Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (19 page)

Tony parked near to the trailer. Stephen reached his car easily and ran his hand along the frame to the driver’s window, which was up. He rapped his knuckles hard on the glass. “Roll the window

down. I would have words with you.”

There was short whir and Tony said, “Hi, you must be Stephen. The man Esme is

tutoring.”

“I am. Leave off talk about me. I’m here to speak to you.”

“Me? About what?”

“Your manners. Using your horn to signal for Esme to join you is unacceptable. You care

about her. You wish her company. Then show it. Next time, I insist you come to the door.”

“Stephen please, let it go,” Esme groaned out.

Tony chuckled. “Yeah, I know where this is coming from. She told me you had a weird

breakdown and think you’re some kind of medieval knight. Bottom line Stephen, I’m in the real

world. Esme doesn’t mind me honking. Why should you?”

Esme told him as much but she was wrong. She should care. “The better question is: why

don’t you care enough to treat her as a cherished lady rather than cargo?”

“You’re out of line nutter.” Tony sighed and said, “Look, I’m not interested in fighting with

a crip so you need to back off.”

Crip
...Stephen suspected he knew what was meant by the word but asked, just to be

certain, “Crip?”

“Yeah, as in cripple. I’m not beating up a blind guy, but you’re pushing the issue, and I

don’t know why. I guess you figure you can say anything you want because you’re blind.”

“Tony...” Esme said.

“What? He’s giving me an earful about something that not only doesn’t concern him, but

we don’t have a problem with.”

“Stephen, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Esme said, and a car door opened then slammed shut.

“Get out of the car,” Stephen said. “I’m blind, but I’m not a coward to hide behind my

disadvantage. Get out of the car.”

“Listen, fuckwit—”

“Pull away now, Tony,” Esme ordered. “Now.”

“Fucking nutball,” Tony said loud out the window as the car started toward the drive.

Stephen stood there until he couldn’t hear the car anymore. The lout was right. Once he

was a force to be reckoned with, now he couldn’t hold his own in a fight.

“Knave.” He spit on the ground like he used to when drawn into a fight. Whatever it took,

no one would ever think him a defenseless cripple again. Somehow, some way, he’d be strong in a new way, a way that didn’t require sight. Before her tutoring job ended, he’d challenge Tony.

“I’ll make it my mission to see you lose. She deserves better,” he said and returned to the

trailer.

Chapter Seventeen

Poitiers, France

“You’re speaking of Stephen Palmer,” the nurse at the desk said. She clicked lettered

buttons on a board while reading a screen that looked like Sister Catherine’s television.

“He’s an Englishman who suffered a serious injury to the eye area and wore armor,”

Marchand said.

“Yes, I know who you’re talking about. According to our records, he was discharged two

days ago.”

“Discharged? You mean he’s gone. How can this be with such a wound?” When the men

carried him off the field, Marchand thought the English knight knocked at death’s door.

“Patient privacy prevents me from discussing his treatment or injuries. I can only tell you

that he was released into the care of an Alex Lancaster and an Ian Cherlein. Family friends it

says here.”

Marchand’s worst suspicions surfaced. “Were they English too?”

“I don’t know.”

“I was on duty when the men came for Mr. Palmer,” another nurse said as she

approached the desk. “They were English.”

“You must get Palmer back. It’s urgent,” Marchand told them.

“We don’t want him back,” the second nurse said.

Marchand slammed his fist on the desk. “I insist. He and his friends are in league with the

devil. They possess dangerous secrets.”

The second nurse’s eyes widened and she pressed a button on the wall.

“You need to calm down. Security is on the way,” the desk nurse said and stood, putting

more space between him and her.

“I tell you they know secrets of time. They move through it at will. This ability has stolen a

great victory from us. I demand you go after Palmer.”

Two beefy men dressed in similar blue clothing came around the corner. One rested his

hand on a club attached to a ring on his belt. The second man had a club attached to a ring also but kept his hands free. Both nurses pointed at Marchand.

