Patrick squeezed heels to Siegfried, and the big horse dutifully picked up the pace to a gallop. The next wagon held mostly sacks of supplies, but also a couple of Lady Guests in colorful gowns.
“Greetings, ladies,” Patrick said with a practiced smile; the other thing he worked on improving. Others often told him he frowned overly much. “I’m Sir Patrick Gawain. I will be one of your guardians and a brother in spirit while you are at Greensprings.”
The teenagers introduced themselves as Estelle and Alexia, and did not offer much conversation. They mostly concerned themselves with Estelle’s dress, which she had ripped.
“Not much I can do about that,” Patrick said, smile straining. “My sewing skills are atrocious.”
“That’s very disappointing,” Estelle said. “We were told the Avangarde were unique in that they would help in all things. They would be our ‘big brothers.’ My brother back home would be very happy to mend my dress.”
I doubt that, Patrick wanted to snort, but instead broadened his smile and said, “I believe the intent is for the Avangarde’s interaction with Guests to demonstrate Greensprings’s commitment to fostering peace. What better way to show that than to have the peacekeepers capable of doing more than bashing skulls. Swords into plowshares and all that.”
“So, you’ll mend her dress, Sir Knight?” Alexia asked.
“I can point you in the direction of a good seamstress,” Patrick said, then partially drew his sword from its scabbard. “Or, I can I get started right now.”
“That won’t be necessary, Brother,” Estelle giggled.
As they passed an apple orchard, a snow of blossoms cascaded all around them, and Patrick heard familiar music on the wind. He excused himself from the giggling ladies, pressed heels to Siegfried again, and followed the music. He sidled up next to Aimeé’s wagon where she practiced on the flute his mother had given her.
“I see you didn’t waste any time introducing yourself to the Lady Guests,” she said, pausing from her practice and keeping her gaze forward. “And pretty ones at that.”
She sat next to the wagon driver, a mere boy who held the oxen’s reins.
“I also spent a fair amount of time with the lads,” Patrick said, scowling, “and I daresay several of them were prettier than the lasses, but I doubt you noticed that.”
A muscle in her jaw angrily worked back and forth even as she blew anew into the instrument. The final note came out with a quack like a wounded duck’s.
“Are you ready to listen to some music?” she asked, pausing again, still looking ahead. “I almost have the tune right. I’m very close.”
Patrick shifted uneasily in the saddle.
He could see the boy wagon driver watching their exchange with curiosity. “You there.” He leaned to look at him. “Have you been informed of the arrival plan?”
“Y-yes, my lord.” The boy swallowed, suddenly trying to shrink into his seat. “Wagons with Guests will move to the right after crossing the drawbridge and continue onto the halls for Guests. The Avangarde will unload their belongings and help them move in. Wagons with supplies will remain in the courtyard and will be unloaded by staff. The Roman entourage will peel off before the keep and set up a pavilion encampment outside the walls.”
“Very good,” Patrick said tersely with a sharp stare, discouraging the boy from further eavesdropping.
Aimeé glared. “My lord, don’t you have more Lady Guests to meet and boys to intimidate?”
Patrick prepared to respond angrily, but a wave of scintillating colors washed over them with a feverish buzz. Siegfried reared slightly, and Patrick threw up a hand to protect his eyes. The oxen stopped, and Patrick could hear Aimeé and the nearest Guests gasp in shock. He squinted open an eye and gasped himself as he realized a multitude of dragonflies engulfed them in a swarm of rainbow bodies and gossamer wings. It lasted only a moment, then the migration of insects passed them on their way to the next pond.
“A face!” Aimeé exclaimed. “I saw a face on one of them!”
“A person’s face?” the wagon driver asked, skeptically.
“Yes!”
“Don’t be silly,” Patrick said, watching the glittering storm disappear.
No sooner had he spoke when Estelle and Alexia also exclaimed something about faces.
“You see?” Aimeé scolded him. “You always doubt me. Now, good day, Sir!”
Patrick felt a dagger pierce his heart.
