definitely the Hall for Lady Guests, for before him was a Lady Guest all but naked, preparing for bed with the aid of her lady-in-waiting, who was also all but naked in a half-open shift.

  Patrick was shocked. He could hardly believe that these Avangardesmen, these veterans, would sink to pranks. These were the ladies they were entrusted to protect and who looked up to them as confidants and role models. He gestured to the knights below to move him so he could get a better view.

  Five of the six of the knights no longer held the ladder. Only Bisch was holding it. They figured the hulking German could manage it while they talked and snickered amongst themselves. With a grunt, he lifted the ladder, Irishman and all, and teeter-tottered it to his left where Patrick was gesturing. He didn’t make it very far before his eyes went wide and he exclaimed, “Bad! Bad!”

  Rather than moving left, the ladder started to slowly sway back into the courtyard. Bisch over-compensated to stop it from wobbling, only to have to over-compensate in the opposite direction. This happened several times and the other knights fell over themselves trying to aid Bisch, which ended up making matters worse. The hapless Irishman on top of the ladder held on for dear life, but to no avail as the travesty finally came unhinged. There was a loud crash as Patrick fell on top of Brian and Mark and the ladder broke into pieces.

  Seven seasoned knights retreated from the Hall for Lady Guests in complete disarray, carrying portions of ladder with them.

  #

  “What was that noise?” the lady that was preparing for bed asked.

  “I believe that was the gardener,” her lady-in-waiting snickered.

  “Gardener?”

  #

  The following morning, during Church services, many of the knights present had trouble fighting off fatigue and headaches. And when Father Constant had finished Mass, Mother Superior had a special announcement to make: boy hooligans searching for excitement after curfew at the Hall for Lady Guests would not be tolerated, and any offenders caught would be dealt with by the Avangarde.

  #

  The following weeks brought a marked change in Sir Gawain. Though Siegfried was still his best friend, he saw more and more of the Avangarde and the Guests. He could not say that he was the best of friends with them, but he no longer shied away or felt as uncomfortable around them. He would occasionally join them in Aesclinn, but only when invited.

  Once, upon entering the main door of the keep, he came across something that had not been there before. He saw a dour-looking stranger coming at him, walking briskly. The sight so took him off guard that he reached for his sword, only to realize that it was no stranger. Somebody had placed a mirror in the entrance’s vestibule. It was a good mirror of glass backed by silver. Patrick suspected that it was a tribute gift to Greensprings from the family of one of the Guests.

  The stranger was his own reflection. He had never seen his own image with such clarity. He stepped closer to the mirror and ran his hand across the image. His face was now blank, rather than hard, and he noted his high, sharp cheek bones, shoulder-length black hair, and the moist swirl of greens, browns and orange hues in his eyes. Long ago, he had considered himself a handsome man, but then he thought that his experiences in the Holy Land had robbed him of his youth and vigor, but now as he gazed upon his reflection, he saw that they had not left him but had only been forced into submission. He was older, yes, and a little more worn. Perhaps there was some truth in what the Knights of the Round Table had told him. He slowly backed away from the mirror and left.

  #

  It seemed as though yet another banquet was in order. Patrick was beginning to think that all that ever happened at the keep was one banquet after another. However, it was the Guests who organized them now. This particular banquet was to announce the new Steward of the keep, the man who would take over the administrative affairs of Greensprings once Wolfgang von Fiescher left to meet the Council in Rome for the year.

  Lady Christianne Morneau invited Sir Gawain to be her escort, and, of course, he accepted. Sitting nearby were an uncomfortable-looking William of Monmouth and a fawning Melwyn. Also close at hand was Trent of Jersey, who found his friend's predicament a constant source of amusement.

  “Have you talked to him yet?” Christianne asked.

  Patrick pulled at his collar uncomfortably. “I intend to do so soon.”

  The banquet proceeded like most others, except that many of the Guests performed songs, dances and skills native to their homelands. Patrick was amazed at the artistic talent among the young folk assembled in the hall. And also, a great mystery was resolved.

