Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (14 page)

flowers he managed to hold onto up to show Alex. “I thought I traveled the same path when I

went to return to the trailer. Obviously, I had not. I’ve been trying to find my way since.”

“I can see in the wet grass where you walked from the driveway border. You almost had

it correct. You veered too far to the right is all.”

He grasped Stephen by the arm and the two stopped. “Why didn’t you come to the

cottage? You haven’t had time to adjust to the immediate area. Let Shakira and I help you for a little while anyway.”

Stephen jerked his arm from Alex’s hold. “I will not run to you every time I wish to go

more than a few strides from the trailer.”

“Your pride can get you hurt as is evidenced by the truck incident.”

“Leave off the subject. Tell me, where is the trailer in relation to where we are?”

“Straight ahead.”

“How far?”

“Thirty paces. At twenty-eight, the ramp is on your right. Let’s walk together.”

“I’ll be fine. You needn’t attend to me.” Stephen counted the strides in his head.

“I’m not attending to you. I’m going back to my now cold fried eggs and tomatoes, which

happen to be in the same direction.”

Stephen’s stomach growled at the mention of breakfast. He’d have to hurry and fix

something if he wanted to eat before Esme arrived.

#

Esme knocked as he dropped the second slice of bread in a trash container under his sink.

“Dreadful device,” he mumbled and went to the door.

“Hi,” she said, sounding chipper.

“Hello, to you. Please, welcome.” He moved aside for her to enter.

A paper bag she carried in her right arm brushed his arm when she passed. She left a trail

of floral scented air that reminded him of a garden after a summer rain. He closed the door and followed as she set whatever she carried onto the dining table.

“Have you eaten this morning,” she asked and touched her palm to his chest. Was the

gesture for him alone or was the intimate touch common to ladies in this time?

“No. I made an attempt at heating some bread and jam but the microwave made my fresh

bread stale.”

She moved her hand, leaving a cool prickle of loss in its wake

“Do you like crispy bread that isn’t stale?”

He shrugged. “I like a crispy crust.”

“I’ll show you how to make a slice of bread crispy while it remains fresh.”

She had him feel a metal machine with two long holes in the top she called a toaster. “Put

a slice or two of bread in the holes, push this lever down and wait. When the bread is ready, it will pop up. Do not, under any circumstances, stick a fork or knife or metal utensil into the holes.

Don’t stick your fingers in either.”

She searched the cupboards, found what she wanted and set it down.

He ran his hand along the counter top and discovered she’d taken out cups.

“I’ll make a pot of coffee,” she said and began running water.

His mouth watered as the smell of the bread cooking grew strong. “Is the bread not close

to ready?”

“Be patient. It’s almost done.”

Stephen took a spoon from the drawer where he’d found the knife. Jam jar in hand, he

leaned against the counter’s edge. He dug in, filled the spoon and ate the sweet strawberry jam, then dipped the spoon in again for more.

“Stephen. Really?” She made a disapproving sucky noise. “I suggest you not do that in

front of anyone else.”

“What?”

A sound like a sprung trap came from the toaster.

“Your toast is ready,” Esme said.

She shifted as she spoke and a whiff of her perfume teased his nose then drifted away.

He swallowed the jam on the spoon and dipped into the jar for another to add a dollop to

his bread.

“Don’t do that.” She patted his forearm. Clearly, she liked touching him.

“What?”

“You ate a bite of jam and then stuck the spoon you licked off of into the jar again. No one

wants to eat jam if they’ve seen you stirring it with a spit covered spoon.” She placed the toast in his free hand. “Here.”

He rapped the slice of bread on the counter. “You said I’d get my crispy crust. This

toaster’s ruined the bread worse than the microwave. It’s all dry crumbles.”

“Trust me, when I’m finished you’ll like the bread.”

She snatched the slice from his hand. Another whiff of her scent wafted up with her

movement. Perhaps she’d dabbed her neck or even her hair with it. He imagined her hair

glistened in the sun. If he curled a lock around his finger, would she object? It’d be worth the risk to feel the silkiness on his skin.

