“Well, they ought to.”
“...and I have put up with your hobbies long enough, and I must tell you that you must be quieter about them! Particularly in the mornings!”
Willy looked startled. “Trent does not mind.”
“I'm not Trent! And what in perdition are you doing anyway? It sounds like an agonized cow!”
Willy brightened and presented the baggy leather thing that he held. “I liked the music Sir McFowler made at the banquet last night. I had him show me how to work it. He even loaned me an old one of his to practice with. What do you think?” He began to wail on the instrument. It was dreadful, an affront to the memory of the sounds that crept into his room on occasion. Patrick ripped the thing away from Willy and threw it on the bed. It made a dying sound when it landed.
“Sir Gawain, I am not letting you bully me, knight or no. I will continue practicing with it whether you like it or not. Sir McFowler says I show promise. I intend on playing every morning.”
“No!” Patrick cried as Willy moved towards the bed to retrieve the instrument. Patrick grabbed the back of Willy’s shirt and struggled to keep the boy from the object of his torture. They tumbled onto the bed and the bagpipe honked as they fought over it.
“What are you doing? Are you mad?” Willy exclaimed.
“I am going to destroy it!”
“But it is not even mine. It is McFowler's, and he will be angry with you.”
“He will understand!” Again, the bag honked.
The two were intertwined, not only with each other, but with the bed sheet and the bagpipes as they wrestled for control over them. They stopped when they heard a nervous laugh coming from the doorway.
There stood Melwyn, wide-eyed. She hurriedly made the sign of the cross and fled, laughing madly.
#
Patrick spent the next week in the company of Lady Christianne Morneau. Nobody asked any questions about their relationship, which was not much of one insofar as Patrick was concerned. He kept his distance for a number of reasons. Melwyn left Willy alone and did not seem too crestfallen over the matter, which was exactly what Christianne had hoped for. Most other people understood that Patrick and Willy's “relationship” had been a ruse. In any case, word had not reached the stern Mother Superior. Patrick was less concerned about the more liberal Father Hugh finding out, but the Priest gave him a start just the same one evening when Patrick was late to dinner, which also led to one of the longer conversations he had with the man:
He was one of the last to enter the great hall for dinner. His usual table was full, and the only space he could find was among the keep’s clerics. He approached the brown robed men. “May I join you?” he asked nobody in particular, standing at an opening on the bench.
“Of course dear boy, have a seat,” said Father Hugh Constant himself. Patrick settled into the seat across from the priest. There was still much food on the common platter, despite his tardiness and Hugh’s presence (if the rumor of the priest’s appetite was true). “How are you this evening, Sir Gawain?” he asked.
“Well enough,” Patrick replied and reached for a bowl of greens. He tossed some cabbage leaves and carrot sticks on the clay plate before him, and then asked for one of the brothers to pass bread. If Patrick felt out of sorts sitting among the veteran Avangarde, he was feeling especially so now.
“A bit late to sup this evening, aren’t we?” Father Hugh made eye contact, making him feel uncomfortable.
“Aye, I couldn’t find the stable boy, so had to put Siegfried to bed myself.”
“Siegfried?”
“My horse.”
Father Hugh nodded. “Not afraid to take matters into your own hands and get them dirty. A noble quality.”
Patrick made a slight shrug and an attempt at a smile, then reached for the remnants of chicken at the center of the table. This he pulled apart, and placed the edible portions on his plate. He was about to dig into the food when he noticed Father Hugh watching him.
Though Patrick normally dispensed with the ritual, he thought it wise to cross himself and say grace tonight. When he had finished, he reached for his food and ate hungrily. As he took his first bites, Hugh placed a cup before his plate and filled it with wine from the pitcher on the table.
“Thank you, Father,” Patrick said through a mouthful of chicken.
“In vino veritas.”
“Pardon?” Patrick asked, not quite hearing the Latin idiom over the din.
Father Hugh smiled and made a dismissing gesture. “So how are you finding your tenure here on the island?”
