Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (17 page)

where he was and didn’t get startled. “We’re going to do fine today, aren’t we boy?”

The horse nickered in agreement.

Stephen snapped his cane closed and handed it to Owen. “Would you mind putting this

somewhere for me until I return?”

“Certainly, I’ll have it in my office.”

Stephen trailed his hand from the horse’s hip point over his back to the saddle’s cantle. He

didn’t attempt to mount yet. Instead, he talked to the horse about Arthur, as he continued to

withers and shoulders, then finally finished by petting the animal’s muzzle.

“What’s his name? He is a he, yes? You understand I don’t wish to learn his sex by feel,”

Stephen said as a joke.

“Vidar.”

“Do you know who Vidar is?” Esme asked in a perky tone. “No hints, Owen.”

“No, should I?” Stephen asked.

“All right, one hint. Think of Alex’s horse’s name.”

“Thor,” he absently stroked Vidar’s neck as he pondered the connection. “I give up.”

“In Norse myth, Vidar is the silent son of Odin and Gridr, and half-brother to Thor.”

“Ah, a tough Viking God, I like it.” Stephen tested the stirrup straps, lengthened them, and

then mounted with ease. “Owen, I’m not sure of the exact location of Alex’s cottage and the

stable but I grew up in this area. If it still exists, there is an old Roman road near here. Once on the road, I’ll have a better sense of where I am.”

“It still exists. That’s a good road for riding. There aren’t many cars to worry about, it’s

mostly farmers on tractors. Miss Crippen, just ahead at the edge of the woods starts a well-

traveled path. Vidar and Monty are familiar with it. As you come out the other side, the path will intersect with the Roman Road.”

“How far down is that section from Hailes Abbey?” Stephen asked.

“Hailes Abbey? Goodness, the old abbey’s been nothing but a ruin for centuries now sir,”

Owen said.

“The abbey is gone?” The news sliced into him. First learning Elysian Fields was no more,

now, the abbey too was gone. Did nothing stand from his time?

“Where’s the abbey’s ruin on that road?” Stephen asked.

“To the right, about fifteen minutes at a nice, steady canter.”

Stephen nodded. “Thank you. He turned to where Esme sat on his right. “Shall we?”

“I’m ready.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Owen called after them as they trotted away.

As they entered the woods, Esme asked, “Why all the interest in a crumbled abbey?”

“I wish to visit the place where Elysian Fields stood. I can get my bearings from knowing

the location of the abbey.”

“Elysian Fields? I know you said the name
was special to Alex, but Elysian Fields, the place, is mythological. How do you plan to visit?”

The caution she didn’t bother to hide in her question alluded to his madness and pricked his

sore pride. Let her hear the truth.

“It was the Guiscard family’s holding. I understand the castle was destroyed during the

English Civil War, which is a mystery to me—the war that is.”

“I’ll tell you about it one day. You mentioned Guiscard. Isn’t that the family name of the

baron you said you served?”

“Yes, Elysian Fields was home to both of us.”

She asked him to tell her about the castle. He described the round Keep made of local

blonde stone. The holding included a small family chapel and a large stable of the same stone. The baron also kept sizeable vegetable and flower gardens, kennels and clean barracks. He knew

knights who couldn’t claim the last in the holdings where they lived.

Vidar stayed steady and kept an even pace. None of the forest sounds bothered him, nor

did he shy when asked to cross a wide stream.

“We’ve reached the old Roman road,” Stephen said, coming to a halt.

“Yes, but how did you know?”

“The breeze blows stronger without the shelter of the trees.” He nudged Vidar forward.

When Vidar’s hooves struck pavement, Stephen turned left. “We’ll be there soon,” he

said.

“I’m going to look up this Elysian Fields in some of my research books. If it had any

historical value, it’ll be listed somewhere,” Esme said.

“I don’t know what qualifies as historical value. It had great value to those of us who

called it home.”

“Guiscard sounds French, not English.”

