Patrick beamed an exaggerated smile at her. At least he was trying. “You did well too. Very brave,” he said. “You probably could have handled all three by yourself.”
“Undoubtedly,” she sniffed with as much humor as she could muster, shaking her lingering anxiety from the ordeal. “It’s the least I could do after you suggested you do all the cooking.”
Patrick snorted a genuine laugh.
“Your secret is safe with me,” she added. “Your fellow knights needn’t know you were rescued by a maidservant. You will still become Captain of the Avangarde before long.”
“Captain of the Guard? I don’t know about that,” Patrick responded, a scowl developing across his brow despite his smile. “I was almost cast out for my disagreeable nature, remember? I feel lucky just to be allowed into the Order, so I’m not about to rush things. Besides, I don’t think I’d care for the burden of leadership. Being willing to die as a soldier is one thing—but commanding others to their death is quite another.”
“Well, I think you’d make a fine leader,” she insisted.
“A fine leader wouldn’t have let a kindly old priest bully him into going against his better judgment,” Patrick countered.
“You mean the cup? I’m sure it will be perfectly safe in the church, and many people’s faith will be strengthened because of it, just as Father Hugh hopes. What harm can come of it?”
Patrick sucked in air. “That’s what I’m afraid of. I promised the guardians of the cave I’d return it.”
“But you didn’t say when,” Aimeé reasoned.
“A nuance I’m sure will not go unnoticed by the guardians.” Patrick’s grip on Aimeé’s hand tightened. “Which means what exactly? I don’t know. My guts tie into knots the more I think about it. I should have returned the cup right away. I shouldn’t have listened to Father Hugh, but his plea to let the people adore it as a miraculous object of God was convincing.”
“You worry too much,” Aimeé said, and kissed his hand. “It will be fine. As soon as we return, you can fulfill your promise.”
They rode with only the sound of plodding hooves to pace the time. They passed among rolling dales and oak groves suffused by sunlight. The light rendered every possible shade of green, almost matching the surreal brilliance of Avalon.
The road crested a dale and they entered into a circle of monolithic stones, the sort that also populated the Isle of Avalon. Or perhaps, Aimeé thought, Eire had the same mysterious stones as Avalon. Which came first? Where did they originate? Who erected them?
She posed these questions to Patrick as he dismounted to pray before a stone cross that dominated the center of the ring.
“I’m not sure,” he replied as he knelt and crossed himself before the elaborately carved Celtic monument. “They say they’ve been here before time, even before my people. Legend says it was the Fair Folk who raised them with magic, or grew them from the earth like trees. Other say they are giants turned to stone by magicians.”
Aimeé bit back her next question while Patrick fulfilled his crusade promise to pray before every holy shrine between the coast and his home. She noted that once this place must have been a true ring; the long stones littering the ground had rested atop the standing stones. She also noted their voices echoed inside the circle.
“Then why is there a Christian cross here?” she asked when he finished and mounted Siegfried.
“They say Saint Patrick came here and upturned the sacrificial stone and with just the power of his voice in prayer, carved the stone into a cross with its images,” he replied.
“What do you think?”
“I think after all I’ve seen on Avalon I can believe anything now.”
They moved beyond the stone giants, and Patrick sighed and stated it wouldn’t be much longer. “We’ve been very fortunate,” he added, laughing away the last of the previous night’s trouble. “The weather has been very agreeable. You’re going to be left with the misconception it’s always sunny here.”
Aimeé breathed in the summer air and fluffed her cloak, thankful for the warmth of the day drying the last of the dampness from the garment. The blood had washed out readily in a stream that morning. If only the memory would clean away as easily.
In another hour Patrick stiffened in the saddle and looked intently ahead. A village came into view. A handful of buildings surrounded a church adjoining a square with a central well. To one side, a low stone wall enclosed a spacious area. The buildings were of the same gray stone and roofed in thatch. Green grass sprouted from them, and oddly, a goat stood atop one of the buildings, grazing.