“Good, good,” Patrick replied, followed by an awkward silence in which the priest kept his eyes on the Irishman. The priest momentarily looked away to fill his own wine cup. His cheeks were flushed. Then again, Patrick thought, he kind of always looks intoxicated. He was a portly man, though stout. His cheeks were ruddy and round, though you couldn’t quite call them jowls. His shaved pate, ringed by brown hair, was often ruddy as well.
“I’ve been hearing things about you,” Hugh said, watery blue eyes returning to gaze at the knight.
Patrick stopped in mid-chew. With the large piece of cabbage hanging from his mouth and wide eyes, he looked more like a deer caught in a garden then a nobleman at dinner. He quickly pulled the morsel from his mouth and swallowed hard.
“It was a merely a ruse, I swear, William’s behavior and mine,” he stammered.
Father Hugh frowned. “I haven’t heard anything about you and William.” He took a drink, and added, “I’m not sure I want to.”
Patrick let his shoulders sag, relieved. “So, what have you heard?”
“I was about to say that Mother Superior has commented that she has overheard some of the Lady Guests talk about you.”
Patrick placed a hand over his chest, a look of genuine surprise on his face.
“What a gentle fellow you are, how easy it is to talk to you,” said Hugh, answering the question Patrick did not ask. “That you are a good listener.”
“Well, that is not hard to accomplish,” Patrick said. “I am not much of a conversationalist. They do most of the talking.”
“They say that too. They call you ‘Sir Silence.’”
Patrick bobbed his head, already aware of that moniker. He still didn’t like the sound of it.
“They also call you ‘Sir Sensitive’ and ‘Sir-Can-Keep-a-Secret,’” Hugh continued. “They confide in you, and in this gossip-prone environment, you respect their privacy.”
Patrick smiled wearily, not sure he liked these names any better. “Perhaps it’s just that I don’t have anyone to gossip with.”
Hugh chuckled. “I doubt that. Keeping confidence is a good trait to have. You’d make a fine priest in the confessional.”
“Perhaps I should set up my own booth.”
They both chuckled at the image. Father Hugh let Patrick finish his meal, and drink his wine, which he refilled. It looked as if the priest intended on keeping him captive for a while. The hall was starting to empty and the servants set out to clean the tables.
“Speaking of confession,” Hugh said nonchalantly. “I understand you have not been yet, since coming to Greensprings.”
Patrick swirled the wine in his cup. He stared at the points of light floating in the dark red liquid, reflections from the candle and torchlight in the room.
“I guess I haven’t much to confess,” he said at last. “No mortal sins, in any case.”
“You realize all Avangarde, Reservists as well, are meant to set an example,” Hugh pointed out. “To be good Christians.”
Patrick took a gulp of wine, and then asked, “Is this a question of my faith?”
“No, no.” Father Hugh took a drink himself. “Marcus Ionus chose adroitly when he chose you in that regard. And the fact that you were a Crusader makes the question of your faith unimpeachable.”
Patrick frowned. “Not that I want to cast doubt on my own faith, but I can tell you from experience that many a Crusader had little to do wi
th anything Holy. From our leaders on down to the women who washed the lice from our clothes.” His voice rose in pitch as he finished his sentence. He told himself it was the wine. His cheeks felt hot.
“I can imagine,” Hugh said, upending the empty wine pitcher, shaking it as if the action would miraculously cause more wine to gush forth. He got the attention of a passing maidservant. She took the empty pitcher with the promise of bringing back another. Hugh turned back to Patrick. “Sin infiltrates all peoples at every level, in every circumstance. Even when trying to do the work of God. I was speaking more on you being a Crusader. I’m sure your intentions were Holy, or at least well meant. You see, Marcus is not the only good judge of character.”
Patrick sat silently, having no desire to question what the priest saw in him, let alone debate it one way or the other. But the conversation did raise a burning question in his mind. He drained his cup.
“If people commit sin—create suffering—when they believe they are doing the work of God, why does God allow it to happen? Especially if it’s in His name? I mean, to defeat your enemies is one thing, but to commit unholy savagery while doing it?”
