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

by Adam Copeland

  Katherina’s covered her mouth to hide a smile creeping across her lips.

  “Why, Lady Lilliana, I’m not sure if you’re flattering me or accusing me,” she said, the small red dots at the center of her cheeks growing.

  “Perhaps a little of both,” Lilliana replied with a wicked smile and bold gaze.

  Katherina scowled, yet her smile continued to grow.

  “Tell me,” Lilliana continued, and tested a slice of bacon with her perfect teeth. Her smile was as bright as her eyes. “How does one go from yonder Knight of Cups, who rescued you from a dark lord in the land of fairy—a romantic gesture if ever there was—to Sir Comfortable Jon? I must know!”

  The question felt intrusive, but Katherina didn’t feel like backing down from the noblewoman’s challenging stare.

  “As I said, I find comfort from different men, in different ways, at different times,” she said, regaining her composure in the face of Lilliana’s charm assault. “Patrick and I had our moment, and it passed—but through no real fault of his own. He is a good man, an honorable man, who did his best to please me, despite his moodiness and peculiarities. I am greatly indebted to him for what he has done, but the timing was all wrong. We just weren’t meant to be.”

  Lilliana’s gaze drifted away as her stare lost focus, deep in thought.

  “He was no longer fulfilling, then,” she stated, her focus returning.

  “I’m afraid not,” Katherina confirmed, taking another drink.

  “So,” Lilliana whispered, leaning forward with her wicked smile returning. “When is the last time Sir Patrick ‘filled’ you?”

  Katherina involuntarily spit apple juice from her cup. “Lady Lilliana!” she protested, coughing.

  “Oh, the look on your face!” Lilliana laughed, clutching her chest. “But still, I’ve met the man. Surely you can share something?”

  Dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, Katherina looked across the room to the table of knights. She could see the topic of their conversation in what looked like a serious discussion with his brothers-in-arms. The sunlight filtering from the upper windows cast Patrick’s high cheekbones in a glow of polished marble. His face suddenly burst into a rare smile.

  “He has a passion of the ages inside him, if he would only allow it out,” Katherina admitted, her hand unconsciously drifting to her throat. “Still, he can be romantic and charming when he chooses.”

  “Do tell me more!” Lilliana pressed.

  “Perhaps another time,” Katherina teased, returning her attention to her breakfast.

  “Done!” Lilliana laughed. “We can exchange stories. Perhaps over another meal? Though the food here in the keep is much better than among the pavilions, I’m already finding it drab.”

  “We can midday sometime in Aesclinn if you like,” Katherina suggested. “The food may not always be better, but it will certainly be different.”

  “Splendid. Why not today?”

  “I have singing practice today, and it’s too late to change my schedule, but it is easy enough to change for later,” Katherina explained.

  Lilliana made an effort to finish quickly what she chewed and said while frowning, “I thought you already practiced today. I’ve meant to tell you, that piece you sang this morning was beautiful.”

  “Pardon?” Katherina replied, frowning in confusion. “I didn’t sing this morning.”

  “That wasn’t you I heard in the auditorium as I passed by? It sure sounded like you.”

  Katherina pondered who it possibly could have been, seeing as she knew no one who had a voice quite like hers in the keep. No one liked to practice in the morning, either. Before she could question Lilliana further, the elder noblewoman motioned with her eyes and Katherina turned slightly to see what had grabbed her attention.

  Aimeé attended to a commotion about the candidati table.

  “And how do you feel about her?” Lilliana asked, surreptitiously regarding the maidservant while nibbling on a piece of bread.

  Katherina’s face twitched slightly at the corner of her mouth, but she shrugged, turned away, and said, “I was happy for her, but I don’t understand what happened. Well, perhaps I do. I guess the poor thing came to realize the depths of Patrick’s moods. In any case, it is none of my business.”

  Katherina noted Lilliana shifted her attention from the French girl back to her.

  “Seriously,” Katherina added, eyes flaring beneath her straight bangs. “It’s none of my business.”