“What is the perfume you wear?”

“L’air du Temps. It means—”

“The air of time.”

“You speak French.”

“Yes. You sound surprised. Because I do not know my letters doesn’t mean I cannot

learn a language other than the one spoken to me daily. I spent many months on two campaigns

with our army in France. ‘Tis wise to know what the people of your enemy are saying.”

“Shakira told me you couldn’t read but I never thought for a minute that your inability

meant you weren’t clever.” She gave his hand a light squeeze. Her hand was warm and soft as a

pansy bloom. How he’d love to know the touch of her lips was as well.

Maybe a kiss was possible. “Does your husband take offense that you’re spending your

days with another man?”

“I’m not married.”

Pleasant news. One question down, one to go. “Are you affianced?”

“Aff...what? Say it again.”

“Affianced. Are you betrothed?”

“No. Toast is almost done,” she said.

By the scraping sound against the toast, she was slathering it in butter. Good. He liked lots

of butter on his bread. Earlier, he’d found the butter on a dish in the refrigerator and set it out to soften. He failed to see why anyone wanted it cold and hard.

“Jam jar, please,” Esme said.

He handed it over to her with the spoon still inside.

Esme stepped to the sink and then back to where she was fixing his toast. “I put the spoon

in the sink. Hand me the knife or have you been licking it too?”

“No.” He gave her the knife handle first. “Why does it trouble you so much, my licking my

own cutlery?”

“Our mouths are filled with germs. Germs carry disease. People don’t know if you’re

carrying some illness,” she explained.

“Like the plague?”

“Along those lines, yes, although not the plague in this part of the world, but other

diseases.”

Their concern was understandable. Back in his time, the Black Death devastated England

eight years past, in 1348. No one at Elysian Fields had been struck down. While the plague raged, the baron, Guy’s father, ordered the holding closed to all outside the gates. Supplies were rationed until messengers from the king’s household arrived and announced the danger was over.

But he carried no disease or the hospital would’ve told him. Esme had naught to fear.

He’d dare to show her.

“I have something in my eye. Look, please. Tell me if you see a speck of dust or dirt,” he

said, pulling at the corner.

Esme leaned close and put her palm to his cheek to turn his face where she could check

with ease.

“I don’t see anything.”

When she spoke he knew where her mouth was to his. He dipped his head and captured

her lips for a kiss. His hands found the curve of her waist with ease and closed on the graceful bend.

The moment her palm touched his chest with gentle but firm feminine pressure, he broke

the kiss and straightened. Had he misread her touches? It would seem so.

“Now that our lips have met, you have no reason to fuss over my putting my jammy spoon

back in the jar.”

“I trusted you didn’t have a disease.”

But you do have a beast’s face
. Mentally finishing for her, he traced the roughest of his scars with a finger. “Worry not. I shan’t press the issue again without your acquiescence.”

She moved his fingers away from the scars. “You need to understand, I can’t do anything

unprofessional. I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“I won’t jeopardize your position but neither will I apologize for a sweeter than honey

stolen kiss.”

“Sweeter than honey, listen to you. Aren’t you a smoothie?”

“Smoothie?”

“I think you can figure the meaning out. It was a lovely kiss though, however brief.”

He heard a smile in her voice and wondered if it was truly because of the kiss, or a polite

kindness. He smiled and bobbed his head once. In spite of the slim odds, he hoped for the former and not the latter. “You flatter me.”

His empty stomach growled in protest and he tore off a bite of the toast, only to spit it into

his palm. “Ugh, jam or no, ‘tis no better than the stalest of bread. Why would a body possess a device,” he pointed to where he knew the toaster sat, “that ruins good, fresh bread? They call me mad, but that’s true madness.”

“I swear to you, toast is hugely popular,” she told him and wiped a cloth across his palm.”

