Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (13 page)

The man’s eyes dropped to Marchand’s pants then lifted to the faded shirt before settling

back onto his face. Such disdain in the man’s expression. Marchand thought about the times he’d looked upon a beggar at his gate the same way before ordering the cook to give the wretch scraps from his table.

“Are you sure you have the right store?” the man asked.

“I have coin.”

“Then either shop or leave.”

In the “men’s department,” he changed into new clothes and hurried to finish choosing

more. Twice he ventured a glance at the statues painted to look alive. Their dead eyes chilled his soul.

The young fellow who assisted him suggested he buy shoes. According to the man, his

boots were a little “too Renaissance Faire” for the street and most “babes.”

“Babes?” What would infants know of boots?

“You know—babes, chicks, ladies.”

What a baffling comparison. If women were called babes, what were infants called? Sure

the answer would baffle him further, he let the question go and headed for the “shoe department.”

In his old world, Marchand never had a lady comment on his boots. Based on the young man’s

advice, he purchased a pair of
Nike
trainers
, which were the strangest shoes he’d ever seen but comfortable.

He left wearing the new clothes and shoes. He threw out the donation clothes Sister

Catherine gave him but kept his boots. If he ever got back to his own time, he’d need them.

Across the street from the Galeries Lafayette was a building called Champs Vert where

someone had placed chairs and tables outside. Men and women sat under colorful circular

canopies that attached to the tables. Servants came and went with plates of food and carafes of wine for the guests seated at the tables.

Hidden in the shade of a tree, he leaned against the trunk and wondered how to get

invited. He didn’t have to wonder long. “Ah, this is good,” he said as excitement shot through him.

The guests who rose to leave left euros for the servants.

First food then he’d find an inn that took euros. Mindful of the cars that sped past, he

waited for a break in the flow and dashed across the road.

An attractive woman sat him at one of the outdoor tables, handed him a stiff card with the

fare they offered printed on it, and left. Many of the dishes were unknown to him. He knew eggs, cheese, bread, lamb’s brains, beef tongue, and a few others. Sister Catherine served breakfast

with a warm chocolate drink each morning when he came to labor for her. The chocolate drink

was new to him and tasted like heaven in a cup. He requested a chocolate drink when a different servant came to the table. He hadn’t decided on what fare yet and looked to see what others at

nearby tables ate.

“Pardon, what is this you eat?” He pointed to the plate of the man at the table next to him.

“A croque madame.”

“You think me a woman? What is wrong with you? Are you blind?”

“I didn’t call you a woman. You asked about my sandwich. It’s called a croque madame.

Wow, a French guy who doesn’t know his own food.”

The man had an accent that was neither French nor English. “Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

Marchand never heard of the place. He wanted to question him more but worried he’d get

asked something he couldn’t answer.

“I’ll have the croque madame,” he told the servant when she brought his chocolate.

The croque madame was two slices of bread with ham and cheese stuffed between and

fried with a fried egg on top. Marchand took a bite and found it tasty. If he dipped the rest in his drink, it would be even better. So, he dipped each bite into the warm chocolate.

After he ate, he walked to the inn the servant called a B&B. With no grasp how long his

euros would last, he thought an inn that included a meal with the bed a good choice. Next to the B&B was a shop with a sign hung out that displayed a green cross called a pharmacy. The

Knights Templar bore a red cross on their white tunics and banners. The Knights Hospitaller bore a white cross on their black surcoats. What brotherhood bore a green cross?

The shop did not appear to be affiliated with any religious order. Other than the green

cross, nothing holy was displayed. On shelves, behind glass windows in the front were boxes,

bottles, and brushes attached to very short metal poles. The brush implements had cords like many things he’d seen at the abbey. The boxes had the faces of folks touching their heads as though in pain or some showed people sneezing. Picture boxes weren’t new, he’d seen them at the abbey.

