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

by Adam Copeland

  “All this nonsense is giving me a headache,” he all but shouted. “Shouldn’t we consider if we keep the cup in England the King of England will tax the throngs of pilgrims who wish to see it? And if we keep it here at Greensprings, the sheer logistics of carrying boatloads of pilgrims here is problematic, not to mention it would make it even easier for the King of England to charge exorbitant prices for sea passage?”

  “Not any more exorbitant than what the Italian city states currently charge pilgrims to sail to Jerusalem,” Father Wulfric said, “and not any less inconvenient a journey. In fact, this journey would be far safer. Besides, Humphrie, you’re just concerned you’d be cut out of any revenue from such an endeavor.”

  “And why not?” Humphrie responded. “The Brussels Merchants Guild is not on the Board of Benefactors just because the Greensprings School for Peace sounds pleasant. There is money to be made in peace, just as there is in war.”

  More arguments broke out and again Humphrie banged on the table with his shoe.

  “All these arguments are moot,” Abbot Herewinus sniffed. “As was demonstrated earlier, the cup cannot be moved.”

  “It may very well be someday,” Teodorico replied. “We should be prepared, in writing, when that day comes.”

  “Speaking of documentation,” Humphrie said, “the immediate question is not whether it can be moved or where it should be moved to, but if it’s even the Cup of the Last Supper. We still need to declare its authenticity officially.”

  “Excellent point, hmm?” Teodorico said, and motioned to Lucan. “Sir Lucan, please do the honors, hmm?”

  Lucan descended the dais with a leather-bound book and approached Patrick and held out the tome on his palm. Patrick fidgeted. “Sir Patrick Gawain, please place your hand on the Bible and answer the following questions.” Patrick tentatively placed his hand on the book. “You are the Avangarde who found the cup and brought it to the church in Greensprings?”

  “I am,” Patrick replied, relaxing when he realized he was only asked to confirm common knowledge.

  “When you originally grasped the cup, it was a simple wood vessel, which turned into the golden chalice we now see on the altar when you poured consecrated wine into it?”

  “Aye,” Patrick said, again stating common knowledge.

  “There were witnesses to this?” Lucan asked, motioning to the bench of people along the wall.

  “Aye,” Patrick said.

  Lucan motioned with his chin and Cardinal Guards herded the witnesses to the center of the room. While they did, Lucan continued with Patrick.

  “You witnessed the young woman, Aimeé de la Chasse, dead,” Lucan said.

  “Aye, and most of Greensprings witnessed that, too.”

  “With the consecrated wine, the blood of Jesus Christ, in the cup you brought from the cave, you brought her back from the dead?”

  “Aye, and there were plenty of witnesses to that as well.”

  “You swear to this, so help you God?”

  “I do, as God is my witness,” Patrick said, and crossed himself.

  At Teodorico’s elbow, Victor’s furious scribbling on parchment made Patrick self-conscious. By the time Lucan had performed the same procedure one by one with the witnesses, Patrick forced away the tension building in his shoulders, feeling certain this could be no more sinister than a simple matter of bureaucracy. When Lucan had almost finished with the last witness, however, the loud clank of the chamber doors’ locking mechanism drew Patrick’s attention to the entrance.

  The doors slowly opened to reveal a pair of Cardinal Guard with Aimeé standing between them, hugging herself. Patrick’s stomach sank and he cast a glance at the cardinal, noting the cold stare and clear message.

  “Mademoiselle de la Chasse,” Lucan addressed Aimeé, “please join us.”

  Aimeé wrung her hands and came forward in slippers that whispered along the flagstones, looking about at the serious faces in the room.

  When she stood near Patrick, she crossed her arms and would not look at him. This hurt, but was also a relief. Perhaps now Teodorico would believe Patrick’s lie.

  “Do you swear that you were, for a period, no longer among the living?” Lucan asked after entreating her to place her hand on the Bible.

  Aimeé frowned, not sure how to respond, but nonetheless replied, “As best I can tell, my lord.”

  Lucan made her swear by God, which she did.

