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

by Adam Copeland

  “Not a clue,” he admitted. “I’m starting to wonder if it is a creature after all. I wonder if it is a disease.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a greater concern?” Lilliana inquired. “A disease is far more elusive.”

  “Yes, but only if it were the sort that traveled by foul vapors,” he replied.

  “Then it is a disease of the flesh, transmitted by touch?” she suggested, examining an open book on a table. She flipped through the pages.

  “Very good, Lady Lilliana,” Wulfric said. “I’m pleased to see you are more than just a beautiful face.”

  Lilliana smiled. “Thank you, Father.”

  “My pleasure,” he responded.

  “But what of the flowers?” she continued. “How does a disease account for the flowers stuffed in mouths of victims?”

  Wulfric smiled, wagged a finger, and squinted one eye as he replied, “As you say, the disease is transmitted by touch. I suspect the person doing the touching feels remorse, perhaps not intending to kill his or her victims, and leaves flowers as a token of apology.”

  “But he or she does not come forward to admit the crime, thus preventing further deaths?”

  Wulfric shrugged, adding, “The perpetrator has killed, accidentally or not, and would face justice. Plus, there is often a stigma attached to some maladies. Think of leprosy. I suspect this person is very sick, needs help, but will not ask for it. His or her shame prevents it.”

  Lilliana froze at the assessment, scrutinizing the man’s face deeper. When he didn’t elaborate and turned back to another book on the table, she released a breath and smiled.

  She came forward to see what captured his attention so much. It was an object resting on the page.

  “What’s this?” she asked, curious.

  “Oh, this?” he responded, producing what looked like a silver quill to move the thin material. “It’s a portion of the skin I’ve found at the killing sites.”

  She stepped away quickly.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry,” he assured. “It’s perfectly harmless.”

  “I’m sure it is, but it was your writing instrument that startled me,” she said, eying the metallic replica quill warily. “It’s rather sharp. Is it... actual silver?”

  He held up the instrument, admiring the craftsmanship. “Why, yes. It was a gift from the Board of Benefactors when I first joined as a member. Naturally it is meant to signify the Avalon swan feather that makes passage to the island possible.”

  She still kept her distance from it.

  “I assure you, it is harmless, too.” He laughed, playfully jabbing it in her direction, then his bushy brow furrowed into seriousness. “Unless you’re a werewolf, of course.”

  A silent moment hung in the air. Lilliana blinked and her mouth twitched, but then curled into a smile and she laughed. “Wulfie, you’re adorable!”

  He laughed too as she bent over to examine the skin.

  “What have you discovered about it?” she asked.

  “Ah, both much and nothing,” he said, turning to another book. “I’ve been comparing the scale pattern to pictures in a bestiary I found here in the library. I have determined it most resembles that of a great snake. Now, what that could possibly...”

  As he rambled on, Lilliana delicately picked up the skin and held it close to a candle. Glancing to ensure Wulfric’s back remained turned from her, she let it dip into the flame and catch fire. In a flash it evaporated into smoke.

  “Oh my!” she cried.

  “What? Oh, dear...” Wulfric said, turning.

  “I’m so, so sorry Father.” She placed her hands on her chest, eyes turning profoundly sad. “I just meant to have a better look and held it too close to a candle. Barely touched the heat, and... poof! Please forgive me!”

  Wulfric stared at the candle with fists on hips and brow furrowed deeply. “That was most unfortunate, but no matter. We’ve learned something very useful: the skin is highly volatile. That information may come in useful later. I should thank you, really.”

  “I can see why the Archbishop of Canterbury has sent you to negotiate for the cup on his part,” she said, coming forward. She placed her hands on his chest. “You are very clever... and forgiving.”

  “My gratitude, Lady Lilliana,” he replied, taking her hands in his. She liked their friendly warmth.

  “Rome could use a man like you,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Why do you fight so hard for the cup to go to Canterbury? You must know in your heart it belongs with the Seat of Peter. Imagine the good it could do with a centralized Church.”

