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

by Adam Copeland

  “Aye,” Patrick replied.

  “I believe it,” Philip whispered, chewing his lip and squinting into the dark forest. “I sent men into the forest to fell trees. Only half of them came back, and those babbled of goblins and trolls and lights leading them astray. The other half... I won’t see them again, will I?”

  “No, you won’t,” Patrick said, “Avalon protects herself. You will not have an easy time here.”

  Philip either grunted in agreement, or scoffed at the notion. Patrick couldn’t tell which. “I have to admit, I won’t have an easy time breaking the walls of Greensprings either,” he said. “What a tough little fortress you have. It seems a combination of the old Roman forts and the castles the Normans are just now starting to build. Reinforced buttresses. High walls. Stone merlons. I’ll wager even that gatehouse has hidden traps and murder holes Dragonetti never saw.”

  Philip looked Patrick square in the face, hoping his expression would betray information.

  Patrick shrugged with a mischievous grin. “Maybe.”

  Philip laughed and clapped Patrick on the back.

  “Come, I like this aphelon,” he said, belching, “but let us have some good red wine from the Rhine Valley, shall we?”

  He led Patrick to a large, well-lit tent on a hillock. Inside rested all the trappings of a knight on campaign: cots, chests, armoires, lamps, bits and pieces of horse tack and harness, weapons, and pieces of armor. The place smelled of leather, oil, and wood.

  As Philip rummaged through a cabinet, Patrick steadied himself against a table as the ground moved. The night’s drinking was already catching up with him.

  “I see you’re still carving,” Patrick said, picking up a little horse’s head from among a pile of shavings on the table. He admired it, noting it already resembled a chessman. “I’ve also been carving, but I’ve never matched your skill. Did you ever complete a whole set?”

  “Several,” Philip replied, shaking a bottle, then throwing it over his shoulder when he found it lacking. “Do you still play?”

  “Aye, but I’ve never managed to match your skill there, either,” Patrick replied, noticing for the first time a tarped object occupying most of the table. He picked up an edge of the cloth, but only managed to see a portion of a model before Philip appeared at his side, put a goblet in his hand, and led him away.

  “From my father’s estate,” he explained, gesturing at the goblet. “Outside?”

  Patrick took a sip as he stepped out under the stars. The wine indeed tasted very good. “I would have thought you would have reclaimed your father’s land by now,” he said, recalling the conversation between Philip and Corbin.

  Philip heaved a sigh and drank. “It is as I said; removing the excommunication was the first step. Now I must win the land back through politics and intrigues.” Philip spat. “The Rhineland has become too civilized. I just can’t walk up to the bastards who stole my family’s name and property and kill them. Both Emperor Henry and King Henry will not tolerate such things. Therefore, I must be Pope Theodoric’s lapdog for a while to obtain this cup. That would be greatly expedited if you would stop being so stubborn and just hand the damned thing over.”

  “Corbin is right,” Patrick replied, swirling the cup around in his goblet. “We fight for something greater than ourselves. It is not by choice, but by destiny. Besides, everybody knows that even if we hand it over, Teodorico will kill us all and level Greensprings to make an example of us.”

  “True,” Philip admitted, and Patrick felt a chill go down his spine when he heard him say it so nonchalantly. “But at least I could offer you a quick death.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Patrick returned, frowning.

  “You should take me up on my offer,” Philip said, true anger creeping into his voice. “It is the best offer you will get. You are doomed, you know that? And you owe me.”

  “Oh, how is that?” Patrick asked.

  “You damned well know how!” Philip responded, draining his wine and flinging the cup against a nearby tree. “Karl died for you! You are only here to have this stupid argument because my brother died rescuing you from the Muslims. If not for him, they would have burned you at the stake as they did that nun you chased after. She did not come back alive, and neither did my brother! But you did! Why?”

  Patrick’s stomach bunched up into knots. He had known this conversation would come, but that knowledge did not make it any easier.

