“Good thing I didn’t know that, otherwise I’d stumble all over myself making a bad impression,” Patrick said.
“You made just the right impression,” Charles said, smiling.
Patrick hugged the young man, said his goodbyes, and moved on.
He and Brobrosius crossed the drawbridge and made their way across the grass towards the medical tents. Halfway there, Abbot Herewinus and Father Hugh met them.
“You are looking well, all things considered,” the abbot commented.
“I understand the school and the Avangarde are finished,” Patrick said.
“Yes, we discussed it long and passionately while you were unconscious. Father Hugh and his monks will be coming home to Glastonbury, as will Mother Superior and her nuns. I’m sorry if our ultimate decision saddens or inconveniences you.”
Patrick patted the man’s shoulder. “It is probably for the best. It is as someone told me—we did seem to cause more trouble than anything else.”
Herewinus laughed. “I don’t know about that, but it is my hope all the work here was not in vain. I hope we touched enough lives that there will be real change in the world. I hope we planted enough seeds of what peace should look like that they will take root and grow, if only centuries from now.”
“I hope so, too,” Patrick agreed. “To teach peace in one place is admirable, but perhaps we should now concentrate on taking peace to where it is needed.”
The elderly men nodded in agreement.
“You know, Sir Patrick,” Father Hugh added, looking Patrick up and down. “I’ve been told the natives of Avalon fought for us in the battle, but they made it clear that it’s time we leave them in peace, and since Aesclinn is all but destroyed, the surviving villagers and Greensprings staff will settle near Glastonbury. We will need a lord to administer the land. Do you know anyone who cares for the opportunity? A fair and good leader?”
“Why, yes!” Herewinus interjected, also looking Patrick over. “We already have a sizable community of your countrymen at the monastery. Many a fine monk has come from your Green Isle. Why, once upon a time the abbot of Glastonbury was none other than Saint Patrick himself.”
Patrick’s mouth dropped; butterflies turned in his stomach.
“I could like this idea,” he said nervously, “but I first need to discuss it with someone.”
Father Hugh smiled and jerked his head towards the tents. “She’s inside, helping Mother Superior.”
The priests left him and Patrick continued on his way until a horse’s hooves rumbled from behind. Lucan reined up next to him. His centurion armor was gone, but he still wore his light blue cape.
“Lo, Lucan, you are well,” Patrick said, studying the man. “You did not look so good the last time.”
Lucan threw back his head and laughed. “You know what they say: it’s hard to keep a good man down. Even a man with his back broken in half.”
“And Lilith? Is she gone for good?” Patrick asked.
“No. Her last days are up to God. When that may be, I cannot say, but I don’t think she will trouble you again.”
“And you?” Patrick noted the bulging saddlebags.
Lucan looked to the horizon. “I feel lighter—born again. Perhaps I should go out into the world and do some good, and patiently wait for the end times. Maybe by doing that, I will cause less trouble for myself.”
“Sounds like an excellent plan,” Patrick agreed. “I wish you well with it. Don’t take this wrong, but I hope we don’t meet again, because if we do, I’m afraid there might be four horsemen behind you.”
They laughed together.
“What will you do, Patrick?” he asked.
Patrick shrugged. “I have many options I’m considering.”
Lucan smiled. “Then I wish you the best. Take care, Irishman.”
With that Lucan wheeled his horse about and moved to depart.
“Lucan,” Patrick called after him, “what became of the spear?”
“I gave it to King Arthur to take back to his cave. He can use it when he wakes from his slumber in the next time of need.”
“Truly?”
Lucan winked with a sly smile and galloped off on his horse. Within moments he became a dot on the horizon.
At last they entered the tent, and after a few inquiries, Patrick found Aimeé among the cots, tending the wounded men. She put aside the bandages she had been cleaning and rushed forward. For a moment Patrick reacted to the sight of the blood on her apron, but the sensation passed, soon forgotten.
They embraced strongly and kissed deeply.
Through the wide-open doorway Brobrosius found his orphanage comrades, Candace, Emilie, Stuart, Martin, and Chansonne. He chased them in circles on the grass, laughing happily.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Aimeé scolded him.