Then it made sense to him. He recognized what manner of place this was. An apothecary,

he thought with a smile. Curious how it differed from those in the village close to his Norman

home, he went inside.

Everywhere shelves held more boxes and bottles, oddities all around. Marchand scratched

at his cheek. His beard itched even after he soaped and rinsed it in the abbey bathroom. It also grew in radish red instead of blond like the hair on his head and the rest of his body. Worse, it grew in tufts. During the campaign, he used his squire’s dagger. He’d have shaved days ago here but didn’t want to use his eating dagger.

“I want to shave,” he told the white-coated keeper of the apothecary.

The shopkeeper pointed to a shelf where the strangest looking wrapped razors hung on

hooks. Marchand removed one and studied the small razor inside. The blade appeared thin and

sharp.

On the stand next to the razors were cans of something called shave cream.

“What is this?” he asked the shopkeeper.

“Foam to help make shaving easier. What else?”

Marchand turned the can over and over searching for the means to get the cream out of

the spout. Once he figured out how, he waited. When the shopkeeper was busy elsewhere, he

popped the flimsy cap off a can and pressed down on the soft top.

Foam shot from the can onto other cans and dripped down over the shelves below. “Oh

no.”

“What are you doing? You must buy that now.” The shopkeeper rushed over with paper

rags and began to wipe up the mess.

“Yes, of course.” Marchand pulled the wad of euros from his front pocket. He twisted

enough to shield the bundle from the shopkeeper’s eyes and asked, “how much for both razor and

the can of cream?”

“Eight euros and you are not to come back. Make your next mess at the pharmacy down

the road.”

Marchand counted out exactly eight, a five euro piece of paper and three one euro coins.

The coins excited him when he first received them. They appeared to be a combination of gold

and silver. To his disappointment, Patel explained they contained less valuable metals.

The shopkeeper finished cleaning and yanked the money from Marchand’s hand.

In the distance, came the deafening hi-low howl like that of the iron-clad car that took the

Englishman away.

The cursed Englishman. If he wasn’t dead already, and if Marchand could find him, a way

to return home might be forced from the man. Perhaps he could buy the knight’s freedom and

then take him to the spot the nightmare occurred.

“A question.”

“Ask and then you must go,” the shopkeeper said.

“That howl, what’s the purpose?”

“To warn traffic out of the way of an oncoming ambulance.”

“Ambulance?”

“You are a loon.” He tapped the side of his head. “Crackers.”

“Please, excuse my ignorance, but tell me what the ambulance is.”

“It’s an emergency vehicle to take people to the hospital.”

Marchand knew a little about hospitals. They treated the sick and were in monasteries.

The king spoke of two, one in Montpellier and another in Tonnerre.

“Where is the nearest one?”

“The Centre Hospitalier du l’Universite de Poitiers is a kilometer south. Now be gone,”

the shopkeeper said and flipped his fingers in a shooing motion.

Marchand stepped out onto the sidewalk and walked south. They’d taken the Englishman

to a hospital. Good. It should be easy to buy access to the man or perhaps free him. Free him and bring him back to the spot this time nightmare began and force the devil’s knight to reverse what he’s done.

Chapter Thirteen

Stephen woke to the warm sunlight on his chest and arms. He rolled over and sat up,

stretched, rubbed his face and scratched his balls with a grunt of satisfaction. He’d slept well, better than in the hospital.

A handful of knights he knew disliked the racket of day-to-day life. For Stephen, the

unnatural quiet within the trailer had an eerie, solitary sensibility. Only the cheerful sound of small birds broke the silence. He stood, felt his way to the window, and opened it to the comfortable familiarity of their singing.

The animal medley ceased.

“Don’t stop on my account. Your song pleases me.”

