Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) by Adam Copeland Page B

supposed to take his turn on the keep walls. There was nothing to guard against, as far as he could tell. But then again, you could not exactly have walls and knights who did not use them. The Benefactors on the outside would probably be at a loss were they to find out that the keep and all its important inhabitants were needlessly invaded because the knights sworn to protect it decided to sleep in an extra hour.
    Still, Patrick had to force himself to get dressed. Halfway through putting on his surcoat, he just sat on his bed with the garment hanging over his head, blanketing his face.
    The Irishman was painfully aware of the fact that he was performing only the minimum of what was expected of him as an Avangarde Reservist. He did not mix with the Guests or even with the Avangarde. He spent much of his time with the other Reservists. Patrick mused that if this behavior continued, it would be entirely possible that he would be asked to leave Avalon. And where would he go then? Not home, not yet. He had nothing to show for his journeys except stories. With that thought, the image of himself on his knees staring at bloody hands came to mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. No, this place was his chance to make his life normal again. He could not leave. He certainly could not leave in dishonor. He needed this.
    He knew something needed to be done, but didn’t know what. He found it difficult to be the carefree knight ready to settle the disputes, disruptions, or just plain homesickness of the Guests. Dealing with challenges of the social realm did not come to him easily. Worldly dangers, however, did not pose a problem.
    Patrick smiled. It was too bad that the keep really was not being attacked from outside. Now that he could handle; that he had experience with.
    Perhaps wishing for such a thing is not so wise, he thought.
    A noise from his door brought him back. He pulled the surcoat all the way over his head, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and stared at a corner of paper someone was trying to force under his door.
    He walked over to the door and opened it.
    A young woman was bent over and holding the rest of the paper in her hand. She jumped up and gasped. She was stout and wore a servant’s veil and shapeless gown. She was not one of the Greensprings’ servants.
    “Can I help you, mademoiselle?” Patrick asked.
    The woman just stood there, wide-eyed, and began to make funny noises. At first Patrick thought that she was perhaps in pain, even though she wore a bit of a smile, but then he realized that she was laughing. Her laughs were contorted, and Patrick further decided that she was perhaps a mute. Not knowing what to do or say, Patrick said, “Is there something that I can do?”
    The woman looked about, making her laugh-grunt sounds, and held the piece of paper up for him to see. It was addressed to William of Monmouth.
    “Oh,” Patrick exclaimed, finally understanding. “You had the wrong door. Here, I believe he is home. Let us knock and see...” He started towards the door, but the woman shoved the paper into Patrick's hand and ran down the corridor, laughing.
    The letter was scented with a woman’s perfume. The door to William's room opened and he came out.
    “What's all the noise about?” William snatched the letter out of Patrick's outstretched hand.
    Patrick's frown deepened. “What?” he said, snatching the letter back. It was his turn to read it. It was an anonymous, brief love letter announcing someone's amorous intentions. “It is not from me,” Patrick protested, getting red in the face.
    William raised his eyebrows.
    “It was from a short servant woman,” Patrick said, “with big brown eyes and cherubic cheeks who couldn’t talk. Just sort of grunted and laughed.” William's expression was getting more receptive. “She was trying to force it underneath my door. She thought it was your chamber.” William turned and beat his head against his door.
    “She is such a