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

by Adam Copeland

  “May I suggest that no one in Greensprings be alone,” Sir Marcus Ionus suggested. “Everyone must work and travel in pairs, at least.”

  “Excellent idea,” Wolfgang said.

  “Also,” Sir Corbin added, “it may not be a bad idea to implement our companion program now.”

  “Companion program?” Cardinal Teodorico asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Last year, after the goblin attack on the keep,” Mother Superior explained, “we had Avangarde pair with a Guest as a ‘Brother in Christ’ for the Guest’s protection. It was originally meant as an added precaution, a way to provide bodyguards without it feeling like they had bodyguards. It worked out rather well, creating a closeness and fondness between the two groups.”

  “You think this will help, yes, hmm?” Teodorico said.

  “Normally we wait a few months until we can match personalities,” Marcus added, “but Corbin is right, we may not have that kind of time.”

  “Make it so,” Mother Superior said, turning to Father Hugh and Wolfgang. “Draw up lists.”

  “The Cardinal Guard can protect the council chamber, hmm,” Teodorico suggested. “As well as protect the pavilions outside the keep. That should free up the Avangarde to concentrate on a search, hmm, yes?”

  “Very well then,” Wolfgang said, “let us all go to our duties.”

  #

  At the sound of a drum beating in the courtyard, knights rushed from their honeycomb of cells in the Avangarde barracks. Word of the monster had reached them, as had the search plan. Patrick paused, however, before joining the parade of pounding boots and jingling spurs. He sat on his bed, staring into the polished surface of his helm, wishing the face peering back at him would say something to put his mind at ease. He had lied to a man of God. He had lied about his relationship with Aimeé.

  Many said evil and corruption existed among the clergy as much as anywhere, but Patrick did not want to believe that. His personal experience had not proved that—until yesterday evening, that is, when Teodorico had made veiled threats against Aimeé. The encounter had compelled Patrick to lie. To a priest.

  He put on his helmet, and joined the Avangarde heading for the stables. As he exited the barracks, still buckling on his sword belt, he spied Aimeé across the courtyard, paused to watch the commotion with a basket of apples under her arm. His heart fell into his gut and he rushed to talk to her.

  As he approached with the obvious intent of talking, her mouth screwed up skeptically and she clutched the little crucifix at her bosom with her free hand. “Ready to listen?”

  “No time for that,” Patrick said, and looked around fearfully. “Listen, I can’t explain right now, but we need to stay away from each other. At least until the benefactors have left the island and...”

  “What nonsense is this?” Aimeé almost shouted, her pretty face contorting with disappointment. “I see you’re busy now, but why not later?”

  Patrick fanned his hands, trying to quiet her. “Shh, I’ll explain later, but you could be in terri—”

  “Don’t ‘shoosh’ me!” her voice rose to new levels and she struck his shoulder.

  Patrick took a step back and clutched at a growing migraine under his helm. All around, people in the courtyard did the exact opposite of what he wanted: stare.

  Sir Wolfgang approached, addressing Patrick. “My dear Irishman, your presence is required in council chambers.”

  “Sir, if I could just have a moment please, I need to—” An apple cut off Patrick’s plea when it bounced soundly off his helm. “Aw, son of a—!”

  When he looked up, Aimeé stalked away.

  “It would appear you have some time after all,” Wolfgang said, then added while also watching Aimeé’s retreating form, “Nice arm on that girl.”

  #

  A short walk lead him to the great hall currently serving as the council chamber. Just before separating, Wolfgang had informed him the Cardinal Guard would serve as guards to the room, but he still found it disconcerting to see someone other than Avangarde acting as gatekeepers.

  “Your business here?” one of the guards said with a heavy Italian accent.

  Patrick felt a flash of anger. “I was summoned,” he said simply, hoping the brute would send him away. If he did, Patrick wouldn’t have to deal with the council and this imbecile of a guard might find himself in trouble.

  The man jerked his head toward one of his colleagues who disappeared into the council chamber. While they waited, Patrick quietly judged the stubble climbing the soldier’s cheeks. Though the Cardinal Guard obviously meant to appear uniform in appearance, right down to clean-shaven faces, they showed poor discipline in consistently meeting that expectation. It made Patrick wonder where else they showed poor discipline.

