Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (11 page)

a handful of the draperies. “Smell.”

Alex sniffed the material. “You’re right. There’s a faint scent of tobacco. Ian must smoke

his cigars in here occasionally. I hadn’t noticed when we walked through earlier.”

“I don’t know what a cigar or tobacco is. This scent that clings to the furniture and

window covers is not unpleasant and as you can tell mild.”

“They say a blind person’s other senses are heightened by the loss of the one. I wondered

if that was really true.”

“I’d trade all the other improvements no matter how good to regain my sight.”

“I can imagine how terrible the situation is for you.”

“No, you can’t.” How could he, when by his own admission, he’d been given a new body,

hale and robust?

“You’re right. I’m trying to say, I’m sympathetic to what you’re going through.”

Sympathy was pity’s demure sister. Stephen dropped the edge of the drapery and turned

his face so Alex didn’t see the hatred being thought pitiful brought him.

“I don’t seek sympathy, yours or anyone else’s. How simple you make my problem sound.

It’s not merely a matter of adjusting to the impenetrable black of my world,” he said, facing Alex.

“Along with my sight, I lost my place in the world. I have no history here, no touchstone or way to measure my worth.”

“True, you have no history here. But you’re wrong about the rest. Your worth as a man is

measured by the same standard as before. Everything that’s good and bad still remains within you and those qualities are how you’re judged.”

“People judge by what they see first...a man who needs a cane to keep from walking into

doors and trees and most anything.”

Alex patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. We need to get going.”

Stephen headed for the bedroom. He counted his strides to the far wall and felt along the

surface to guide him to the room. An attachment to the wall that was longer than it was wide and made of material he didn’t recognize had a toggle. He stopped.

“What is this?”

“A light switch. It does the same as dozens of candles without using actual candles.”

“Candlelight at the touch of your fingers? Incredible,” Stephen said and patted along the

wall back to the bedroom. “By-the-by, you could have warned me the...the...what’s it called?” He tapped a tooth with his finger.

“Toothpaste?”

“Indeed, the toothpaste. It foamed in my mouth. I felt a mad dog. It’s bad enough the

world believes
me
mad without my looking like a wild animal too.”

“You’ll be happy to know toothpaste foams like that for everyone. Not to worry. Let me

grab a shirt, trousers, shoes and socks for you.”

“I tried on the undergarments Shakira provided. I chose the short braies,” he said and

dropped the towel he’d wrapped around his waist when Alex knocked. “I like the small

underwear. They’re soft and keep my bits grouped together well.”

“Whoa, that’s way more than I needed to know.”

A minute later, Alex said, “I picked jeans for you. They’re popular. Everyone wears them.

I laid everything next to each other at the foot of the bed. “I’ll give you some privacy and wait in the drawing room.”

Everything went fine. The tiny buttons on the shirt cuffs he managed with ease. The ones

for the collar tried his patience. If the lady tutor weren’t coming, he’d leave off getting the collar buttoned. Next he pulled the jeans on, but below the button top was a rip bordered with metal

teeth. The gap made taking care of personal needs easy. Convenient, but it didn’t seem right

showing his underwear to all and sundry.

“Alex, these jeans are damaged, ripped in the front. I need another pair.” Stephen opened

the closet and found the side where the
trousers
were as Miranda called them. He ran his fingers down the material feeling for a pair whose cloth had the same texture and weight.

“They’re not damaged,” Alex told him from the doorway.

Stephen turned and pointed to the area of the rip.

“The metal-toothed device is called a zipper. Zip it up and the opening will close.”

“Zip up?”

“Yes, there’s a little metal tongue at the base. Pull on it.”

A closure with a tongue and teeth. He sighed long and hard. Why must he be baffled by

the tiniest of problems?

“Why don’t the weavers who made these jeans just use buttons?” he mumbled.

He found the tongue and started to tug then stopped when the danger in doing so without

care became evident. He took the precaution of readjusting his sensitive bits then slowly zipped the rest of the way.

