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

by Adam Copeland

  “To the candidati?” Patrick interjected.

  “Yes.” The nun scowled at the interruption.

  “May I make a suggestion then?” he asked.

  “You may, but I make no guarantees,” she replied.

  “If I’m not mistaken, lists are being drawn for matching Avangarde with Guests, correct?” Patrick looked at Geoffrey with a wicked surge of pleasure—one he kept to himself. “Perhaps Geoffrey should be matched with one of the candidati.”

  Geoffrey’s head snapped up at the suggestion, a disgusted look on his face.

  “What a splendid idea,” Mother Superior said, smiling genuinely. “What better way to display true service to God than to aid those who suffer.”

  Before Patrick’s victorious smile could spread very far at seeing Geoffrey’s reaction, the nun turned to him and said, “Likewise, you shall do your part as well. You will be assigned yourself to one of the candidati.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” Patrick protested, only to receive a whack to the shoulder.

  Geoffrey laughed, but Mother Superior laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and oddly, this stopped his laughter quicker than the rod.

  “You both will report to Sister Abigail in good time,” she said quietly and stroked Geoffrey’s feathered hair. “She will assign you appropriately. Comply with her every wish. As for you, young man,” her caressing hand reached down and viciously grabbed Geoffrey by the ear and twisted. She placed the sharp, splintered end of the broken rod at his throat and said between clenched teeth, “You will never touch a woman again in this keep without her consent, understand?”

  The rod moved with the undulation caused by Geoffrey’s audible swallow. “Yes, Mother Superior.”

  With one last withering stare, she left the room, followed closely by Father Hugh.

  Patrick and Geoffrey started to rise, but the senior knights approached.

  “Gentlemen, that is not all,” Sir Wolfgang said. “Both of you have been problematic in your own ways. That must change immediately. It’s been my experience Mother Superior’s methods are unorthodox, but effective. Therefore, I think I too shall try something unorthodox to teach you responsibility. To that end, Patrick, you will now lead morning reveille and drill.”

  “What!” Geoffrey objected. “You are elevating him? How is that punishment?”

  “This isn’t about punishment,” Wolfgang said sternly. “This is about learning discipline and responsibility. If Patrick cannot be a proper leader and set a good example, he will no longer be an Avangarde. You will serve day duty under Patrick, as you will be working together with the candidati.” Geoffrey did stand this time and kicked a chair. “This too is not about punishment. This is so you can learn discipline and humility, Avangarde attributes you lack. If you cannot learn them, you will no longer be an Avangarde. Make no mistake, this is not an opportunity for Patrick to lord his power over you, nor is this an opportunity for you to antagonize Patrick.”

  “This isn’t fair,” Geoffrey said.

  “Neither is toying with a village girl’s body,” Wolfgang said in a low voice, then added while looking at Patrick, “or her heart.”

  #

  This time, finding Aimeé did not prove difficult. One only need follow the sound of crashing dishes and utensils. Evidently Mother Superior had already reached Aimeé and explained her new duties. Patrick had hoped to tell her himself, softening the blow. When he walked into the kitchen, her fury erupted hotter, and with more thrown objects.

  “How could you?” she shouted at him.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Patrick tried to explain in between cups and spoons hurled at him. “They cornered me, wanting to know why Geoffrey and I fought.”

  “You know what I mean!” she responded, followed by a thrown footstool.

  Anna and Clare stood nearby, but for once kept their distance, afraid of their friend’s tirade. Concern marked their faces.

  “No, I don’t,” Patrick said, taking a towel to the face.

  “Geoffrey attacked me for a reason to begin with. You told him about the child... or told him enough,” she growled, pausing to catch her breath.

  “Oh, that,” Patrick swallowed hard.

  “Now I’ve lost the trust of Rosa Maria and am being sent away from my friends, because I have been reassigned to step and fetch for your snotty ex-lover!” Aimeé punctuated the last with a flying dish.

