Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) (49 page)

As usual, he sat by himself with a pint of Trub as his only companion
―
well, that and the Apparition, who sat across from him. He swirled it about, smelled it, tasted it, downed it; but it was always the same bitter drink. It dulled his senses and gave everything an unreal dreamlike quality. He couldn’t dream enough or run far enough away, though, because the painful fact of reality was always there. His discomfort. His awkwardness. His sense of not fitting in.

And yes, of course, there was the Apparition adding to his malaise. Sitting across from him staring from that dark, anonymous hood that revealed nothing.

At least it wasn’t pointing at him.

Instead, it seemed to shake its head in pity, as if it found Patrick too pathetic to torment any longer.

“To hell with you!” Patrick shouted. Patrons looked at him as if he were a madman. “I don’t care what you are or what you think! If you have come to take me, I wish you would hurry up and do it! I tire of this game!” Men were moving away from Patrick. He didn’t care. He was beyond caring.

Expelled from the Avangarde? Taken by a baleful ghost? Who cared? He just wished it would happen. Something! Anything!

So, Sir Patrick raised the glass of dark beer to the Apparition in salute. “Here’s to you anyway, my only companion who stays with me through thick or thin...”

He drank deeply.

#

Avalon was famous for its apple orchards that bloomed year round in never ending cycles of blossoms and fruit. Some called it magic, some called it a miracle. To those who made Avalon their home, and whose lives revolved around the apples, they just called it a blessing and once a year they celebrated the fact. In some lands one might call it a Harvest Festival, in other lands an Oktoberfest, but in Avalon they called it
Alhhard-Aphel
, Apple-Day or Apple Fest.

The holiday was marked with apple pies, candied apples, apple-dunking contests, dancing, singing, bright colors, rollicking music, games, and of course large quantities of the island’s signature drink, Aphelon hard cider.

Though the village put on quite a festival for the occasion, it was tacitly understood that the common folk reserved the day to let loose among themselves, and so Greensprings made arrangements for their own celebration in the keep.

Aimeé, like the rest of the staff, spent most of the day preparing for the event, which surpassed all other occasions in grandeur except for Christmas and Easter. By nightfall they finished hanging the bright streamers from the balconies and chandeliers, and setting equally festive table cloths. No sooner had they finished placing the silver and crystal, than the Guests, knights, other staff, and clergy started to filter into the hall. Until then, Aimeé had been feeling the grueling day catch up with her, but now that the room was coming alive with smiling faces and happy chatter she felt reenergized. She took her place with the other maidservants along the wall, and waited until enough seats were filled to start serving.

“It’s a pity,” Anna said at her side, “that we had to use some of the everyday cutlery to make up for the missing silver, crystal, and cut glass.”

Aimeé frowned at the news. “They never found them?”

“Nay lass, and rumor has it that Mark may be forced to start investigatin’ the servants.”

Aimeé shook her head at the very idea. She just couldn’t believe that any of them would steal. Where on earth could they possibly sell them? Sure, if they could somehow sneak them off the island...

She banished the thought from her mind. Today was a day to be happy.

Their rest was short-lived. The hall filled up quickly and they moved to start filling glasses and bring food-laden platters to the tables. They paused only long enough to allow King Mark to stand and greet the assembled with a short and cheery speech. After glasses were raised and clinked in a hearty response to Mark, the maidservants continued their routes about the room.

In her duties she leaned over the Lady Katherina, who was talking gaily to the Viscount Loki, and replaced an empty flagon with a full one. As she stepped back from the table, she made it a point to bump the Lady.

This did not escape Katherina’s attention, who turned icy eyes on the maidservant and started to rise from her seat, mouth hardening with harsh words. But even as the Viscount Loki, with a whimsical smile on his face, reached out to halt her, she froze and looked past Aimeé, brow furrowed with concern.

Aimeé turned.

Sir Patrick, obviously drunk and disoriented, staggered into the hall. He shuffled to a corner of the room and took a hard seat next to the hearth, daring with defiant eyes for anybody to stare at him. Everyone in the room at first did stare, and pointed and turned to their companion to comment, but once he sat back against the hearth and closed his eyes, they ignored him.

