Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (12 page)

“Earned the rank of knight? Impressive. May I ask how?”

Esme’s gentle-voiced question rankled. Did she test to see how deep his madness ran?

“Is it not enough that I am?” he replied and took a large swallow of wine.

“I meant no offense. I was interested.”

Stephen considered whether to answer or not. He only had the truth to give her. In spite of

Alex’s warning, he’d rather face the consequences of the truth than be thought witless.

“Edward the prince rose me up, along with many others who fought by his side at Crecy.”

Next to him, a soft groan came from Alex. Everyone else at the table went deathly quiet.

“Crecy...” Esme paused.

What would she think now? How would she judge him?

“I need to speak with you,” Alex said.

There was the soft muffle of his chair being moved and Stephen sensed him standing.

Stephen stood and Alex grasped his elbow and they walked outside the restaurant.

“What do you think you’re playing at, telling Esme you fought at Crecy?”

“Why shouldn’t I tell her the truth? She won’t believe me anyway. You said so yourself. It

doesn’t matter what a blind, daft man says.”

“I do understand how difficult it is when you can’t be yourself. But trust me, the truth is

better kept among we five.”

“Another warning?”

“No, a friend’s honesty. Come on, our dinner’s getting cold.”

“You mentioned Crecy,” Esme continued as Stephen sat. “Crecy...France?”

“Let me answer the question on your lips,” Stephen said, “Yes, the Crecy of 1346. I may

not see your hesitation but feel it your tone. Worry not, dear lady. To use Gu...Alex’s words, I am barmy, not dangerous.”

She laid her hand on his. “I suspect you’re not as barmy as you think. I’m glad you told me

about Crecy. That gives me a good start date for when we study together.”

Miranda cleared her throat and piped in, “Off topic, but when Esme interned at the

channel, she shared a humorous bit of information about her family.”

Esme moaned. “You’re going to make me tell aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I hoped you’d all get to know me better before you found out how silly my female

relatives are.”

“Do tell,” Stephen said, grateful for the change of subject, which he suspected Miranda

knew when she spoke.

After a deep sigh, Esme said, “For a century—four generations, all the women in my

family have E names. It’s ridiculous.”

“I’ve never heard the name Esme. Did your mother imagine the name?” he asked.

“Worse. My mum is into literature. She named my sisters and I according to what she was

into reading at the time.”

“Esme, let me guess,” Shakira said. “She was reading Salinger’s
For Esme
--
with Love
and Squalor.”

“Yes, my younger sister is named Emily from her Bronte period. My poor older sister was

caught in her Greek period. She was stuck with Electra.”

“I rather like Electra. But then, I’ve had to live with the name Shakira. Until the pop star,

Shakira, became the rage, I was the only one with that name.”

“What are the other names?” Stephen asked.

“My mum is Elizabeth. My aunt is Elsa. Grandma is Eden and great grandma was

Eugenia.”

“How romantic she named you Esme after that particular story. Sergeant X writing of his

cherished meeting with Esme while he braves the squalor of combat,” Shakira said in a wistful

voice.

Stephen knew a soldier’s kinship with the writer. If he had learned his letters, he’d have

written to a lady or two from the fields of France. Written when he longed for the green fields of home, or when he longed for a walk in the garden with a sweet lady, or when loneliness couldn’t be abated, even among the company of friends.

“As I understand the use of the word squalor here, it speaks to the wretchedness of war,

yes?” he asked Esme.

“Yes. Once you learn Braille, you can read it. Or, there may be an audio version of the

story.”

“Not necessary. I need no reminder of the sorrows of war.”

Esme pressed her hand to his arm. “Of course, I didn’t mean to raise bad memories.”

“You needn’t worry for me.” He reached for a way to lighten the moment.

In his experience, a smile and a wink went a long way with the ladies. Stephen winked and

gave Esme a crooked smile that usually brought giggles from the ladies.