  Lilliana smiled, “As you say, Lady Katherina.”

  Aimeé bent down to pick up the bits of food the mean giggly women the next table over had been throwing at the candidati.

  “Perhaps she is too good for Patrick,” Lilliana continued. “Perhaps our Irish knight needs a bad girl to stimulate his needs.”

  Aimeé tried to brush food off the shoulder of one of the candidati—a boy who had the peculiar habit of waving his hands in front of his face while moaning—just to receive snarls for her efforts. She snatched her hand back while making a face and gently reached around the boy to take his empty dishes.

  “I don’t think Patrick knows what Patrick wants,” Katherina responded.

  #

  All but the candidati had finished their meals and left the great hall. Aimeé waited, ready to pounce on their dirty dishes when the hall was empty. Meanwhile, her fellow maidservants cleaned the other tables and arranged them for the council meeting half an hour hence.

  Between the pregnancy, the extra number of people who needed serving, and the daily routine of moving the tables for the council, exhaustion was taking its toll.

  She leaned back to yawn and stretched her back. When she did, she saw Patrick approaching. Her stomach knotted up, either with excitement or dread.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  Anna and Clare closed ranks about Aimeé, barring his path while crossing meaty arms across their chests.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Aimeé said, waving at the messy tables. “Now you want to talk? You couldn’t have picked a worse time.”

  Patrick glared at the other maidservants standing in his way. He reached the nearest table and lifted a pot lid and wooden spoon like a sword and shield. “You two don’t frighten me. I’ve fought mightier monsters than you. I will not let you stop me.”

  Despite her tiredness and frustration with him, she couldn’t help but smile a little.

  “It’s well,” she said to her friends. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  Reluctantly, Anna and Clare stepped aside and continued their duties.

  “You don’t think they would have seriously fought me?” Patrick whispered, casting an apprehensive glance at the big women.

  “Oui, I’m certain,” she replied.

  Her countenance must have stated she had little time for small talk, because he seemed to sense this and spoke quickly.

  “The cardinal made threats if I don’t support him. Threats against you. Therefore, I told him we did not marry because you no longer interest me. That is why I said those things in council chambers. I think he believes me, but we need to stay away from each other just in case.”

  She squinted, scrutinizing him. She crossed her arms. “Is it true?”

  “Of course it’s true,” he replied. “Well, he didn’t come right out and say he would directly harm you, but the message was clear.”

  “Have you lost interest in me?” Her jaw tensed to bite down on the note of heartbreak that escaped with the question.

  “Absolutely not!” Patrick almost shouted, but then lowered his voice as he looked around. “I said what was necessary to protect you.”

  “How convenient.” Aimeé scowled at him, her own voice rising, which only seemed to agitate him more.

  “What’s that supposed to...” he started to say, but a particularly loud outburst from the candidati caused him to jump away.

  “It means you’ve been looking for every excuse imaginable, cardinal or not, to stay away from me,” she r
esponded. She noted how he kept his distance from the children he referred to as changelings, and added, “Your lack of enthusiasm for my child, possibly our child, has been very disappointing.”

  Still eying the candidati warily, Patrick said, “I’m sorry, it’s just... I’ve had much to deal with lately.” He rubbed his temple with a slightly trembling hand.

  “You’re going to have to face this,” she said, “because life is uncertain. This child might be Geoffrey’s. It might be like one of...” She looked at the children who finally started to depart the table “...them. One thing is for certain. It will be mine, and if you’re going to be in my life, you will have to accept it.”

  Patrick’s face became impassive with introspection, but he nodded.

  Aimeé reached up and took his trembling hand and placed it on the cross on her bosom. “And another thing—no, don’t pull away—you must address this. Something troubles your soul. You must follow your mother’s counsel and listen to her music to set yourself on the road to healing.”

  Patrick blinked, and a spark replaced the glazed introspection in his eyes. “I will gladly listen to the music if you will just take me seriously when I say you may be in danger, and we should keep our distance for a time.”

