“...which you don't see,” Patrick offered.
Mark shrugged. “I see something in you. I'm not sure what and I don't want you to leave, but I admit that something has to be done.”
Patrick nodded gravely while positioning a bishop to discourage Mark’s knight. “Do you have any suggestions? I can't think of anything.”
Mark stood up, stretched and went to gaze out the window. After a moment he said, “It seems you are happiest when you are actually doing something specific, accomplishing something. Routine life among the men in peacetime is difficult for you...”
“Yes.”
“You need a task that will satisfy this need and at the same time give you some recognition that will, in your eyes, elevate your position.” Mark turned around. “You need a quest.”
Patrick laughed. “As I recall, the last 'quest' I went on resulted with me landing on top of your head, a piece of broken ladder in my hands.”
They both laughed for a moment, maybe harder than the memory deserved. “Well, I was thinking a bit more on the serious side,” Mark said. “The villagers in Aesclinn were mightily disturbed after the last Bush Beating. They are claiming that more occurrences are troubling them. That they are afraid of something more dangerous than just some spooked chickens. They say a wolf prowls the hills and takes some of their sheep. They would be happier if one of the soldiers from Greensprings did something about it.” Patrick leaned forward, intrigued. “I know you are no huntsman, but I think that the presence of one of the Avangarde would make them feel more secure. All you need do is patrol the area. Stay about a week, then come back with a report and we'll see what else we can do. I don't know, perhaps set up some sort of rotation among the Reservists to sheriff the region. That will give you all something to feel useful and proud about. But I want you to be the first to pioneer the situation. Is that acceptable to you, Patrick?”
Patrick was absolutely jubilant inside, but kept his composure. “Why, yes, quite.”
“Good then. This may not solve your problem altogether, but I believe it will make you a happier person, thus strengthening you to becoming a more effective Avangarde. Let's have you come back tomorrow evening after supper, and we'll go over it in more detail. The following morning you will depart. Agreed?”
The Irishman nodded.
Mark smiled. “Oh, by the way, checkmate.”
#
The following evening there was cause for a special dinner. It seemed that any occasion was a good occasion for the denizens of Greensprings to outdo the gala before. Mark's announcement of the Irishman’s quest was one. Another was the arrival of a special Guest, the Mademoiselle Amy du Lac of Normandy, Sir Geoffrey’s fiancée.
Patrick sat on one side of the doe-eyed woman and Sir Geoffrey on her other. Patrick couldn't help but notice that the Lady Christianne Morneau sat nowhere near the trio.
“So, tell me Sir Gawain,” asked the new Guest, “are you any relation to the Sir Gawaine of King Arthur's court?”
The question usually annoyed him, but tonight, little could get his spirits down. He wasn’t sure which was bolstering him more, his upcoming mission, or the sight of Christianne sitting across the hall, her mouth set in a grim line and toying with her food. In any case, the Norman noblewoman had a charm about her that made him not mind talking.
He laughed. “No, not at all. And you? Are you of any relation to Sir Lancelot? His name, if I recall, was also du Lac.”
“Of course,” she replied, laughing.
Watching the chamber lights glisten off her silky hair made Patrick wonder what she could possibly see in the rogue Geoffrey.
Does she know?
He wondered, sneaking another glance at Christianne from across the room, her head now down. He decided not to worry about it and drank his wine. Life was a fickle woman that traveled down strange paths. And besides, at this time tomorrow he would be away from the court, away from its intrigues and its silliness.
#
The following morning, Patrick trotted up the muddy path from the stables atop Siegfried. The weather was drizzly, but he didn't mind. Some people had actually come to see him off. Sir Jon and Aimeé were among them. He waived. Aimeé came to the front of the group and threw a couple of flowers at him, like the throngs of Guests who had thrown flowers at the Avangarde when they departed for the Bush Beating.
“Maybe it will be a tradition that will catch on some day,” she said.
Sir Jon had helped the Irish knight saddle and supply Siegfried, and now slapped the horse’s hindquarters. “Patrick, you're a lucky dog. What did you do to convince King Mark?”
