Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2)

by Adam Copeland

  Patrick recognized the Gaelic piece she had been working to perfect with McFowler before his death. Though he could discern her Slavic accent in the lyrics, Patrick still could make out the recurring verse—“Hope belongs.” Cardinal Teodorico would have been disappointed to know the song wasn’t a hymn as he had proclaimed, but the sort of song sung on the eve of battles.

  Perhaps still appropriate, Patrick thought.

  Katherina threw herself into the song and as the melody rose and fell in tempo, she turned it into a theatrical performance with grand, expressive gestures.

  She finished with her eyes closed, head back—and the bagpipe ended on an upbeat note. At first the audience sat in stunned silence, but then reacted wildly. They stood and clapped with shouts and whistles. Even the notaries at the table on the dais joined the ovation.

  Katherina’s red face glistened with sweat just as much as Teodorico’s had when he had finished his speech.

  When the noise died down, Cardinal Teodorico exclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Lady Katherina and Sir Brian McCabe! Hmm? A splendid performance! Yes?”

  After the performers bowed and left, the cardinal led the room in saying grace before the meal and eating got under way.

  “Finally,” William growled and reached for the food.

  Patrick concurred with a grunt and started to reach for the aromatic slices of venison, but stopped in mid-reach when he noticed Sir Jon stand and motion to the Lady Katherina as she descended the dais. She made eye contact with Jon, smiled, and made her way to the table. Sir Jon gestured gallantly for her to take a seat in the spot he had saved for her.

  Patrick tried to make eye contact with Jon, silently asking for clarification. Was Jon trying to smooth out the relationship by bringing them together at the same table?

  The Lady Katherina slipped into her seat. As she reached for a napkin, she noticed who sat across from her.

  “Sir Patrick,” she almost shouted, eyes widening. “You’re back.”

  She quickly regained her composure, returned to her usual cool demeanor, and offered no welcoming smile.

  “Just came in today with the arrival of the new Guests,” Patrick said, “I didn’t know you were still at Greensprings. Last I heard, you were considering returning to the mainland. Had I known, I might have found you and paid my respects.” He said this last part while looking at Jon, who suddenly found an intense interest in his food.

  “No need for that,” Katherina replied, accepting a bowl of green beans from William. “We have all year to catch up. And what would your new wife think of that?”

  “I’m not married,” Patrick said simply, and took the bowl of beans from her.

  An odd look crossed her face, but like Jon, she suddenly took a great interest in her food, wrestling with a piece of bread. Jon tenderly took it from her and sliced the tough loaf with his knife.

  Patrick then noticed how Jon sat close to her, doted on her every move, and laughed at her every little attempt at humor. He went above the call of knightly duty.

  No... Patrick thought with some distress. He shook his head at the possibility. Poor bastard doesn’t even know what he’s in for. Serves him right.

  Patrick knew for all her pretenses as a strong-willed woman and loner, she still craved an audience. And as he cut the venison on his plate, Jon’s flaunting behavior angered him.

  Something heavy dropped on his plate. He looked down to see someone had added a large serving of mashed potatoes to his meal. A beefy arm came into view and dolloped another serving, flinging some on his freshly cleaned surcoat.

  “Oi!” Patrick protested. “Watch that, now.”

  Another beefy arm thrust from his other side and dropped a greasy lamb chop on top of the potatoes, spraying more food.

  To either side of him, two of the veteran maidservants went about their work. They moved to throw essentially more food at him, but he waved them off.

  “Enough,” he growled.

  As the two large women served the other Guests at the table, they went out of their way to bump and generally aggravate Patrick with a flurry of linen skirts, food trays, and beefy arms constantly obstructing his attempts at getting comfortable.

  “Wait, I understand what you’re doing,” he hissed quietly to one of them. Certain her name was Clare, which would make the other Anna, both close friends of Aimeé. “It was her choice, not mine. I offered to take care of her.”