The shoes had a funny hard sole with a surprising amount of flexibility. Stephen bounced

up and down on his toes, liking how the
loafers
bent with the curve of his foot.

He shrugged into the suede jacket, which was snug across the shoulders but otherwise fit.

The clothes were comfortable, especially the jeans. Did they
look as good as they felt? Did he look good?

“Am I acceptable for this place we’re going?” he asked as he entered the drawing room.

“Tuck your shirt in and you’re good as gold. The place we’re going to is called a

restaurant. It’s better than the best inn you’ve ever been to but without the rooms where you can spend the night,” Alex said.

“Are their cheeseburgers as tasty as on the plane?”

“They don’t serve cheeseburgers. Tonight you’ll have filet mignon. You will fall in love

with this cut of beef.”

Stephen had no doubts he would. He’d had beef on many occasions and enjoyed it even

when it was tough as a boot. The talk about the restaurant stirred a worry that troubled him while he’d readied.

“Alex, the lady tutor, she knows I am not merely blind but scarred?”

“Yes.”

Stephen nodded, not truly reassured she wouldn’t be repulsed. A short time ago, he was a

handsome knight. Now he was neither.

Alex put a hand on his shoulder. “The scars are not as gruesome as you imagine. They

will heal eventually and grow fainter with time.”

“’Not as gruesome’ is a vague description. I hope the lady is of the same mind.” Even if

she is not put off by his scars, he had nothing in common with her. “What will I talk to her about?”

“She has a university degree. Talk to her about medieval history if the opportunity arises.”

“What is medieval history?”

“The modern world refers to the time we came from as the Medieval Period.”

“They think us evil?”

“No. As I recall, Miranda said the term was derivative of a Latin word for the time, which

loosely translates to middle age. If not that, talk to her as you would any woman. Charm her. I’ve seen you do that many a time.”

“How’s that going to work? I charmed ladies before a jousting challenge, or during a

banquet, or while picking summer apples. None of those opportunities exist for me now.”

“Why not talk about your jousting prowess? The tournaments you used to participate in

and won. She already thinks you’re barmy. She’ll go along with whatever you want to discuss.”

“In other words, it does not matter what I choose to say as no one cares what a blind, daft

man speaks of?”

“Basically.”

#

Ian, Miranda and the tutor were already at the restaurant when Stephen, Alex, and

Shakira arrived.

“Don’t you look nice,” Miranda said. “Let me introduce you and then we’ll go to the

table.”

He switched his cane to his left hand prepared to kiss the lady’s hand.

“Stephen this is Esme Crippen. Esme—Stephen Palmer.”

Esme put her palm to his. Instead of letting him bring her hand to his lips, she clasped and

pumped his in a mannish manner.

“What are you doing, milady?” he asked as he wrestled with her for control of her hand.

“Shaking you hand.”

“Why?”

“It’s a form of greeting.”

“Yes, I know but never has a woman greeted me thus.”

To be fair, the gesture wasn’t truly mannish. Her hand was soft as a lady’s should be and

she but pumped three times in a light motion before she released his hand.

“Sorry, if I offended you,” she said.

“None taken. But it is my habit to kiss rather than shake a lady’s hand.”

“How knightly...” She gave a small, “Oh, of course,” and then said, “You’d prefer to kiss

my hand.”

She was catering to the madman who thought himself a medieval knight...her kindness cut

deeper than the fine shaving razor.

She took his hand again, turned it palm up and laid her fingers on his.

“I’ve never had my hand kissed. I’d be pleased if you were the first.”

“Milady.” He brushed the back of her fingers with his lips. “I am enchanted to make your

acquaintance.”

“Enchanted. Another first. No one has ever said they were
enchanted
to meet me.”

Stephen responded with an uncertain smile.

“The maitre‘d is waiting to seat us,” Ian said.

As he and Alex followed behind the others, Stephen asked, “Did I put a foot wrong when I

said I was enchanted to meet her?”

