Christianne and Geoffrey talked for a few moments, during which time Christianne's demeanor changed from cheerfulness to concern. She also looked twice in Patrick’s direction toward whom Geoffrey gestured once, subtly. Finally, Geoffrey shrugged as if to say, “Sorry,” and Christianne shook her head as if saying, “No, no. That is quite all right, I understand.” Geoffrey then departed without a glance to either her or Patrick, and she returned to Patrick's side.
“What was that all about?” Patrick asked. Lady Morneau did not answer for a moment, lost in thought.
“Oh, nothing, he was just giving me some...brotherly advice,” she replied.
“Is there anything that I can…?”
“No. I'm fine.”
She was quiet and aloof the rest of the evening and did not wish to go for their usual evening walk. The following day, Patrick could not find her, and Melwyn claimed she did not know where she was. This went on for a few days until finally Patrick saw her sitting with Sir Geoffrey at dinner, and from then on, they were always together. All attempts to find out what happened met with resistance or indifference. Patrick had no idea what Geoffrey had said that convinced her to suddenly lavish her attentions upon the foppish knight instead of himself.
Patrick sulked in his chamber. He would not approach Lady Morneau or Sir Geoffrey about the matter. It was an unfortunate affair, one not worth talking about. There were those who looked down their nose at Sir Geoffrey's actions, but those same people did not offer Patrick any sympathy. And Patrick had decided that he had spent too much time with the stupid girl anyway. The Knights of the Round Table no longer asked him to go to Aesclinn, Sir Mark was now too busy being King Mark, and it had been a mistake to think that McFowler had been his good friend. McFowler was good friends with everyone, not just with the Irishman. And no one came to him anymore to tell him their stories or secrets. Had he spent more time with the Avangarde and not Christianne, he would still be closer to them, and they would be slapping him on the back, chiding him to forget her.
Patrick sighed deeply, and it seemed that once again his mother was there, hand resting on his shoulder as he gazed out upon the stars.
“I am cursed, mother,” he lamented. “Why can I not hang on to anyone, be it companion, or lover, or whatever the case may be, even when I try to be cautious about it?” He took her hand in his.
“You are not cursed, little one, that is just the way it is,” she said softly, sadly.
“It has to be a curse. It is too much of a coincidence.”
She was beautiful in her simplicity, and all the more beautiful with tears in her eyes, like the many Madonna statues in the county churches. She bent over and kissed him. “Come home when you are ready, but not until then. I understand your quest, but come home. You are missed.” She faded away, and from the corner of his eye, Patrick could see the hooded Apparition pointing at him accusingly.
Chapter Four
Patrick returned from his guard post as the sun was setting behind the keep. The Back Door cast a long shadow across the practice field. Most days in Avalon were springlike, but there were occasional days, sometimes several weeks, when the island mirrored the outer world. It was during these times that the true weather showed through. It was late autumn outside the isle and today the leaves and petals of the trees and flowers fell to the ground. On this particular evening the air was cold and crisp and his breath rose in front of him like an escaping soul. On the battlements Patrick had seen and smelled the burning of leaves down in the village. The smell of burning oak leaves reminded him of home.
As he meandered through the keep on his way to supper, familiar voices approached his way. The Irishman chose another path, and was out of sight by the time Lady Morneau and Sir Geoffrey rounded the corner. He walked briskly away from the laughter and idle talk, great-cloak flapping in his wake.
#
Patrick spent most of his days in this manner. He once again fell into his old pattern of rising in the morning, performing his guard duties, then spending the remainder of his day shining his armor, practicing swordplay with a willing partner, and then avoiding certain persons he had no desire to see. He no longer had Guests coming to him to talk of their personal problems and tragedies, and he didn't go out of his way to find them. Instead, he sulked about with a bitter look on his face.
So it came as no surprise when one day Jason McFowler approached and informed him that King Mark wanted to play chess with the Irishman the evening after the annual Bush Beating.