Aimeé loved it immediately.
Patrick drew in a nervous breath and grabbed her hand. "Almost there," he said.
"What is it called?" she asked.
Patrick shrugged. “Nothing really, just the Gathering Place. Few people truly live here. It is merely the place we gather to shear the sheep, attend Mass, and celebrate.”
“Where do you live, then?”
Patrick gestured with his chin. “Another hour down the road.”
Patrick led them into the square near the church. Though the largest building in the village, it comprised little more than a stone-fenced corral, clay-packed wattle walls, and a thatched roof. Its stone facade was decorated with some modest carvings and a pair of stout oak doors.
After dismounting and transferring his shield from his back to his saddle, Patrick helped Aimeé off her pony.
By now people came out of the buildings and children quickly surrounded them to gawk at the knight, his giant warhorse, and his lady. Many of them approached the French girl and tittered questions at her, pulling on her dress.
She looked down at their little dirty and smiling faces and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“They’re asking if you’re a princess,” Patrick said, securing their mounts to a hitching post.
She laughed. “What will you tell them?”
Patrick smiled at them and said something that seemed to leave them confused, but they flittered excitedly around her just the same.
“I told them you’re my princess,” he said.
Aimeé glowed.
“Patrick?” a man’s voice came.
Through the crowd an elderly man in a brown robe approached. With big eyes he took in the sight of the tall knight.
Patrick, just as excited, embraced the man and exclaimed, “Athair Caraig!”
They exchanged many words, but before long Patrick pointed to Aimeé.
The man—the parish priest, Father Peter—greeted her with kind words she did not understand. While doing so, however, his attention suddenly returned to Patrick and he exclaimed something, putting his hands to his face as if just remembering something. He looked between Patrick and the church, speaking excitedly.
Patrick’s brow furrowed and he grunted a question as if looking for confirmation.
Father Peter nodded and pointed to the church and again said something sending Patrick into an excited frenzy.
Patrick raced for the church doors and Aimeé followed with an excited crowd.
He flung the doors open and entered with his cloak flapping wildly behind him.
Despite the bright midday sun, darkness reigned inside with only some candles to give context to the simple chamber. A lone figure knelt before the altar in prayer.
Her head was bowed beneath a veil, but at the sound of the doors, she lifted her head in their direction and shielded her eyes against the onslaught of daylight. Patrick paused, his shadow falling across her.
“Máthair,” he said.
The woman rose, eyes growing big with disbelief.
“Patrick?” her voice came out a whisper, then she squealed with delight as she ran forward.
They met halfway and embraced so strongly Aimeé thought Patrick might crush the petite woman. He let her go long enough to bend down and raise her skyward by the hips and twirl her about, shouting with joy. The woman cried out in surprise at the
move.
For the briefest of moments Aimeé felt an irrational twinge of jealousy at the display, but it faded as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The slender woman’s veil fell away like a leaf floating on the wind, exposing long dark hair with a streak of silver down one side. Crows feet lined her eyes, and many years of tedious work had gnarled her wrists and hands.
At last Patrick put her down and a flurry of words passed between them. Her eyes sparkled and she refused to let entirely go, clinging to him.
Eventually Patrick led her back toward the entrance and brought her into the sunlight before Aimeé and the curious crowd.
As he introduced Aimeé to her by name, Aimeé had a better look at her. She was shorter even than herself, and petite, but strong in a sinewy way. Aside from the silver streak, she had the same raven-black hair as Patrick. Her eyes, an extreme version of Patrick’s sitting in a beautiful porcelain face of sharp features, struck Aimeé the most. Whereas Patrick’s had gold flecks floating about the pupils in a sea of hazel, hers had a distinct gold halo surrounded by stark green, almost unsettling in their alien beauty.
“Aim-ai...” the woman sounded the name out slowly, trying out the syllables. She smiled and looked Aimeé up and down in a fashion only one person in a man’s life possibly could.
