His hand shot out. He could almost hear the breaths of Father Hugh and the congregation behind him freeze in time.
But his hand passed through it like mist.
Patrick felt a dagger pierce his heart.
Chapter Five
After exiting the church, Patrick braced his back against the wall and leaned on his knees trying to catch his breath. His lungs couldn’t seem to decide whether to freeze or panic. When he started to see spots before his eyes, he made an effort to take long controlled breaths, and soon his vision cleared.
“There, sorted out,” he said to himself, still shaken.
He stood and while smoothing out the front of his surcoat, he caught sight of Aimeé across the courtyard helping the kitchen staff unload one of the wagons.
He felt his breath freeze up again and he turned on his heel to leave, remembering he had his own duties to attend.
#
He spent the remainder of the day helping the new arrivals settle into the Hall for Guests, the granite building at the far corner of the fortress across the practice field from the main keep—his own former residence while a Reservist. Now a full Avangarde, he would move into the barracks inside the keep.
At first he didn’t look forward to the ritual of settling the Guests, as it mostly revolved around the menial labor normally associated with servants. Once the process got underway, however, Patrick remembered the fun one could have with the new arrivals. Also, it distracted from matters weighing on his mind.
The new Guests, wide-eyed at the sight of noble-born knights carrying their luggage, made easy targets for jesting. More than once a young man’s mouth hung open in confusion when a knight held out his hand for payment. Some Guests would start to dig into their pouches for coin; others refused indignantly, whereupon the knight would draw a weapon and demand payment. Eventually, of course, the students caught on to the good-natured Greensprings welcoming ritual.
“A silly game,” Patrick explained to a student as he handed him his travel bag, “but it is easier for a knight to protect a charge he knows personally. What harm is a little humor?”
“Patrick!” a voice called from down the corridor.
Patrick turned to see a tall, fair knight wading through the milling boys. The man’s face beamed a smile from a round, affable face. He struggled to work his way through the crowd that didn’t seem to afford his red-and-black surcoat the same respect as the black surcoats with swam emblems.
“Sir Jon!” Patrick returned, making his way over bags, sacks, and trunks to the knight. Jon greeted him with the “Fight strong, live stronger” salute.
“How do you fare these days?” Patrick asked, looking his friend over. “You appear to have put on some weight—the good sort, I mean.”
He hadn’t, as the Northumbrian maintained his usual, pleasantly soft physique.
Sir Jon waved the compliment off. He was Patrick’s closest companion in Greensprings, and spent the rest of the day helping Patrick move the Guests. While doing so, he quickly apprised Patrick of the current gossip. Much of it Patrick already knew: Sir Mark and the Lady Christianne were engaged and gone, most likely to her family’s estate in Vichy; Sir Corbin now served as Steward and Captain of the Guard; Sir Jeremiah had been promoted to full Avangarde from Reservist after Sir Hoder left to pursue other opportunities.
“...and as you can see, I am now the lone Reservist. Lucky me,” he finished, pointing his thumbs to his red surcoat.
“Don’t worry about it too much, Jon. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Perhaps I should go traipsing off on adventures, and then come back and demand entry into the Order,” Jon said with a hint of uncharacteristic resentment.
Patrick didn’t know how to respond. He knew firsthand the frustration of waiting for acceptance, and if it not for the events of the previous year, it might never have happened. In fact, he had been on the verge of being asked to leave.
“It will happen, Jon,” he said, and then changed the subject, “What else has happened since I left?”
Again uncharacteristically quiet, Jon replied, “Not much.”
#
Come nightfall Patrick and Jon stood near their seats in the great hall with growling stomachs, waiting for the formalities to conclude. Squire Charles of Flanders did a fine job: with a booming voice, he announced the arrivals.
As they waited, Patrick admired the banquet hall. Great wagon-wheel chandeliers bore a multitude of candles, their light reflecting from the white walls whose stucco, mixed with crushed quartz, created a scintillating effect. Fresh pine boughs and flower petals adorned the tables, their bright colors and aromas mingling with the smell of cooking foods. Flagons of the local specialty, Aphelon hard cider, waited on the tables.