“I couldn’t wait to see you,” Patrick said, refusing to let go of her. “I had to tell you how much I love you.”
Her smile grew larger than he’d ever seen.
“And I wanted to say that everything is going to be fine,” Patrick said, “God has it all planned out.”
“As long as there are no cups, spears, demons, demigods, or what have you in our future, I will be happy.”
“No worries there,” Patrick replied. “The cup was my fault. God simply made the best of the situation. He taught me a lesson from my mistake.”
“And what was that?” she asked.
“Faith is in the heart, not in a cup. Holy objects are tangible reminders of the miraculous, meant to increase our faith, not be the focus of it. God wants us to embrace the love the cup represents, rather than what its powers can do for us.”
Aimeé kissed him.
“The next cup I want to see is just a regular communion chalice at our wedding,” he added. “That will be plenty enough miracle for me.”
Aimeé’s eyes looked downcast, and she said, “You know I cannot have children. Does that change anything?”
Patrick kissed her deeply and called Chansonne over. When she came, he bent down and picked her up with his good arm.
“Chansonne? How would you like to come live with Aimeé and me?” he asked.
A giant smile spread across the child’s face. Almost as big as Aimeé’s.
Together, the three of them held each other silhouetted against the doorway, watching the sunrise.
Epilogue
Victor waited in the darkness outside the stout wooden door. He smoothed out the front of his new gold and white cassock, reflecting on how he rather liked these new colors. At last the door opened with a noisy turn of the lock. An older man in white robes exited.
“Cardinal Giacomo, I trust you found our guest to your satisfaction?”
“It is as you say,” the cardinal replied as they moved toward daylight at the end of the corridor. “He shows no signs of torture or poisoning. The pope will be pleased to hear that. My report will simply show his afflictions are a result of his advanced years and natural causes.”
“Good, good,” Victor said. “It pains me to think Paschal might think, after his public sentence of house arrest for Teodorico, we might have disregarded his call for compassion and abused our guest.”
“Oh, Paschal didn’t think so, but when Teodorico’s health took a turn for the worse, we had to investigate, you understand?”
“Of course,” Victor replied. “Paschal’s compassion must be real and without suspicion for the good of the public order. I know that personally well.”
“Ah, yes,” Giacomo said, stopping to assess his guide. “You received full clemency. Paschal is truly compassionate.”
“Yes, he certainly is,” Victor acknowledged. “Now, will you be visiting us long enough to have midday meal? I think you’ll find the cuisine in Salerno magnificent. The wines from La Cava alone are worth the trip...”
As their voices faded down the corridor, the withered old man who shivered in his bed twitched at every little sound.
Candlelight fli
ckered, casting shadows against the stone walls.
At floor level, the shadow of a nebulous blob moved across the wall towards the man. As it progressed, it turned to that of a cat, then that of a nude woman sprouting bat-like wings.
As Lilith kneeled onto the bed, Teodorico jumped into a frenzy of twitches, but was too weak to do more than try to curl into a fetal position.
“Hello again, my love,” she whispered. “Just a couple more nights, then your suffering will end.”
He fought feebly, but her knees planted on either side of him prevented him from squirming. His frail hands scrabbled to cover his mouth, but she easily pulled them away.
“What’s wrong, my love? Don’t you like it when we kiss?” she said, her yellow eyes flaring in the dim light. “I told you long ago the price of failure would be steep... and I do need to feed.”
She leaned closer and her embrace smothered his scream.
Her wings folded about them like a flower’s petals closing for the night.
The End
About the Author
Adam Copeland was born and raised in Silverton, Oregon. He attended Southern Oregon State College (now Southern Oregon University) in Ashland, Oregon. There he studied business, chemistry and French. He spent a year study abroad in France and has ever since been passionate about traveling internationally, going to such places as diverse as Asia, Africa and Mexico. He is an avid outdoorsman, enjoying hiking, backpacking, camping, mountain trekking and scuba diving. He is a co-founder of Northwest Independent Writers Association (NIWA), an organization dedicated to helping indie writers from the Pacific Northwest write, publish, and promote their work. Adam currently resides in Vancouver, Washington State where he is an active member of St. Joseph's Catholic Church.
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