  “I’m sorry!” Patrick shouted back, ducking. “I’d take it back if I could. I’d take it all back.”

  “Everything? You’d take everything back?” she said, her eyes freezing over.

  “No, not everything,” he replied, catching her meaning. “I do want you in my life. I do want to marry you, but first I have to protect you.”

  “You can’t protect me by keeping your distance,” Aimeé retorted, “and you can’t protect me by controlling me.”

  He tried to fathom what she meant.

  She made an exasperated sound and stormed towards the door, yelling, “If you want to help me, find me pickles!”

  Patrick made a face and looked at Anna and Clare, asking, “Pickles?”

  “It’s a pregnancy thing,” Clare answered, shrugging.

  Patrick followed her into the great hall that lay mostly empty this time of day. Several of the candidati sat at empty tables, conversing deeply with a tired-looking Sister Abigail.

  “Look, here is one of your new friends now, ” she said as Patrick entered.

  Patrick held up a finger, not ready to talk with her just yet. “Aimeé!” he called after her. He ran a few strides and lowered his voice. “I may not grab you and hold you against your will like Geoffrey, but I will follow you to the ends of the earth unless you explain yourself.”

  “Don’t you see?” She turned on him with fists on hips. “Every time you try to ‘protect’ me you make matters worse. Your idea of protection is like trying to hold on to a hand full of sand. The harder you squeeze, the more slips through your fingers... and what you’re doing is worse. You are squeezing and releasing.” She opened and closed her hand in front of him for emphasis. “Furthermore, it’s not I who need help; it is you.” She added this last by holding out the cross from her neck.

  “Give me a chance to prove otherwise,” he pleaded. “I will listen to the damn music!”

  “I’m much too angry to play calming music right now!” she snapped, blowing hair out of her eyes. “Besides, that is still just the beginning of my problems with you. You are still so afraid to talk about this.” She made a circling gesture around her stomach. “You don’t like children, I understand. You especially won’t like one possibly not yours, or one who is ‘difficult.’ How could I possibly let you into my life knowing that? The child is better off having a dozen aunties than a single angry father.”

  “I can like children just fine. Look...” Patrick said, returned to the table and bent towards Chansonne, arms out. “You there, come, give us a hug.”

  Chansonne clutched her doll, shook her head vigorously, and slid away.

  “You see,” Aimeé said.

  “I’m taller than you,” said the big-headed candidati Patrick had met on the boat.

  Patrick wanted to hiss at him like a cat.

  “Brother Ambrosius, meet Sir Patrick, your new companion,” Sister Abigail said.

  “What?” Patrick blurted. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am,” Sister Abigail said, smiling at Aimeé. “Mother Superior just informed me of the pairing.”

  “I’m taller than you,” Ambrosius said, pleased.

  “Well, there you go,” Aimeé said. “Here is your opportunity to prove to me exactly what you can handle.”

  “I don’t need to be his companion to prove that,” Patrick growled.

  “I’m taller than you,” Ambrosius interjected.

  “Oh, be quiet already!” Patrick snapped at the odd fellow, who cowed at the verbal assault.

  Aimeé cradled her stomach. “If you can show me
you can treat him well, then I will consider talking seriously about... us. How can I expect you to be around this child if you can’t control your temper? Show me you can by not frightening Brother Ambrosius anymore, and befriending him.”

  “I don’t frighten him,” Patrick insisted, then added, confident of the answer. “Just ask him.”

  “Brother Ambrosius,” Aimeé addressed the little man, “does Sir Patrick frighten you?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “What the...!” Patrick glowered at Ambrosius.

  “Befriend him, Sir Patrick,” Aimeé sang, walking away, wagging a finger in the air, “and bring me pickles!”

  “I’m taller than you,” Ambrosius said again.

  Patrick slapped his hand to his forehead.

  Chapter Nine

  “And then I heard Rosa Maria almost struck this Victor fellow from the cardinal’s staff with a rolling pin when he insulted her cooking.” Sir Jon droned on, shaking his head in disbelief at his own gossip. “One of the Cardinal Guard had to step in, actually laying hands on her to stop her and... Kat, am I boring you?”

