Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (13 page)

The stranger was his own reflection. He had never seen his own image with such clarity. He stepped closer to the mirror and ran his hand across the image. His face was now blank, rather than hard, and he noted his high, sharp cheek bones, shoulder-length black hair, and the moist swirl of greens, browns and orange hues in his eyes. Long ago, he had considered himself a handsome man, but then he thought that his experiences in the Holy Land had robbed him of his youth and vigor, but now as he gazed upon his reflection, he saw that they had not left him but had only been forced into submission. He was older, yes, and a little more worn. Perhaps there was some truth in what the Knights of the Round Table had told him. He slowly backed away from the mirror and left.

#

It seemed as though yet another banquet was in order. Patrick was beginning to think that all that ever happened at the keep was one banquet after another. However, it was the Guests who organized them now. This particular banquet was to announce the new Steward of the keep, the man who would take over the administrative affairs of Greensprings once Wolfgang von Fiescher left to meet the Council in Rome for the year.

Lady Christianne Morneau invited Sir Gawain to be her escort, and, of course, he accepted. Sitting nearby were an uncomfortable-looking William of Monmouth and a fawning Melwyn. Also close at hand was Trent of Jersey, who found his friend's predicament a constant source of amusement.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Christianne asked.

Patrick pulled at his collar uncomfortably. “I intend to do so soon.”

The banquet proceeded like most others, except that many of the Guests performed songs, dances and skills native to their homelands. Patrick was amazed at the artistic talent among the young folk assembled in the hall. And also, a great mystery was resolved.

Sir McFowler stepped before the assembled crowd and performed music from his native Highlands, utilizing an instrument also native to those mist shrouded regions. He carried a worn, baggy instrument with smooth wooden pipes sticking in all directions. The bag was made of a multi-colored cloth similar to that which made his kilt. This he carried under one arm, and with the other he put one of the pipes in his mouth, drew in a deep breath, and blew. The bag inflated, and while maintaining it trapped underneath his elbow he gingerly grasped the one pipe with both hands and strategically placed fingers over holes in the hollow tube. Squeezing the bag, an eerie, yet beautiful wail issued forth followed by a melody Patrick had heard time and time again from his chamber window. A hush fell upon the hall as all, obviously moved by the sound, listened intently. McFowler's fingers expertly flew up and down the pipe, covering and uncovering the holes as they went. Occasionally he would draw a quick, yet deep breath and replenish the air in the bag under his arm. Doing so did not cause him to miss a note.

The music lasted perhaps five minutes but seemed much longer. When finished, Jason bowed deeply to acknowledge the ovation that greeted him.

“Did you hear that?” Willy exclaimed, very much taken by the spectacle. Patrick nodded.

Wolfgang stood clapping as he made his way over to the dais where the performance took place. He shook McFowler's hand as the Highlander made his exit.

To wrap up the evening, Wolfgang made his announcement as to who would take over his administrative duties. It was to be Sir Mark, the unofficial captain of the Avangarde. From then on, he would be known as Steward Mark, which everybody would eventually change to “King” Mark anyway. It was all in good humor, Greensprings fashion. The choice came as no surprise to anyone. Mark was a veteran, one of von Fiescher's favorites and well loved.

As Mark approached for the simple ceremony, Wolfgang held out a ceremonial circlet and placed it on his brow.

Brian leaned over to Patrick and murmured, “So much for our nightly excursions.” Patrick had trouble keeping a straight face.

#

After the banquet Christianne led Patrick into the gardens behind the keep. There, they sat on stone benches surrounded by vine covered trellises. The moon shone down on them, full and bright.

“You know, Sir Gawain,” Lady Morneau said, “you talk enough when you have your mind on it.” She sat on one of the many marble benches surrounding the central fountain piece. Patrick sat beside her, though at a distance.

“I believe that is more of a credit to you than to me, Lady Morneau,” he replied.

“How is that?”

“I generally do not talk, unless spoken to. In case you have not noticed, you have done most of the talking, and I have simply answered your questions.”