“Well, it’s not fashionable anymore to use the term when you’re introduced to a lady. But

you managed to make the whole hand kissing, enchanted thing work. Good show.”

“Did she smile?”

“Yes, quite big.”

The strong, rich aroma of roasted meat hit Stephen as he stepped into a room not unlike a

busy banquet hall from what he perceived. From the hum of many conversations, the clink of

dishes from different parts of the dining area, and the faint rush of air by passing servants, he judged the room held a goodly number of people. Beneath the noise, music played. He paused for

a moment to listen.

“What are you doing?” Alex asked.

“Listening. Do you know this song? It’s beautiful.”

“It’s called,
The Music of the Night.
It’s from a play, a musical to be exact, called

Phantom of the Opera
.”

“Too bad there are no words.”

“The original song has lyrics, which are words put to music. This version is what we refer

to as an instrumental.”

“I know what lyrics are. I’d like to hear that song.”

“I’ll play the original for you tomorrow.”

A servant passed close and another blast of roast beef hit Stephen. That brought a new

embarrassment to mind. “Alex, until I learn to do for myself, would you ask the servant to cut my filet before he brings it to the table? I don’t wish to look a fool in front of milady Crippen.”

“No problem. So you know, the person who brings our food is called a server or waiter,

not a servant. The cook, in this type of establishment, is referred to as a chef.”

“Understood.”

With a light touch, the maitre’d guided his hand to the chair he’d pulled out between Esme

and Alex. Stephen thanked him and sat as Alex ordered a cabernet sauvignon, which was the

finest wine Stephen ever had. It was better than the wine the king and prince served at court the few times Stephen visited the palace. The waiter served it in a glass goblet—finally something

familiar, a goblet. He drank the first glass and half of another faster than usual. Almost

immediately, the delicious liquid took the edge off his nerves. The tightness in his back eased as he flexed his shoulders and relaxed into the chair.

“Music of the Night
, does the title have special meaning?” he asked of the rest during a break in the conversation.

At the mention of the song
and the musical,
Phantom of the Opera, e
veryone at the table except Ian joined in with other melodies from musicals they liked. Alex said CDs with most of the songs they talked about were in the collection at the trailer.

“We can listen to them during lunch breaks,” Esme told him.

“Do you happen to sing, milady?”

“Yes and no. I’ve been told I can’t carry a tune to save my soul. My singing is restricted

to the shower. And no offense, not that milady isn’t charming, but please call me Esme.”

The steak arrived cut, but the server still provided him with a sharp knife. Stephen stabbed

a piece. “As you wish,” he said around a bite of filet from the dagger’s tip.

Alex switched the knife for a four-tined utensil like the one in the hospital they’d called a

fork. “Use this.”

The fork turned out handier than expected and Stephen loaded two chunks of filet onto it,

ate them as fast as he could chew, and loaded two more chunks onto the fork.

“Slow down,” Alex whispered. “You’re wolfing your steak and put only one piece of meat

on your fork at a time.”

“’Tis the finest beef, the tenderest I’ve tasted,” he whispered back, “But I will eat

slower.”

“Do you have any family?” Esme asked him.

“No. My parents died when I was young. My mother died shortly after she gave birth to a

babe who arrived dead. I don’t remember her. I was in leading strings at the time of her death.

My father never remarried and died when I was seven summers.”

“Shakira told me you...um...are a knight who serves a baron.”

Again, she was being mindful of his
madness
forming her curiosity in a delicate way, an effort both appreciated and hated.

“Yes, I serve...served the Baron Guy Guiscard. When my father died, my uncle brought

me into his home. He had no use for another mouth to feed. Guy’s father knew mine. He offered

to take me and my uncle gladly gave me up. Guy’s father raised me from a boy to the rank of

squire and then to that of a knight.”

Stephen longed to see Esme’s face. He wanted to see the level of horror in which she

viewed his loss of wits.

“Not quite true,” Alex said. “You earned the rank of knight.”