#
When the caravan exited the forest of sentinel evergreens, it proceeded just as the boy driver had said. The cardinal’s group quickly set up camp in bright pavilions outside the buttressed walls of Greensprings, and the rest continued onward, to the drawbridge.
The fortress loomed just as Patrick remembered it: a compact affair of gray squares and round towers guarded by a natural crevasse in front, and an army of blossoming apple orchards in the rear. The bleak gray walls acted as a shell guarding the germinating flower inside: a flower of peace meant to bloom across the world. The magnificent long stained-glass dome ran most of the length of the basilica like an elongated raindrop, and offered the only splash of color in the structure. The dome’s design was not just an artistic masterpiece, but one of engineering that would be the envy of any cathedral in mainland Christendom. How the stained glass came to Avalon—indeed, the creation of the keep itself—still mystified Patrick, who had only heard rumors and legends.
When the wagons entered the courtyard under the iron teeth of the portcullis, Patrick handed Siegfried over to a servant and made his way to the keep entrance.
“Oi, Patrick, where you going?” one of the Avangarde called out, indignant that Patrick skulked away from the work to come.
“I’m reporting into Corbin,” he said truthfully, but thinking of another visit he also wanted to make. Plus, Aimeé’s rejection still stung and he didn’t feel it was wise to engage the newcomers until he cooled off. “I’ve been gone all summer. I’m sure he’ll want to see me right away. Shouldn’t be long. I’ll join you soon.”
The explanation didn’t seem to mollify his fellow Avangardesman, but Patrick ducked through the oaken double doors and was free. A few minutes of navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the main keep led him to the staircase he sought. He climbed to the door he wanted, whereupon he knocked until a shouted invitation urged him inside.
“Patrick!” the stout man at a desk greeted him. Another man, a monk by the look of him, sat next to him behind the desk. They had been looking over a document together.
Patrick found the room different from his memory of it. When Sir Mark had occupied the Keep Steward’s room, it had been orderly. Now, Corbin’s clothing was thrown over the furniture, reports and ledgers hid most of the desk, and wine goblets and food boards piled in every spare space.
Corbin stood, adjusting the belt about his gut. The gut was deceptive; Patrick knew Corbin only gave the impression of a knight softening into middle age. Corbin’s solid build made him a capable fighter, and truth be told, he only had a few years on Patrick. The receding hairline was just bad luck.
Patrick saluted him, something he might as well start getting used to now that Corbin was the right-hand man of Sir Wolfgang von Fiescher.
“No,” Corbin said, and beat his breast once and stated in a stern voice. “Fight strong,” he said, and then thrust out his arm, adding, “Go on, do it, as I did.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow, beat his breast, then stated, “Fight strong,” and clasped forearms with Corbin.
“Live stronger,” Corbin finished the ritual.
“Fight strong, live stronger?” Patrick asked.
“Our new salute and greeting. Wolfgang and Marcus brought the idea back from the mainland. They say similar rituals are all the rage among orders nowadays,” Corbin explained.
“Funny, neither of them used it on me on the trip over from Cornwall.”
Corbin shrugged and gestured for Patrick to take a seat, saying, “It’s still relativel
y new and we just instituted it at the end of training—which you missed this year, by the way, you lucky bastard—and before the boys headed out to the harbor for reception duty.”
“Which you missed, and are missing placing the Guests in their rooms at this very moment,” Patrick added.
Corbin shrugged again and reached for a goblet on the desk.
“Well, I would be there as a dutiful Avangarde, but the presence of his holy eminence dictates all manner of preparations for tonight’s reception banquet.” He squinted inside the empty cup. Evidently it was clean enough, for he poured a sizable measure of wine into it and handed it to the Irishman.
“Seriously, had I known all the paperwork involved with being Steward I’d run off too,” Corbin continued, pouring himself a goblet. “Why they gave the position to me is a mystery. They need to give it someone like you—someone who can read and write. Most of this job is all this confounding paperwork and record keeping and report writing. It’s enough to drive a man mad.”