Christianne thought on this last point. “Not really. You have contributed many interesting things on your own accord.”

“If you say so.”

Christianne smiled mischievously. “You know, they used to call you 'Sir Silence' because you were so quiet.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, not surprised. “What else have they said about me?”

The Frenchwoman looked away, biting her lip. She toyed with a lock of hair for a moment before responding, “That you like boys.”

Patrick sat up. “That is complete nonsense! Who said such things! Why, I will...” He almost started to draw his sword. Christianne laughed and urged him to sit back down. There were others in the garden taking a late night's walk, and Patrick had attracted their attention. She was laughing so hard, she had difficulty speaking. She gently grabbed him by the wrist and guided him back to his seat.

Christianne said at last, “It was just a silly rumor started by some women whose affections I am sure you spurned.”

Patrick became calm again. “I really do not like boys,” he insisted.

“I have seen your gaze wander to the ladies, or above their necklines,” she said, “but it is odd that you do not do anything about it. You avoid girls as if they were a plague. Why, until a moment ago, you were leagues away from me on this bench, in mind and body.” Patrick looked down. His hands were now cradled in her milky white ones. “Why is that? Please tell me. I am your friend, Sir Gawain.”

Patrick stood and let his hands fall to his sides. He paced for a while, then said, “I was hurt terribly by a woman once.” He cut the air with his hands. “I do not care to have it happen again. Being in love is wonderful, but losing it can hurt worse than any physical pain. I wish to say no more.”

Christianne came to him and slipped into his arms despite his protests.

“I would never imagine trying to force any painful memories out of you. You can tell me when the time is right.”

The Irishman awkwardly held her. “Is that why you enjoyed my company at first, because you thought I liked boys and thought I would not be a threat to you?”

Christianne smiled. “No. I can tell that you are a nice man. To me, you are more like Sir Sensitive than Sir Silence. Melwyn, however, is absolutely convinced that you do like boys.”

Patrick smiled, feeling devilish. “Why, that gives me a wonderful idea.”

#

On his way back to the Hall for Guests, Patrick came across the person he was looking for. With him was the other person he was looking for.

“Willy,” he said, briskly approaching the merchant's son. Melwyn was attached to the boy’s arm, though he held it stiffly and at a distance from himself, doing his best to be on his best behavior as Patrick had asked until he could think of a way to free Willy from her affections.

“Sir Gawain, I am happy to see you,” William said, his stiff posture relaxing and his eyes brightening.

“It is late, my handsome young darling, and we should be getting back.” Patrick put his arm around William.

Willy stiffened again. “Beg your pardon?”

“Come, come, we must be going. Say good night to the mademoiselle.” Melwyn blinked and looked between the knight and the merchant's son, and when Patrick kissed Willy on top of his head and then winked at her she made a noise like a curious kitten. Patrick hooked his arm through Willy's and dragged the stunned boy off. “Good night, Melwyn! Say good night, Willy.”

And they left.

#

They had a good laugh about it all the way back to the Hall for Guests once William understood the trick.

“Thank you, Sir Gawain. I imagine she will leave me alone now that she thinks that I am spoken for.”

“Yes, but how come I have the feeling that we will be having a talk with either Mother Superior or Father Hugh tomorrow concerning our 'unholy union'?” Patrick replied.

William shrugged. “We will explain the situation, and they will understand.”

“I hope so.”

“You Avangarde certainly are a strange lot.”

“Reservist, actually...”

“Whatever. Good night, Gawain, and thank you again.” With that, Willy entered his chamber, and shut the door tight behind him.

#

Patrick’s room was quiet and dark. Still energized from his performance, he moved to a chair over by the window and sat down, foregoing a lantern.

He opened the wooden shutters, let fresh, spring-like air in, and leaned back in his chair. The moon lit up a silvery shaft across the room. The sky was clear, and many stars twinkled with Avalon’s surreal quality. They appeared larger and brighter than on the “outside.”

