Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  “She is such a nuisance!”

  Patrick smiled. “It seems you have a lady admirer.”

  “No, you do not understand.” William explained, scrunching up his shoulders and clenching his hands into fists. “The message is not from her mistress. It is from her, the servant herself. We were on the same boat coming to Avalon. For some reason, she fell in love with me. She has been a nuisance ever since.”

  Patrick laughed. “If this is all the trouble you have, you are a lucky man. If you will forgive me, I must attend to my duties. I will see you later, and I trust you will wake me up again tomorrow morning as you have faithfully done since you arrived. Good day, Willy.”

  #

  At the end of his shift on the wall, Patrick descended the battlements and made his way across the training grounds toward the keep. He was cold, tired, and hungry. A long day's vigilance usually did that to him, and he was looking forward to a hot meal.

  But as he was entering the chamber adjacent to the gardens a French noblewoman stopped him.

  “Mon Seigneur Gawain?” she asked. Patrick nodded, and then realized that he should bow or at least say something polite despite his foul mood.

  “I was wondering if you could help me with a matter?” the woman said.

  She was as tall as his shoulders, and had long, dark, silky hair, expressive eyes, and beautifully arched thick eyebrows. Patrick did not know what sort of matter he could possibly help her with that demanded that she seek him out in particular. She was a Lady Guest, from Vichy, but he was unable to recall her name.

  “How may I help you, m’lady?” he said. His French was crude compared to her flowery formality. She began to pace before him, wringing her hands.

  “It is quite silly, actually,” she said. “My maidservant seems to be terribly taken by one of the other Guests. I know that he does not requite her feelings, and though he has held his temper, I can see in his face that someday he will berate her, which will devastate her. Can you see my problem, Sir Gawain?”

  Patrick's mouth moved involuntarily, striving to form words that would seem appropriate, but none came.

  “Oh, I have disturbed you with this ridiculous drama, have I not?” She stepped up to him and laid a hand on his forearm. “I am sure you Avangarde have better things to do, but we have been told that you knights are like family, and this is not a matter one can bring up to Father Hugh at confession, let alone seek out his advice.”

  Patrick shrugged. “Mademoiselle, perhaps it would help if you told me who we are talking about and why you think I can help. And, I am terribly sorry, but I am afraid I cannot recall your name. Forgive my memory.”

  The woman gasped. “Oh my manners, forgive me Sir Gawain. My name is Christianne Morneau, from Vichy. I am newly arrived in Avalon with my maidservant, Melwyn. She told me of the incident in the Hall for Guests, where you reside, while attempting to send a letter to William of Monmouth, the man with whom she is in love. That is why I am asking your advice, because you are an Avangarde, a neighbor, and perhaps a friend of William's.”

  Patrick laughed. “I see now,” he said. “So it is your maidservant who is in love with Willy.” He stopped laughing once he saw that Christianne did not join him. “I am pleased that you came to me, of all people, to ask advice, but the best that I can offer is to let the drama unfold by itself. She is obviously infatuated, and with time, she will get over it.”

  “I know that, but as I said, I am afraid William might lose his temper and hurt her. She may be only a maidservant, but we grew up together, I have known her all my life, and she is very much like a sister.” Lady Morneau’s eyes were beseeching. “Please, Sir Gawain, it is a simple matter. Speak to William. Father Hugh and Mother Superior tell us that you Avangarde are not only soldiers of arms, but also soldiers of the spirit. Can you use your position to keep her from being harmed? However silly this may sound to you, it is important to me.”

  Patrick drew in a deep breath. The girl had a point. That was just what the Creed stated.

  Patrick said, “You are obviously distraught over this, and it is my duty to do my best to remedy it. I will talk to William and straighten the whole matter out. You need not worry about it.” An easy promise, but he did not have the slightest idea how to fulfill it.

  Christianne embraced him and thanked him. Patrick held the French noblewoman awkwardly in his arms. The form of contact was alien to him.

  She was absolutely beaming. She must indeed be close to her maidservant, he thought.