He gestured at the pile of paper on the desk with the goblet and spilled wine in the process, staining some of the paper.
“Is that what the monk is for, to help with the reading and writing?” Patrick asked, addressing the quiet young man with shaved pate and dressed in a simple brown robe.
“Aye,” Corbin replied, taking a gulp from his cup. “Useless wanker.”
“Perhaps the wanker would not be so useless if you’d show up for our appointments more frequently, as well as offered me a cup of wine every now and again,” the monk suggested with a hint of a smile.
“Bugger off,” Corbin snapped. “You’re lazy whether you have wine or not. I was supposed to be down at the harbor this morning with the rest, but no thanks to you tonight’s dinner arrangements are still not done.”
Despite his pretense of irritation, Corbin poured the man a cup.
“Excuse Sir Corbin’s manners. I’m Brother Anton,” the monk said, extending a hand to Patrick when he stood to accept his drink.
“I’m perfectly aware of Sir Corbin’s manners,” Patrick said, taking Anton’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sir Patrick Gawain.”
“So I gathered: Knight of Cups, Savior of Avalon.” Anton raised his drink.
Corbin rolled his eyes. “Oh, please! Don’t encourage him. The man was lucky, wandering outside the keep while the rest of us were having spells cast upon us. I’d be Savior of Avalon, too, if I’d decided to go on a drunken, naked bender in the woods that day.”
“Well, you certainly go on plenty of drunken benders. Maybe your turn will come soon enough!” Patrick laughed.
“Nacht! Watch your language. I’m a respectable man now. Don’t go spreading rumors.”
Patrick looked at Anton and said in an exaggerated whisper, “We’ll talk.”
Corbin gave Patrick an obscene gesture with one hand while expertly draining his goblet.
“Speaking of cups,” Patrick said, tone turning serious. “I’m sure you realize why the cardinal is here.”
Corbin leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on the desk. “Aye. I foresee all manner of drama coming our way.”
“What do you plan on doing about it?”
“Do?” Corbin replied with a raised eyebrow. “I'm going to be thankful Wolfgang, Father Hugh, and Mother Superior are here to deal with the matter.”
“Corbin, as Keep Steward and Captain of the Guard surely you have some say in the matter. We have a duty to return the cup,” Patrick protested.
“We wouldn't have to worry about any of this if you hadn't brought the blasted thing here in the first place.” Corbin scowled, but then his demeanor turned soft. “Though I understand why you did. And the girl? Did you give her a happily-ever-after?”
Patrick slumped in his chair as he said, “No, she will not marry me.”
“What?” Corbin almost shouted. “The lass is offered the opportunity of a lifetime, and she doesn’t take you up on it? Why?”
“There is a complication,” Patrick responded, and waved off Corbin’s curious look. “I’ll explain in good time, but let’s just say for now it boils down to the fact the girl has a measure of pride and finds my level of commitment... lacking.”
Corbin scoffed and refilled his goblet. “Nonsense, just hit the girl upside the head with the flat of your sword and drag her to the nearest altar. That’s what I would do.”
“That would probably work for you and the quality of women I’ve seen by your side.” Patrick laughed, and took a drink. “Aimeé has been forced to do many things in her time. I will not be another villain in her life.”
“Sir Patrick Gawain,” Corbin said whimsically, looking the Irishman up and down. “You’ve never done anything simply, have you? Uncooperative magic cups, conspiring cardinals, and sassy lasses.”
Patrick drained his goblet. “I hate to harp on the issue, but what is the official Greensprings and Avangarde stance on the cup?”
“It appears it is up to the cup,” Corbin replied. “It can’t be grasped.”
“And if someone could suddenly grasp it?” Patrick continued.
Corbin shrugged.
“Or, if it were suddenly to disappear from the altar?” Patrick added.
Corbin smiled. “Then I’d say it was God’s will.”
Patrick stood, and the Captain of the Avangarde rose, too. “Fight strong,” Patrick said, beating his chest.
“Live stronger,” Corbin returned, and they clasped forearms.