Almost in a daze, Katherina sat down again. Aimeé moved across the room towards the Irishman. Halfway there, Anna stepped into her path.

“Don’t do it lass, let him sleep. It’s better if he stays in a harmless manner,” she advised.

Aimeé withdrew her arm from Anna’s grasp and said between her teeth, “He needs somebody to take care of him. Maybe I can convince him to leave or something.”

She went to Patrick’s side.

“Poor girl,” Anna said to another maidservant, Claire. “I’m not sure who I feel more sorry for.”

They both shook their heads as Aimeé tentatively approached the motionless knight.

#

Aimeé shook him awake. His eyes took a moment to focus, and it seemed that if his eyes could groan out loud, they probably would at the sight of her. Despite this, she managed a congenial smile. “Sir Gawain, you look tired, why don’t you go to your room and lie down?”

Patrick scoffed. “Nonsense. I wouldn’t miss this night for my life.”

Aimeé looked about. King Mark had other things to brood about. The Lady Christianne, like the Lady Katherina, looked troubled by Patrick’s state. Most everyone else ignored them.

She returned her gaze to the lanky Irishman sprawled in the chair. The belt about his surcoat was buckled at the wrong hole and hanging loosely, his hair was unkempt, and his boots muddy. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms and wrists. His face was moist with perspiration, and stubble shadowed his strong jaw beneath high cheekbones. A musky aroma told her that he hadn’t bathed in some time, but it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant odor. Despite his attempt to be flippant, his eyes were tired and sad.

Still, Aimeé didn’t want to take any chances. “Look, Patrick, if I bring you drinks on a regular basis, will you behave yourself?” she asked.

Patrick smirked, but he gave her an exaggerated salute. “Knight’s honor.”

Relieved, she turned to go.

“Aimeé,” Patrick said, reaching out and touching her wrist. He stared at her momentarily with those pastel colored eyes, then finally said, “Thank you.” He withdrew his hand quickly, like someone realizing they were crushing the butterfly they were holding.

She swallowed hard under that gaze and something inside her melted at the timbre of his voice. She took a deep breath, then answered with a smile and a nod before leaving him.

#

She fetched him a drink, and true to his word he minded his own business, doing not much more than take sips of Aphelon and glare at people.

And true to her word, she came by regularly to refill his cup.

Back in the kitchens, she pulled Anna and Claire to a quiet corner. “Should I just bring him an entire flagon so he can fill it himself?” she said discreetly. They were older and she trusted their advice.

“No, no lass,” Anna said, a little louder than was necessary to be heard over the din. “That will draw too much attention to the boy. Besides, it would be unseemly for him to be sitting there all alone with a flagon all to himself.”

“Sshh, sshh!” Claire added, wavering a little where she stood. “And we don’t want others demanding their very own pitcher of Aphelon. There just isn’t enough to go around.”

Aimeé’s eyes narrowed at the two women, who were more red-faced than usual and in uncommonly high spirits. “What have you two gotten into?”

The elder maidservants started to giggle uncontrollably and produced from behind their backs the very spirits that were lifting them up.

“
Sacre bleu
!” Aimeé put her hands to her mouth. “Are you mad?”

“Go on lass, take some yourself. You’ve earned it! You’ve tamed yonder beast and averted tragedy.”

Aimeé first looked around carefully, then took the goblet from Claire’s outstretched hand. She sipped from the brim and tasted the bittersweet hardness of Aphelon.

“That’s a girl.”

#

The next portion of the evening became a blur.

It was a frenzied collage of bright colors, smiling faces and raucous laughter that echoed into the night. Even the full moon seemed to beam down a cheerful smile that lit up the grounds. Nobody could tell who was enjoying the occasion more, the help or the revelers. Maidservants danced with noblemen, knights danced with nuns, Father Hugh’s legs protruded from underneath a table as he slept on the bench, and Mark found it in himself to smile for the first time in a long while.