  “One question, though,” he asked. “Melwyn? That's her name? Does she talk?”

  Lady Morneau smiled and leaned back from him, hands on his shoulders. “When it suits her. I would not say that she is touched...” she gestured to her head. “...but she is a unique girl. She laughs nonstop, though I have no problem communicating with her. Actually, I find her very refreshing.”

  “That’s sweet,” said Patrick.

  Jason McFowler came striding into the chamber.

  “What is this? Fraternizing among the Guests and Avangarde?” Patrick eased out of Christanne's arms. He remembered the rules but also remembered Sir Geoffrey's view on the matter and wondered if Jason felt the same way.

  “Sir McFowler, you devil in a kilt, how are you today?” the Frenchwoman asked. The conversation was now in Latin. Christianne went to the Highlander and gave him a warm hug. “Sir Gawain has just agreed to help me with a diplomatic matter of great importance. I am eternally indebted to him.”

  “Well, then, it seems he has won himself a lovely treasure. Though I hope it can wait until later, for he is just the man I am looking for.”

  “What on earth for? I have already done my duties for the day,” he started, but McFowler put up a hand. His other arm was around Lady Mourneau’s waist.

  “I am sure you have worked hard and diligently and are a credit to the Reservists, as well as the Avangarde, but I just wanted to invite you and some others to the village for supper and some ale.”

  “I will leave you two to go to your entertainment,” Lady Morneau said, once again coming up to Patrick and taking his hand in hers. “I do wish to know as soon as possible what comes of your 'diplomatic mission.' And, of course, I would not mind spending some time with you, Patrick. Perhaps we can sup together in the dining hall sometime? I would love to hear about your homeland.”

  She walked away and waving goodbye, all smiles. But halfway through the doorway she stopped and turned. “Oh Patrick, there is one thing I have been meaning to ask you. Who is that hooded man that I sometimes see following you around?”

  #

  They walked to the village. Patrick was quiet. Any questions he might have had concerning McFowler's motives were forgotten in the mental clamor of Lady Mourneau’s inquiry about the Apparition

  “Why so glum, Irishman? I thought everyone from the Green Isle was a cheerful drunk.”

  Patrick half-smiled. “Long day.”

  They entered the village of Aesclinn, and the dust under their boots gave way to cobblestone. This was Patrick's first time in the village, and he found it tidy with its stone fences and gabled earthen buildings. They found the inn, which looked small from the outside but seated many. Someone at the corner of the room hailed them.

  “Look it's McFowler and Sir Sil...” He got a sharp jab to the abdomen by the knight seated next to him.

  Jason led Patrick to a circular wooden table in the corner. Patrick recognized them all and noted that they were all veterans. There was Sir Mark, Sir Brian, Sir Waylan, who looked more like a warrior hermit than a knight, Sir Corbin, and Sir Eirech Bischoff, a hulking long-haired German who spoke neither Latin nor French very well. He always managed to make himself understood even though the only thing that he ever said was “Good! Good!” with a toothy grin. They called him “Bisch.”

  Room was made for Patrick and Jason.

  “What will you be drinking?” Sir Corbin asked.

  Patrick shrugged. “What is there?” The inn brewe
d its own and smelled of barley oats and malt and something else even stronger. Every time the barkeep passed between the swinging door that led out of the common room, Patrick caught a glimpse of huge wooden fermenting vats.

  “Oh, ale and beer, flavored with fruit or not, and dark or light ones. If you have a craving for wine, there is...”

  Sir Waylan cut Sir Brian off. “Fool, it is his first time here, not to mention his first time in Avalon.” There were murmurs of assent. “Frederique, a pint of Aphelon for our companion.”

  Patrick sat with back rigid and hands at his sides, waiting for the spindly old Norman barkeep to bring his drink. How to act among veterans? He had not spent much time with them, and he definitely had not expected to be among them in this manner.

  Frederique brought the earthenware goblet and placed it before Patrick. It smelled of apples and alcohol—hard cider. Patrick reached for his coins, but Corbin waved him off.

  “My pleasure, Sir Gawain,” he said.