  “I don’t know why. I did not ask him to come after me,” Patrick explained. He kept his voice level, lest he run the risk of antagonizing the already-agitated man. “I did everything I could to slip out of camp and not make my quest a burden on the rest of you. Honestly, I don’t even know why he did.”

  “Because he loved you like a brother,” Philip retorted, “a real brother.”

  “Oh?” Patrick snapped. It was his turn to shout. “He had a funny way of showing it! It was he who chased me around camp with that hot iron. It was he who beat the hell out of me for months to ‘train me proper.’ It was he who terrorized me daily during my duties.”

  “Bah!” Philip cried, waving his arms. “Of course he did. Sure, his manner was hard, but he loved you well enough. He made you tough! He made you hard! If he hadn’t done those things, do you think you would have survived the journey? How many people survived the journey from Flanders to Jerusalem? Not many. You were one of them. Karl was not! Yes, Karl was hard on you, but if he hadn’t loved you he would have ignored you and let you die straightaway. Yes, he was hard, but it was he who also put his cloak on you when you were cold, and, God knows why, he was the only one who approved of your forbidden liaison with the girl.”

  Philip finished his rant and silence engulfed them temporarily before being replaced by the distant sounds of the camp. Patrick swallowed hard.

  “I’m sorry,” Patrick said at last. “I can’t change the past. All I can say is I truly did not want him to come after me. I often wish I had died in the desert, tied to that stake.”

  “You know what bothers me?” Philip grumbled. “That stupid girl didn’t even want you. After her little fall from grace with you, she still chose to go off with her band of holy idiots to certain death. What made them think they could convert the enemy?”

  Patrick had no words.

  “In a way, I’m glad you stubbornly wish to defend this cup,” Philip said, “for it gives me the opportunity to do what I’ve always wanted.”

  “Which is?”

  “Kill you.”

  Patrick nodded solemnly and they regarded the stars for a time in silence.

  After a while, Philip took the goblet from Patrick’s hand, took a sip and asked, “Did you ever get a chance to see your family again? Did you ever make it back to your Green Isle?”

  “Aye, I did,” Patrick replied, taking the cup back and taking a sip himself.

  “Das gut,” Philip said, nodding.

  Thinking of family, Patrick blinked and scanned the camp, listening to the raucous sounds of the party. “Is... is Brutus out there, somewhere?” he asked.

  “Oh, good Lord no,” Philip said, scowling and taking the goblet back. “As God is my witness, that boy will not know this life. He will not lead the life his brothers Philip and Karl have had. I have higher expectations of him. I want him to be more like... you.” He took a drink. “He is with our sister.”

  “And how is Sigirid?”

  Philip snorted.

  “She is safely married to some lady-pants nobleman in Landshut,” he said, shaking his head with a look of genuine sympathy. “The poor bastard doesn’t even know what he’s in for.”

  Patrick snorted as well. He had only met Philip’s sister briefly, but knew Philip’s words rang true: she was a handful. He took the cup back and drank. They watched the stars and listened to the party for a while longer.

  “Well, we best get back,” Philip said, taking the cup a final time and turning it upside-down to demonstrate its emptiness. “We’re out of drink.
”

  “Good idea.”

  “Patrick,” Philip said, smiling, “I’m going to kill you.”

  Patrick returned the smile, shrugged, and said, “You’ll try.”

  #

  The next morning, Teodorico and Victor picked their way through what looked like the aftermath of a battle. Bodies lay sprawled in every direction, and though plenty of fluid wet the dirt, very little of it was blood. Deep snores and a low-lying miasma of flatulence greeted the pontiff.

  He found the body he sought: a large man wrapped in his cloak, snoring heavily in the grass. Teodorico poked the slumbering giant with his crozier.

  “Excuse me, Sir Philip, hmm?” he said. “But aren’t you supposed to be attacking the keep? It is well on its way to midday, hmm, yes?”

  “Eh?” Philip grumbled, sleepily looking up at the holy man with bloodshot eyes. “Oh, yes, that. Tomorrow.”

  He covered his head again with his cloak.

  “What!” Teodorico bellowed, poking the man again with his crozier.