Such an event could only mean that Mark wanted to talk to Patrick, and likely not about chess. It was just like McFowler's request he join him that one night in Aesclinn. That was an attempt to help the young knight. Unfortunately, Patrick felt that this was not a meeting to give him another chance to change his antisocial behavior, but to ask him to resign from the Avangarde Reserves and leave the island.
At the news, Patrick sighed. Although he had known this day would come, it still didn't stop the sting of humiliation.
Jason smiled and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Don't worry, I hear he's not as good a chess player as he is a swordsman.”
Jason left him then. Sunlight streamed through a window and cast Patrick's shadow in a manner much the same way he felt; long and dark. A second shadow appeared next to his, but when he turned to find its source, he found nothing.
#
The morning of the Bush Beating, Patrick stood atop the main gate with Sir Jon, Gregory, Jeremiah and the other Reservists. They were armed and armored head to foot as if they too were to sally forth with the Avangarde and stir up trouble. The Reservists were expected to stay behind, alert, as if expecting a siege. It was wise practice.
Wolfgang Von Fiescher was with them, and more and more Guests were mounting the walls to wave farewell to the assembled Avangarde as they rode beneath the gate and across the drawbridge. The men were all smiles, in better humor to be leaving the walls of Greensprings to do something for once. As the last of the heavy horses plodded off the bridge and onto the dusty road, Wolfgang ordered the bridge up and the gate closed then said, “All right then, everyone man your posts, stay alert, and sound your horn if you see trouble or if for any reason some of the Avangarde return.”
The Reservists sounded a “Yes, sir” and split up in different directions. Von Fiescher motioned at the Guests still milling about the battlements.
“Let's go, boys and girls, we have classes to attend and things to do, don't we?”
#
The rest of the day was uneventful. Patrick stood at his lonely corner of the keep wall, standing watch. It was lonelier than regular guard duty. Then, somebody always came by eventually to talk a bit. Today there were none of the Avangarde, and the other Reservists could not leave their posts. Wolfgang, who was managing the keep as his last duty before he left for the outside and handed over all responsibilities to Mark, brought the Reservists their meals. He could have sent a maidservant to do the job, but he wanted to make the men feel somewhat special since they could not go beating around the forest like the rest.
Occasionally, Patrick spotted patrols of Avangarde riding near the village or at the head of the valley of apple orchards, almost beyond eyesight. Sometimes they appeared to be at a run, as if in a hurry.
#
By nightfall, the Avangarde had not returned as they should have. He cursed as the last bit of daylight disappeared and he blew into his hands to keep them warm.
No sooner had he done so than he heard the main gate opened followed by the drawbridge lowered with a thud. Then came the unmistakable sound of a horseman entering the courtyard. There was some commotion and the sound of the gate closing again.
Gregory had let someone in.
An Avangardesman came running along the catwalk towards the Irishman. Patrick had seen the man numerous times but was not all that familiar with him. He thought perhaps his name was Parador. He was dirty and flustered, eyes wide. The man paused before Patrick to catch his breath
and gasped, “Something's afoot! Sir Mark sent me back to tell you to light the battlement fires and be on the lookout. I have to go tell the others now. Von Fiescher knows...” The man ran past Patrick and towards Jeremiah's post.
“What's afoot?” Patrick shouted after the man, curious and excited.
“There's something in the woods,” the Gardesman called back and ran on.
Patrick frowned. Something?
He lit a torch in a nearby censer filled with coal, then ran along the wall lighting more torches as he went. He met up with Sir Gregory.
“Did you hear the news?” the shorter knight asked.
Patrick nodded. “Do you know what happened?”
“I just let Parador in and saw him talking with Von Fiescher, who told me to start lighting the fires.”
More fires were illuminating the far wall. Evidently word had reached Sir Jon and the others. Gregory departed, and Patrick went back to his post. The next several hours were tense. The Irishman expected something to happen, but nothing did. The fact that Wolfgang repeatedly came by with a grim face didn't help matters. He would survey Patrick's line of sight, then depart without an explanation of what was happening.