  Lady Katherina blinked, realizing Jon had asked a question. “No, not at all. Continue with your morning report.”

  She slipped her arm into his as they started the long walk to the morning meal. Every morning he escorted her through the garden to the keep, recounting the previous day’s gossip.

  “You know, we can talk about something else if you like,” he said, facing her.

  She tried not to sigh, but looked up into his moon face and smiled. “Nonsense, I love how you keep your finger on the pulse of Greensprings. You have a talent and you should use it. Besides, what else would we talk about?”

  “Well, we don’t talk much, it’s mostly me going on and on,” Jon replied, frowning, but then lit up. “We can talk about the dance they’re having during the next banquet.”

  “They’re going to have a dance this year?” Katherina asked, more interested.

  “Yes, after your performance, I imagine,” Jon explained. “Would you care to be my dancing partner?”

  “Well, my candidati must also perform...” Katherina weighed the idea.

  “Oh, please say yes, there will be time for you to dance some, right?” Jon took her by the hand and grabbed her about the waist. He twirled her in his big arms. “See? I’ve been practicing. I’ve come a long way since Patrick and I danced that one time.”

  Katherina’s giggles turned to full-blown laughter when he released her; he moved into an exaggerated solo performance, traipsing along the gravel path, waving his arms.

  Jon’s smile fled like a darting sparrow, however, when he tripped over the path’s edging and he fell into a bush.

  “Yes, I will be your partner!” she called. “Just stop before you hurt yourself!”

  Jon’s fist extended from the shrub, pumping in victory.

  Laughing, Katherina grabbed his hand and pulled to help extract him from the foliage.

  “Do you hear that?” Katherina said, suddenly standing erect and looking towards the keep. When she did, she let go of his hand, letting him slip back into the bush with a muffled cry.

  “Hear what?” Jon asked when he managed to stand. He blew a leaf from his lip.

  “Somebody is singing in the auditorium,” Katherina said.

  “Quite so,” Jon agreed, cupping his ear in the direction of the sound, “and rather well. Actually, it sounds a lot like you.”

  Katherina picked up her dress and moved down the path in the direction of the auditorium. “I must find out who she is!”

  Jon disentangled his foot from the bush and chased after her, only to have his cape nearly yank him off his feet, strangling him as it remained caught in the shrub.

  “Quit fooling around and hurry,” Katherina urged, motioning him forward.

  He fought free and caught up to her by the time she reached the stairs to the music chamber. They ascended quickly, and outside the door, she paused to listen to the beautiful singing in a language she did not recognize. The singer’s voice reverberated, magnifying itself as if an entire choir of angels sang. The sound moved as much as it chilled.

  “She’s beautiful!” Katherina whispered, awe feeling her face as she pressed her ear to the door. “Whoever she is, I could use her help forming the candidati into a choir.”

  “Good luck with that,” Jon laughed, a little too loud.

  The singing stopped abruptly and the sound of startled feet padding away in the opposite direction filtered through the door. Katherina threw the portal open to catch the identity of the singer.

  She saw no one, but did see the door on the opposite side of the room slam shut.

  #

  Though Patrick and Geoffrey had an appointment after morning meal to sit with Sister Abigail, Patrick had decided to make an early start of it by breaking his fast at the candidati table in the great hall: not because he was eager to work with the peculiar people, but because he wished to prove himself to Aimeé.

  He sat across from Brother Ambrosius trying to fathom the little man, which did not make for an easy task. The candidati Martin, the “face-waving-boy,” constantly bumped him on one side, and Emilie, a changeling if ever there was, mumbled at him on his other.

  Patrick tried making small talk with his new charge, but that instantly turned frustrating as Ambrosius’ proclivities in conversation proved a challenge. It appeared he only cared to assert his tallness.