  “As the official Historian and Holy Relic Expert,” Lucan announced, “and appointed by the Holy See, I declare this cup of Greensprings as the Cup of the Last Supper, the Holy Grail, the Vessel of Christ.”

  A positive murmur rippled through the room.

  Victor held up a writing quill and motioned for Patrick to come forward.

  “Sir, I understand you know your letters,” Victor said. “Would you be so kind as to perform the honors of witnessing this document?”

  Patrick frowned angrily, keenly aware the cardinal leaned forward in his seat to specifically watch his next move.

  Resisting the temptation to look at Aimeé, Patrick came forward stiffly, took the quill, and leaned over the parchment. Smugness curled at the corner of Teodorico’s mouth.

  As he scribbled his signature, the Glastonbury historian William Malmesbury commented, “Sir Patrick, I read your report about the incidents leading you to the cave, and how you eventually brought the chalice to Greensprings. Those were quite the adventures you experienced.”

  When finished writing, Patrick straightened. “I did my duty.”

  He turned to leave, but paused when Malmesbury added, “I’m curious about one thing though... In your report you state there were guardians in this cave. Why, exactly, did the cup need protection?”

  Patrick froze, conscious of all eyes on him, especially the cardinal’s. He struggled to make some mollifying response, but Teodorico cut him off.

  “I’m certain the motives of these spirits are beyond an Irishman’s reasoning, hmm?” The cardinal sniffed, making a dismissive gesture. “Sir Patrick merely acted as the instrument making the initial transportation of the cup possible. His role in this story is finished and I’m certain he now has other concerns to worry about. We should move onto more meaningful matters, such as what we will do with the cup, hmm, yes?”

  Patrick balled his hands into fists. His jaw moved back and forth, hurting his teeth, as he stared at Aimeé. She returned his gaze, brow crinkling.

  Patrick whirled back towards the dais.

  “They were protecting it from us,” Patrick declared, almost shouting. Teodorico’s head snapped up. Lucan, in the process of returning to his seat, turned with wide eyes. “They told this simple Irishman there would be dire consequences if it weren't returned. It was never meant to be used as a political tool, nor as an object of profit.” Patrick paced before the benefactors, addressing them directly. Crimson rose in Teodorico’s face and the grip on his crozier slowly strangled the shaft. Despite the grave discomfort it caused, and despite the blinding glint of morning sun reflecting on his pectoral cross, Patrick managed to make eye contact with the holy man. “What is being discussed here today is tantamount to setting up tables of money changers before Solomon’s Temple—the sort of tables Jesus overturned before he chased the money changers from the premises with whips.” This last portion Patrick addressed to the merchants.

  A stunned silence filled the room. Lucan’s gaze drifted to the floor, his expression turning introspective.

  “Well, then, more evidence the cup should stay on Avalon, at Greensprings,” Abbot Herewinus declared.

  Patrick moved to correct the abbot, but again the cardinal cut him off.

  “The cup has revealed itself for a reason and it will be put to good use. It is not going back to the cave, hmm?” he said, turning to the assembly with a soothing voice that contrasted with his blazing eyes. “It is too important to hide away from the world. It will not be ‘exploited’ as the good knight suggests, but the miracles it will perfo
rm will bring people to the faith, and unite them. Won’t it, Sir Lucan, hmm, yes?”

  Lucan blinked and tore his gaze from the floor. He cleared his throat. “Yes, that is the role of relics.”

  Patrick appealed to the assembly. “I do not dispute the role of relics. I am a lover of miracles, and I yearn for peace, but it’s just that the guardians warned against the use of this relic. Should we not heed them?”

  “Sir Patrick,” Teodorico said, standing and answering Patrick before any of the benefactors could. The cardinal’s voice took on a smoother, even paternal, tone. His eyes, however, were daggers. Both his hands throttled the crozier as he leaned on it. “Your concerns have been duly noted. You have performed a great service, and we thank you for it, hmm? The fact the cup does not allow itself to be touched, let alone returned to the cave, is testament these ‘guardians’ were merely putting you to a test. I strongly suspect once this esteemed council reaches a resolution, the cup will allow itself to be transported once again, yes? Go in peace, my child.”