Maidservants patiently waited to one side, ready to serve. All that was missing were their Roman visitors.
Patrick fought the urge to drink something to get a head start on a mild euphoria that would help him traverse the social landscape. Though he had come a long way with his small talk, he still found it to be his single most uncomfortable duty. Not for the first time Patrick thought how perfect Jon was for the duties of the Avangarde—a born conversationalist, and well-liked. In many ways he deserved the swan more than himself, but for the fact Jon still allowed students to push him around.
The announcement of a pair of familiar names by Squire Charles broke Patrick’s pondering and he noted two young men racing for their table.
“William, Trent,” he said, smiling and shaking their hands when they arrived. The two boys had almost grown into men since he last saw them.
“It’s about bloody time you came back,” William, the shorter, dark-haired boy said. “Things were dreadfully boring over the summer.”
“Aye,” the sandy-haired Trent added. “No goblins, no spells, no thieving nobles. Now you’re back, we’re wagering the fun will recommence.”
“No, not there,” Jon almost shouted as he shooed Trent away from the bench seat next to him. “I’m saving that for someone.”
“Wanker,” Trent shot at Jon with a smile, and a friendly punching match started between them until each felt satisfied they’d left a bruise.
New Guests arrived at their table, and as introductions went around, Squire Charles continued with his booming voice over the chatter of the growing crowd.
“The Lady Antonia Esperanza of Sardinia,” he shouted as a dark-haired girl walked elegantly past him. The young man to whom Patrick had spoken on the way to Greensprings appeared in the entrance and whispered in Charles’ ear. Charles then turned to the crowd and announced, “Reinholdt von Pufendorf der Munchen.”
“Pufendorf?” Trent jibed. “That’s a silly name.”
“Aye, but did you see the lady who entered before him?” William said, straining over the heads of the growing crowd.
“Willy, you have a one-track mind,” Jon said.
William ignored Jon and continued to glance around. Trent grabbed his arm and pointed out the next lady who came into the hall. They spent the remainder of the entrance ceremony commenting on either the odd names or the ladies’ beauty or lack thereof. Distracted by their banter, Patrick missed the arrival of the nun in white and her candidati charges. He had hoped their introduction would clear up the reason for their presence at Greensprings.
Soon after that, the students gave way to the benefactors, who made a mixed bag of merchants, nobility, and clergy.
“Abbot Herewinus of Glastonbury, Father Wulfric of Canterbury, Fulk the Fourth, Le Réchin, Count of Anjou, Humphrie de Chaubert, Grand Merchant of Brussels...” Charles cried one after the other.
Then came the cardinal entourage.
“Squires Jakob Vasily and Josef Corvinus of Prague,” Charles announced as the young men began the cardinal escort. They wore simple squire tunics, bearing the image of the cardinal mission: a broad-rimmed hat, trimmed with yellow tassels on a field of red. They each carried a banner with the same emblem.
I
mmediately behind the boys came Lucan, wearing light ceremonial armor.
“Sir Lucan, Captain of the Cardinal Guard, and chief historian and chronicler for the papal legate,” Charles cried.
The half-dozen men who followed him, however, came in full mail and padding. Each guard carried a halberd with a wicked hook at its end.
Next came the cardinal himself and his lady companion.
“The Lady Lilliana Vergoza de Aragon,” Charles announced, “and His Eminence Cardinal Teodorico, Archbishop of Albano, papal legate to Greensprings, and Headmaster of the Board of Benefactors.”
Teodorico wore a cassock and cape of watered silk. The fabric rippled orange-red like a flame. A huge pectoral cross hung from his neck by a thick gold chain, giving the impression the older man bowed under its weight, requiring the need to lean on the crozier with which he walked. On the hand grasping the shepherd’s crook glinted the heavy gold Episcopal ring Patrick had dutifully kissed on the boat in Cornwall.