She didn’t giggle but he sensed her leaning closer. A whiff of her perfume accompanied

the shift. Flowers. Carnation influenced by gardenia with a hint of jasmine.

“Esme,” Stephen stretched her name out and gestured open-handed like presenting the

word before the gods. “It sounds like silk caught on the breeze. Is there meaning behind your

name, other than being the object of man’s love and squalor?”

“I’m told it’s old French for ‘beloved.’ Others have said it’s short for the Spanish name,

Esmeralda, which means ‘emerald.”

Stephen sipped his wine and pretended to contemplate on the meanings. At last, he said,

“For you, I would choose a soldier’s ideal. Beloved.”

Chapter Twelve

Poitiers, France

A long field of lush grass lay across the river from where Marchand camped. Every

afternoon young men in girlish short, silk braies kicked a ball up and down the field. Apparently, the goal was to kick it into a net at each end. They acted happy to bounce the ball off their heads to maneuver closer.

“Such poor tactics,” he said low from behind the cover of shrubbery where he watched.

“Just throw the ball you band of fools.”

In the early morning hours and late in the afternoon after the young men left, he let the

horses graze on the grassy field. When the players returned each day, he laughed to hear them

complain about the manure and loudly wonder who was responsible.

Sister Catherine told him about the local stable. He’d walked the three kilometers, as she

called the distance, to see if the place suited his needs. He found it well kept and the horses in good condition.

Over the last few days, when the field was empty, he worked with Arthur to learn which

cues the horse responded to. Like Conquerant, he’d been trained with leg cues and vocal clicks

and whistles. As a potential buyer, the stable owner was bound to ask for a display of his training.

Confident, Marchand rode Arthur to the stable using only the pad and left the saddle

stored at the abbey along with Conquerant’s and the armor. The riders he observed rode in

saddles far different than the war saddles he and the English knight used.

“Satisfied?” Finished with demonstrating Arthur’s skills, he jumped down.

“I am; which surprises me.” Rene Patel, the stable’s owner rubbed Arthur’s left ear.

“Shabby as you are—” he said, and when the horse didn’t pull away, Patel switched sides then

rubbed the right ear. “I didn’t believe you owned this horse and if you did, I doubted his training. I certainly questioned your skills when I saw you had no stirrups.”

Shabby.
Marchand bristled. In his time, he was a count who rivaled the king in fashion.

Fists clenched, he crossed his arms over his chest and checked his temper. “Stirrups are

convenient, but I’ve ridden all my life, often without them.”

“I had my wife call Sister Catherine. She said she believes the horse is yours,” Patel

continued.

“If he was not mine, would he respond so well? No, he would not. Now that you’ve seen

what he can do, how much will you pay?”

“Five-thousand euros.”

Marchand mouth briefly dropped open. He didn’t know what a euro was, but if it was the

equivalent of a livre tournois, the man offered a fortune.

“I accept,” he said with a straight face. If Patel knew his delight, he might think he

overpaid and reduce the payment.

Patel led him to what he called his office, which was in an out building near the main

stable. He withdrew a large ledger from a desk drawer. Marchand kept a similar one for his

household accounts.

“What is your full name,” he asked as he sat.

“Roger Louis Philippe Marchand.”

“I’ll simply make it out to Roger Marchand.”

Marchand watched with increasing indignation as Patel scribbled the date, Roger

Marchand, and the five-thousand number, then signed the scrap of paper.

“Here you are,” Patel said and presented the paper to Marchand.

“Do you take me for a fool or mad vagabond?” He batted Patel’s hand away. “You think

to give me this worthless paper?”

Patel’s brows lifted high. “Worthless? This is a bank draft allowing you to be paid from my

account.”

“Paper instead of coin. Hah! I know nothing of banks or drafts not wind created. I do

know the look and feel of real money and that is coin.”

“What do you mean you don’t know about banks or drafts? Where have you been living—

in some Afghan cave?”

“Where I’ve been is not important. I demand coin.”