  He made the sign of the holy cross.

  The impassive faces of the benefactors offered Patrick no succor.

  Reluctantly, Patrick bowed, saying, “As you wish, Your Eminence.”

  He turned to leave, but paused when William Malmesbury said, “Sir Patrick, why then did you bring the cup to Greensprings?”

  Patrick made eye contact with Aimeé who still stood near. His heart broke.

  “To save the girl,” Patrick almost whispered.

  “And why was that so important you would disregard the warning of these guardians?” William continued.

  Patrick did not answer right away, watching Aimeé’s eyes flare, moisture starting to glisten in her green eyes. For the briefest of moments his vision swam and he thought blood covered her. He rubbed his temple and his vision cleared and she stood there free of blood. Beautiful skin and hair glowing with motherhood.

  “Because I...” He swallowed hard. “Because I felt it a shame she should perish after having played her part in saving Greensprings. I wanted to correct that.”

  The brief shining light in Aimeé’s face was snuffed out. She squeezed her eyes shut as if stabbed. Her form bowed slightly, and she clutched her chest as if grasping an actual blade. Lucan stepped closer and offered his arm for her to lean on.

  Patrick all but ran from the chamber then, not waiting for any more questions. His boots echoed loudly in the now-quiet room as if mocking the words he refused to say.

  #

  He burst through the doors of the hall and ran into the backside of one the Cardinal Guards. He pushed the man aside and intended to continue forward, but the guard hurled insults at him.

  Patrick turned on the man, ready to fight. Needing to fight.

  Instead of accepting the challenge, the man quickly stepped back to his position and snapped to attention.

  Patrick turned to see what had changed the man’s mind and saw Sir Wolfgang approaching.

  “Ah, bloody hell,” Patrick mumbled, feeling heat rise in his face.

  Judging from the Grand Master’s direction of approach, he had been sitting in the balcony above the hall, watching Patrick’s rebellious behavior.

  “Walk with me, Sir Patrick,” he said sternly.

  Patrick bowed his head and matched Sir Wolfgang’s stride.

  “Sir, I’m very sorry, I can—”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said, his bushy white eyebrows bunching above the ridge of his nose. “Though I would never recommend telling an archbishop, let alone a cardinal, his business, I must say it needed to happen in there. His manipulations are obvious. I’m quite proud of you.”

  “Sir?” Patrick said, shocked.

  “You stood up for yourself,” Wolfgang replied, slowing his pace and putting his hands behind his back. “You stood up for what you believe. That couldn’t have been easy, and more important, you knew just when to back off.” Wolfgang’s eyebrows lifted halfway up his forehead as he turned and appraised Patrick. “Had you taken it much further, we would be having a very different conversation right now. As it is, you have done the Avangarde proud. We are charged with neutrality. If we bow too readily to any one authority, we lose our credibility as impartial protectors. After your display in there, no one will accuse the Avangarde of being the cardinal’s puppets.”

  Wolfgang paused, thoughtful, then continued, “I must admit I had my doubts about you. Sir Marcus Ionus obviously saw something in you when he recruited you. Now I see it.”

  “Thank you, Sir Wolfgang,” Patrick said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking.

  Wolfgang stopped and turned to Patrick, seriousness in his eyes.

  “You are becoming a leader, Sir Patrick, by your deeds if not by your words,” he said. “Your fellow knights are watching, and you influence their behavior just as much as they yours. Sir Mark’s departure was sudden and his position had to be filled quickly by the next in seniority, Sir Corbin. By his own admission, however, he is not the most effective leader despite his years of experience. A day may come when you will be called upon to do more, Patrick. For now, learn from Corbin, while believing in yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” was all Patrick could say. He wanted the significance of the conversation to take root, but his mind whirled with the desperate need to find Aimeé and explain his actions.

  “Very well. Fight strong,” Wolfgang said, beating his chest.

