“Who’s there?” she called and paused waiting for a response. When none came, she added, “Won’t you come out and help a poor pregnant woman carry her water?”
She squinted into the darkness, but only a cat darted across the street.
She huffed and struggled to pour the well bucket into her own. Once finished, she braced a hand against her back and carried the water down the street towards her home.
A cloud moved away from the moon, casting the street in moonlight.
The scrabbling noise came again, this time at a distance behind her.
“I’m not finding this funny!” she called out. Though moonlight may have illuminated much of the village, it also cast long shadows. “Thomas Luther, if that is you trying to scare me I’m going to have harsh words to say to your mother!”
No response came and an unease crept into her gut. She continued on her way.
More scrabbling came, and closer, but this time she did not look back. The unease in her gut turned into a jolt, stabbing at her heart. She picked up her pace.
The scrabbling matched her speed.
She dropped her bucket and broke into a run, her breath coming in hectic gasps.
A shadow passed over her, momentarily blotting out the moonlight around her.
“No!” she cried in a voice strangled by fear. She ran.
Something heavy crushed her, followed by an overpowering flowery smell drawing her into darkness.
#
The following morning, a delay greeted Patrick near the docks. As he had understood it, all the supplies and material had been loaded the previous day and passengers only needed to board. Mass would be held on the deck, as it was the Lord’s Day; then they would sail to Avalon.
But when he and Marcus left the inn with a gaggle of young nobles, they found a crowd gathered at the center of the village, blocking the road. Patrick and Marcus pushed their way to the front of the commotion, letting the swan emblem on their surcoats do most of the work.
Near the well they found agitated villagers arguing with an equal number of outsiders.
“It was one of those people you brought with ye, that’s what it was!” a villager shouted, stabbing a finger at a nun in an all-white habit.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” said a clergyman in a green robe, his fuzzy white lamb chop beard bristling in indignation.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” Marcus boomed as he approached.
“My lord,” the finger-pointing villager addressed the Avangardesman, “one of our people was murdered last night.”
A gasp went through the crowd at the accusation. The villager pointed to a prone body on the cobblestones. A man wailed terribly over the woman, holding her body to his breast, rocking back and forth in misery.
“That’s a serious accusation,” Marcus said, approaching the body. Long hair obscured the face. “What happened to her?”
“That’s Gwyndaline, telling by her clothes, but you can hardly tell by her condition,” the villager spat. “Something unnatural happened to her. She’s all shriveled like a plucked gourd that’s been sittin’ around fer a month. The only thing else so unnatural are those people that nun brought.”
Patrick noted the emphasis the accusers placed on the word people as he approached Marcus who had dropped to a knee to examine the body.
The villager gently convinced the grieving man to relinquish the body long enough to roll it outwards for examination.
A gasp rippled through the crowd. The color had drained completely out of the poor woman’s skin and her flesh had shriveled like a raisin. Hollow depressions formed her cheeks. She looked like someone who had starved to death in a dark dungeon.
“You sure this is Gwyndaline?” Patrick asked, and soon regretted it.
“Don’t you think I recognize me own wife!” the grieving man wailed. “She had the most beautiful blue eyes. Look at them!”
They were milked over with cataracts. But they had indeed once been blue.
“The children couldn’t have done this,” the nun protested.
“That’s because they’re not children,” the accusing villager returned.
“Wait a minute,” Marcus interrupted. “Are you referring to the candidati the cardinal brought with him?”
“Yes!” the nun shouted. “Just because they’re... special... doesn’t mean they’re monsters. They are Godly creatures deserving our compassion.”
“Bah!” said the fisherman, and the other villagers took up the angry murmur.
“If they are in the cardinal’s care, then they are far from evil,” Marcus reasoned. “There must be some other explanation.”
“Wulfric, what do you make of this?” the clergyman in green asked a colleague. The man, robed in gray with a long white beard, knelt down to the body. When he did, Patrick got a good look at the coat of arms adorning the front of his robe: a cross formed from thorny branches.
“Father Wulfric is an expert on things natural and unnatural,” the clergyman in green explained.
“Father,” the grieving husband pleaded, now recognizing Wulfric as a priest, “can you please say a prayer for our child? They say the unborn go to limbo, but if you could just... just...” The man broke down again.
“Child?” the long-bearded priest said.
The man weakly gestured to the dead woman’s stomach. At first the emaciated condition of the body made it difficult to discern, but closer examination revealed a bump.
Father Wulfric touched the region, and yet another gasp erupted from the crowd when the bump deflated horribly. The husband convulsed in agony.
“Father, what can you tell us?” Marcus asked the priest.
Wulfric examined the body. His bushy white eyebrows bunched over his nose, and he plucked something from the dead woman’s clothing.
“What’s that?” Marcus asked.
“I’m not sure,” the old man replied. “It looks like some sort of skin.”
The curious onlookers pressed around Wulfric. Light passed through the parchment-like sheet he held, making it easier to note the fish scale pattern in it. When completely unfolded, it was the size of his chest and had what looked like the spidery trace-work of veins.
“You’re not saying Gwyndaline was killed by some animal, do you?” the villager said incredulously.
Wulfric shrugged. “I have no idea, but this was found on the body. Does this look like anything you’ve ever seen?”
The villager looked the thing over and shrugged inconclusively, his face scrunching up at the sight of it.
Wulfric rose to a crouch and examined the ground, moving away from the well and the docks, towards the forest. Villagers made way for him.
“There seems to be a trail of it, leading to the woods,” he said.
“Well, there you have it,” the fuzzy bearded clergyman said. “I’d say the poor lass fell afoul of some creature from the wilds.”
“Nonsense!” the chief accuser said. “All these people moving about could easily have shifted the trail from the boats to the woods.”
“If I may make a suggestion,” Marcus said, and all eyes turned to him. “It would appear Gwyndaline ran afoul of something. Now, I doubt anyone in Cardinal Teodorico’s retinue is responsible, and therefore the whole village could be at risk even after we leave. It is fortunate today we have an abundance of priests and monks on hand who can bless the village and your boats, offering God’s protection from further harm.”
A favorable murmur passed through the crowd.
“What say you, Abbot Herewinus?” Marcus addressed the clergyman in green. “Is that agreeable?”
Herewinus’ face flexed into a contemplative mask. He stroked his great white lamb-chop beard, and finally responded, “Certainly. What do you say, Father Wulfric? Do you think you can coordinate with the Romans to bless the boats and the village in a timely manner?”
“Eh?” Wulfric said, still distracted by the thing he examined in his hands. “Oh, yes, blessing. I’d rather s
ay it would be more expedient if the cardinal would incorporate the blessing into the Mass. He could stand on the upper deck and bless the entire village and harbor from there, especially if the villagers were to gather on the dock beneath the boat.”
More favorable murmurs rippled through the crowd.
As Marcus and Herewinus discussed making the suggestion to Teodorico, Patrick noted that Wulfric sniffed at the skin in his hands. When he did so, the thing flaked, fell apart and scattered to the winds.
After that, Patrick and Marcus helped herd the crowd of richly dressed noble youths onto the boats. Perhaps several hundred in all, they came from every kingdom in Christendom, speaking of the morning’s commotion in an excited cacophony of languages as they boarded.
Once on board Cardinal Teodorico held Mass on the big Roman ship, turning the upper deck of the ship into a temporary altar and sanctuary. Herewinus did likewise on another ship, as did another priest Patrick had yet to meet on the third boat. Teodorico was happy to agree to the blessing and stood at the ship’s railing to bless the village, villagers, and harbor. Eventually, the single giant sail was hoisted, the galley men dropped oars, and the boat got underway.
Patrick stood on the captain's deck near the ship’s rudder. There he learned something new about traveling to and from Avalon. Travelers to Avalon could only penetrate the protective mist by invitation—an invitation written only by one of the handful of mystical relics associated with the island, the legendary swan feathers used as quills. Today, however, Patrick watched the cardinal remove a sacred feather from a special box presented to him by his servant Victor. The cardinal then floated the feather on the water in a bowl next to the helmsman. He said a prayer over it and the feather drifted, pointing out to sea. The helmsman noted the subtle changes in the feather’s position and adjusted the rudder accordingly. The other two ships followed closely.
Patrick grunted, musing out loud, “I had no idea.”
“Aye,” Marcus commented next to him. “I didn’t know myself until several years after being an Avangarde.”
“Did Herewinus tell Teodorico the blessing idea was yours, or did he take all the credit for calming the locals?” Patrick whispered, leaning closer.
Marcus shrugged. “I let him convey the idea.”
Patrick shook his head at the politics of it all, and how much he hated it, when he saw Aimeé on the lower deck near the rail.
His eye twitched and his headache returned, a low fire between his temples. He had a sudden desire to throttle Geoffrey and desperately wished the man were present so he could. He still might do just that when he saw him next.
He shook his head.
No, that wouldn’t accomplish anything. Wouldn’t help. Geoffrey is not the problem.
He looked at his hand that trembled slightly and questioned if his sanity slipped yet again.
Did I not see the face of a dead man in the crowd yesterday? Am I seeing things again?
The pounding in his head escalated and the sound of distant battle rose to a din.
He squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed his head.
God help me, he prayed.
The gentle roll of the deck and the soothing sea breeze calmed him, and a realization came over him.
The child could be mine. Mine. I could be having a baby... with Aimeé.
For the first time, this earth-shattering realization was not earth-shattering, but remotely calming.
The deck rolled and his hair fluttered in the breeze.
Tell her you love her, his mother’s voice echoed in his head.
Patrick excused himself and made his way down the steep staircase to the lower deck and approached Aimeé.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
She drew a deep breath and crossed her arms. “It is a boat, and I doubt I can avoid you, so I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“I just wanted to say...” His throat closed up and he struggled to swallow. He raised his hand to his throat to rub it, and when he did he noticed the partially healed wound along his hand. The hand trembled a bit and he frowned at it. Doubt crept into his heart as memories of her lying lifeless in a bed of flowers assaulted his mind.
Wouldn’t they truly be better off without me?
“Patrick?” she asked, looking up into his eyes with anticipation. With expectation.
“I...” Patrick commenced to say, but his attention suddenly drew to a group gathering near them. His eyes became big as saucers as he took a sharp breath and stepped back.
Aimeé’s brow furrowed in puzzlement as she glanced at the activity drawing Patrick’s attention.
A group of young people in simple clothes milled about, herded by the nun in the white habit. One of the young people, a girl, broke away from the group and approached Aimeé, shuffling along in a lurching manner. When she arrived, Patrick took another step back.
The young woman before them had very large blue eyes set in oversized sockets, a plump face, and a slack jaw with mismatched teeth. She mumbled something.
“What was that, little one?” Aimeé asked, her initial shock turning into a smiling demeanor, both gentle and kind.
“Pretty,” the odd looking girl mumbled again, her slack jaw contorting into a smile. Moisture glistened at the corners of her mouth. She pointed at the maidservant’s face. “You’re very pretty.”
“Aw, bless you,” Aimeé said, having no trouble embracing the creature who giggled.
“Candace, come here now,” the nun in white sternly called to the girl.
The odd girl shambled away, but before leaving, looked over her shoulder and added, “So is your baby.”
Aimeé’s jaw dropped.
“Well, I guess news travels fast,” Aimeé said, a hint of scorn in her voice as she glared at Patrick.
“What? Me?” he protested, “I haven’t told anyone. Well, except Sir Marcus.”
Aimeé put her hands on her full hips and glared at the knight.
“Patrick! Will you not respect me in anything regarding this? If we aren’t getting married, then I must wait for an appropriate time to tell the staff at Greensprings,” she said, her glare far from subsiding.
“Well, if you would just agree to marry me it wouldn’t be a concern, and besides, I seriously doubt Sir Marcus confided in a changeling about your condition,” he responded.
“How else did she... Wait, what did you call her?”
Patrick stared at the group of odd young people as they moved on, guided by their chaperoning nun. He wiped a nervous brow and said, “Changelings. They’re changelings.”
“Don’t be silly, they’re merely simple is all. When I was a child there were several such children in my village. I’ve never seen so many in one place, though,” Aimeé said.
Patrick shook his head. “Where I come from, when a child is born like that, it is suspected an evil fairy has replaced the real child with... that.”
Aimeé shook her head, not knowing what to say.
“The villagers accused them of killing that poor woman before we left,” Patrick added, understanding dawning on him now he had seen the nun’s charges.
Those people.
“That’s just ridiculous,” Aimeé said.
“I agree,” Patrick replied, eyes narrowing in thought. “Changelings are meant to be a burden, dead weight—not malicious.”
Aimeé threw up her hands. “That’s not what I meant! I think once you get to know them, they’re quite lovely.”
“‘Candidati,’” Patrick said, turning introspective. “That’s what Sir Marcus called them. ‘The candidati brought by Cardinal Teodorico.’ ‘Candidati’ means ‘candidates,’ I believe, but candidates for what?”
“You’re not listening to me again, are you?” Aimeé slapped Patrick in the chest.
“Hoy, hey,” he exclaimed, broken from his introspection.
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Go wherever it is you go when you think deeply,” she exp
lained. “You treat me like I’m not here.”
Before Patrick could defend himself, another group of youth approached them.
“Sir Patrick Gawain?” they asked, holding their hats in hand.
Three young men in squire tunics stood wide-eyed before the Irishman.
“Yes,” Patrick responded, curious.
The two smaller ones pushed the third taller one forward, urging him to say something.
“We just wanted to say what an honor it is to meet you,” the elder towheaded boy said.
Patrick’s mouth screwed up into a semblance of a smile as he struggled to find the proper response.
He settled on, “Thank you?”
The two younger boys continued to prod the older boy in the back until he angrily turned on them and shooed them away. The older boy then awkwardly took a knee, and the other two followed suit. The display surprised Patrick.
“Our apologies for our presumptions,” the blonde said, “but our day of dubbing is fast approaching and as I’m sure you know, we can request whomever we chose to perform the knighting ceremony. Myself, Charles of Flanders, and my companions, Jakob and Josef of Prague, would be greatly honored if you would consider performing the ceremony.”
Patrick blinked, all the more shocked.
“Me? Why me?”
One of the dark-haired boys behind the taller boy spoke up, his accent Slavic, but his French impeccable.
“Because you are Sir Patrick Gawain, first over the wall in Jerusalem, Savior of Avalon, and Knight of Cups.”
“Ah bloody hell,” Patrick grumbled. “First of all lads, I was not the first one over the wall in Jerusalem. Also, I, as well as yourselves, are charged with keeping Avalon and any exploits occurring there secret. The whole point of being dubbed by a knight of celebrity is so you can be associated in some way with their accomplishments. No one will believe, let alone know, what it means to be ‘Savior of Avalon.’”
The blonde boy resolutely shook his head, saying, “It matters not if we can tell the world of what you have done in Avalon. It is enough we know that you have touched the Cup of the Christ, like a knight of King Arthur. As for Jerusalem, I can swear by my own eyes I have seen you go over the wall. Perhaps not the first individual, but certainly with the first company.”
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 10