  The door to the council chamber opened, and a guard motioned for him to enter. The soldier immediately in front of Patrick refused to budge, forcing him to go around.

  Patrick rolled his eyes and entered. There he took a seat among several Greensprings folk who had been summoned as well. The smell of fried bacon still hung in the air from breakfast. Now the dining tables formed a square around the edge of the room. A young man with wild, unkempt hair and clothes of a simple fashion, but rich fabric, roamed the open center area with a large open book positioned in the crook of one elbow. With his other hand he gestured as he spoke.

  “Furthermore,” he said, “these ancient records from the library in Glastonbury Abbey, recognized as one of the oldest in all Christendom, support the oral account that Joseph of Arimathea did indeed bring the Cup of the Last Supper to Glastonbury as its resting place. This text states, ‘Arviragus, King of the Britons, gave certain strangers twelve hides of land around Ynis-witrin in the year 35 of our Lord, whereupon they built a holy place,’” the man paused to explain, “‘Ynis-witrin’ is the ancient Celtic name of the region about Glastonbury.”

  “Do the records specifically say it was Joseph of Arimathea?” Teodorico asked, incredulous. “Or are you reading into an ancient document what you want it to say, hmm, yes?”

  “Well, no,” the man conceded, “but the context of the ancient Latin, 'Quidame advanae,'—certain strangers—implies foreigners in the sense they weren't merely from another village, but truly alien outsiders. Furthermore, the Christian sect of Culdees, who lay claim as the oldest Christians in the isles, derive their nomenclature from 'refugees,' or more specifically, 'Judean refugees.' Their name and their appearance coincide chronologically with the charter granted by King Arviragus. The point is, there is sufficient tangible documentation to back up the oral account that asserts Joseph of Arimathea, a wealthy Jew and a Roman citizen, had merchant dealings in lead and tin in the British Isles, and came to Glastonbury as a refugee when the persecution of Christians began in Jerusalem. Assuredly, he brought the cup with him.”

  “Signore William Malmesbury, hmm?” Teodorico said with a condescension-tinted smile. “Your reputation as a historian is well established and admired, despite your youth, but it is irresponsible to read wishful folktales into an ancient document. Nor does it prove ownership of the cup, hmm, yes? It, at best, lends legitimacy to the fact the cup can be found in this part of the world, and not in the Holy Land.”

  Many of those gathered at the tables murmured their assent. But the young man wagged a finger and approached a table piled high with books and paper.

  “This same transaction is referenced in the Domesday Book commissioned by King William of England not more than sixteen years ago,” Malmesbury said, exchanging the book in his arm for an even larger, leather-bound volume. “It states, ‘The Domus Dei, in the great monastery of Glastonbury, the Secret of the Lord. This Glastonbury Church possesses, in its own villa, twelve hides of land which have never paid taxes.’

  “Now, you may not recognize oral accounts or ancient translations, but you must recognize the royal seal on an official document. And this book is an accounting of all that which belongs to the King of England. If it’s menti
oned in this book, then it belongs to the king.”

  “The land, perhaps, hmm?” Teodorico sniffed.

  “And all that which resides in that land,” Father Wulfric stated, evidently quoting some law.

  “Unless the land belongs to the Church, separate from the state, hmm, yes?” the cardinal countered. “In which case what is on or in the land belongs to the Holy See, hmm, yes?”

  “Well, it belongs to the diocese of residence, and Saint Joseph obviously meant for the cup to reside in Glastonbury, which is in the Archdiocese of Canterbury... also in England,” Father Wulfric said.

  “My dearest Wulfric,” Teodorico sighed with perhaps a little too much sarcasm in his voice. “We know you’re acting as delegate for Abbot Anselm, and you can dutifully go back and tell him you pleaded his case, but Abbot Anselm is still not recognized as Archbishop Anselm, and has little authority in these matters. England’s King Henry cannot invest the good abbot as Archbishop of Canterbury. That is something the pope must do. Another reason the cup should go to Rome. Things are more stable there.”