  The drink was tasty and potent. They told Patrick that it was made from the local apples and harvested by the villagers. The apple trees were native to the Misty Isle and had the unlikely trait of blooming year round, therefore providing an endless supply of apples, and hard cider.

  Food was ordered, and they ate a splendid meal of roasts, hams, chicken, stews and soups, fresh bread, and cheese. It was different, more pleasant, in comparison to the meals served at Greensprings. Though the Keep meals were fine, they lacked a certain personal quality, most likely because they were made often and in volume.

  After the meal, more drinks went around. Patrick smiled more, relaxed, and began to see the men around him as companions rather than superiors. He wondered if this had been their intention all along. Or maybe it was only Jason's.

  They talked long into the night, mostly reminiscing about the old times they had shared as Avangarde. Patrick politely sat by and listened, as the stories did not involve him or anything with which he could really relate. But between stories, they asked him questions, mostly about his journeys through the Holy Land and what the Crusade had really been like. Unfortunately, he did not feel that he was much of a storyteller, and it was evident that he could not hold their attention for very long. That made him sad, for these knights of the Avangarde were allowing him the opportunity to become better acquainted, to prove his mettle, so to speak, and he was ruining it.

  It should be Sir Jon sitting here, not me, he thought ruefully. He was glad that he was, for the most part, pleasantly drunk.

  “So, Sir Gawain, what do you think of our little island with our little castle?” Mark asked rather suddenly. He, too, was drunk, and his blue eyes were glassy. His speech was slurred in an almost-comical way, and his finely chiseled face was flushed. Patrick hoped that he did not look half that bad. The Irishman was happy to see that the barrel-chested Mark was susceptible to something. Patrick recalled that he was one of the few people who could best him at swordplay during training.

  “I am enjoying my stay very much,” Patrick replied.

  “Well, it is hard to tell that from your behavior,” Brian said, pouring more hard cider into all the cups.

  Patrick shifted uneasily. “How do you mean?”

  Brian gestured with his hands as if this would enable him to speak better. “You do not talk much, you know, and tonight is the first time that I have seen you smile,” he said.

  “That is not true,” Waylan said. “He smiled plenty during the dance contest.” The recollection of the event caused all to laugh, Patrick included.

  “You see!” Waylan pointed at the Irish knight. “He smiles yet again.”

  Patrick waved them off. “I am not in jeopardy of taking my own life. I'm just getting used to this new place. It is different here, that’s all.” And I am being haunted by a robed specter.

  “Well, I say you fit in just fine,” McFowler said, turning to the others at the table. “Why, just today before coming here, I saw him leaping to the aid of a damsel in distress. He performed like a true Avangarde.”

  “Damsel?” Corbin exclaimed, arching an eyebrow. “Which one would that be?”

  “None other than the fair Christianne Morneau of Vichy,” McFowler replied. Brian whistled and Bisch exclaimed “Good! Good!”

  “Caught the fancy of quite a little woman,” Waylan pointed out.

  Patrick blushed. “I am just helping her with a personal matter concerning her lady-in-waiting.”

  “Oh, do not belittle it, Patrick,” McFowler said. “She is not the only girl whose attention you have caught. Many a lassie, from maidservant to noblewoman, has an eye for you.”

  “Surely you jest,” Patrick said. He looked from face to face for a laugh to give them away. But they persisted.

  “It must be that Celtic heritage of yours,” McFowler said. “This would also explain why the women fall at my feet as well.” Jason puffed up his burly chest. Now the table erupted in laughter.

  “The women feel sorry for you, is all, you old pirate,” Corbin laughed. “Besides, Waylan and I here are just as much Celtic in our Briton heritage, and women could care less.”

  “Aye,” Brian added, “I’m as Scottish as yea, and I have no luck.”

  “That’s because you are a city dweller from Edinburgh, hardly Scottish at all if you ask me,” Jason replied. “You have to be from the Highlands to be considered truly Scottish.” Brian took a swig from his drink with one hand and dismissed Jason with a wave of the other.