Around midnight something finally did happen. Dogs yelped in the village and a long procession of torch lights appeared in that direction. One long blast from a horn drowned out the dogs and then faded. Judging from the speed and the fashion in which they bobbed, they were borne by horse men. A similar procession was approaching from the opposite direction, from the valley of apple orchards.
The torches were borne by Avangarde and the group coming from the village appeared to be chasing something. They bypassed the main gate of Greensprings and took the trail that passed before Patrick's wall. That's when he had a good look at the Avangarde's quarry.
First came the dogs. They were large, like wolfhounds. One leapt above the pack, and when it landed he got a glimpse of its eyes-fierce and glowing with an otherworldly light.
There was no way to count them. They raced each other, and in the shadowy torchlight they seemed to meld and separate like a flowing river of mud. They barked and brayed to make the soul shudder.
Following them came a rider whipping them on. This man was no Avangarde, as he was garbed from head to foot in dark animal hides and was crowned with a helm adorned with a stag's pair of horns. The latter masked his face. A light brighter than any torch hovered over him, and lit his path. He blew on a hunting horn.
Sir Jon and Sir Gregory were at Patrick's side. “The torches coming from the valley are borne by a second group of Avangarde who intend to cut off the rider and his pack of dogs,” one of them said.
Just when the trap was about to snap shut, the rider sounded his horn again. He and the dogs broke away into the forest, passing through the brush as if it were smoke. The mounted knights shot into one another's ranks and had trouble regrouping to pursue their prey into the woods. They jumped brambles and were unhorsed by tree limbs. From behind, the huntsman and his pack of shadowy dogs seemed almost transparent; the brilliant will-o-the-wisp that followed them dimmed and dimmed until it was completely out of sight. The only thing visible or audible now were the normal lights and sounds of the Avangarde stumbling in the woods.
“Oh my God,” Sir Jon said in a raspy voice. Patrick saw that all the Reservists were gathered around in shock. “What on earth was that?”
It was a good question. But they had to wait until after the Avangarde returned to find out. Von Fiescher came striding up the stairs in a foul mood, ordering everybody back to their posts.
#
The Avangarde did eventually return. They were tired, dirty, and white as ghosts. It was hard to obtain any information from them. They seemed in a daze, and many had stopped off at the pub in Aesclinn to get drunk before returning home.
Wolfgang spoke to some of the other veterans, but was long in talking with Mark and Jason. After the conversation was over, Von Fiescher nodded, and clapped the men on the back.
As usual, Sir Jon was the clever one and acquired most of the story, which he brought back to the Reservists. He told the story of how the Avangarde sighted a lone rider who was no villager and no knight. All attempts to approach the rider ended in frustration. Soon the rider was seen traveling at a gallop with a pack of hounds as if on a hunt. Villagers claimed sightings too, but no tracks or any other signs were ever found, thus making it impossible to give chase once the pack moved out of sight. They decided to set a trap and the result was what transpired before Greensprings.
At the end of his story, Wolfgang Von Fiescher approached them. “I see Sir Jon has done much of my job.” He planted one foot on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard where they had gathered to watch the Avangarde return and dismount. He leaned heavily on his knee as he spoke with the junior Gardesmen. “What has happened here tonight, believe it or not, is not uncommon. I personally haven't witnessed a manifestation this fantastic since before the oldest veteran here came to Avalon. These hauntings are harmless. I'm sure you all have heard the stories, and now, you have one of your own.” He winked at them. “Carry on, and good job. Goodnight, gentlemen.” He started to depart, but then turned as if struck by an afterthought. “Oh, Sir Patrick, Mark would still like to see you tomorrow evening.”
Patrick's heart sank a little bit, and he pretended not to notice the other Reservists' curiosity.
#
Patrick approached King Mark's quarters just in time to see the door open. Von Fiescher exited, followed by King Mark. The two clasped hands and the Irishman heard Wolfgang say, “Don't worry, you'll do fine. Take care.”
After Wolfgang nodded at Patrick on his way out and turned the corner, Mark spotted Patrick and smiled. “Sir Gawain, how good of you to come.” The door into the apartment was open still and McFowler sat in a chair, toying with a chess piece. “Could you wait a moment before we begin?” Mark said. “I have some unfinished keep business I must go over with Jason first.”
Patrick shrugged. “Certainly.”
King Mark's smile did not waver as he backed into his quarters and shut the door.
Patrick paced for a while, his stomach twisting and turning. There were no seats in the corridor, and judging from the tones of the conversation coming from inside, Mark was going to be more than a moment. Patrick decided to wander down the hall, taking stock of the tapestries, no doubt gifts from benefactors to the keep, same as the mirror in the Greensprings entrance.
His wanderings took him out of the corridor and to a room, the library. He decided to enter. Though he could read, he didn’t much enjoy it. He meandered about, through the tall aisles, running his fingers along the dusty leather-bound tomes. He chose one arbitrarily, looked at it disinterestedly upon seeing a language with which he was not familiar, placed it back, and continued to roam.
He put his hands behind his back as he penetrated further into the collection, letting his eyes gaze move from one side of the aisle to the other. Reaching the end of the row, he turned the corner and came across a robed man bent over a table, who suddenly turned about. Patrick jumped back. One of the man’s eyes was monstrously big.
“Oh, hello,” said the man genially. “It's only glass.” He plucked out a glass disc from under his brow. “I use it to read things up close. My eyes aren't all that good, you know.” He pocketed the thing and extended his hand to the Irishman. “I'm Father Benis. Or the librarian, as everyone calls me. And you are?”
Patrick took his hand. “Patrick Gawain, of Galway.”
The librarian's mouth turned to an O and he shuffled closer. “Why yes, the man from the Green Isle. The only one among us, I believe. And what a lovely accent you have. Definitely of Gaelic blood you are...” He gently took hold of Patrick’s jaw. “What sharp cheekbones you have. Tell me; are both your parents native Irish?”
Patrick, though surprised at being handled, didn't budge. Father Benis didn't seem dangerous. “Yes, of course. Why are you holding my head?”
&n
bsp; “There are several Celtic tribes in the isles. Eire in particular. Milesians, Firbolgs, Picts, and Britons to name a few. I'm trying to place your ancestry by looking at the slope of your skull.”
Patrick guffawed like he hadn't for quite some time and grabbed at the librarians wrists. “You're jesting. You can do that? Can you also tell my fortune by reading tea leaves?” Patrick ribbed with a smile.
The librarian also laughed. “Yes to the former and no to the latter. It would be heresy to divine the future through the arcane arts that don't apply to the Holy Father. I may be a learned and inquisitive man, but I shan't incur the wrath of the Lord.” He made the sign of the Holy Cross, but in a lax manner and with a smile. “Though from what I understand, there are such arcane tomes hidden among these books.” The short, affable man took Patrick by the arm and led him among the bookshelves.
Patrick liked this man. “How do you know that?” He asked.
“My predecessor told me of several among these books. When Father Chanceroy arrived, he discovered that the former denizens of Greensprings had amassed a significant collection. Some of those works dealt with topics of the supernatural bent. Naturally, Father Chanceroy had all such items removed. But in spite of that, due to the sheer size of the library, some questionable material was overlooked. My predecessor said to remain vigilant, lest they fall into the hands of audacious children who might be led down the wrong path.”
“Have you found any?”
The priest sighed. “No. I've been over every single book and scroll. I know this library like my own room. After all, I am the Librarian. Nothing out of the ordinary here. My predecessor locked up all the material that concerned mysticism and the Island of Avalon.”
“Why didn't he destroy them if he was so concerned about them?”
“Because, I imagine, he was like me. Inquisitive. He seemed to think that they were the works of Morgana Le Fey, sister of King Arthur. He felt them to be of too much historical importance to destroy, whatever they may be. This was her island you know, Avalon.”
Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) Page 12