  “Look, I thought we’ve established you are not taller than me, yes?” Patrick argued, scowling over his eggs at the man and his grin full of big oversized teeth.

  “Yes I am,” Ambrosius insisted. “I am taller than you.”

  Patrick listlessly chased the egg yolk on his plate with a spoon. Emilie mumbled at him like a bumblebee droning over a garden.

  “You’re very rude,” Candace, another changeling, said to him from down the table.

  “What?” Patrick replied, his scowl deepening. “I’m rude? I can’t get a straight answer out of this fellow.”

  “Emilie has been trying to tell you this whole time how best to talk to Brobrosius,” she said simply, “and you’re ignoring her.”

  “Who’s Brobrosius?” As far as he knew only six candidati: Chansonne, Candace, Martin, Emilie, Stuart, and Brother Ambrosius.

  “Brother Ambrosius—Bro’brosius?” she explained with an exasperated tone.

  “Oh, I see,” Patrick said. “Still, I haven’t heard her ‘say’ anything.”

  “That’s because you haven’t been listening. She’s talking right now,” Candace said tiredly, as if she found explaining things to Patrick exhausting.

  Patrick looked at the chubby, red-faced, girl who might have been as old as fifteen years old. Her watery blue eyes stared at him as her lips moved. Patrick squinted his eyes as he listened intently.

  “Just admit it,” she finally said. “Admit he’s taller and he’ll stop.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Fine then! You’re taller than me!” Patrick cried, then stabbed his finger at those about the table. “You’re taller than her, her, him, maybe not him, but certainly taller than her. You happy now?”

  “Yes.” Brobrosius grinned.

  From then, the only useful information Patrick learned from him was that he was “Brother Ambrosius” because he was indeed a monk with the Cistercian Order to which Sister Abigail also belonged.

  From above, Patrick heard his name called. He turned and craned his neck to see who addressed him.

  Sir Corbin leaned over the rail of the mezzanine above the great hall, gesturing with a finger to join him.

  Patrick stood and excused himself, glad for a reason to flee.

  A few long-legged strides up the stairwell and he stood next to Corbin, who watched the crowd below.

  “It’s admirable you’re taking your new duty seriously,” he said, then glanced over at the Avangarde table where Geoffrey sulked. “I wish I could say the same for him.”

 
“I had an extra incentive,” Patrick replied, joining him at the rail. “Even so, I don’t think this is going to work. I was wrong to suggest Geoffrey should work with the candidati. If the brief interaction I just had is any indication, I’d argue two Avangarde are better placed elsewhere. Perhaps if we—”

  “Don’t care. It’s still happening.”

  “But Corbin...”

  “Don’t care.”

  “Be reasonable now—”

  “Shh! Wait, do you hear that?” Corbin said, cupping a hand to his ear and looking around.

  Patrick’s brow furrowed as he looked around himself trying to detect anything out of the ordinary.

  “That’s the sound of me not caring,” Corbin explained.

  Patrick rolled his eyes.

  “You will work with the candidati. You will lead morning drill, and you will treat Geoffrey fairly while doing so,” Corbin said, “and you will be a good example. It’s very disappointing to see you and Geoffrey fight like children, regardless of the reason. Him I understand, but you—I had higher expectations.”

  Patrick stood silently, cowed by his friend’s admonition.

  “Don’t you understand? The lads look up to you, and even some of us old-timers have been inspired by your actions,” Corbin continued. “You have it in you to be a great leader. It’s time you realized that and acted on it. No more moping about. No more sleepwalking through your duties. Lord knows, I’m not going to push papers in that office forever and somebody is going to have to replace me.”

  Patrick blinked, shocked again by what Corbin suggested. Wolfgang had said it, too, and evidently had relayed as much to Corbin since then.

  “You know Geoffrey is going to make it as difficult as possible, and what if...”

  Corbin put a cupped hand to his ear again, saying, “Wait, do you hear that again?”

  Patrick shut his mouth and tried not to roll his eyes.