  “So the idea of being sort of a Lancelot troubles you, Patrick?” Mark asked.

  Patrick shrugged, moving his finger around in a pool of hard cider on the table. “I just have not had much luck in the past with women, that is all.”

  “Perhaps your luck will change here in Avalon,” Mark said. “Avalon has a way of changing you. I would say that it could either make your future or be your undoing.”

  This reminded Patrick of an interesting point. He told the knights at the table about the conversation with Sir Geoffrey, particularly about the bush beatings that sometimes hastened Avangardesmen’s departure.

  Those at the table listened to the stories and had several of their own. Sir Brian saw the shade of his father in the woods, Sir Corbin a skeletal knight and horse by a river. Sir Waylan heard voices as if at a party but coming from the bottom of a lake, and so on. A shiver crept down Patrick's spine. And he also noticed that it became awfully quiet at the table.

  “What does it all mean?” Patrick asked.

  “It really is Avalon,” Waylan answered. “But what that means, exactly, I could not say. It is a place of legend. Even though it seems empty and abandoned, who is to say that it is? Who knows what happened to the original Knights of Greensprings.”

  “If it is so mysterious, and possibly dangerous, then why have an école privée here with the children of some of the most powerful and richest men in the world?” the Irishman went on.

  Corbin shrugged, saying, “Because that is what the Holy Duck told Father Chanceroy when he found the springs on his pilgrimage.” This brought on huge guffaws of laughter from the drunken knights.

  “It was a swan, you idiot,” Brian said.

  Corbin took another swig from his drink. “Details.” Once the laughter died down, Patrick pointed out that he was not looking forward to the bush-beating and was then informed that he and the other Reservists would not be participating in the excursion, some weeks hence.

  “Somebody has to stay behind and watch the keep while we are out thrashing in the woods,” Waylan pointed out. Patrick did not know whether to be flattered or offended: Tending to the Guests once again while the Avangarde did the real work.

  “Is it always going to be like that?” he asked. “The Reservists always being left behind to play diplomat and mediator?”

  “Adventure is what we are looking for, is it, laddie?” Jason slurred.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he replied to Jason's taunt.

  “Well, even Camelot at its zenith had
its dull moments,” Brian said.

  “That is what prompted the Knights of the Round Table to quest for the Holy Grail,” Waylan remarked.

  Corbin's brow furrowed. “They were bored off their arses?”

  “They had defeated all their worldly adversaries, you unromantic fool,” Waylan said. “They had to turn to spiritual quests to fulfill themselves. You are obviously not a learned man, Corbin.”

  “I shall drink to that!” Corbin shouted, once again raising the cup to his mouth.

  Waylan slapped his hand on the table. “I have it!” he cried. “We are in need of a quest. Just look at us. Sir Patrick is right, we need an adventure. Why, we are sitting at a round table,” he gestured at the table, which was indeed round, “and we have a Lancelot.” He gestured at Patrick.

  “No, no, you infidel. He cannot be Lancelot,” Brian protested, standing to address Waylan who had himself risen up in his excitement.

  “Why not?”

  “Because his name is Gawain, so he must be Gawaine.”

  “Very well then, he will be Gawaine, and Mark shall be Lancelot.”

  “That will not work either,” Corbin said, also standing up. “Mark is likely to be chosen as successor to the Stewardship of Greensprings, so he must be Arthur.”

  “Very well. You, Lancelot; Patrick, Gawaine; Mark, Arthur; and I...”

  “Merlin,” Corbin said.

  “Why Merlin?” Waylan asked.

  Corbin was very drunk and leaned into Waylan. “Because you are a long-bearded bastard.”

  “You're drunk,” Waylan said.

  “I'll drink to that.” All were standing now, arguing about who should be whom. Eventually they worked it out and then asked Waylan/Merlin what his quest was.

  “Follow me, men! But first, a toast to the Knights of the Round Table!”

  The patrons, as well as Frederique the barkeep, grinned at the drunken knights as they clashed cider cups like swords and then followed Waylan out the door on their quest.