  “I may very well agree it could rest with the Seat of Peter,” he admitted, rubbing her hands. “It’s just I am concerned who is sitting in the seat.”

  “You do not care for Paschal?” she asked, brow creasing in curiosity.

  Wulfric laughed. “My lady, I like you well enough, but please don’t play me for a fool. We all know what Teodorico’s ambitions are.”

  “Apologies, I do not mean to play anyone for a fool,” she said, displaying a smile she knew was beautiful. “When Teo’s time comes to sit on the seat, would that be so disagreeable?”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but his aggressive nature does not sit well with me,” he said. “After all, did he not bring an entire army with him? I only brought my wit, charm, and scripture.”

  “And your good looks,” Lilliana added, laughing lightly. “Teodorico has not used his ‘army’ and prefers dialogue to force. Surely a man of such wisdom is worthy of trust and leadership.”

  “He hasn’t used force yet,” he responded. “Besides. I am a loyal man. I am loyal to the Archbishop of Canterbury and the King of England, and of course, God.”

  She kissed his hands. “Loyalty. Truly the rarest and greatest of virtues. I think I’d very much like to see you as a pope someday.”

  Wulfric laughed with his eyes just as much as his mouth.

  “Speaking of loyalty,” she continued, “is there a Madame Wulfric back home?”

  “No, no,” he said, his smile turning bittersweet. “I believe in the virtue of celibacy as well, much like our Pope Paschal. I devote myself to God in soul and body. Though I cannot say I begrudge Teodorico for advocating clerical marriage after having met you. Your very presence makes a powerful argument.”

  Lilliana laughed and hugged the old man.

  “You are very sweet,” she said. “Regardless of age or vocation, the loss of a handsome man is still a waste.”

  There came a knock on the door and the Avangarde called the all clear.

  “Good night, Father Wulfric,” she said and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Good night, Lady Lilliana,” the priest replied and rubbed his cheek, turning red beneath his snow-white beard.

  He took the crossbar down and let her out.

  The Avangarde bowed deeply at her appearance, his sword scabbard shooting up and tangling his cloak as he bent over. He struggled to right it as they walked down the hall.

  “Lord,” Wulfric said, looking heavenward, tingling in a manner he hadn’t in a very long time. “You know I love You and would do anything for You, but sometimes it’s very, very hard.”

  He sighed heavily and closed the door.

  That night, he dreamt a young man’s dreams.

  #

  Lucan huddled in the cold among the bodies sprawled in the pit, too numerous to count. Cloudy daylight barely penetrated the forest canopy, illuminating the scene with a dim grayness. He rocked back and forth, weeping silently as he cradled the dead woman in his arms. The stench of death and disease filled his nose.

  “I warned you.” A familiar woman’s voice came to him. “They eventually only bring us pain. We are not meant for the likes of them.”

  He looked up to see Lilliana standing near, pristine in a red dress.

  “She loved me. She only left me because death took her,” he replied, glaring at Lilliana, and added, “Unlike some people.”

  “Does that answer comfort you?” L
illiana asked, scornfully.

  “No,” he admitted. “Why does this go on? How do I make it end? Why did the cup reject me?”

  “Because you are cursed,” she answered, “but I’ve met someone. A man. He has a plan, and it just might work. Come with me.” She held out a cup. “Drink from this cup, and your suffering will end.”

  When he reached for the cup he saw it filled to the brim with squirming maggots.

  #

  Lucan startled into wakefulness and looked around in confusion, trying to recognize his surroundings.

  He lay among bushes on a bed of mud and pink blossoms, not knowing how he arrived there. Sitting up, he frowned as he looked down, noting his nakedness.

  “Dammit, not again,” he groaned.

  He frantically grabbed at his chest, but relaxed when his hand came to grasp a bit of rusty metal attached to a leather thong hanging from his neck.