“It was originally. Guy’s distant ancestor was Norman and came over with William the

Conqueror. Those knights who fought with him received—,”

“Saxon holdings as a reward,” Esme finished for him.

He looked in her direction and lifted a brow in mock curiosity. “Is milady of Saxon descent

perhaps?”

“I’ve no idea. Maybe. I know my family didn’t come over with the Normans or the

Norsemen. So maybe they were here already. What about you? Did your ancestors come over

with the Conqueror also?”

“Doubtful. I remember my uncle saying something about early Palmers settling in

Northumberland then migrating here to escape the marauding Scots.”

“Would you like me to research your heritage? I can.”

His heritage. Stephen thought it funny in a dark way that she’d offer to do that when he’d

rather she take an interest in researching Stephen Palmer, medieval knight who fought at Poitiers.

Though why there’d be a single word about him, a knight of no distinction in any chronicle, he

couldn’t imagine.

“Stephen? Would you like me to look into your family name?”

“No.” He had no heritage, only a life he enjoyed and was now lost.

He cued Vidar into a trot, and then into a canter. Wind from the Bristol Channel that

smelled of salt and the sea and felt like freedom blew over him. He tipped his face into it and filled his lungs.

“Stephen, I think this is a little fast for your first ride,” Esme yelled over the sound of the horse’s shod hooves striking the road.

“It’s not my ‘first’ ride,” he said in a loud voice. “Nor, am I afraid. Ride slower if you

wish, but I desire to get where I want without further delay.”

“Stephen, please, for me, just this one time, slow down.”

He reined Vidar back to a trot. “Just this once, milady.”

After a short distance, Stephen thought he heard other voices and halted Vidar to listen.

He’d heard right. Two men talked, not far from them.

“There are people in the woods. Did you hear?”

“Yes. There’s a ravine a short distance from here that’s part of a science project. Mr.

Lancaster gave the immediate area around it to a university professor and his students. That’s

probably who we’re hearing.”

“I know the ravine you speak of. There was once another road near to it that led to the

abbey.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

They didn’t go far before Esme said, “I think we’re here,”

Stephen slowed Vidar to a walk. “What do you see?”

“Ruins. Hunks of Cotswold stone lying here and there.”

Stephen halted Vidar and dismounted. “Help me find a good spot to tie the horses up.”

The leather creaked again as Esme dismounted. “Over here.” She took Stephen by the

hand and led him to a tree. The low-hanging branches brushed the top of his head. He tied Vidar loosely to the lowest of them. From the loud chomp, the horse had immediately started chewing

the bark off the tree’s trunk. Stephen plucked a leaf, crushed it between his fingers, and smelled the damp green. He inhaled the pleasant sweet scent of apple. Arthur loved to strip apple trees of both their fruit and their bark when they were beyond bearing decent fruit.

“I’ve tied Monty. Vidar’s munching a branch.”

“I know. This is an apple tree. Horses find them tasty.”

“Really? We both learned something today. Anyway, let me guide you around what’s left

of the holding.” She looped her arm through his and slowly they walked the grounds.

“Oh my, I think we found the family graveyard. I see some tumble-down headstones.

Let’s have a look.”

Stephen expected she’d deposit him on the ground while she explored, but she kept hold of

his arm as they walked through the cemetery.

“Wow, this is interesting,” she said.

“What?”

“Two headstones appear new. The rest are all knocked over, or moss covered, or

unreadable. But these are upright and the inscriptions are clear.”

“Read them to me.”

“The first says:
Charles Marion Guiscard died 1349,
Fortiter et Fideliter
. That last is Latin. I wonder what it means.”

“Charles was Guy’s father. Fortiter et Fideliter is the Guiscard motto. It means, Boldly and

Faithfully. What is the other headstone?”

“
Margaret
Anne Guiscard beloved wife of Charles and mother
of Guy and Madeline
died 1360
. Who would replace the old headstones of people who died almost seven-hundred years ago? It’s weird.”

“Not really. I am sure Alex had the headstones done.”

“Why?”

“Charles and Margaret were...” Stephen paused to think of a plausible reason.

