Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (12 page)

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.

#

“Did you find it?” Waylan asked of the still-panting Corbin. Though it was technically mid-autumn, Avalon had the unique characteristic of staying springlike the year round. Perhaps there was a warm ocean current near the island. Maybe it was magic after all. In any case, Corbin was sweating heavily as he ran up to the group and huddled with them under a bush.

“Yes, we did, but we found it at the smithies, and not at the stables like you said it was, Horse Face,” Corbin replied. Behind him came Bisch huffing and puffing and carrying a large ladder. The German grinned.

“Good! Good!”

“We were wondering what took you so long, Sir Chaser of Sheep,” Waylan said.

Corbin’s eyes went wide, “That is a lie, I was only helping the sheep over the fence, honest.”

“What do we do now, 'Merlin’?” Brian asked.

Waylan thought for a moment then said, “First we need somebody to go on a reconnaissance. Any volunteers?”

McFowler mimicked Patrick's Irish accent, saying, “Me! Me!” and lifted Patrick's arm.

“Wonderful!” Waylan exclaimed. “Go then, and quickly.” They pushed Patrick out of the bush. Patrick had no idea what was going on. He was very drunk, and his last clear recollection was that he was being pulled out the door of the inn in Aesclinn. Now he found himself staggering across a well-groomed lawn in front of what appeared to be the Hall for Lady Guests.

“No, Patrick, like this!” Waylan shouted, though considering the way he said it, he probably thought he was being quiet about it. He and the others were standing next to the bush, making hunkering down gestures. Patrick saluted them in acknowledgment, hunkered himself down, and made his way across the lawn. He went through the entrance into the small courtyard and tried to remember why he was there. As he searched his memory, someone opened a ground-floor window.

“Who is there?” a young feminine voice asked. “I thought men were not supposed to be in here, especially at night.”

Patrick suddenly remembered. “Uhm, I am the gardener.”

“At night?”

“Well, you see, slugs come out only at night. That is the only time I can get them.”

“Oh, well, goodnight then.” The window closed and Patrick wiped his brow. He then went to the entrance and motioned for the other knights to come in.

The knights extricated themselves from the bush and staggered across the lawn. Patrick shook his head. It was a wonder that Western Christians ever captured Jerusalem at all.

The knights set the ladder against the building while six of them held it steady, and Mark climbed up until he could peer into a window. After a moment, and without looking back down, he waved at the assembled men below to move the ladder to the next window. This was accomplished again and again with some grunting and cursing until Mark made a halting signal. He then waited motionless for some time before coming down.

“Next,” he said.

They fought for a while to decide who would climb first, and McFowler took advantage of the confusion to climb up. He, too, sat for a while, chewing on his kilt as he was apt to do when excited, and then came down. This went on until it was Patrick's turn, though he was sitting with his back against the wall, feeling very woozy. They pushed him up the ladder until he reached the illuminated window. Once there, he peered in to see what all the commotion was about.

This was definitely the Hall for Lady Guests, for before him was a Lady Guest all but naked, preparing for bed with the aid of her lady-in-waiting, who was also all but naked in a half-open shift.

Patrick was shocked. He could hardly believe that these Avangardesmen, these veterans, would sink to pranks. These were the ladies they were entrusted to protect and who looked up to them as confidants and role models. He gestured to the knights below to move him so he could get a better view.

Five of the six of the knights no longer held the ladder. Only Bisch was holding it. They figured the hulking German could manage it while they talked and snickered amongst themselves. With a grunt, he lifted the ladder, Irishman and all, and teeter-tottered it to his left where Patrick was gesturing. He didn’t make it very far before his eyes went wide and he exclaimed, “Bad! Bad!”

Rather than moving left, the ladder started to slowly sway back into the courtyard. Bisch over-compensated to stop it from wobbling, only to have to over-compensate in the opposite direction. This happened several times and the other knights fell over themselves trying to aid Bisch, which ended up making matters worse. The hapless Irishman on top of the ladder held on for dear life, but to no avail as the travesty finally came unhinged. There was a loud crash as Patrick fell on top of Brian and Mark and the ladder broke into pieces.

Seven seasoned knights retreated from the Hall for Lady Guests in complete disarray, carrying portions of ladder with them.

#

“What was that noise?” the lady that was preparing for bed asked.

“I believe that was the gardener,” her lady-in-waiting snickered.

“Gardener?”

#

The following morning, during Church services, many of the knights present had trouble fighting off fatigue and headaches. And when Father Constant had finished Mass, Mother Superior had a special announcement to make: boy hooligans searching for excitement after curfew at the Hall for Lady Guests would not be tolerated, and any offenders caught would be dealt with by the Avangarde.

#

The following weeks brought a marked change in Sir Gawain. Though Siegfried was still his best friend, he saw more and more of the Avangarde and the Guests. He could not say that he was the best of friends with them, but he no longer shied away or felt as uncomfortable around them. He would occasionally join them in Aesclinn, but only when invited.

Once, upon entering the main door of the keep, he came across something that had not been there before. He saw a dour-looking stranger coming at him, walking briskly. The sight so took him off guard that he reached for his sword, only to realize that it was no stranger. Somebody had placed a mirror in the entrance’s vestibule. It was a good mirror of glass backed by silver. Patrick suspected that it was a tribute gift to Greensprings from the family of one of the Guests.