As lovely as the ornate objects he held in his right hand might be, they paled in comparison to that which he held in his left.
Lightly hooked through his left arm was the arm of a tall, beautiful woman who kept stride with him as they approached their seats of honor. Her deep maroon gown shimmered, and its plunging décolletage caused a buzz in the hall, not the least of which came from William and Trent. In whispered tones the stricken young men lamented they could not see more of her bosom beneath the lattice of a garnet necklace.
Patrick turned to admonish the boys for their rudeness, but found his own gaze drawn to the women’s neckline. The piece of jewelry, which started out as a choker about her throat, formed a net spreading across her olive-toned chest. A scandalous fashion, but no one seemed to protest, least of all the holy man whose arm she held.
Patrick’s voice caught in his throat as the couple passed. William’s and Trent’s chattering stopped abruptly when the woman shot a playful glance in their direction with luminous amber eyes.
Once on the dais, the cardinal gestured to the assembly and said, “Please, have a seat.” Only Teodorico remained standing and motioned for silence. “Please, if you haven’t already, pour yourselves a drink.”
As the room came alive with activity at the request, Wolfgang poured a cup and handed it to the cardinal, then performed the same task for his other table guests.
When the room quieted down and all watched expectantly in the direction of the standing holy man, Teodorico spoke.
#
Behind the tapestries to the side of the dais, Sir Brian McCabe squeezed a brief note with his instrument, and Lady Katherina mimicked with a hum from deep in her chest.
“Almost,” Brian encouraged, blowing the note one more time.
Katherina’s brow furrowed in determination and she adjusted her hum.
“Better,” Brian said, smiling.
“Better is not enough,” Katherina chided herself. “I want very much to do it right.”
“Easy, lass. There will be time for that,” Brian replied, “but for now it is plenty good and no one will notice the difference save your perfectionist self. Relax. How close to performing are we?”
Katherina moved to the curtain and peeked between the hanging fabric. From her vantage she could see the last of the procession of benefactors entering the great hall.
“Soon,” she said, looking back over he shoulder at Brian as he fidgeted with his sprawling bagpipe, then added as she returned her gaze to the hall. “Five minutes maybe? That is if the Headmaster gives his speech—”
Her voice caught in her throat as her eyes came to rest on one of the benefactors who sat near the cardinal. She shook her head, blinked, and gave the mustached older man a long second look.
She backed away from the curtain, letting the fabric fall back into place. She grabbed at her throat as her breath came out in panicked short wheezes.
“What’s wrong, Kat?” Brian asked, his bushy red eyebrows knotted in concern.
She looked to the knight and attempted a response, but only a choking gasp came from her mouth.
“Kat, what is going on?” Brian insisted.
Katherina took a deep breath and managed to say, “There is a man out there, a newcomer, a benefactor, who has a striking resemblance to my uncle.”
“Welcome,” they heard Teodorico say from beyond the curtain. “Your families sent you here as an experiment in hope. Greensprings is not answerable to any one ruler, coin, or bishop. The benefactors, who created this place, are a diverse group whose only goal is to create peace. Your families believe in something greater than the conflicts tearing our Christian family apart. We may come from different lands, speak different languages, but we all believe in Jesus who made it possible to bridge the chasm separating us from God. If God can extend His salvation to us, then we certainly should extend the hand of peace to each other.”
Behind the curtain, trepidation crept into Brian’s voice as he addressed Katherina, “What of your uncle?”
Katherina took another deep breath. “He is... why I had to leave home. I haven’t thought about him in months, but that benefactor reminded me of him and... I...”
She quieted when she realized Brian watched her hands draw protectively to her breasts. His big ruddy features expressed a mix of shock and compassion.