“Aimeé, my mother, Talisia,” Patrick said, almost nervously.
Patrick’s nervousness became contagious. Aimeé drew in a breath and her stomach turned into knots when she greeted the woman, “Bonjour.”
Talisia embraced her and responded with soft words Aimeé did not understand. She also stroked her face, looking into her eyes, and oddly, touched her stomach.
Shortly thereafter, the crowd of people pushing to gather around Patrick separated them and Aimeé bided her time with the curious children. While doing so she saw Patrick for the first time in his element, among his people. He had friends, family, and no language barrier. She knew when this moment came she would be put aside, if only temporarily. Still, now that the moment had come, she felt alone and wondered if this is how he had felt this past year at Greensprings. What a lonely man he must have been.
She sighed and patiently waited until Patrick said his goodbyes and made his promises to the villagers of returning later. With that, he climbed into Siegfried’s saddle and surprised his mother by bending down and lifting her into the saddle in front of him.
Aimeé climbed into her pony’s saddle, and to the sound of Talisia’s joyful laughter, they left a crowd of waving villagers behind.
#
Patrick’s home was part manor house, part castle, part long hall, and part farm. It sat between green pasture lands dotted with sheep and fields of golden wheat.
A Celtic cross topped the apex of the manor’s stone facade. Thatch, suspended by stout beams of oak, sheltered the buildings. Many windows offered light and air, but thick wooden shutters and iron-banded doors provided defense.
Smaller encircling buildings, made of the same local stone and thatch, created a common ground where many chickens, geese, pigs, and goats roamed.
Several children in wool tunics paused in their tossing grain to the animals to watch wide-eyed the approaching knight with Talisia held captive in his saddle.
Half ran to meet the approaching group; the other half ran inside shouting.
Once arrived, Patrick quickly led them inside. Fresh rushes covered the floor of packed earth, the furniture simple but sturdy wood, a few tapestries hung from the walls with a large wolf pelt, and little else. A plethora of candles and the red glow of embers from a sizable fireplace provided illumination in the rooms, which had a cave-like air despite the sunny day.
People came from every room, their excitement matching that of the children. They all but mobbed Patrick and much talking ensued as Aimeé again hung back, patiently watching the reunion.
Two girls, both around seven years of age, approached and looked up at her with grimy but smiling faces. Their hair would have been a fiery strawberry blonde if not for all the moss and twigs knotted in them. Despite their disheveled appearance, Aimeé never saw two happier children.
They grabbed Aimeé by the hands and intoned questions at her.
She beamed at them. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”
Their eyes widened and they suddenly ran to one of the women surrounding Patrick.
“Maman! Maman!” they shouted in French, while pointing to Aimeé.
With a curious look in her face the woman came to Aimeé, dragged by the girls. She shared the same fiery red-gold hair as the children, though immaculately kept. It hung about her head like a curly nimbus of dawn.
“Française?” she asked.
Aimeé nodded, delighted, “Oui! Vous êtes aussi?”
“Non,” the woman responded, continuing the conversation in the language Aimeé understood. “I am Breton, from Brittany. My name is Beatrix, and you? I’m sure Patrick would have introduced you, but obviously he has his hands full.”
Aimeé understood Patrick’s preoccupation, but was happy to have someone to talk to. She examined Beatrix, a full-figured woman whose bright hair and freckles looked very much out of place among the dark and willowy Gawain family. Her accent, though similar to Patrick’s when he spoke French, had a different flavor to it. Everything about her made Aimeé curious.
“I am Aimeé de la Chasse,” she responded.
Beatrix appraised her, not sure what to make of her.
“I’m afraid I am as common as grass and sunlight.” Aimeé answered the unspoken question, removing as much awkwardness as possible.
Patrick strode over and embraced her with a single arm and turned her to the assembled crowd. He spoke her name and talked for a bit, which brought the briefest of pauses, but quickly gave way to excited chatter. They surrounded her and greeted her with many hugs.