  “Live stronger,” Patrick replied, beating his own chest.

  They clasped forearms.

  #

  He could not find Aimeé. So while the Avangarde searched for a monster, he searched for a solution.

  In the forest, outside a mossy mound of rocks and aspen trees, Patrick reined up Siegfried. He did not see an opening in the mound, and Siegfried struggled through the brush as he circled it, trying to find the cave entrance.

  “This has to be the place,” Patrick responded to Siegfried’s irritable huff. “Though every time I was here I wasn’t exactly in my right mind.”

  Siegfried snorted and bobbed his head.

  “You don’t have to be so quick to agree, yeah?” Patrick scowled.

  “Brother,” a feminine voice said, startling him.

  He turned to see three female forms standing on the mound, their dark wispy gowns contrasting sharply with the almost luminescent green of the moss. A breeze disturbed their veils, but never revealed their faces.

  “Tell me,” Patrick said, “how do I return the cup?”

  “It is too late,” one, or perhaps all of them, said. “Your choice has set in motion actions that cannot be stopped. Before the cup can return, things must happen.”

  “Buy why?” Patrick protested.

  “The answer to that is beyond us,” they replied, and the foremost form pointed skyward. “We are only messengers.”

  “I’m sorry, I should have listened to you, I should never have taken it,” Patrick pleaded. “Just tell me what to do.”

  “If you had a chance, would you really forsake saving the girl?” they asked.

  Patrick swallowed hard, but set his chin. “I’d do it again.”

  “Then there you have it. It is what it is,” they said. “Everything must now proceed as it must. Real choices have real consequences. Otherwise, they are not real choices.”

  “That’s it, then?” Patrick said, rubbing his head. For some reason memories of older, jeering children surrounding him and kicking him flooded his mind. “You’re just going to abandon me despite my willingness to fix this?”

  “You are not alone,” they said, “but you have to open your eyes and your heart. Learn to accept. We will be there for you when the time is right and you are ready.”

  With that, they faded away, leaving him alone with the rustle of leaves in the treetops.

  Chapter Eight

  When morning crept into her servant’s chamber in Greensprings Keep, something other than sunbeams caressed Aimeé’s face. An airy hand brushed across her forehead,
cheek, and lips, accompanied by a sound like children playing in the distance. When it had happened for the third time, and sleepy attempts at brushing it away failed to make it stop, she woke in earnest.

  Her eyes fluttered open to the sound of fading giggles.

  She raised her head and looked about the small chamber she shared with Clare and Anna. There was nothing but an empty room. She groaned, realizing the others had already risen for work and given her more time to rest. Though they were kind to think of her pregnancy, tardiness would get her in trouble. So far, she had only confided in her two closest companions, waiting for the right time to break the news to Rosa Maria, the head of the kitchen staff.

  She searched again for the playful visitors, this time outside the window, but saw no one. She stared at the ceiling, feeling rotten. She had slept a thousand times in this room and had stared just as many times at the ceiling, noting the swirl patterns in wood, picking out shapes. Here an old man’s wizened face, there a puppy, and there a tree. But this morning her brow furrowed in curiosity when she noticed something new on the surface.

  Tiny hand and footprints ran the length of the ceiling. The longer she stared at them, the more they faded as if they had never been there.

  #

  “You’re starting to show, lass,” Clare said, gritting her teeth as she put extra effort into cinching the laces on the back of Aimeé’s corset. “I’m not sure what is best for your figure—to loosen the laces in the back, side, or front. It doesn't matter much, really, as in a few more weeks we won’t be able to hide it at all. We need to tell Rosa Maria. She’ll reassign your duties, but if you wait until the last minute to inform her, it might anger her. You don’t want her to let you go altogether.”

  Aimeé shifted the corset about her bosom and loosened the strings a bit across her cleavage, but couldn’t get satisfied with any configuration. She envied her older friends’ wide waists supporting their breasts. Aimeé’s narrow waist left her top-heavy, straining her lower back. Perhaps that would change once she had her child.