“Were what?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he’s done one of those heritage searches you spoke of and found

out he’s related to this couple.”

“This cemetery was likely attached to the family chapel you spoke of, wouldn’t you

think?”

“I know it was.”

“The son of this couple is the man you believe you served. What happened to him? If Alex

is possibly related to the couple then he’s related to Guy and Madeline. I don’t see a new

headstone for either.”

“Guy died at Poitiers. He was killed trying to aide his friend, Basil Manneville. Madeline

lived with her husband in Somerset. I assume she’s buried in his family’s cemetery.”

Esme moved close, close enough for him to feel her warm breath on his neck. “Stephen,

how is it you know all these details about an obscure baron? I mean, there can’t be a ton of

material written about him or I’d have read something.”

“I cannot speak to what you should or should not remember of your readings.”

“Don’t deflect. I’m puzzled. You obviously read about Guy somewhere and remember

who these other people are. How is it you don’t remember your current life?”

He made no comment. No truth he spoke was believed or would help her be less baffled.

“You’ve no response?” She gave a heavy sigh of frustration with his silence. She took

both his hands in hers. “The memory of this life is buried deep inside you somewhere. I wish I

knew how to bring it forth.”

He pulled his hands away and cupped her cheek in his palm. “What you don’t grasp is that

there’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

Stephen bent to kiss her on the forehead and found her lips instead. She had turned enough

for him to have missed his mark. This time no hand pressed against his chest to stop him. He felt the hint of a quiver and a smile beneath his lips. He didn’t waste a second analyzing why Esme let him kiss her. She did, and that’s all that mattered.

From somewhere to the right came a loud quack followed by several tiny peeps. “I think

we’ve disturbed a mother duck and her ducklings,” Stephen said.

“We have,” she said. “Momma is leading her brood away toward an overgrown field.”

The field wasn’t always overgrown. Once it was the well-kept list, where he and all

Elysian Fields’ knights practiced jousting and exercises with their weapons. The hours spent there in comradeship were beyond his ability to count.

“Hmm. Oh wow, there’s another new headstone. It’s a flat in-ground one. I’m going to go

read it,” Esme said. She led him by the hand over the soft soil. The grave wasn’t far from Charles and Margaret’s.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“
Simon Harrow, born 1326 died 1375, Good friend and
courageous knight. Rest in

peace
. Considering the times, forty-nine years old is a fairly long life.”

“Simon.” At least his stout-hearted friend had survived Poitiers.

The still fresh memory of how he looked when Stephen last saw him came to mind. It was

the morning of the battle. They’d gone down to the river to water the horses. Stephen had teased Simon about his beard. Where Stephen preferred no beard, Simon was proud of his thick, ginger

one and kept it well trimmed at home, in England. As the campaign wore on, Simon’s beard went

unattended as foraging for food demanded more time. That morning, Stephen told him he looked

like a bear’s bastard offspring. They’d shared a hearty laugh and talked about the first thing they planned on doing upon returning home. Simon said he was going to avail himself of the innkeeper’s daughter’s bosomy charms. Had that come to pass? Stephen hoped so.

Thoughts of the battle raised more questions. Once the battle ended, Simon would have

searched for Stephen. What would he think when he couldn’t find his body? God willing, he found Arthur at least.

“You say the name like you’re familiar with him too. Do you believe you are?” Esme

asked.

“No.”

“I don’t believe you. You knew Guy’s parents and how he died. This person lived at the

same time frame and must’ve had a connection to Elysian Fields if he was buried on the grounds.

How can you not know anything about him?”

“What would you have me say?”

“The truth or what you believe is the truth.”

Not all lies are bad. Not all truths are good. He told countless lies in his life, but made an

effort to be honest most of the time. Right or wrong, the truth about him needed telling.

“He was my good friend.”

A denial of the possibility was what he expected but she said nothing at first. He didn’t

know what to think of her silence. Then she said, “Tell me about him. You say you came as a

young boy here. Were the two of you friends from childhood?”