“Just as I said, sin,” Hugh replied. The maidservant returned with a new pitcher of wine. The priest filled their cups, and then stared off into space, face pensive. Finally he drew a deep breath and said in monotone, “‘They crush your people, Lord, torment your own. They kill the widow and the alien; the fatherless they murder. They say, The Lord does not see; the God of Jacob takes no notice.’”
“That is from the Bible?” Patrick asked.
“Yes, and many verses like it,” he replied. “You see, yours is a very common question, which has been asked many a time, for many an age. King Solomon himself asked it.”
“So there is an answer?”
The priest smiled wryly. “There is, but most are dissatisfied by it: Suffering is so God’s mercy and love can be known.”
“You mean, suffering is just a backdrop for God to display His work? So it can be seen more clearly?”
“Yes, but it is much more complex than that.”
“I think I’m dissatisfied with that answer,” Patrick said, taking a drink.
Hugh smiled. “You’re not alone in the world with that sentiment. The book of Job addresses such matters. There, God himself tells Job’s nay-saying companions, ‘Where were you when I founded the earth? Who determined its size; do you know? Into what were its pedestals sunk, and who laid the cornerstone, while the morning stars sang in chorus and all the sons of God shouted for joy?’”
“Like a parent says to a child, ‘Don’t question my judgment,’ and ‘Because I said so.’” Patrick frowned.
The priest’s jovial, yet sympathetic smile did not waver. “That is the nature of faith. We just have to believe that the wicked will be punished and the just rewarded. Even if it is to happen in the hereafter. All the more reason to walk the straight and narrow in the here and now. And consider this; what do redemption, forgiveness, compassion, charity, sacrifice and mercy have in common?”
Patrick mulled that one over, finally answering with a shrug, “They’re all good things?”
“Precisely. And they exist only because there is suffering in the world. You see, it was man who let sin into the world, and suffering because of it, not God. But God took a hopeless situation and made some good out of it.”
Patrick was nonplussed by that statement.
Still not entirely satisfied, Patrick asked, “But what if you honestly believe what you are doing is the work of God, but in the eyes of God it is evil? Will you still be held accountable?”
“I assume you are speaking of your experiences as a soldier in the Crusade?” Father Hugh raised his eyebrows.
“Well, not so much myself,” Patrick confided. “I was thinking more on the behavior of others. I have no doubt they thought they were doing the work of God, but how they went about it…”
Father Hugh’s eyes were sad and downcast. “Yes, religious fervor can cause one to…overreact. Sometimes the fire of the Holy Spirit in some individuals can burn out of control. If such an individual is not reined in by his fellow man, then I must trust that he will be set straight when he stands before God and is repentant. His actions in life, in some way, actually furthered God’s plans. If he is not repentant when facing God on the matter…then it will be better for him that he had not been born at all.”
Patrick chewed on his lower lip mulling this over. Knight and priest took another drink from their cups.
“If it is your actions you are concerned about,” Father Hugh said, leaning over and touching Patrick’s forearm, “the very fact that you ponder such things, are concerned about them, goes to show that you are a good person, or at the very least, repentant. It is the blind man who should worry.”
The priest polished off another glass and belched. His watery blue eyes were becoming glassier. Patrick was thoughtfully silent again. His tongue probed the inside of his cheek as Hugh filled their cups. “And there is always the possibility,” Hugh said, his jovial demeanor returning, “that atrocities committed during the crusading campaign really are the will of God. All soldiers functioning as His instruments of divine justice.”
“Does it say that in the Bible?” Patrick asked, though he said it distantly, as if thinking out loud.
“Why, yes,” Hugh replied. “Psalm 149 states: ‘To bring retribution to the nations, punishments on peoples, to bind their kings with chains, shackle their nobles with irons. To execute the judgment decreed for them—such is the Glory of all God’s faithful. Hallelujah!’”