“He’s crazy. He thinks a patient who was here earlier in the week is possessed by the

devil and is demanding we do something about it,” the first nurse said.

The second man moved next to Marchand and grasped his arm. “Come along nice and

quiet while we escort you to the door.”

Marchand yanked out of the hold and stepped away. “Do not touch me with your filthy

hands. I am the Comte D’Honfleur.”

The first man slid the club from its holder. “What is it with these lunatics? They’re always

a duke or a count or Napoleon. They’re never simply Pierre, chimney sweep.”

“You can cooperate and come with us. Or, we can call more men and you’ll end up in the

psyche ward bruised and sore,” the second man said and fingered a smallish black box with a cord affixed to the end that hung on his collar.

Marchand’s strength was well known to many in his province. He eyed the men the

nurses referred to as security. They could be beaten. They’d get a few good hits in but lose the fight. The threat of others arriving to their aid gave him pause. To know how many enemies you

face is excellent information to have. Conversely, not knowing could have drastic results.

“I will go. But you are all warned.” Marchand swept the air with his finger. “I tell you the

truth when I say the English are enslaved to Satan and possess his tricks.”

“I hate when you loonies bring the devil into your ramblings,” the man with the club said.

Marchand watched him out of the corner of his eye as the three of them walked to the

door. God had let him see the power the devil and his minions possess. What fools not to listen.

“Don’t come back,” the first man said and slid his club back into the ring holder.

When Marchand reached the end of the walkway that led to what people referred to as a

carpark, he turned and looked over his shoulder. The two men stood behind the glass doors

watching him. The one who threatened to call more security flapped his hand back and forth, as

though Marchand were a troublesome fly.

“Scum,” Marchand said aloud, making a show of how he mouthed the words in hopes they

read his lips.

He started on his way to town, thoughts of the evil power in the hands of the English on

his mind. Perhaps a measure of good might come from it. If he found out where the knight was

taken, somewhere in England, Marchand assumed, he’d force him back to the battlefield. Once

there, he’d compel the knight to work his magic to return them to their true time. He’d convince the king to retreat from the site of defeat, regroup, and fight on another day, in another place.

Victory would once again be France’s. A terrible possibility crept into his thoughts. What if it was too late? What if the battle here, near Poitiers, was a decisive one? He shook his head as he

walked. How could this place be so important?

#

Marchand wanted to sit with a glass of wine and consider how he might discover the

whereabouts of the Englishman, Stephen Palmer.

Down the street from the Champs Vert, where he ate lunch, was another inn called Vue

Sur Le Lac. Bright canopies covered their tables too. In a mood to try a different place, he went there. He sat at an outdoor table, ordered a demi-carafe of red wine and wondered briefly at the inn’s odd name as the place had no view of a lake. La Torchaise, the small lake closest to the city, was two leagues away.

His thoughts returned to Palmer. How did Lancaster and Cherlein know to find him at the

hospital? The answer came to him on the tail end of the question. The devil knew and sent the

other two to fetch Palmer. Satan’s magic had healed him enough to allow him the strength to

travel. But with that kind of power available to the English, why send men to remove him? Why

not move Palmer through the air like an evil spirit? That answer came on swift wings to Marchand too. Once a favorite of God’s with the wealth of heaven’s knowledge and now turned to fallen

angel, the devil remained a cunning creature. For his own protection, perhaps the devil limits the powers of those who do his bidding. Makes sense, Marchand thought. It’s what he’d do.

An older, gray-haired man in a long, white apron brought the wine and set it on the table

with a goblet then left. By the time Marchand finished the wine, the canopies over the tables cast long shadows. Unsure how much time passed, he estimated it was around late afternoon. If he

had a wrist clock, he’d know. The server left a paper with numbers scribbled on it, which

Marchand knew from dining earlier was the amount he owed. He held his hands under the table,

looking up twice to see if anyone watched, and counted out the exact amount of euros demanded.