  “Nonetheless,” Wulfric responded, some anger in his voice, “Canterbury, regardless of the state of its current leadership, is a founding member of the Board of Benefactors and does have a say in the matter. Besides, Pope Paschal allows Anselm to perform archbishop duties. That is why he could not be here today. He is aiding the king in his fight against his brother Robert, who at this moment threatens to invade England. The pope even upholds Anselm’s excommunication of Robert.”

  “The only reason Paschal entertains Anselm’s investiture is because Anselm supports the pope’s silly notion clergy should not be married, hmm?” Teodorico said, preparing to say more before one of the merchants cut in.

  “I believe we are wandering off track,” the richly dressed merchant said, having to raise his voice to be heard. “We had an agenda once, I think.”

  Light laughter rippled through the room.

  “Quite right, Signore Humphrie, hmm?” Cardinal Teodorico conceded, and directed his attention back to the young scholar. “Signore Malmesbury, even if it were universally agreed the cup belonged in Glastonbury, it does not change the fact the cup in question today is here in Avalon.”

  “Excellent point,” Malmesbury said with a gleam in his eye. He swept the wild hair from his eyes with the stroke of a hand and continued. “That is an explanation that will require some patience on all your parts while listening.”

  Cardinal Teodorico motioned for the scholar to continue.

  “Consider this,” William started. “History tells us King Arthur’s last earthly act was to bring the Holy Grail, the Cup of the Last Supper, to Avalon where he is buried after his last battle. If that is so, and this is Avalon,” he stomped his foot on the ground for emphasis, “how is it on the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey there is a gravesite with a stone which has inscribed upon it; Hic jacet sepultus inclytus Rex Arthurius in Insula Avalonia?” William paused briefly, then translated for the benefit of those who did not know Latin. “Here lies buried in the Isle of Apples, the renowned King Arthur.”

  The question was obviously rhetorical and because the assembly had been forewarned his explanation required patience, they waited for William to pick up the narrative.

  “Avalonia, the Isle of Apples, is obviously Avalon. Yet the grave and inscribed stone are found in Glastonbury in the Summer Country of England,” William continued. “The answer is the land about Glastonbury is Avalon.”

  A murmur rippled through the room and Teodorico, losing patience, voiced what everyone thought, “How is that possible? We are on Avalon now.”

  William held up a finger for patience. He looked to Abbot Herewinus who sat among the Glastonbury delegates. The elderly abbot nodded approvingly.

  “Glastonbury lies in the shadow of the Tor of Somerset, the highest point in the area. Before and during the reign of King Arthur this marshy region was underwater, all save the Tor and its immediate surroundings. It was an island. An island called Avalon, and it was to there three fairy sisters took the dying Arthur with his sword Excalibur and the Holy Grail.”

  “Again, we feel obligated to point out we are on Avalon, in the Western Sea,” Humphrie said, scowling.

  “Yes, we are,” Malmesbury said, the gleam in his eye shining brighter than ever.

  “Are you implying there are two Avalons?” Lucan asked.

  William again wagged a finger and paced with his head down, deep in thought. He drew a breath, evidently winding up for another lengthy explanation.

  “Scripture tells us the world we live in is a pale reflection of Heaven,” he said, appealing in particular to the clergy in the room. “It is, as Saint Paul says, ‘Heaven through a glass darkly.’ This is also true about virtually every aspect of our faith. Think about it—baptism by water is a pale reflection of our ultimate baptism by fire and the Holy Spirit. Even Jesus as the man was a mere foreshadowing of Jesus the Savior in his glorified form. The resurrected Jesus appeared to the Apostles in the upper room, even though the room was locked. He passed through walls and locked doors as if he were made of... mist.” William paused in his narrative, bringing his theatrical hand movements to rest on Lucan. “Even your relic expert has testified earlier the cup we see in the church is quite possibly the Cup of the Last Supper, but in its glorified form as opposed to its mundane form. Which is why our hands pass through it.”

  The Board of Benefactors started to agitate in their seats, murmuring and anxious for an answer.