This last was exclaimed out loud and punctuated by the priest raising his cup in the air and spilling a bit of wine. Others in the hall looked up from their conversations to see what all the commotion was about.
Patrick smiled in spite of his somber mood. He took a drink and suspected that his own eyes were looking pretty glassy. If he were late to his morning duties, who would believe that it was because he had been up late drinking with the keep’s head clergyman?
“It all comes down to a matter of faith,” Hugh said after recovering from his outburst. He pounded his chest. “What does your heart say?”
Though this had been a statement, Patrick replied, “What if you do not know? What if your heart is silent?”
Father Hugh’s expression took on that sympathetic cast. “Then once again you are not alone. Few of us receive clear words from our Lord, as the prophets do. God’s intentions for us are difficult to discern by listening to our hearts, however intently we try. And for yet others of us, for whatever reason, we are altogether ignorant of the language of the soul.”
Patrick smiled wanly, raising the cup to his mouth. “I believe I fall under the latter category.”
Though the priest’s words were wise and his speech still clear, he now swayed on the bench. “Fear not!” he said, a little loudly. “There is always hope. Through time and effort, God’s will for us all will be made known.”
Patrick was silent for a time, tracing imaginary shapes on the table. The maidservant who had brought them wine was clearing away the plates and cutlery, leaving them their cups and pitcher. They were all alone at the table now. The other clergy had left some time ago.
“If you say so, Father,” he said. “Though I believe the waiting is killing me. I care not much for stumbling in the dark when it comes to the will of God.”
Father Hugh smiled deeply. He stood, teetering a bit as he did. “As I said earlier, you are not alone. Take some comfort in that. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe my bed is calling me.”
Patrick said good night, and thanked him for his conversation.
Hugh turned to walk away, but then turned back around. “You know, all this talk reminds me of a story…a fisherman drowned recently.”
“That’s terrible, I hadn’t heard,” Patrick said, concern on his face.
“Yes, yes, terrible all that,” the priest continued. “As I understand it, as the m
an was floundering in the water he prayed loudly to God. He cried out, ‘Lord, have mercy on your poor servant, save me from drowning!’ About then another fisherman in a boat came by and said, ‘Hold still, and I will extend my oar to you!’ The drowning man replied, ‘No thank you, my Lord God will save me.’ The fisherman in the boat, somewhat taken aback said, ‘All right then,’ and rowed away. Another boat came by, and the fisherman in that boat said, ‘Hold still, and I will throw you this rope!’ to which the drowning man replied, ‘No thank you, my Lord God will save me.’”
Hugh’s face was very animated as he told the story, making flamboyant gestures, pantomiming the actions of each character. It was about then that Patrick realized that this was exactly what it was; a story. No fisherman of Avalon had drowned. Patrick smiled despite having been lured into believing otherwise.
The priest continued. “‘All right then,’ the man in the boat said, then rowed away. A third fisherman came by and said, ‘Hold still, and I will pull you into my boat!’ to which the drowning man replied, ‘No thank you, my Lord God will save me.’ This fisherman left him as well. Eventually, the man succumbed to the waters and drowned. He went to heaven and met God face to face. He said, ‘Lord, why did you not answer my prayers? Why did you let me drown?’ To which God responded, rather indignantly, ‘Well, I sent you three boats. What more did you want from me?’”
With that, Father Hugh winked, and left.
#
The following evening, Patrick was escorting Lady Morneau to dinner when Sir Geoffrey approached them in the keep corridor.
“Ah, Lady Morneau, may I have a word with you?” He asked all smiles.
“Why, of course, Sir Geoffrey,” she replied.
“Alone, perhaps?” He looked askance at Sir Gawain. Christianne was puzzled but nodded.
“I will not be but a moment, Patrick,” she said, and moved off to one side with Geoffrey. While she did so, Patrick merely frowned at the abruptness of the well-manicured knight and leaned against a window ledge to watch the dazzling sunset over the garden. As beautiful as the vista was, however, Patrick found himself glancing over his shoulder at the conversing pair.
Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) Page 11