Talisia broke through the crowd, took Patrick by the hand, and led him down a hall. A hush fell over the crowd and a procession followed after them, sweeping Aimeé along.
Talisia paused at a door, said some quiet words to Patrick, then bid him to enter.
As the door swung open, Patrick approached a bed where a man lay asleep in the dark room. A candle on a nightstand illuminated the scene just enough for the silent spectators in the hall to watch. Patrick gently nudged the man to wakefulness.
At first he did not respond, even when looking Patrick full in the face, but then struggled to sit up in shock. Though very sickly and not well, Patrick vainly tried to hold the man down, but they eventually settled into a tight, rocking embrace.
“Daidí, Daidí,” Patrick wept.
The man wailed, repeating, “Mo buachaill!”
A loud commotion came from the front of the house, and a man’s loud voice called out in a questioning tone. Beatrix responded, and Aimeé followed her, not wishing to be alone while Patrick remained occupied.
As they entered the main living area a very large man stood with hands on belted hips. Though not dressed in knightly garb, the sword at his hip and the steel vambraces on his wrists left no doubt his status as a warrior. He had Patrick's eyes, which glittered in the dark, and Patrick’s cheekbones protruded from a well-groomed beard. A shorter, darker man with similar facial features, but with a wild beard, accompanied him.
The giant newcomer spoke with some consternation, but stopped suddenly when he laid eyes on Aimeé. Confused, or curious, he grunted a question and Aimeé didn’t need to speak the language to understand what he asked.
Beatrix put a protective arm around her and said her name, followed by some words and the name Patrick.
The man blinked. “Patrick?”
As if his name conjured him, Patrick entered the room and the two men faced off for a tense moment.
Finally, they embraced fiercely like men who hadn’t seen one another for a long time, pounding each other’s backs.
#
The next few weeks flew by, but their first evening, spent mostly at the dinner
table, was long and memorable. Though the Gawain family owned land as nobility, they were humble. They had plenty of sharecroppers and servants to herd the sheep, but no servants within the household, and therefore dinner fell to the women. They excluded Aimeé from duties that first evening, but following evenings she happily helped out, glad to avoid the awkwardness of being waited upon. The women treated the kitchen as their personal kingdom, banishing men from it.
The first several dinners, over trenchers of soda bread filled with lamb stew and sausages and boiled greens on tarnished-but-ornate plates, Aimeé came to know the family. Beatrix acted as a great resource, filling in tidbits of information about the family members.
At the head of the table, helped to his seat from his sickbed by his wife and sons, the elder Gawain presided over his family. Aimeé was very surprised the kindly Shannon Gawain was a smallish man, not at all tall like Patrick and certainly no giant like his eldest son, Sian. She imagined in younger and healthier days he was tough and wiry in a manner like his second son, Domhnull. Domhnull was surprising to Aimeé in that he was dark complected with blazing blue eyes. He did, however, have the raven hair and high cheekbones common to the family that must have come from Talisia. Shannon’s eyes were gray as stone.
Beatrix’s redheaded girls, the chatty Mayana and Maria, could almost pass for twins. So too could Patrick’s dark-haired elder sisters, Dierdre and Catha, who could also pass for younger sisters of their mother. They had Talisia’s fair complexion, sharp features, and fiercely noble faces, but they were taller and stronger. Catha had almost-black eyes promising trouble if you trifled with her. Beatrix later explained Catha was aptly named after Badb Catha, the Irish goddess of battle. Literally, her name meant “Battle Crow,” which also matched her glossy hair.
At the far end of the table sat the youngest Gawains. Domhnull, who didn’t seem to adhere to any rules, sat wherever he pleased and lately he sat with nine-year-old Conor, making him laugh by howling like a wolf and generally carrying on like a child himself. His antics drew scornful looks from Sian, but that only encouraged him.
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 5