  “You see, gentlemen,” William said, turning slowly around the chamber, engaging with as many of the members as he could, “there are two aspects to our world. The ordinary and the extraordinary. The natural and the supernatural. The profane and the sacred. Everything has its twin. Even saints in history have been known to bilocate. That is, be in two places at the same time, performing miraculous deeds.”

  Up to this moment, Patrick had listened with only half interest, mostly shaking his head in wonder at the fact these silly people argued over ownership of something beyond their control. The moment the young historian mentioned twins, however, he had Patrick’s full attention.

  “People and relics having glorified natures is not so hard to grasp,” Humphrie argued, “but places, such as an entire island?”

  “Especially places,” Malmesbury replied. “As I said earlier, the world is but Heaven through a glass darkly. The Garden of Eden was Heaven on earth, and we are now cut off from it by a cherub wielding a fiery sword. This Avalon we find ourselves on is cut off from the rest of the world by a filtering mist allowing only those with another holy relic, the feather from an Avalon swan, to pass. This Avalon is blanketed by ever-blossoming apple trees, whereas there are few in Glastonbury. A place which nevertheless refers to itself as ‘Avalonia.’ There is, however, in Glastonbury a thorn tree that blossoms faithfully twice a year: once in the month of May, and again on December 25th, the birthday of our Lord. All other times of the year it bears green leaves, counter to the nature of the species. A species not native to England, but to the Holy Land. That is because this thorn tree sprang from the thorn-wood staff Saint Joseph of Arimathea thrust into the ground upon his arrival at what is now Glastonbury.

  “Furthermore, gentleman, there are direct links between that Avalon and this Avalon. It is at Glastonbury, on the River Brue, where the original knights of Greensprings boarded a swan-shaped boat and were carried out to sea until they arrived here to construct this fortress. It was a priest of Glastonbury, Father Dominique Chanceroy, who discovered the gift of the swan feathers creating a passage through the protective mist.

  “Lastly, King Arthur’s earthly remains are buried in the Avalon of Glastonbury, but his spirit resides on this Avalon.” One of William’s wildly flailing hands shot a finger at Patrick. “Doesn’t it, Sir Patrick Gawain?”

  Surprised at the sudden attention, Patrick sat up straight and pointed to himself.

  William Malmesbury motioned for the Irishman to come
forward, saying, “The Avangardesman who brought us the Grail from a cave on this island also reported seeing slumbering knights in a tomb. That is correct, Sir Patrick?”

  Patrick, who dutifully came forward to stand next to the young scholar, awkwardly responded, “Yes, but I was very wounded and quite delirious at the time. I did see what I thought to be knights in repose, but honestly I could not swear they were Arthur and his men.”

  “I would strongly suspect they were,” William said, dismissing Patrick’s caveat. He then turned his attention back to the council members. “All this strongly supports that the Glastonbury Avalon is the natural twin of the Greensprings Avalon. Saint Joseph of Arimathea brought the Cup of the Last Supper to Glastonbury to escape persecution in Jerusalem and to evangelize the British Isles, and it was Arthur who ensured that it stayed in Avalon. Therefore in the realm of Avalon it must remain, whether Greensprings, Glastonbury, or Canterbury.”

  More murmuring echoed in the chamber as the benefactors considered the argument. Patrick, feeling his duty finished, started to move back to his seat, but William gently grabbed his arm and silently bid him stay.

  “That is a fine argument, hmm?” Teodorico said, though his demeanor suggested he felt otherwise. “But it’s still a—shall we say—‘thin’ argument, hmm, yes?”

  The cardinal nudged Lucan at his side, urging him to say something.

  Lucan blinked as if waking from a daydream.

  “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “An interesting theological point, but as you pointed out in your opening argument, the Domesday Book legitimizes the original land grant to the original founders of Glastonbury, but bears no mention to any ‘spiritual twin.’ Greensprings is not on any map, and technically does not even exist.”

  “My lords, that is splitting hairs,” Abbot Herewinus complained.

  “And ‘spiritual twins’ is not?” Teodorico countered.

  More murmuring buzzed the chamber and Humphrie banged on his table with one of his shoes to bring order back to the chamber.