Patrick shrugged, “It’s a surprise to me too.” He could see Christianne Morneau in the courtyard, though she hadn't come down to the crowd. Jon noticed this and remarked, “She seems somewhat put out now that the Lady du Lac is here.”
“Serves her right,” Patrick chided, and then urged the black horse forward. He waved goodbye and clopped noisily across the drawbridge, out of Greensprings. The air felt fresh, and the sun peeked out every now and again to produce some fantastic rainbows. He wondered if there were any treasures at the end of them.
#
He spent much of the day trotting down the road that meandered between the harbor and Aesclinn. When he came to a fork in the road, he read the simple wooden sign post with its accompanying pictures graven in wood. To his left a sign pointed with the words “Inland road”, with a picture of an evergreen tree, and to his right (though actually more straight ahead than anything) a sign below the first pointed with the words “Cliff Side” and a picture of a sea cliff. He took a deep breath. There was the smell of salt in the air and the sound of ocean waves crashing against rocks. Siegfried snorted and shook his mane as if questioning.
“No, not there yet, friend.” Patrick said, noting that there were sheep grazing in the grass on the hillside. The springlike showers made this side of the island very green; perfect for putting sheep to pasture.
He urged Siegfried forward to the right and followed the ocean sounds. It wasn’t too much longer that the road veered left as it approached the edge of the isle, and then paralleled a cliff overlooking a gray sea. The very same body of water that had borne him to this fabled land.
That seemed like an age ago.
Patrick roamed up and down this stretch of land, noting the sheep on the inland side and how the road seemed to go on forever along the water side. When he was satisfied that he was in the right place, he decided to dismount and make camp.
Patrick removed Siegfried’s saddle and let him loose, not bothering to hobble the beast. Siegfried was as loyal as they came and would not wander too far off. Patrick wished he could say as much for others in his life. He made a simple lean-to with a length of wax treated canvas and set his saddle, saddle bags and travel purse in it. Wrapping his great-cloak tighter about him, he decided to survey the area by foot while in search of firewood.
It was sloping hills on one side, which in itself was nothing more than moorland coming to an end and finishing at high cliffs above the Western Sea. Patrick walked along this cliff, throwing sticks and rocks over the edge. The sea gulls hovered above him, crying plaintively, as if he was invading their kingdom. The entire scene reminded him a little of his own island home, but the sheer cliffs reminded him more of the shores of Cornwall. There was plenty of wood about from scraggly old evergreen trees that were wind-bent and sparse in needles. They seemed to have willingly and frequently parted with their branches which littered the short grass that had been well manicured by hungry sheep. Once he had a sufficient amount of wood, he returned to his camp, finding nothing better to do. As he set about to making a fire, it began to drizzle again, but he didn't mind the dampness; he had been through worse on his journeys to the Holy Lands. Much worse.
#
He spent the next couple of days in this manner. Other than the constant sea breeze whispering through the sword grass, the land was silent. He sat up nights waiting for the signs of predators, but found none. Only in his dreams did he hear the howl of a wolf.
When his food rations started getting low, and he thought he might die of boredom, he decided he would stay one more night and return to Greensprings.
It was about then that a farmer and his boy paid him a visit. He was sitting against the tree that made the focal point of his camp, whittling a piece of wood that was slowly taking on the shape of a horse’s head. This he hurriedly put under his horse blanket with a couple of other carvings
―
a castle tower and roughly person shaped figure. He didn’t want to give the man the impression that he had only been making chess pieces this whole time.
“Bon après-midi,” the man said in Norman-accented French. Patrick was familiar with it from the Crusade. He approached with broad smile and hand in the air as a greeting. Then remembering his manners, he removed his hat, which had a long pointed bill, and bowed deeply.
“Good afternoon to you,” Patrick replied in French.
The boy, perhaps the age of eight or nine years, peeked shyly from behind the man. When noting this, the man grabbed the boy by both shoulders and gently moved him before the Irishman.
The boy bowed as well and mumbled, “M’lord.”
The man looked familiar, though Patrick couldn’t place his face.
“My name is Gustave, and this is my son Frederique,” the man said.