  S
ir McFowler stepped before the assembled crowd and performed music from his native Highlands, utilizing an instrument also native to those mist shrouded regions. He carried a worn, baggy instrument with smooth wooden pipes sticking in all directions. The bag was made of a multi-colored cloth similar to that which made his kilt. This he carried under one arm, and with the other he put one of the pipes in his mouth, drew in a deep breath, and blew. The bag inflated, and while maintaining it trapped underneath his elbow he gingerly grasped the one pipe with both hands and strategically placed fingers over holes in the hollow tube. Squeezing the bag, an eerie, yet beautiful wail issued forth followed by a melody Patrick had heard time and time again from his chamber window. A hush fell upon the hall as all, obviously moved by the sound, listened intently. McFowler's fingers expertly flew up and down the pipe, covering and uncovering the holes as they went. Occasionally he would draw a quick, yet deep breath and replenish the air in the bag under his arm. Doing so did not cause him to miss a note.

  The music lasted perhaps five minutes but seemed much longer. When finished, Jason bowed deeply to acknowledge the ovation that greeted him.

  “Did you hear that?” Willy exclaimed, very much taken by the spectacle. Patrick nodded.

  Wolfgang stood clapping as he made his way over to the dais where the performance took place. He shook McFowler's hand as the Highlander made his exit.

  To wrap up the evening, Wolfgang made his announcement as to who would take over his administrative duties. It was to be Sir Mark, the unofficial captain of the Avangarde. From then on, he would be known as Steward Mark, which everybody would eventually change to “King” Mark anyway. It was all in good humor, Greensprings fashion. The choice came as no surprise to anyone. Mark was a veteran, one of von Fiescher's favorites and well loved.

  As Mark approached for the simple ceremony, Wolfgang held out a ceremonial circlet and placed it on his brow.

  Brian leaned over to Patrick and murmured, “So much for our nightly excursions.” Patrick had trouble keeping a straight face.

  #

  After the banquet Christianne led Patrick into the gardens behind the keep. There, they sat on stone benches surrounded by vine covered trellises. The moon shone down on them, full and bright.

  “You know, Sir Gawain,” Lady Morneau said, “you talk enough when you have your mind on it.” She sat on one of the many marble benches surrounding the central fountain piece. Patrick sat beside her, though at a distance.

  “I believe that is more of a credit to you than to me, Lady Morneau,” he replied.

  “How is that?”

  “I generally do not talk, unless spoken to. In case you have not noticed, you have done most of the talking, and I have simply answered your questions.”

  Christianne thought on this last point. “Not really. You have contributed many interesting things on your own accord.”

  “If you say so.”

  Christianne smiled mischievously. “You know, they used to call you 'Sir Silence' because you were so quiet.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes, not surprised. “What else have they said about me?”

  The Frenchwoman looked away, biting her lip. She toyed with a lock of hair for a moment before responding, “That you like boys.”

  Patrick sat up. “That is complete nonsense! Who said such things! Why, I will...” He almost started to draw his sword. Christianne laughed and urged him to sit back down. There were others in the garden taking a late night's walk, and Patrick had attracted their attention. She was laughing so hard, she had difficulty speaking. She gently grabbed him by the wrist and guided him back to his seat.

  Christianne said at last, “It was just a silly rumor started by some women whose affections I am sure you spurned.”

  Patrick became calm again. “I really do not like boys,” he insisted.

  “I have seen your gaze wander to the ladies, or above their necklines,” she said, “but it is odd that you do not do anything about it. You avoid girls as if they were a plague. Why, until a moment ago, you were leagues away from me on this bench, in mind and body.” Patrick looked down. His hands were now cradled in her milky white ones. “Why is that? Please tell me. I am your friend, Sir Gawain.”

  Patrick stood and let his hands fall to his sides. He paced for a while, then said, “I was hurt terribly by a woman once.” He cut the air with his hands. “I do not care to have it happen again. Being in love is wonderful, but losing it can hurt worse than any physical pain. I wish to say no more.”

  Christianne came to him and slipped into his arms despite his protests.

  “I would never imagine trying to force any painful memories out of you. You can tell me when the time is right.”

  The Irishman awkwardly held her. “Is that why you enjoyed my company at first, because you thought I liked boys and thought I would not be a threat to you?”

  Christianne smiled. “No. I can tell that you are a nice man. To me, you are more like Sir Sensitive than Sir Silence. Melwyn, however, is absolutely convinced that you do like boys.”

  Patrick smiled, feeling devilish. “Why, that gives me a wonderful idea.”

  #

  On his way back to the Hall for Guests, Patrick came across the person he was looking for. With him was the other person he was looking for.

  “Willy,” he said, briskly approaching the merchant's son. Melwyn was attached to the boy’s arm, though he held it stiffly and at a distance from himself, doing his best to be on his best behavior as Patrick had asked until he could think of a way to free Willy from her affections.

  “Sir Gawain, I am happy to see you,” William said, his stiff posture relaxing and his eyes brightening.

  “It is late, my handsome young darling, and we should be getting back.” Patrick put his arm around William.

  Willy stiffened again. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Come, come, we must be going. Say good night to the mademoiselle.” Melwyn blinked and looked between the knight and the merchant's son, and when Patrick kissed Willy on top of his head and then winked at her she made a noise like a curious kitten. Patrick hooked his arm through Willy's and dragged the stunned boy off. “Good night, Melwyn! Say good night, Willy.”

  And they left.

  #

  They had a good laugh about it all the way back to the Hall for Guests once William understood the trick.

  “Thank you, Sir Gawain. I imagine she will leave me alone now that she thinks that I am spoken for.”

  “Yes, but how come I have the feeling that we will be having a talk with either Mother Superior or Father Hugh tomorrow concerning our 'unholy union'?” Patrick replied.

  William shrugged. “We will explain the situation, and they will understand.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You Avangarde certainly are a strange lot.”

  “Reservist, actually...”

  “Whatever. Good night, Gawain, and thank you again.” With that, Willy entered his chamber, and shut the door tight behind him.

  #

  Patrick’s room was quiet and dark. Still energized from his performance, he moved to a chair over by the window and sat down, foregoing a lantern.

  He opened the wooden shutters, let fresh, spring-like air in, and leaned back in his chair. The moon lit up a silvery shaft across the room. The sky was clear, and many stars twinkled with Avalon’s surreal quality. They appeared larger and brighter than on the “outside.”

  Were there more stars over Avalon? Did they really shine brighter here? Patrick could not remember, he had been out of the world for so long now. He rested his chin on his fists, and after some time realized that he was only half awake, lost in that state where dreams mingle with reality. For some reason that state, too, seemed more acute and frequent here on Avalon.

  He began to see his home, a gabled manor, in Galway. But it was not really his home, for there, in the background, was the Keep at Greensprings. He was fitting his horse for a long journey.

  “Why must you g
o, my son? You do not have to go,” Patrick's mother was saying. Her face was looking up into his, twisted into a mask of sorrow as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “I do not belong here anymore, Mother. I will never be happy here like this. I have to go.” His turned his back to her as he pulled tight the last strap on the saddle.

  She suddenly spun him around and hugged him. She barely came up to the middle of his chest. “I know why you are running, and I know you are hurting, but why the Holy Land? Why the Crusades? It is for the Franks, not for us.”

  “I need to find my salvation, mother. I do not know what I possibly could have done to deserve what has befallen me here. Maybe I will find answers along the way.” Patrick mounted the horse, holding his mother for a long time in his gaze, and rode off.

  Sitting in the chair in his chamber, it seemed to him that his mother was still there with him. She stood behind him stroking the hair that was so much like hers.

  “I hope you find your answers, little one, and I hope you come home someday soon,” she said, and then she, too, was gone.

  #

  At dawn Patrick awoke to a noise like a cow being slaughtered in William of Monmouth's chamber.

  He jumped from his bed, stormed out into the hall and burst into the boy's room.

  “What in God's name are you doing? Every morning you insist on incurring my wrath! What could you...!” Patrick stopped his ranting. This was his first time inside Willy's room, and he was surprised at its décor; half-finished paintings, charcoal drawings, dancing figurines carved from bits of wood, books and papers.

  Willy lowered a baggy apparatus to his knees, it bristled with pipes.

  “How course of you, Sir Gawain, to barge into my room, shouting. And still in your nightshirt.”

  “Willy, most people are just waking up now. Not everyone rises as early as you...”