“Look around,” Teodorico continued his speech. A rustle of garments filled the air as the crowd complied. “We have Germans from the Empire, French and Normans from the Frankish kingdoms, Italians from the city states, and English from the isle. You should be at each other’s throats, correct?” Through the gap in the curtain they saw him make a strangling motion with his hands and twist his face into a parody of fury, drawing ripples of laughter. “You already sit at tables with only your own kind. Before long, you will sit with whom you please and not with whom your upbringing dictated. You will learn, work, and play together. You will learn your neighbor is deserving of friendship. When you leave Greensprings you will take that knowledge with you.”
Brian reached out to comfort Katherina, but withdrew his hand just short of touching her. “Look, lass, that man out there is not your uncle. You’re safe.”
“I know,” Katherina agreed, straightening her posture and forcing her face into what she hoped passed for impassiveness. “But my body—my throat—doesn’t seem to believe that.” Her composure fell apart as she exhaled loudly, realizing she had been holding her breath. Her stomach lurched at memories of a hand clamped firmly over her mouth.
“It won’t be easy.” Teodorico’s went on, his tone turning serious. “The old grudges will rise. Therefore, you will be protected from each other by a band of men dedicated not only to keeping you from harm from outside these walls, but also to keep peace within. They are the Avangarde. They are neutral, answerable only to Greensprings. Do not see them as enforcers, but as big brothers.
“To demonstrate what this miraculous island can accomplish, a student, not unlike yourselves, will sing a hymn for us.”
Katherina’s head snapped to the voice beyond the curtain and a new round of wheezing came from her.
This time Brian did gently grab her upper arm and looked her in the eye. “Lass, you can do this. Just concentrate on the music. Can you do that?”
Despite the shakiness of the deep breath she drew, she nodded.
Teodorico finished. “She came from a distant land, spoke a different language, and though baptized in the Orthodox Church, we are equally humble before Christ. She will sing in a language previously unknown to her, joined by an Avangarde playing an instrument also foreign to her homeland. You will find their collaboration heavenly.
“First, raise a toast to our coming year! May God continue to bless this place, and you!”
#
When Teodorico finished, a cheer rose from the crowd and all took a drink from their cups.
As maidservants came forward with dishes and students were distracted by their excitement and hunger, the cardinal sat down
hard and slumped in his high-backed chair. Sweat rolled down his red face as if from a terrible strain. The Lady Lilliana stroked his arm as she leaned toward him, her lips moving near his ear. The cardinal smiled.
It occurred to Patrick then the cardinal’s speech had been almost flawless, without a single bit of stuttering.
The first wheezing notes of a familiar instrument cut through the chatter.
Once, two Scotsmen in the Avangarde had played the bagpipes. One had been the flamboyant Highlander Sir Jason McFowler who had fallen in battle a year ago. The other was the more subdued Sir Brian McCabe—or, as Sir Jason had often referred to him, the “City Boy from Edinburgh.” Sir Jason arguably had played better, but Sir Brian played beautifully, capable of anything from a jig to a ballad.
The large man stood on the dais now, squeezing at the bagpipes’ leather bladder under one arm. His cheeks puffed out as he blew into a polished wood pipe. It coalesced into a slow and chilling drone that resonated about the hall just as easily as the light reflected from the scintillating walls.
A slender, platinum-haired woman in a white dress joined Sir Brian. Patrick drew an involuntary breath. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see her, and had even promised himself he wouldn’t react, but that didn’t stop his heart from betraying him.
“Katherina,” Patrick breathed silently. Memories of her lying next to him in the grass, all smiling eyes, flooded his mind. Just as quickly, however, her final words to him resonated in his skull: We can still be friends. The memory of those words stung more than the wounds he had received when rescuing her. At least the physical wounds had healed.
Yet Patrick found himself transfixed by the sight of her.
She clasped her hands before her, opened her mouth wide and issued a long musical note from deep inside that joined the pipes in rhythm, but then cracked in her throat. People in the crowd exchanged glances.
Her alabaster face flushed crimson. She paused, squeezed her eyes shut, and started anew. Soon, an ethereal song came forth, stilling the conversations and rustling movements of the room.
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 13