“I do not have five-thousand euros sitting around. Few do. From your expression, I

honestly believe you’re sincere about this coin business. How about you come with me to my

bank? Show them the draft and ask them to pay you in coin.”

Was Patel leading him into some kind of trap? Marchand debated the possibility. If he

didn’t need money so badly, he’d take Arthur and go. Sister Catherine was nice enough to feed

him in exchange for labor. He completed most of the odd jobs she wanted done, but he couldn’t

count on her feeding him forever. Plus, he longed for the comfort of an inn, to sleep in a bed again with a pillow under his head and out of the elements. Then there was Conquerant to think of and his need for a stable and a reliable food source. He planned on asking Patel to stable Conquerant too and that cost money.

Maybe he was walking into a trap, maybe not. One way or the other, he had to go. If it

turned out to be a trap, he’d find a way to kill Patel.

“I will accompany you to this bank of yours.”

He climbed into what Sister Catherine said was a car with Patel. He’d secretly peeked in

the Sister’s car. The inside of Patel’s was similar: a wheel, a stick between the seats that looked like the brake on a tradesman’s cart, and steel housing with numerical displays.

Marchand suffocated his yelp behind a fake coughing fit as the car went faster and faster.

He stifled more yelps as other cars flew past them. But he couldn’t keep from wincing when they did.

Not long later, Patel entered Poitiers proper. People and cars crowded the street. The

town he’d enjoyed when the army passed through seemed to be no more. Patel turned and the

Cathedrale Saint-Pierre and its beautiful Crucifixion Window came into sight. A welcome vision to Marchand’s familiarity starved eyes. Patel turned again, and Marchand relaxed a little as they

drove by the narrow streets he recognized from his first visit.

Patel stopped the car in front of a stone building with a glass door and a sign that read

Societe Generale. “My bank,” he said and indicated for Marchand to get out.

Inside, Patel had him stand to the side and observe as people approached windows of thick

glass and talked to the man or woman who stood behind it. Scraps of paper were presented by

those who approached in exchange for colored paper of different shapes.

“What are they receiving?” Marchand asked.

“Euros.”

“Euros, like what you wish to pay me?”

Patel nodded.

“This draft you gave me looks nothing like what they’ve been given.”

“Come.” Patel walked up to a window and handed the woman stationed there the five-

thousand euro draft. A friendly conversation followed while she appeared to read a device the size of Sister Catherine’s calendar. Then, the woman withdrew a handful of the colored paper and

counted them out for Patel.

Marchand pushed him aside. “Do you give him euros? And, are they accepted for

payment of goods and services?”

She gave him a quizzical look and said, “Yes.” She finished counting and slid the stack to

Patel, who handed them to Marchand.

“Are you happy now, Mr. Marchand?” Patel asked as they returned to his car.

“Yes,” he said with a chagrined grunt. “I have need of a stable for another horse who is

not for sale. Will you take some of these for housing him?”

“Of course.”

“One more thing, how long is the walk here from your stable?”

“If you need to come back, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Thank you. I do wish to return after I bring my horse to your barn.”

#

Once Conquerant was stabled, Patel dropped Marchand off in the center of town, as he

referred to the spot. Before driving away, he pointed out a Galeries Lafayette store. A place he said that sold men’s clothing and shoes. Marchand thanked him, told Patel he’d visit Conquerant soon and headed toward the store.

Inside he wandered the first floor before locating a sign with an arrow that said “men’s

department,” above one that read, “escalator.”

“Pardon.” A woman edged him to the side as he stood fixated by the moving steel stairs

and marveling at the ease of transport that filled this world. He saw no wheels or gears. How did the clever creation work? Stepping onto a stair as soon as it peeked out, he rode it to the top, immediately turned and rode the stairs down. Like a child with a new puppy, a broad smile burst from him.

After a couple of repetitions, a stern faced man in a brown shirt with a metal badge on his

pocket and a round, brown cap approached.

“What are you doing?”

“I am riding the es-ca-la-tor. Did you not see?”

“I don’t care for your sarcasm.”