  Dawn light broke through leaves of the foliage. He stiffly rose, then froze, a vague memory nagging at him. Something about participating in the Avangarde morning drill with his squires. He stumbled from the bushes in the growing light.

  #

  Patrick stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes.

  He found it difficult enough to rise early in the morning to perform drills before breaking his fast, but even harder to rise earlier and prepare the practice field. It didn’t help that he, and all Avangarde, had been up until late the night before on yet another wild monster chase.

  Sir Balder’s fellow knights would not let him forget it anytime soon, relentlessly teasing him for having raised the alarm.

  “I swear I saw something huge, with wings, walk into the garden,” he groused under the withering harassment.

  “Wings?” Sir Waylan said. “Why was it walking in the garden, then? If it had wings wouldn’t it be flying?”

  “Well, to be fair,” Sir Brian interjected, “a refreshing walk in the garden just isn’t the same if you’re flying over it.”

  “Seriously!” Balder protested. “I saw something!”

  “Enough,” Patrick called. “We have things to do, and we have new trainees among us.”

  The squires Charles, Jakob, and Josef stood front and center before the fifty or so Avangarde on the practice field. Unlike the veteran Avangarde, the lads had come bright-eyed and eager. They were already dressed in the padded practice armor and had their wooden swords in hand. Their heads looked ridiculously small, poking out the tops of the padded suits.

  “New trainees? Is that who they are?” Sir Waylan said. “I thought they got lost on the way to school.”

  “On the way to the nursery, more like,” Sir Brian corrected, approaching the boys and swiping a finger behind Charles’ ear. “They’re literally still wet behind the ears.”

  Charles took it well. The young man seemed little perturbed, always having an affable smile. He would have been a handsome lad, too, if he didn’t care so much for having a bowl cut.

  Sir Waylan approached Josef from the side and plucked at his padded armor.

  “Aye, wet, and my God, is that an umbilical cord?”

  Sir Brian looked down at the ground about his feet. “Look out for the afterbirth, lest you slip on it.”

  Sir Bisch, the hulking Teuton among them, laughed. “Good-good!”

  All turned to see the large knight approaching late. Children hung from him as he walked. One clinging to each leg, and another on his shoulders.

  “Down you go,” Corbin said, coming forth from the edge of the practice field to gently pluck the child from Bisch’s back. “Uncle Bisch needs to go to work.”

  “Bad-bad,” the child said, mimicking the only other phrase Bisch routinely said.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Corbin said, setting the little boy down. “I, too, would rather watch grown men whack each other with sticks than sit in a classroom, but life is not fair.” He shooed the children away, who reluctantly waved their goodbyes.

  He turned to Bisch, smiling. “I told you not to walk by the classrooms on the way to practice. Children stick to you like burrs on a sheep.”

  Bisch stuck out his tongue at Corbin as he picked up his wooden sword. Corbin returned the compliment as he took up his position on the edge of the field to monitor the drill.

  “Speaking of late,” Patrick said, looking to the squires, “where is your master, Lucan? Was he not also to participate?”

  The boys looked at each other, shrugging.

  “There are enough of us,” Sir Edmond said, looking at the squires, “and the good news is we have new practice dummies. Our poor old straw men have had all their stuffing beaten out of them.”

  “I think you’ll find your new practice dummies fight back well enough,” Jakob said, proudly.

  Unlike Charles, the other two boys did not take the chiding so well.

  Laughter and “oooh’s” rippled through the assembled men.

  “Don’t antagonize them,” Charles addressed his fellow squires. “They're just friendly in their way. It’s a part of the acceptance process.”

  Josef rolled his eyes and said, “Charles, did you know if you say ‘gullible’ slowly, it sounds just like ‘elephant?’”

  “What?” Charles responded, frowning.

  Patrick resisted smiling. Rather, he put on his responsible face. Between the Avangarde’s teasing of Balder and the various other disruptions, he could see this getting out of hand if he didn’t start the day.

  “All right, listen up,” Patrick called to the group. “Today is a quick ground combat drill, followed by paired matches. Understood?”