  Philip lashed out with one of his legs only to have it tangled in his cloak. Teodorico jumped out of the way, shocked and enraged.

  “Piss off, vicar,” Philip groused. “The battle will be tomorrow.”

  #

  A similarly bloodshot-eyed Corbin wavered where he stood on the walls of Greensprings, watching a man leaning to one side in his saddle as he approached the gate. His white flag sagged.

  When the messenger came within shouting distance, he called up with a hoarse voice, “My lord Sir Philip der Rhinelander wishes to inform you the battle has been delayed until tomorrow, due to... inclement weather.”

  Corbin blinked, trying to focus long enough to answer.

  “Suits me,” he finally replied.

  The messenger turned and wandered off.

  “Is he gone?” Corbin asked Patrick at his side.

  “Yes,” Patrick replied, “and he’s not looking in any case.”

  “Good,” Corbin said, and became violently ill over the side of the wall.

  Patrick laughed and started to admonish him, but caught wind of the smell of Corbin’s vomit and joined him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The first rays of morning illuminated the host as Father Hugh held it aloft. A special Mass took place in the courtyard, which was crowded with four hundred kneeling knights, archers, and villager men-at-arms. When the time came, Father Hugh and his acolytes administered communion to those wishing to receive it. Many had gone to confession the day before in anticipation of this perhaps being their last day on earth. Patrick had done so, too. Not only did he confess to Father Hugh, but to Corbin as well.

  “I did not rape a nun,” he said. “It is a long story, but I did have a brief relationship with a girl who was conflicted about her vocation.”

  He rubbed his temple, finding it hard to believe how much he had stifled the memories of Yvette. He marveled at the mind’s ability to conceal spiritual wounds; it was not unlike the flesh’s ability to envelop bits of iron from battle. Both, apparently, could cause the wound to fester.

  “I know you didn’t rape anyone,” Corbin said as if it were obvious. “I believe you were lost for a while, and I know you were a Lost Boy, but you are Patrick, and Patrick is a good man. Now, go fight like one.”

  Patrick wanted to find Aimeé and talk to her, explain things to her. Maybe then she would understand his behavior lately.

  Then again, did he really understand his behavior?

  Before he could ponder this, the church bells began to ring and a lookout on the wall called, “They’re coming!”

  Patrick and Corbin jogged to the staircase leading up to the catwalk, moving as fast as their full armor would allow.

  “I guess this is the real reason for the battle’s delay,” Corbin said, looking out onto the field to see large contraptions rumbling towards them. A mass of black-garbed bodies marched behind the siege engines.

  “Aye, they assembled them quick enough,” Patrick agreed. “Philip must have held a group of men in reserve who did not join in the festivities, keeping them fresh to build those engines yesterday. By the look of that pile of lumber next to their camp, they have plenty more left to build.”

  Corbin watched the first siege engine trundling forward on large wooden wheels. The mobile wooden tower stood as tall as the castle walls and had multiple doors and ports, especially at the bottom front, from which poked a battering ram. The top opened to the sky, and several dark dots bobbed back and forth—a contingent of soldiers manning the upper portion. What looked like a drawbridge rested at the top as well, ready to drop down to the wall, should they somehow get close enough. A mob of men pushed the device from the back, protected on all sides by other men bearing shields.

  “I don’t understand. They have to know the chasm is too wide for them to use the towers and gangplanks. Even the gate is out of reach of a battering ram,” Corbin said, chewing his lip.

  “Aye, this is not like Philip,” Patrick conceded. “Either way, we will find out—they’re almost in range.”

  The contraptions, which wobbled almost comically in their movements, seemed absurd on such a quiet and lovely day. Patrick struggled to believe blood would finally spill. So hard to believe in fact, the day felt... empty.

  Despite the odd feeling, Patrick turned to Fletcher and gave the order. Fletcher smiled. One of the engines, a catapult, pulled ahead of the tower, passing a landmark that marked his archers’ range. Fletcher yelled a command, and the bow chorus struck its first notes: feathered whistles and twanging string. Patrick watched a score of arrows arc into the sky, pause at their zenith, and then fall gently back to earth. The silence and peace of their descent contrasted with their purpose. Patrick’s stomach tensed.