  For the first time Patrick’s sincerity gave her hope, but also cause for concern he might be right about the cardinal.

  Nevertheless, she smiled. “Très bien. Meet me in the inner courtyard, among the columns where it is private, in about an hour when I have finished here.”

  Patrick’s shoulders slumped as if a weight had fallen from them. He turned to leave.

  “Patrick?” she called to him. “You do love me, right?”

  He paused, looking over his shoulder. “Of course.”

  She wrung her hands. “I wish you’d sound more convincing when saying so.”

  Patrick smiled wanly and responded before leaving. “Funny, my mother says the same thing. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  Aimeé stared for some time at the door through which he had left, not sure if she felt better or more anxious.

  “You can certainly tell we have more children about the keep this year,” Clare said loudly and obviously after clearing her throat.

  “Oh, how is that?” Aimeé asked, taking the hint she should return to work.

  Clare held one of the blown glass goblets from the candidati table to the light.

  “You see all the prints?” Clare explained. “Every bit of glass covered as if they couldn’t touch it enough. Children do that. Me dear old mum used to call them ‘angel prints.’”

  #

  Patrick decided to put the hour he waited for Aimeé to good use.

  It didn’t take him long to find Abbot Herewinus in the apple orchard behind the keep, only a few rows outside the gate. He sat on a stump, either dozing or deep in prayer. William Malmesbury and a few monks sat near him with their backs to trees as they read or prayed.

  An Avangarde stood nearby in full armor. His dark surcoat contrasted sharply with the white apple blossoms floating in the air and carpeting the ground like snow. Considering the recent attacks, Patrick felt the presence of the Avangarde prudent.

  “Sir Edmund, is it?” Patrick asked the Avangarde as he approached.

  The Englishman, one of the few knights Patrick did not know well, responded, “Aye, I am, Sir Patrick.”

  “Is the abbot sleeping or in prayer? I wish to speak to him but don’t want to disturb him.”

  Edmund smiled under his helm. “I think he is doing a little of both. I’m about to nod off myself. I think I’d rather have night guard duty on the wall.”

  Patrick grunted an agreement and moved towards the group of Glastonbury people, singling William Malmesbury out as he approached.

  “Monsieur William Malmesbury?” Patrick said. “They told me you and the abbot could be found in the orchard. I don’t mean to intrude, but I was hoping to have a few words with you.”

  William looked up with curiosity and closed the leather volume from which he read.

  “Why, it’s the Knight of Cups himself,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  “I wasn’t sure if it were you I should talk to, or the abbot, or both,” Patrick said. “Since the abbot is... deep in prayer, I guess I’ll ask you.”

  As if approving his choice, the abbot suddenly snorted loudly, indicating he indeed dozed. His lips fluttered as he exhaled, sending several apple blossoms tumbling through the air.

  Smiling at the abbot, William replied, “Ask away, Sir Knight.”

  “In council, you spoke of ‘twinning.’ People, places, and objects having spiritual twins. Are such things true?”

  “Of course. I thought I stated my case very well in council,” William replied. “Though it may be for naught, as obviously the different factions are inclined to believe what they want to believe.”

  “Certainly,” Patrick agreed, “but what can you tell me about people who ‘twin?’”

  “People? You’re not the least interested in my theory of Avalon twinning?” William said, disappointed. “I thought the idea a stroke of genius. I plan on writing an essay on the topic...”

  “Monsieur Malmesbury, I’m sure it will be a fine thesis, but I’m interested in the person aspect,” Patrick urged.

  “Well, Abbot Herewinus here probably could answer that better. Most of the cases of spiritual twins have been due to saints.”

  “Not ‘twins,’ good brother William,” the abbot said, raising a single eyelid, “but the individual themselves, at different locations at the same time. ‘Twin’ implies a whole different individual who is the same in appearance.”

  “Of course you are correct, Father Abbot,” William conceded.

  The abbot yawned and stretched his arms above his head, his robe sleeves falling about his elbows.