  “She doesn’t need ‘takin’ care of,’” Clare hissed back and snatched the fork out of his hand.

  “Aye,” Anna hissed in Patrick’s other ear and cleared his barely touched plate of food. “She needs ‘lovin.’’”

  They turned to leave with his plate and fork.

  “Oi, that’s my dinner,” he objected. “Punish Sir Geoffrey if you must.”

  Clare came back just long enough to say, “You should see what we do to his dinner.”

  Patrick looked across the room to where the handsome knight sat. The man’s long dark hair glistened in the candlelight, and was better combed than most of the women’s in the room. Currently, he held a fork before him with a velvet-gloved hand, having just put a morsel of food in his mouth. His face contorted as he chewed.

  Patrick looked down at the bare spot on the table before him. Jon, Katherina, William, Trent and the others talked and ate merrily.

  “Dammit.”

  #

  Patrick did manage to lay hands on scraps of a meal, and Aimeé’s guardian angels did not come back to harass him.

  The rest of the evening turned into a socializing affair. Trent and William chose to stay close to Jon and Katherina, which compelled Patrick to look elsewhere for conversation. With a drink in hand, he struggled to make clever conversation with newcomers, feeling his soul being slowly sucked from his body.

  After several attempts he found himself pretending to see someone he needed to talk to, and then would excuse himself. He moved between groups like this, hoping to find an interesting one. Eventually, however, he found himself cornered by an exasperating young French noble who insisted on talking politics, particularly his desire to know how Patrick felt about dealing with the cup.

  The young man’s words turned into a drone burrowing into Patrick’s ears, rising in pitch to become the familiar ringing assaulting his mind since the night in Eire when bandits had attacked him and Aimeé.

  His eye twitched, but he refused to reveal his trembling hand or rub the pain at his temple. Instead, he focused on the young man’s mouth, vainly attempting to regain the thread of conversation in the hope of controlling his affliction.

  To complicate things, Aimeé passed behind the Frenchman. As he watched her at her duties, he found it easy to forget she was with child; she did not yet show.

  With child. My child. Maybe.

  He shifted his gaze yet again and it fell to Geoffrey leaning against a wall with one hand, cornering a lady Guest in conversation.

  Patrick’s hand gripped the stem of his goblet so tightly the vessel shook and liquid sloshed. The ringing in his ears reached a new pitch and he squeezed his eyes shut.

  When he opened them again, a chill ran down his spine.

  He blinked, not believing the sight of the individual who strolled through the crowd. After such a long absence he had not expected to see him again, but when the figure passed before the dais, he paused long enough to make eye contact.

  A mirror image of Patrick raised a gloved finger to its lips, smiled mischievously, then motioned for him to follow. The Other moved towards the back of the hall, passing through people as if made of mist.

  Nobody noticed. Except for Patrick, who trembled at the sight.

  “I’m sorry? Come again?” Patrick shook his head, returning his attention to the young man who had penetrated his reverie with an insistent question.

  “Do you think with all these Germans here from the empire, they’ll insist on sending the cup to their antipope?” The young man was perturbed at his distraction.


  “Excuse me,” Patrick replied distantly, scanning the crowd, “I see... an old friend.”

  Patrick fought his way through the press of bodies to catch up to the Other.

  He looked around, but did not readily see him. After some frantic searching, he caught sight of his twin at the door to the keep gardens, standing between the pillars supporting the arches over the exit.

  Patrick pursued. With the light of the hall at his back, his eyes needed to adjust to the dim moon and lantern light illuminating the gardens. Various gravel paths led away from the little cobblestone patio outside the hall.

  He saw the Other walking down one of them and gave chase.

  At every turn of the path meandering through immaculately landscaped gardens, hedges, and flower beds, he thought he might catch up to him. Instead, he heard laughter and came across a group of people.

  The Other had vanished.

  He came across the group so suddenly he skidded in the gravel, causing the large men to startle and come forward as if to do battle.