He recalled little of life in his father’s home, snatches of memories, faces and moments he

couldn’t fix a purpose to. From the time of his father’s death until he went to the hospital, he’d never slept in a room alone. As a young boy, Guy’s father put him in the small barracks with

Elysian Fields other squires. Once he became a knight, he slept in the large barracks. Whether it was snoring, belching, bawdy talk, the rattle of weapons and armor being put on or taken off, or just the comings and goings of men, noise was always present. In the hospital, although he was

alone, the constant chatter from the nurses carried to his room.

The quiet around the trailer continued. The songbirds waited for him to leave. “All right,

I’ll go.” He dragged his hand along the wall and made his way to the bathroom.

Before he left for his cottage the night before, Alex had reminded him to be diligent with

his ablutions—
shower and clean your teeth each morning.

“You need but tell me once,” Stephen had replied.

The foaming toothpaste still disturbed him, but he used it as instructed. The shower was

different, he enjoyed the experience and looked forward to it.

He ran the water until the warmth of steam filled the bathroom. After adjusting the water

temperature, he climbed inside. He turned the head to a hard spray to let the hot water beat on his back and shoulders. When the water started to cool, he soaped himself and quickly rinsed off.

Except for the jacket, he played it safe and put the same clothes on that he wore the

previous night.

Like most castle folk, he rose with the sunrise at home. He imagined he’d risen early

today too, but with no way to tell the sun’s position, he wasn’t certain. Nor had he a candle-clock that marked the hours in wax and he could count the notches.

“How am I supposed to know the time?”

He didn’t want to run to Alex’s with every issue. Stephen thought how he might ascertain

the approximate hour on his own.

Dew.

He grabbed his cane and stepped from his quarters, down the ramp, to the lawn. Kneeling,

he checked the wetness of the morning dew on the grass. The blades were still heavy with the

damp.

“Good. Plenty of time to eat.”

He pivoted and started back the four strides to the ramp, then stopped. The day before

Shakira had said flowers bordered the driveway. She’d mentioned it to warn him of the decorative edge and to be careful not to trip. She never said what kind of flowers but he didn’t think it

mattered. Ladies liked them. A handful on the table would be a nice bit of cheer for Esme.

From the ramp, Stephen tapped his cane along the outside wall of the trailer. When he

reached the end, he tested with his cane for where the ground changed from grass to the hard

edge of the border. He concentrated on keeping his path straight and strode twenty paces to the flower bed.

On his hands and knees, he fingered the blooms trying to identify what she’d planted. The

small, round, velvety face was easy to recognize.

“Pansies, I’ll need a handful of you.”

He plucked a bunch and moved a few feet to find another batch. The next plants weren’t

pansies. From their scent, they might be Lily of the Valley. He pinched off several buds of those too, then stood and headed for the trailer.

At twenty paces, he switched the flowers to his right hand and his cane to his left and

tested for the trailer’s wall. Not there. Stephen didn’t doubt the number of paces he’d taken to reach the drive or that he returned on the same path. He moved several strides, back and forth in each direction, arcing wide with his cane, searching for the wall. Not there. Somehow, he’d gone astray, which shouldn’t have happened. He’d been so careful.

Then, his cane struck a hard surface. Not the drive. The drive was gravel. As he bent to

touch it, a loud, unpleasant bellow sounded. A shameful cry escaped him. His cane fell from his hand as he shot up, stumbling as a steel carriage passed close, whipping his hair.

Heart pounding, he swore aloud, “God’s teeth.” He listened for any other approaching

cars. Nothing came from either direction. He eased back toward the spot he’d been when he lost

his cane and knelt. The surface felt the same as the pavement at the airport. To his relief, his cane lay within reach. He stood, turned around, and tapped the short pace to the unpaved surface

again.

“Stephen, what are you doing out here by the road?” Alex called out.

Stephen let out a sigh of relief and waited for Alex to join him.

“I saw you from my kitchen window. That truck nearly hit you.”

“Truck?”

“It’s like the car that took us to the airport only much larger as it carries cargo. Back to

my question, what are you doing?”

“I picked these flowers to set on the table. I wished to please Esme.” Stephen brought the