#
When Patrick entered the double doors of the church, he stopped in surprise when his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting and he saw the scene before him. Under most normal circumstances he felt reverence. But here today, the Greensprings church took on a profound holiness. Sunlight through the clerestory windows pierced the incense-filled air. A rainbow of colors dappled the ceiling, filtered through stained glass.
Patrick knew from Sir Marcus that people had come to pray before the altar and cup as a pilgrimage, but he had no idea of the number. His eyes shifted from the crowd to the cup, and it glinted at him from the marble altar, beckoning.
At the sight of the glimmering gold, even from this distance, Patrick felt his breath catch in his throat as if laying eyes on a friend he hadn’t seen in a while. A friend to whom he owed an apology. An irrational mix of feelings to both run and approach the cup warred inside him.
At last he walked forward in the relative silence. His boots clicked noisily on the flagstones, drawing attention. The crowd slowly parted and he heard his name murmured, followed by the occasional “Knight of Cups” and “Savior of Avalon.”
When he neared the plinth holding the church’s other treasure—a rare and richly illuminated Bible—he paused just outside the communion rail. After a moment's contemplation, he made the exceptional move of opening the little gate and mounting the few steps to the altar, drawing gasps from the crowd.
He stood before the cup, which seemingly emitted a glow of its own. It was as Patrick remembered it, a richly decorated object of highly polished gold, patterned with what looked like trees. Red wine filled it to its brim.
It didn’t always look like this. Prior to holding the wine, it had been a simple wooden dinner cup. It had transformed twice: once in a cave while he lay dying of wounds, and again in this church when Aimeé lay dead. Both times it had healed.
Patrick could almost discern a hum or vibration from it, but surely that had to be his imagination. Right? He realized the pain in his head had subsided, overwhelmed by a suffusing warm and comforting presence. But the sensation was also oddly mournful.
With difficulty, Patrick swallowed the breath caught in his throat and he whispered, “I’m sorry. I made a terrible mistake and I plan on remedying that now.”
Both the hum and the bittersweet feeling intensified when he reached for the cup.
“Patrick! What are you doing?” a voice called to him from the side of the dais.
Patrick’s head snapped in the direc
tion of the voice and there came Father Hugh from a side entrance. His robes swished in a worried beat as he rushed to the altar.
“I made a promise,” Patrick explained. “It must go back.”
“But you agreed to leave it here,” Father Hugh replied, looking around as if someone other than the pilgrims might hear their exchange.
“For a while, for people to adore it, to give praise to God for its miracles... not to become a pawn in a political game.” Patrick’s voice came in a quiet hiss.
“Things have changed,” Father Hugh continued, also in low tones, gesturing to the curious crowd, “and as the head of the Board of Benefactors, the cardinal is my superior. Not only that, my own Archbishop of Canterbury has requested the matter be discussed at this upcoming meeting.”
“You see,” Patrick said between clenched teeth, “it begins already. People will be fighting over it. It must go back. As I promised.”
Father Hugh rubbed his shaved pate. “Then why won’t it let anyone touch it?” he reasoned, his pale blue eyes searching Patrick’s. His demeanor was not angry, just frustrated. No doubt he felt pressured by his superiors, and now Patrick imagined his own demands made things even more difficult.
Patrick paused at the question, wondering himself.
“Tell me about the cup’s behavior,” he asked, turning his gaze to it.
“The day after you left, I held Mass as usual,” Hugh replied. “I went to use it as the communion cup, but my hand passed right through it. I finished Mass with the usual vessel, consecrating the wine into the blood of Christ, as I have done ever since.”
Patrick chewed on his lip for a moment, then asked, “Has anyone else tried?”
“Yes, but all have experienced the same thing,” Father Hugh said. “Ironically, its inability to be touched has served as proof of its miraculous nature. People come at all hours to see it.”
Patrick contemplated the cup. He felt the priest’s eyes on him, expectant.
“I’m sorry, Father, but I must know,” Patrick said with an air of conviction.
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 12