  Screams erupted. Arrowpoints rained on the catapult crew. Fully half the enemy collapsed. A few arrows decorated the wood of the device.

  A thousand strong infantry now rushed forward to the roar of a battle cry joined by drums and the blaring of those unnerving horns. They carried shields and portable plank walls with little windows.

  Strangely, Patrick’s tension eased. So it begins.

  The catapult crew survivors scrambled to the front of the engine and pushed it back out of the archers’ range.

  “No, again! Before they’re out of range!” Patrick called to the archers, who had paused to celebrate.

  A few men complied, but not enough to kill any more enemy soldiers before they pushed out of reach.

  “Now, the tower,” Patrick called.

  As the catapults pulled up short, and the crews began to prepare them for action, the taller siege engine continued to teeter forward, squeaking and rattling. The archers released another barrage on the mobile tower, but their arrows only feathered its walls. The mob of men behind the engine stayed mostly hidden, except for only a few who stumbled back with a quill sticking out of them.

  “Time to light the arrows,” Patrick ordered, even though the tower was covered with cowhides, glistening in the sunlight and undoubtedly soaked with water. The archers selected tar-and-pitch-coated missiles and touched them to the burning censers situated every few paces along the catwalk.

  Fire rushed from the sky and collected on the side of the tower like a swarm of yellow hornets. Just as Patrick had feared, the tower’s hides were saturated. Worse, several upper portals flipped open, and hands emerged to pour buckets of water over the flames.

  “Shoot straight up, then,” Patrick commanded, “and let the arrows fall directly down on the top.”

  The archers adjusted their tactic. The enemy crew on top of the tower popped up and fired their own bows. And with a series of ker-thunks, the catapults launched their first wave of projectiles. The larger rocks bounced harmlessly into the chasm, and the smaller ones were dashed to pieces at the base of the walls.

  “A victory for the archers,” Corbin said, hefting a shield to ward off the attack from the top tower crew. “They’ve rendered the catapults
mostly useless.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Fletcher and credit his men,” Patrick said, catching an arrow with his own shield.

  Crossbows protruded from the little windows in the infantry’s barricades. Bolts shattered against the wall, whizzed among the stone merlons, or struck shields. At least one man cried in pain and fell from the catwalk into the courtyard with a shaft sticking out of his chest. The Aesclinn archers exchanged barbs, both physical and verbal, with the tower archers.

  The tower came as close as it dared to the chasm before the main gate. The battling ram slid forward like the tongue sticking from a serpent’s mouth, but only reached halfway across the natural rocky moat. Likewise, the drawbridge on the engine fell, but spanned just a portion of the distance. Both as Corbin predicted.

  The enemy’s arrows and bolts were the only threat, frequently pinning the defenders down.

  “The main body of men is not advancing,” Patrick said, sneaking a glance over his shield, “nor do I see any scaling ladders or ropes among them.”

  Indeed, the enemy seemed intent on their drums, horns, and weapon rattling.

  “Aye, and that tower is doing nothing but acting as an arrow sponge...” Corbin responded and then the expression on his face fell. Suddenly, Patrick felt as if someone pulled a sheet out from underneath him. The day was not empty, but full of peril.

  Together, he and Corbin cried, “It’s a diversion!”

  #

  Morning sunlight kissed the white and pink apple blossoms, creating a canopy of flowers undulating in the chill morning breeze. On the Back Door gate catwalk, Sir Brian kicked rocks from the battlements, bored and impatient as the men around him. Though he had just explained to Sir Edmund the importance of their orders, he felt the urge to rush off to join the fight at the main gate.

  “He is right though,” Sir Waylan said as he continued his watch over the orchard behind the keep. “I’m about to die of boredom while everyone else has all the fun.”

  “It is as you say—patience,” Brian replied, then squinted into the trees. “Do you see something out there?”