  Mumbles came from the group of men as they shuffled about, still in varying stages of donning their padded armor. Nobody seemed to have heard him.

  Patrick bristled. He wouldn’t be ignored on his first day as drillmaster. Naturally, Sir Geoffrey made the worst perpetrator, idly standing by, pretending not to have heard the commands. He’d come fully armored, but leaned lazily on his practice sword.

  The anxiety mounted in Patrick as he watched more people jostle Balder and the squires start to exchange harsher and harsher words with the veterans. To make matters worse, Sir Wolfgang arrived and stood next to Corbin on the edge of the practice field to spectate.

  “I said listen up!” he finally shouted above the din. “Form a skirmish line! If you do not, this is going to be a very, very long morning and we will miss breakfast. Understood? I can wait all day. Can you?”

  To his relief they formed a line as they donned padded helmets, hefted wooden shields, and brought their swords to rest on their shoulders.

  Sir Lucan arrived then, strapping on his padded helmet. He apologized profusely and took a place in line. Patrick gritted his teeth and clenched his fists.

  “It rained last night,” Patrick explained, pacing before the assembled crowd with his hands behind his back. “So today is not the best day to perform a mounted drill. The practice field between here and the gate doesn’t need to be muddied up any more than it is. Therefore, we’re going to practice close-in combat as a group. There are occasions where you will need to fight on foot, in tight formation, whether because of the press of combatants or because you are in a confined space...”

  A quiet voice in the crowd mumbling, “Gul-lee-ble,” distracted Patrick.

  “Charles! Pay attention!” Patrick shouted, shaking his head.

  “Yes, sir!” Charles snapped to attention.

  “Where was I? Right. So, I want you to advance as a unit four steps, then on my command perform an over-shield thrust of the sword, followed by a below-shield thrust, then shield buffet, and finally a direct thrust.” Patrick demonstrated each maneuver. “We will do that four times. Yeah?”

  Collectively, the participants banged their swords against their shields in reply.

  “Excellent. Shoulder-to-shoulder now. March! One, two, three, four! Over thrust! Under thrust! Shield! Thrust! March! One, two, three...”

  Though rough going at first, especially with the newcomers a
mong their ranks, they had the rhythm down by the fourth reiteration.

  “Again!” Patrick shouted when they reached him. “About face, and back to where you started. March! One, two, three, four! Over thrust!”

  This went on for the better part of half an hour. Once the ground had become too muddy, and it became obvious the participants had the technique down, Patrick called a halt to the exercise.

  “Cheers,” he said, pleased to see Wolfgang and Corbin clapping in approval. Seeing the veterans pat the squires on the shoulders for a job well done also pleased him.

  “Find a partner,” Patrick continued. “Spread out a half-sword-length from each other. On my command, skirmish using the techniques just practiced as a group. Yeah?”

  Swords banged against shields.

  Bisch approached Josef, the smallest of the squires, and gestured between himself and the boy.

  “Wha...?” Josef protested, jaw dropping at the sight of the knight three times his size.

  “Good-good!” Bisch said, picking Josef up by the scruff of his armor and walking away with him to their patch of the field to practice on.

  “Right, then,” Patrick called once everyone had held a sword out and adjusted their distance relative to each other. “Fight!”

  The scene quickly turned into a melee of flying swords and shields, the sound of wood almost deafening.

  In less than fifteen minutes the men bent over, hands on knees, sweating and muddy. Though they had started out using the technique of the day, the melee quickly devolved to the standard battlefield free-for-all.

  Oh well, Patrick thought as he officially called the exercise to a close. That is why we practice.

  “Cheers,” he said, then addressed the squires. “You lads did well enough; you’re still standing, I see. Well, almost all of you.”

  Lucan stretched out a hand to Bisch, who lay flat on his back in the mud. Bisch took the hand and let Lucan pull him up, revealing a wide-eyed Josef who had been squashed flat beneath him.