He glanced around at the nearby tables then placed the coins and paper currency on the tray and left.

At the entrance to the bistro, he waited a moment to see if someone stole the money.

Twice today he’d been called names that indicated he was touched in the head. After such insults, he was in no mood to tolerate a thief. If anyone other than the old man who brought the wine

snatched the tray, there’d be trouble. When no one showed interest in the money, he continued on, desiring to walk around the area.

He stopped and entered a shop that displayed wrist clocks. He looked at several inside the

glass box. A few caught his eye.

“May I show you a watch?” the shopkeeper asked as he scurried from the other side of

the room.

A watch.
Strange name, wrist clock sounded more suitable to him.
“Yes. I prefer one with a quality leather band, like that,” Marchand told him, pointing out the one that interested him.

The shopkeeper removed the one Marchand chose. With his thick wrist, he could only use

the first hole, but the band fit. Marchand paid and wore it out of the store.

He stood in the passageway of the building staring at the tiniest of metal strands moving

across the numbers.
A second hand
the shopkeeper called it. What an amazing thing, to break up a minute in this way.

Words of challenge exchanged and the sound of shuffling feet drew his interest from the

watch. The ring of metal against metal came from a chamber above the shop. Swordplay.

“Finally, something I know.” He smiled and climbed the stairs.

He followed the sounds to a room at the end of the corridor. A plaque outside the door

read,
Classes de Sabres
. He stood inside the open doorway, curiously watching the lesson. The swords used were not like any he’d ever seen. They were thin-bladed and the pretty, basket-shaped hilts suited more for a woman and not as practical as his heavy steel hilt. And of what use were the strange wired masks the swordsmen wore instead of the better protection of a helm?

The man nearest who’d offered another verbal challenge to another defending himself

stopped and turned to Marchand.

“Can I help you? Are you interested in fencing lessons?”

“Fencing?” Marchand smirked. “Is that what you call this toying with girlish swords?”

“Fencing is a sport of skill and artful tactics. Nor are sabers girlish. How dare you insult us and the sport with your degrading comments,” the man who’d been on the defense said as he

joined the other.

They both pushed their masks up and the first man said, “I suppose you think you can do

better?” The fool made a poor attempt at intimidation. He brought the saber parallel to his head splitting the air as he whipped it down.

Marchand didn’t flinch. “Your footwork is good,” he told the first man. “Yours is

satisfactory,” he told the defender who blushed pink.

“En garde? The announcing of your intent is unacceptable as it is silly. Touche? More

babble. And these sabers,” Marchand tipped his chin at the man’s hand. “Are sillier yet. As for lessons, I am happy to show you how to handle a real sword, a merciless one.”

“Are you?” The first man made a rude fart sound with his lips.

The second man took several steps back. “Don’t encourage him,” he said eyeing

Marchand. “His opinion means nothing.”

“Are you with me or not? This is a matter of pride,” the first man said to the second.

The second man looked Marchand up and down, making no effort to hide how boring he

found Marchand’s challenge. “Yes, all right. I’m with you,” he said at last.

“Where is this fearsome sword,” the first man asked Marchand in a disdainful tone.”

“Stored at Noialles Abbey. It will take me an hour to walk there and back. Will you be

here when I return or do you plan to run?”

“Walk? Take a taxi or do you hope we’ll leave so you don’t need to prove your alleged

skill?”

“Taxi? Is it like a car?”

“Yes. Are you from Mars? How do you not know a taxi?”

“Where is one found?”

“End of the block under the sign that says, ‘taxi stand’ imbecile.”

He didn’t care for the sound of the word imbecile and suspected this man too thought him

touched in the head. He’d rather show his superior sword work than waste words on getting the

man to apologize for the insult.

“Wait. I’ll return shortly.” Marchand turned to go and then turned back. “Would either of