Hungrier now after smelling the bread as it cooked in the toaster, he let out a loud,

frustrated sigh. “I just wanted some bread and jam for breakfast. A mite of food to tide me over.”

“Sit at the table, and I will fix you something.”

He heard her open the refrigerator and move items around and then close it.

“You good with scrambled eggs and bacon?”

“Yes, but don’t forget the real bread, and butter, and jam.” She wasn’t expected to cook

but since she offered, why argue the point?

#

They finished breakfast and spent the next four hours discussing the English and French

political issues that led to war.
The Hundred Years War
, as Esme said it was termed.

“I’m impressed with your knowledge of the English campaign leading up to the battle of

Poitiers,” she said.

“I merely repeat what I experienced.”

“Yes,” she dragged the word out in a soft tone, adding, “of course. Are there any specific

questions you want to ask regarding the period after Poitiers?”

“Edward of Woodstock, I’d like to know if he made a good king. I always respected him

and thought he’d be a fine monarch, when the day came.”

Short seconds passed in silence and then she asked, “Were you close?”

“Close enough to call him friend.”

“He never reigned. He died before his father.”

“In battle? Was it at Poitiers?”

“No, he died in June of 1376. From his symptoms, its most commonly believed he finally

succumbed to the disease of dysentery.”

“The disease can take a terrible toll on an army during a campaign.” Such a base way for

any man to die but was especially unbefitting the prince. “Given a choice, he’d have chosen battle, gone to his death fighting.”

He pushed away from the table. “I need some air.”

He didn’t bother with his cane but felt his way to the door and went out to the small

landing at the top of the ramp. He held onto the landing’s railing, closed his eyes and thought about what Esme told him—how Poitiers was a great victory for the English. She spoke of the capture

of the French king and the dauphin, his son, of how a Te Deum was sung praising God for his

blessing on the English Army. The Poitiers she talked of bore small resemblance to the battle he fought, where glory played no part. Every stride toward the enemy Arthur took, every clash of

swords, every action within the chaos, he remembered. The sum total of his presence there were

bits and pieces of a strange dream branded on his memory.

Sweet air surrounded him and he opened his eyes. The apple harvest was no doubt over, if

the season compared to his day. But the fruit trees pleasant scent lingered and he breathed it in, letting it cleanse his sadness away. A minute later, he returned. “I’m done with history for the day. I wish to move about.”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

The outside world hadn’t been too kind to him, so far. He instinctively touched his fingers

to the tender bruise on his back from his fall in the hospital garden. Not to mention the effort to obtain flowers that morning nearly got him crushed by a truck. To not go was to admit defeat.

Besides, an invitation for a walk in the fresh air tempted him too much to resist.

“I’ll get my cane.”

“Yesterday, I noticed a small road with no traffic that looks like it originates from Alex and

Shakira’s. I’m not too familiar with this area, but I believe it may be a back road to the village.

Shall we see where it leads?” Esme asked.

“Lead away, milady.”

Outside, she looped her arm through his as he stepped from the ramp. In the past, he’d

strolled arm-in-arm with ladies he wished to gain a kiss from. They’d peer up at him through their lashes to grant him a flirty smile. That couldn’t be Esme’s intention.

Stephen stiffened. “Do you clutch me to save me from falling?”

She pulled her arm from his. “I thought to offer a little guidance, help you head in the right

direction. And, I was concerned you might trip and fall.”

“Then fall I must if I’m to learn to function without constant aid.”

“It’s not a crime to get help once in a while. If the situation was one where you had your

sight and we went for a walk, you’d have offered your arm to me.” She looped her arm through

his. “We’re going to walk arm-in-arm. End of argument.”

It was slow going. If he had a longer cane, he’d clear a wider path and move a bit faster.

They walked along the side of the country road for about five minutes when Esme said,

“Ooh, what a fancy stable. The sign says Elysian Fields. Interesting name choice for a stable,

don’t you think?”

“It’s Alex’s. The name has special meaning for him. Plus, he told me he owns a great