Between filling cups, serving food and being occasionally flung in a merry circle by Sir Corbin or Sir Bisch, Aimeé managed to keep Patrick’s cup full, though the knight was mostly dozing.

On her last trip to fill his cup, she found him irrevocably passed out. His body was draped over the wood, mouth wide open, snoring heavily.

She shrugged and picked up the mostly full cup at his feet before he or someone else knocked it over. She returned to the kitchen, and just before entering, she looked down at the golden drink, raised it to her lips, and finished it off for him.

#

It didn’t seem long before somebody was nudging him awake. When he opened his eyes, the dinner was evidently long over, all the lights save the fire place were extinguished and all the Guests were gone. And more, the fact that a headache was growing in his skull proved that he was on the road to being sober.

It was Aimeé who was kicking at his outstretched boots. She had a slight grin and at first Patrick thought it was his vision that was swaying from side to side, when in fact it was she who was unstable.

“Rosa Maria was impressed with how fast we cleaned up,” Aimeé said with a hiccup, “especially since we did not wake you in the process.”

Patrick squinted at the maidservant. “Have you been drinking?”

Aimeé giggled and made a small gesture with thumb and forefinger.

He shook his head, which was a mistake, then struggled to stand, but the rolling floor suggested that he wasn’t as near to being sober as he thought. Aimeé offered to help. At first he declined, but then accepted when he realized he couldn’t walk in a straight line.

“I thought you would be needing some help. Some of the other knights were making wagers on whether or not you had died there in that chair.” She placed his arm around her neck.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me, Avangarde humor isn’t known for its subtlety,” he replied.

Despite the weight difference, she held him up well. She was very strong and once they reached the outside of the keep proper, Patrick was better able to walk. The fresh air helped sober him up. The moon was setting, leaving the heavens to his brethren the stars, who twinkled with their own quiet mirth. The air was warm, but breezy. The Hall for Guests loomed ahead, beyond gently swaying branches.

Aimeé stayed at his side and insisted on accompanying him to his door.

“Probably a good idea,” Patrick mumbled. “I’d probably fall in a ditch and drown.”

Achieving his door was not so difficult. Once there, Patrick leaned against it heavily, clawing at the latch to open it.

Aimeé leaned into him harder to keep him from sagging to the floor and reached for the latch herself. Patrick fell over her leaning back.

“Sir Gawain!” Patrick groaned. “Don’t move, I need to rest for a moment.”

Aimeé struggled to make him upright again. “You can rest all you want once I open your door.” Patrick slumped again. His chin was over one of her shoulders, an arm over her other. Patrick’s eyes slowly opened as he realized the nearness of her. He hair smelled faintly of honey, her dress of baked bread, and her bosom of sweat and Aphelon. Her muscles were hard from years of labor, yet it was not an unpleasant feeling and Patrick held her in his arms to upright himself. He let his hands linger on her. She too held him tighter and let him start to nuzzle her neck.

Patrick brushed his lips along her cheek and moved to her waiting mouth. Her embrace was warm and passionate and it stimulated Patrick to return the kiss intensely. She cried out in pleasure as his mouth moved again to her neck and he bit gently.

She started to run her hands over his body and he returned the gesture by cupping her bosom. She quietly cried out again. The door opened under their weight and they fell into Patrick’s room.

#

Faint sunlight woke him.

His head was pounding and his mouth felt as if it had been the repository for all the waste of the world. He sat up in bed, gingerly touching his forehead, where some memory nagged at him. A sense of dread turned his stomach as he attempted to put a face to what it was that made his world feel out of place...something other than residual alcohol that made the room spin.

A subtle movement at his side jolted him to the present and the memories came flooding back—Aimeé was asleep at his side, a smile curled at the corner of her mouth.

The bottom of his stomach fell out.

He placed his face in his shaking hands, not wanting to believe what he knew all too well was true. He had committed a stupid act that he couldn’t possibly explain away without totally devastating the girl. He had done the one single thing he shouldn’t have done: betray Aimeé’s trust.

“Patrick,” a voice startled him from behind.

He jumped from the covers naked, and there standing near the bed was his mother, cowled, a profoundly sad look on her face.