That evening, thunderclouds rolled in and heavy rain pelted the house as she and Patrick ate dinner with the family.
“Now you get to see real Irish weather,” Patrick said at table. “I hope the roads won’t be too bad tomorrow when we go to the festival at the Gathering Place.”
Later, he bid her goodnight with a kiss as usual by lantern light at her chamber door and ambled towards his own room.
She let out a deep breath, watching his light fade the farther he walked away.
Soon afterward she let the pitter-patter of rain against the window shutters lull her to sleep.
She didn’t feel she had been sleeping long, however, when a disturbance in the hallway woke her with a start. People ran and shouted. A similar disturbance outside the house also drew her attention. She put on a robe and joined the throng of panicked family running for the main entrance, thinking maybe a fire had broken out. Outside, in the lead, Catha held up a lantern to reveal Sian and Patrick in the driving rain. At first Aimeé thought the two brothers fought, but a second glance showed Sian putting out his hands, speaking soothing words she did not understand. Beatrix and Talisia stood nearby with wet hair plastered against their faces, doing the same. Patrick moved erratically in circles shouting, though Aimeé could not understand what he said. The family gathered around to watch the spectacle, concern drawn in their faces.
When Beatrix noticed Aimeé, she came to her. “He woke us, shouting into the darkness in French, though he is not making any sense. He won’t listen to us.”
She urged Aimeé towards Patrick, who now shouted in Gaelic.
“Patrick, what is wrong?” she called over the rain and his shouts.
Soaked in a muddy nightgown, his head jerked in her direction when she spoke. His eyes widened and he backed away.
“No, get away! I didn’t mean it! I take it back!” he shouted in French.
Then, raising a knife she hadn’t noticed until now, he staggered towards her shouting in Gaelic.
Gasps erupted from the crowd and Aimeé slipped in the mud as she tried to back away. Her world shattered with confusion. Patrick stood over her with the knife, railing to the night, to the rain, and back to her. Wild-eyed, he thrust his hands out to her, palms up with the knife balancing precariously in one, and made a questioning statement in Gaelic. When she did not answer, he took the blade and sliced it across his palm, creating a thread of crimson flowing with the rain down his wrist.
“No!” she cried.
Sian leaped over her and planted a fist across his brother’s face, sending him with a splash into a puddle, where he lay motionless.
#
The following morning, Aimeé awoke to the sound of giggling children and a light touch on her face.
“Girls, please,” Aimeé pleaded, rolling over in her bed.
The laughter came again, but fainter as if from down the hall, but the touches on her face gently caressed her again. First they traced her brow, then her cheek, and finally her lips.
She sat up in bed and opened her eyes to an empty room.
“What the...”
She rose from the bed and entered the hall to look in either direction.
No one was there.
Her stomach twisted into knots, and she recalled the events of the previous night. She moved to dress herself and go find what had become of Patrick. After the incident in the yard, they had placed him on the dining room table where Talisia spent careful minutes sewing up his hand. When it was apparent Patrick was out cold for the rest of the night, Aimeé had gone to bed.
In dressing herself she paused, however, when a wave of nausea overcame her and she ran to the room’s bedpan to empty her stomach.
#
The family did not let the previous night’s incident interfere with preparations to take the wool to the Gathering Place. As Aimeé understood it, all the local families would be doing the same and there would be a festival, as well.
The household buzzed with activity. Aimeé searched for Patrick. She came across an unusually quiet Sian who pointed down the garden path behind the manor and urged her to follow it.
“Patrick and mama,” he said. His eyes lingered on her as if she might have a better explanation as to what had transpired in the rain.
Not sure what to say, she thanked him, picked up her skirts and ran down the path into the grove.
Flute music wafted on the breeze. By the time she arrived at its source, singing followed it: a beautiful yet mournful tune in the language Aimeé had come to recognize as classically Gaelic. Talisia paused and raised the flute to her mouth again. Aimeé noted the flute hung around Talisia’s neck by a string. Closer examination revealed the flute was actually the crucifix Talisia wore about her neck, hollow and fashioned with little holes.
Patrick sat on the ground at her feet, his upper torso hunched forward with his head in her lap. The slump of his body and the rhythmic rise and fall of his back indicated he slept peacefully.
Beatrix sat next to Talisia on the bench and motioned Aimeé forward, assuring her she did not trespass into a private moment... or perhaps invited her into one.
Aimeé sat and the three women crowded on the small seat. Talisia stopped her singing and flute playing. Patrick snorted in his sleep and moisture beaded his brow.
Talisia asked something quietly, directing it towards Aimeé as she stroked Patrick’s hair.
“Can you tell me what happened last night?” Beatrix translated for her.
“I don’t know exactly,” Aimeé admitted, and told her all she knew about his restless sleep, his crying out names, and the Apparition—the Other.
Talisia remained quiet for a while after Beatrix had finished the translation.
“The war follows him,” she said eventually. “His soul is wounded. Fragmented.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Aimeé asked, her brow creasing with concern.
After another long pause and several more strokes of his hair, Talisia replied, “When he was a child and his troubles became too much, he would come to me like this. I would sing for him. Play music for him. It would help guide him to a peaceful place, and from there he could heal.”
“How long does it take?” Aimeé asked, wanting to reach out and stroke Patrick’s hair as well, but refrained, not wishing to intrude on a mother’s touch.
“From taunting boys?” she said, raising the flute to her mouth. “Not long. But from the scars of war?” She gave a slight shake of her head before she whispered the tune through the flute. When she paused again, her own brow creased in concern. “I’m afraid it will take much more time than he has with me, and for some reason he is resisting, though he is not quite aware of that himself. It will take some time. It will be up to you.”
Aimeé blanched. “Me? I can’t sing. Certainly not as beautifully as you.”
Talisia smiled as she removed the necklace and handed the instrument to her. “You can play. Here, I’ll show you.”
Aimeé gingerly took the tiny wood instrument that barely fit in one hand and bunched her fingers about the holes as she put it to her lips.
After Talisia had shown her the pattern her fingers should follow, she gave it a blow. At first the tune came crudely, but took on form. Talisia smiled encouragement, but then quickly stopped Aimeé’s fingers when she attempted to pick up speed once her confidence grew.
“That is a different tune,” Talisia warned. “That one is not the healing tune, but more of a call for help.”
A breeze moved through the grove, swaying the tree branches. A flurry of birds buzzed the clearing, fluttered about the women’s heads as if searching for something, and then just as quickly departed.
“You must practice the correct tune,” Talisia admonished, smiling at the birds as they left, “and be careful of using that other tune on Avalon. There is no telling what manner of creatures will show up if they heard it.”
“Avalon?” Aimeé tried to pretend ignorance, shooting a glance to Beatrix who looked down.
&
nbsp; “It was not Beatrix who let slip the knowledge,” Talisia explained. “Patrick finally admitted it to me. A son cannot keep secrets long from his mother. Fortunately, this music will be even stronger in a place like Avalon.”
Patrick snorted and his head jerked up. He looked around blinking.
“Oh, hello,” he said. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and at first he would not make eye contact with her. He raised a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. When he did, she noticed the bandage on his hand. A thin stretch of red stained the white cloth. “I guess I was sleepwalking bad last night, and I owe you an apology. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He rubbed his jaw where Sian had struck him.
“Patrick, your mother says you should listen to her music and song,” Aimeé said, concern in her voice. She reached out and took his bandaged hand. “It will help you...”
“I have. I’m fine now,” Patrick almost snapped, frowning as he stood stiffly. He withdrew his hand. “I have listened and slept well. I feel much better.”
“Patrick...”
“It was only sleepwalking. A nightmare. It’s over,” he said dismissively. “I must go help prepare for the trip to the festival.”
He kissed Aimeé on the head, said something to his mother and sister-in-law in Gaelic, and left.
“Don’t let him ignore it,” Talisia insisted, her eyes following him. “Play for him every chance you can.”
She closed Aimeé’s fingers about the flute, indicating she should keep it. Aimeé protested at first, but relented at Talisia’s urging.
Yet worry gnawed at her.
Before reaching the house, Patrick paused to sit next to his father who reclined on a chaise in the garden. The two men reached out and took each other’s hand and sat for a good long time, not saying a word.
#
That evening, the population of the Gathering Place swelled a hundredfold and the area filled with animals, wagons, tents, and bales upon bales of wool.
After Mass, the people of Galway gathered for a lively dinner held about a massive bonfire followed by singing, storytelling, and dancing.
After an exceptionally boisterous dance, Aimeé begged pardon from the heat and exertion, and Patrick led away from the fire.
“Are you well?” he asked, brow furrowed with worry.
“Oui,” she waived his concern off. “Too much food, too much drink, and definitely too much dancing. I just need a rest is all.”
Sian arrived then with a tankard in hand and called Patrick over to join him and a group of men.
“Go on,” she encouraged him. “I understand, the menfolk call. Go enjoy yourself.”
Patrick kissed her brow and left.
When he left, Aimeé noted Talisia nearby with Shannon and a group of older men. Her luminous eyes glittered in the dark. Aimeé moved to wave a greeting, but doubled over, clutching her stomach. Thankfully, she did not vomit, but came close.
Talisia rushed over. Aimeé tried to wave her off, but Talisia gripped her strongly by the wrist and peered into her face, not maliciously, but sternly. Aimeé yielded to her will and let herself be led to the well where Talisia applied a damp cloth to her forehead and made her recline on a bench.
“No more dancing,” she said in broken French.
She left briefly and came back with Beatrix, with whom she exchanged words. Beatrix smiled and nodded knowingly. The elder women sat on either side of her.
“You don’t know, do you?” Beatrix asked.
“Know what?” Aimeé said, struggling to keep her head back and the cloth on.
“That you’re with child.”
Aimeé’s head snapped up and the cloth fell into her lap.
“That can’t be!” she exclaimed, almost standing, but the women held her down.
“You are,” Beatrix insisted.
Aimeé’s mouth dropped, though no words came out. She looked to the thoughtful face of Talisia and blushed. The Gawain matriarch reached over and stroked her hair and said some gentle words.
“I understand how the world works,” Beatrix translated for her, “and you and my son are young and beautiful.”
“But, but...” Aimeé stammered. She held her stomach, disbelief and a storm of emotions raging through her.
“But we... oh,” Aimeé started to protest, but realization dawned on her as she remembered a certain night after a festival not so long ago. A festival not so different from tonight. She blushed again and stammered, “It’s not what you think, yes there was some drink involved, but it was only once. Your son has been more than respectful and a good Christian knight and...”
Beatrix translated, and halfway through her nervous defense Talisia held up a halting hand. With a girlish smile she reached out and cradled Aimeé’s face, kissing her.
“There is no need to explain. I know my son. Besides, ‘Uncle Ale’ and ‘Auntie Wine’ have been the godparents of many a child and have brought many a gift into the world that otherwise may not have come on its own. I am happy for you.”
Aimeé relaxed and allowed the women to hug her.
She pulled back and rubbed her stomach and the warmth she felt radiating within.
Moments later, however, an icy cold extinguished that warmth and her hands jumped from her body as if stung by frostbite.
The women looked at her with concern.
“The noble who attacked me...” she said, looking sadly at her stomach. Her hands hovered over it, fingers curling and uncurling, as if trying to decide whether to caress it or tear it apart.
Realization dawned on the elder women and a collective gasp issued from them.
“It was about the same time?” they asked.
Aimeé nodded, despair falling over her like a pall.
Talisia bent to a knee, touched Aimeé’s stomach and placed her cheek against it, murmuring words as her eyes closed.
After a moment, Aimeé looked to Beatrix for understanding.
“She says a mother knows her own blood,” Beatrix explained, then she frowned as she continued the translation, “...but there is something shrouding this child. Something obstructing her Sight.” An uncharacteristically puzzled look crossed Talisia’s face when her eyes opened. “She cannot say it is not Patrick’s, but cannot say that it is,” Beatrix continued. “It is beautiful, no doubt, but something hides it. There is...” Beatrix’s and Talisia’s brows creased with concern. “...a darkness. There is danger.”
Talisia rose, still staring at Aimeé’s belly, still holding it as if her touch could protect it from future woes.
“No matter what happens, we are here for you,” Talisia assured Aimeé, “but you must talk to Patrick.”
#
Before searching Patrick out, Aimeé spent some time alone, alternating between feelings of lightness as if she might float away with the surreal situation, and collapsing under the weight of a millstone around her neck.
A baby? she thought. Whose? Patrick’s beautiful green-eyed child, or Geoffrey’s brown-eyed monster?
Initially, the idea of the latter made her ill and want to tear her belly open and sit in a swift flowing river to cleanse her womb.
No, she told herself eventually, it is not the child’s fault. It is from God, not Geoffrey. It will need loving. Otherwise, it will become another Geoffrey walking through this world and that won’t do.
She clung to that notion and her hands rubbed her stomach, pressing harder as her resolve grew.
She found Patrick deep in conversation with a couple, and when he saw Aimeé approach, an odd mix of relief and anxiety filled his face.
The man he spoke to was a short rotund fellow with an affable face and receding hairline. He held a young boy, perhaps two or three years old, by the hand. The woman had thick dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. Once, she must have had the sort of beauty that would have made Aphrodite jealous, but now she had the full-figured maternal beauty that comes with having had several children.
Patrick introduced Aimeé by na
me, then said stiffly, “Aimeé, this is Malcolm O’Connor, and his wife... Kellie.”
His former fiancée. Aimeé blinked, and awkward cheek-kissing ensued, followed by a lengthy dialogue that Aimeé could not follow. She could only tell all felt very uncomfortable. Kellie regarded Aimeé with a woman’s combination of surface politeness and subdued hostility.
Fortunately, the child saved them all by crying, at which point the O’Connors begged off to attend their child. Patrick happily let them go.
Later, Patrick and Aimeé found themselves at the well where Patrick splashed water in his face.
“Are you well?” she asked.
Patrick shrugged, saying, “That went better than I thought.”
“You still care for her?” she asked, not as an accusation, but as a genuine question.
Patrick sat next to her on the bench and took her hand.
“No, and I thank God for that every day. I wish her the best, I really do. I just don’t want to see it firsthand. Old wounds still hurt when poked. At least now I know they’re healing. They just need more time.”
Aimeé squeezed his hand back. The time had definitely not come for bringing up world-shattering news.
#
The following day, after the business of sorting the bales of wool, arranging them for transport to Galway, and picking the year’s representative to negotiate their sale, Aimeé and Patrick found some time alone on a hillside to have a blanket lunch. From there, they could watch the continuing festivities.
He then shared news of his own.
“We’ll be returning to Greensprings soon,” he said.
“So soon?”
“Aye, I promised Sir Mark and Father Hugh we’d be back by the time the new flock of Guests arrives. That should be happening soon as the season changes. Besides,” Patrick added with a wistful smile, “if I stay any longer they will expect me to help with the harvest, as well. I’m supposed to be relaxing.”
Not sure how to break her own news, she started with some other innocuous conversation while she buttered her bread.
“Why is it that Dierdre and Catha are not married? They are older, no?”
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 7