  These men, wearing the tunics of the Cardinal Guard, huddled about a figure at their center.

  The lead man, a brute with shaved head and broken nose, barked something in Italian at Patrick.

  “That’s all right, Dragonetti,” a feminine, but husky voice said. “Don’t you recognize Sir Patrick, Knight of Cups?”

  The Lady Lilliana came forward and placed a gentle hand on the wrist of the man she called Dragonetti who looked almost ready to reach for his sword.

  Patrick realized he reached for his own sword. Dragonetti growled something in Italian, Lilliana laughed an airy and frivolous laugh and said, “I will be fine, but thank you.” She spoke in French so Patrick would understand. “I will be back shortly.”

  Whether he understood French or not, Dragonetti understood the gist of the statement and her stern look. He grunted, gestured for his men to follow, and departed. He made sure to brush uncomfortably close to the Irishman as he passed.

  “Oh, sergente,” Lilliana sang after him. She then held up a hand covered in a fingerless black lace glove and made a rubbing movement with her fingers. “Vino, per favore.”

  Dragonetti controlled a scowl, reached behind him and pulled a wineskin from his belt and tossed it through the air. He turned on his heel and left with his men, the gravel grinding under his boots.

  “Grazie,” Lilliana giggled, pulling the stopper off the container.

  Patrick looked around, trying to catch sight of the Other, but saw no trace.

  “Did you happen to see... someone come this way before my arrival?” he asked.

  “I did not, Sir Knight. Is that why you were running?”

  “No,” he lied. “I just wanted some fresh air.”

  “And some exercise, evidently. Will you join me in a drink?” She held up the wineskin and took a long, unladylike swig before offering it to Patrick. He accepted it, marveling at the woman who had only hours before been the perfect image of refinement. Now she plopped down on a bench, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “You look surprised,” she said as he took a drink.

  “I did not expect the cardinal’s lady to be so...” He struggled for words.

  “Casual?” she suggested.

  “As you say, my lady.”

  “There is a time and a place for protocol,” she added, “but there is also a time and place to be free. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Again, as you say, Lady Vergoza.”

  “Please, you can call me Lilliana. Won’t you have a seat?” she said, and made room for him on the bench.

  He took the seat, noting how her gold eyes almost glowed in the moonlight.

  “You have a lovely island here,” she said, stretching her arms above her head and sighing dramatically. “It feels very alive. And the stars! How bright they shine here! I swear I do not recognize the constellations.”

  “Aye, some of the scholars claim the stars are in an alignment from ages past, frozen here in time.”

  “And magic? They say there is still magic here, is that true?” she asked, eyes wide. She took the wineskin and drank.

  “Aye, there is, but it only reveals itself when it wishes,” Patrick conceded. “The whole isle is magical. It is alive and full of mystery, and if you’re lucky—or unlucky, depending on how you look at it—she will reveal all manner of things to you.”

  “Like golden cups that bring people back from the dead?” she said, handing the wine back to him.

  “Precisely.”

  “You know Teodorico is going to take it with him,” she stated.

  “He can try,” Patrick replied just as bluntly, eyes still searching the starry sky.

  “If anyone can, it will be he,” she said. “Teodorico is a man of singular ambition. What he wants, he gets.”

  “It appears he certainly got you. No offense, my lady,” Patrick said, returning his gaze to the beautiful woman.

  “None taken. In any case, perhaps it is I who got him.” She flashed a wicked grin. “Ambitious men, regardless of their age, are attractive—and serve their purpose. Teodorico is a rising star I plan to ride to the heavens.”

  “Is that why you’re with him then?” Patrick asked, taking a sip of the wine.

  “A girl has to do what a girl has to do to survive,” she laughed. “Though my first few husbands were also ambitious men, they expired before they amounted to much. Apparently, I exhausted them. I won’t let that happen with Teo. If I have to, I will prop his corpse up to finish the job.”

  “No doubt.” Patrick tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “Don’t think me villainous,” she said forming her lovely lips into a pout. “I merely want what’s best for everyone. I want everyone to be happy.”

  She leaned forward, pressing her body against his as she reached between his legs and firmly grasped the neck of the wineskin he held there. She lingered in the movement just long enough to make him uncomfortable, and to arouse feelings that have stirred men since the dawn of time.

  “I like people,” she said, sliding the container from his thighs. “I like men, just as men like their swords. Is that so bad?”

  She put the skin to her lips and took a sip.

  Patrick could feel heat rising in his cheeks and he plucked at his collar to relieve the feeling of constriction. He swallowed hard. “Perhaps we should be returning to the hall,” he suggested, standing.

  Lilliana laughed, taking the hand he offered and said, “As you wish, my gallant knight.”

  As she placed her hand in his to rise, Patrick noticed for the first time how her lacy gloves hid her hands. But they didn’t conceal her extremely sharpened nails. The gloves ended at the wrists and he could see muscular forearms lined with veins, as if from a lifetime of washing clothes.

  He tried not to stare and wondered why he hadn’t noticed earlier.

  Right, that’s why, he thought, his gaze suddenly drawn to her heaving bosom, the garnets glittering even with only the pale moon and starlight.

  He could feel heat rising in his face again, and he looked away.

  She laughed lightly and slipped her arm into his as they walked down the path back to the hall, following the sound of festivity.

  “You have to admit,” she said, “the cup is better served in the cardinal’s hands. It belongs out in the world, not hidden on a secret island.”

  “My heart says otherwise,” Patrick said. Amid all her distractions, this truth was cleansing in its simplicity, and he hung onto it.

  “Ah yes, your heart, your duty, and your honor,” she shook her head. “Men and their ‘honor.’ Consider this: The cardinal is an ordained successor of the Apostles, and it was to Saint Peter Jesus declared, ‘Whatsoever you loose upon earth, it shall also be loosed in heaven.’ If the cardinal demands the cup leave with him from this place, are you not honor bound to let him? What think you, Sir Knight?”

  Patrick rubbed his head with his free hand, saying, “I thi
nk I’ve had too much wine this evening and would rather discuss theology another time.”

  “You may very well have that opportunity tomorrow morning,” Lilliana said. “As I understand it the Board of Benefactors wants to meet in the church just after morning Mass to see if you can grasp the cup.”

  Patrick only lost part of a step in his stride at the news.

  They entered the little courtyard in front of the main hall, and the party had thinned. Patrick froze at the sight of Sir Jon and the Lady Katherina leaving arm-in-arm.

  “Is that who you were looking for earlier in the garden?” Lilliana asked, her gaze following Katherina.

  “No,” Patrick growled.

  “She’s quite lovely,” Lilliana said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Perhaps you were trying to marry the wrong one.”

  “Another discussion for another time,” Patrick snapped.

  Lilliana released the subject gracefully. “Can the cardinal count on your support tomorrow? I’m certain if, as Knight of Cups, you were to have a ‘revelation’ and openly announce the cup should go with Teodorico, he would find a way to show his gratitude.”

  After a long pause, Patrick responded, “The cardinal can count on me to show discretion, and keep quiet about your blatant attempt to influence me.”

  She reached to Patrick’s face and stroked his high cheek, probing his hazel eyes with her amber ones. “We’re not going to be friends, are we, Sir Patrick?”

  Patrick gently took her hand and kissed it, replying, “It’s not looking good.”

  Chapter Six

  Despite Cardinal Teodorico’s lofty speech the night before about solidarity, the Roman entourage claimed the place of privilege before the altar during morning Mass.

  When Mass presided over by Father Hugh had finished, the majority of people filtered out of the church leaving the benefactors and Greensprings leadership to gather about the altar. As people jostled to move in closer, Lucan hung back and turned to Lilliana.

  “I saw you with Sir Patrick on a late-night stroll,” he whispered. “Making a new friend, are we?”