“Fred,” the boy corrected.
Gustave rolled his eyes, but put an arm around the boy just the same. “Frederique, named for his uncle, my brother.”
Patrick then made the connection. “Frederique, the inn keeper in Aesclinn.”
“Oui,” Gustave responded. They then clasped hands in a more informal manner. Fred returned to his position behind his father.
“I am Sir Patrick Gawain, Reservist of the Avangarde of Greensprings. What can I do for you today?” Patrick said.
“The wolf,” Gustave said as the smile left his face. “It was near my farm last night. I heard you would be here, so I came as soon as possible to tell you.”
“I’ll pack my things,” Patrick said, and did just that.
A short while later he was walking alongside Gustave, leading Siegfried by the reins. Astride the saddle sat Freddy, who had a smile going from ear to ear. Putting the boy atop the giant warhorse went a long way in removing his shyness.
As they walked, they discussed the wolf. “What makes you think it will be there again tonight?” Patrick asked.
“All the farmers and herdsmen who have been victims of the creature say that it comes at least twice. Sometimes as many as three times. Always after dark. Last night was the first that I saw it.”
“Did it kill any of your animals?” Patrick believed that one could never have too much information about an enemy or prey.
Gustave shook his head. “All my animals were indoors last night. The milk cows in the barn. The pigs and sheep inside the cottage with us. I saw the beast prowling the edge of the woods near our land, sniffing the air in our direction.” Gustave shivered. “Even though it was at some distance, I could still see that it is quite large, this wolf. But that is not what concerns me most, nor what made me seek you out so quickly.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “What is the reason, then?”
Gustave was a moment in responding. “This thing is truly a monster. The other farmers have described the carcasses of the thing’s kills. Only some are eaten, fewer are dragged off. Most are…” he paused, as if searching for the proper word. “Mutilated.”
Patrick raised both eyebrows this time. “Mutilated?”
Gustave nodded gravely. “Sometimes the head is missing, and the body left untouched. Sometimes the animals have been gutted, slit down the center of their bellies as if by the sharpest of blades. All the innards gone, but the meat of the carcass intact, and not a drop of blood on the ground. And still other times, the entire carcass is intact but for puncture wounds about the neck and throat, and the poor creature has been sucked dry of blood. It is unnatural.”
“But it sounds as if you have learned from your neighbors’ misfortunes and placed your animals indoors at night, which thwarted the wolf from attacking them last night,” Patrick pointed out.
“That’s what I’m getting at,” Gustave continued. “A creature that kills in such an unholy manner may not be put off by walls and thatching for long. Attacking the cows in the barn is one thing, but what if it should come into the cottage? I have bigger concerns.” He glanced back at Freddy who was cheerfully stroking Siegfried’s mane.
Patrick nodded, also glancing back at the freckle-faced boy.
They did not talk much more as the sun made its way towards the horizon and they turned down a side path that led away from the ocean. Not much further on was a modest farmstead. The living quarters were contained in a simple stone cottage. Smoke drifted upward from the chimney, and blew slantwise across the thatch. All around was lush green grass, grazed short by Gustave’s many sheep, which drifted around the establishment like puffy low-lying clouds. A brook gurgled nearby under an arched bridge; the bridge was more decorative than functional, as most anyone could easily step over the water. A bit further off was a larger structure made of gabled earth and wood. It too had a thatched roof, but not in quite as good repair as the cottage. This, Patrick surmised, was the barn. Just beyond it were two cows, moving languidly through the grass and shrubs. They were burdened with pendulous udders. Bells about their necks made occasional dinging noises. Still further out was the edge of a thick forest of evergreens and oaks.
“Bienvenue à notre maison,” Gustave welcomed. “It may not be Greensprings, but it is home.”
“Thank you, Gustave.” Patrick replied as they approached the doorway of the homestead. Gustave reached up to Freddy and brought him earthbound. “Frederique, take Monsieur Gawain’s horse to stable.” He looked to Patrick for his approval. Patrick nodded. “Then round up the cows and milk them. Supper will be ready when you have returned.”
“Ah, papa,” Freddy said, disappointed.