  “Saint Ambrose was known to perform Mass at two different places on the same Sunday,” he said, “and it was Mother Mary herself, still living in Ephesus, who appeared to the Apostle James the Greater as he evangelized Hispania, encouraging him when he felt he was failing miserably. Though the ability to bilocate has obvious worldly advantages, it is a gift from God meant to be a sign pointing to His glory. A reminder of the Mystery of the Holy Trinity—how God can be three persons, but have one nature.”

  The abbot stiffly climbed off the tree stump and brushed himself off.

  “But that is among saints,” Patrick said. “Are there not examples of ‘bilocation’ occurring among regular folk? You know, less-than-saintly ones, shall we say?”

  “Not that I have heard, young sir.” Herewinus brushed blossoms collecting in the fuzzy white lamb chops adorning his plump cheeks. “But then again, I have not heard everything. Our young and storied historian here often gives the impression he has heard everything. Perhaps he knows.”

  “Outside of saints? Not that I am aware of,” William said. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and chewed his lower lip, adding, “Though something nags at my memory. I’ll have to think about it.”

  Herewinus approached the tall knight and inserted his arm in his, saying, “Walk with us a bit and tell us why you’re so curious, won’t you?”

  Patrick bent his arm at the elbow to accommodate the old man and let him guide him down the rows of apple trees. William and another monk fell in behind them, and at a distance Sir Edmund shadowed them.

  “Just curious, I guess,” Patrick said. Flashes of the Other and the spectral sisters outside the cave-mound crossed his mind.

  “Just curious?” Herewinus said, looking up at Patrick with a kindly face. “You hunted me down in the apple orchard just to ask about one small facet of our argument for bringing the Grail to Glastonbury?”

  Patrick cleared his throat and said unconvincingly, “Yes.”

  The old man chuckled and patted Patrick’s wrist, saying, “Are you sure you hadn't come to ask whether or not that really was the spirit of King Arthur and his knights you saw in the cave when you first touch
ed the Grail?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said, perhaps too quickly, “that was my original meaning.”

  “I can assure you it was. It would be preposterous at this point to think otherwise, considering all the evidence,” Herewinus said, then looked up again to study Patrick’s face intently, “but that too is not why you ask.”

  Patrick felt his Adam’s apple catch in his throat and he did not return the abbot’s gaze.

  An awkward silence passed with only the sound of birds chirping.

  How could he ever unravel the mystery of the Other if he didn’t investigate? How could he investigate if he didn’t trust someone with the knowledge of the thing’s existence? Could he trust the abbot and the historian?

  “It is very beautiful here, is it not?” Herewinus eventually stated, perhaps sensing Patrick’s desire to change the subject. He waved his free hand about. “A truly mystical place, surely only a stone’s throw from Heaven. I envy you, Sir Patrick, and the time you spend here, going on adventures and exploring the mysteries of the isle.”

  “You’re the Abbot of Glastonbury, on the Board of Benefactors,” Patrick replied, happy to talk about something else. “You can come here anytime.”

  “My place is in the abbey,” Herewinus said, sadly. “We must all do our part, serve our purpose as God sees fit. I enjoy reading the reports coming from here, however, and I must admit living somewhat vicariously through them. Tell me, how many of the Fair Folk do you think you have laid eyes on now?”

  “I couldn’t say, Father Abbot,” Patrick said. “It’s quite possibly more than I believe, as they tend to hide in plain sight. I could have looked straight at one and not known it on many occasions.”

  “But for certain you have seen the Huntsman and his pack, a banshee, a water sprite, and goblins to name a few,” Herewinus insisted.

  “You have been reading the reports,” Patrick said, raising his eyebrows at the little man. “Sir Corbin will be pleased to know all that writing has not been in vain.”

  “To be fair, I’m probably the only one on the board who reads them in any great detail,” Herewinus chuckled. “The other benefactors spend most of their time reading the financial reports and counting profits. Cardinal Teodorico dismisses most of the supernatural reports as fabrication or exaggerations.”