Were there more stars over Avalon? Did they really shine brighter here? Patrick could not remember, he had been out of the world for so long now. He rested his chin on his fists, and after some time realized that he was only half awake, lost in that state where dreams mingle with reality. For some reason that state, too, seemed more acute and frequent here on Avalon.

He began to see his home, a gabled manor, in Galway. But it was not really his home, for there, in the background, was the Keep at Greensprings. He was fitting his horse for a long journey.

“Why must you go, my son? You do not have to go,” Patrick's mother was saying. Her face was looking up into his, twisted into a mask of sorrow as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“I do not belong here anymore, Mother. I will never be happy here like this. I have to go.” His turned his back to her as he pulled tight the last strap on the saddle.

She suddenly spun him around and hugged him. She barely came up to the middle of his chest. “I know why you are running, and I know you are hurting, but why the Holy Land? Why the Crusades? It is for the Franks, not for us.”

“I need to find my salvation, mother. I do not know what I possibly could have done to deserve what has befallen me here. Maybe I will find answers along the way.” Patrick mounted the horse, holding his mother for a long time in his gaze, and rode off.

Sitting in the chair in his chamber, it seemed to him that his mother was still there with him. She stood behind him stroking the hair that was so much like hers.

“I hope you find your answers, little one, and I hope you come home someday soon,” she said, and then she, too, was gone.

#

At dawn Patrick awoke to a noise like a cow being slaughtered in William of Monmouth's chamber.

He jumped from his bed, stormed out into the hall and burst into the boy's room.

“What in God's name are you doing? Every morning you insist on incurring my wrath! What could you...!” Patrick stopped his ranting. This was his first time inside Willy's room, and he was surprised at its décor; half-finished paintings, charcoal drawings, dancing figurines carved from bits of wood, books and papers.

Willy lowered a baggy apparatus to his knees, it bristled with pipes.

“How course of you, Sir Gawain, to barge into my room, shouting. And still in your nightshirt.”

“Willy, most people are just waking up now. Not everyone rises as early as you...”

“Well, they ought to.”

“...and I have put up with your hobbies long enough, and I must tell you that you must be quieter about them! Particularly in the mornings!”

Willy looked startled. “Trent does not mind.”

“I'm not Trent! And what in perdition are you doing anyway? It sounds like an agonized cow!”

Willy brightened and presented the baggy leather thing that he held. “I liked the music Sir McFowler made at the banquet last night. I had him show me how to work it. He even loaned me an old one of his to practice with. What do you think?” He began to wail on the instrument. It was dreadful, an affront to the memory of the sounds that crept into his room on occasion. Patrick ripped the thing away from Willy and threw it on the bed. It made a dying sound when it landed.

“Sir Gawain, I am not letting you bully me, knight or no. I will continue practicing with it whether you like it or not. Sir McFowler says I show promise. I intend on playing every morning.”

“No!” Patrick cried as Willy moved towards the bed to retrieve the instrument. Patrick grabbed the back of Willy’s shirt and struggled to keep the boy from the object of his torture. They tumbled onto the bed and the bagpipe honked as they fought over it.

“What are you doing? Are you mad?” Willy exclaimed.

“I am going to destroy it!”

“But it is not even mine. It is McFowler's, and he will be angry with you.”

“He will understand!” Again, the bag honked.

The two were intertwined, not only with each other, but with the bed sheet and the bagpipes as they wrestled for control over them. They stopped when they heard a nervous laugh coming from the doorway.

There stood Melwyn, wide-eyed. She hurriedly made the sign of the cross and fled, laughing madly.

#

Patrick spent the next week in the company of Lady Christianne Morneau. Nobody asked any questions about their relationship, which was not much of one insofar as Patrick was concerned. He kept his distance for a number of reasons. Melwyn left Willy alone and did not seem too crestfallen over the matter, which was exactly what Christianne had hoped for. Most other people understood that Patrick and Willy's “relationship” had been a ruse. In any case, word had not reached the stern Mother Superior. Patrick was less concerned about the more liberal Father Hugh finding out, but the Priest gave him a start just the same one evening when Patrick was late to dinner, which also led to one of the longer conversations he had with the man: