Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (20 page)

you care to wager on my ability to defeat you in swordplay?”

The first man looked over to the other who shrugged and nodded. “If we are going to

engage him, why not make some money? “By all means, what do you wish to lose?” the second

man asked.

Concerned how many euros a taxi charged he said, “The cost of my taxi ride both ways.”

“Done.”

“One more question. What are your names? I like to know who I’ll be raining defeat

upon.”

“I’m Andre, and trouncing you is going to give me great pleasure,” the first man said.

“This is Christophe.” He gestured to the man next to him.

“My given name is Roger.” He turned and rushed down the stairs to the street, grinning all

the way to the taxi stand. At last, a place and chance to enjoy something from the life he knew, an opportunity to step back into his world.

Chapter Eighteen

When he returned to the fencing studio, the taxi driver refused to let Marchand out of his

sight and demanded immediate payment.

“How much do you require?”

“Fifteen euros, it’s right there on the meter,” the driver tapped a device with numbers

displayed.

Marchand kept the bundle of money low, next to his thigh where the driver couldn’t see.

He counted out fifteen euros and handed them over.

The driver twisted to look at him over his shoulder. “What, no tip?”

“Tip?”

“Yes,” the driver said, bobbing his head. “I got you to your destination in a timely manner

with no hassles. It is common to show your gratitude by adding an extra couple of euros.”

Marchand debated. He resented the driver’s attitude when asked to wait until the

challenge was won. His servants never exhibited such insolence, but the man spoke true. The ride went fast without trouble on the road and he’d get the money back from Andre and Christophe.

He pulled two euro coins from his pocket and dropped them into the driver’s outstretched palm.

In the studio, Andre and Christophe who sat drinking bottled water, stood and came

towards Marchand. “Show us this ‘manly’ sword of yours,” Andre said.

Marchand arched a brow. “Pardon?” Behind him, Christophe chuckled.

Andre’s cheeks flushed pink. “That didn’t come out right.”

“No, it didn’t.” Marchand removed Conquerant’s caparison, which he’d wrapped the

sword in for protection and laid it on the equipment table. “Gentlemen.”

He stepped to the side, allowing them room to handle the weapon. All swordsmen like to

feel the weight, test the balance, and invariably take some practice maneuvers.

“I’ve cleaned it, but as you see I haven’t had a chance to sharpen or polish the blade.”

“You practice with a medieval style sword.” Andre picked it up first. “Why? Doesn’t it

start to wear you out? This weighs what—one and a half kilos?”

Marchand nodded unsure what a kilo was but assumed Andre made a reasonable guess.

Andre made a show of moving it in a circle above his head, then lowered it to waist height

to take several slicing maneuvers.

“Now me,” Christophe said.

Unlike Andre, the first thing Christophe did was inspect the pommel. When Marchand

ordered the sword from the armourer, he’d insisted the pommel have a representation of his

family’s heraldic symbol. The armourer arranged for a jeweler to carve a miniature panther in

onyx and set the cat in a round of orange enamel. The cat and colors of the Comte D’Honfleur.

Below the crosspiece, he laid the blade’s blunt edge on his finger. “Good balance,” Andre

said and walked over to a practice dummy where he executed slashing and thrusting maneuvers.

“Are you both done?” Marchand asked. “If so, who wants to lose first?”

“Do you wish to wear a padded underarm vest?” Andre asked.

“No.”

“A mask at least?”

“No.”

Andre removed a metal cap from a wall cabinet and attached it to the tip of his saber. He

pulled his mask down, donned the soft, cuffed gloves, and took a position that looked like an

invitation to dance. “Ready.”

“You’re sure you don’t want gloves even?” Christophe frowned briefly. By his tight-lipped

expression, he appeared to find Marchand’s lack of equipment other than his sword

incomprehensible.

Marchand looked at his hardened palms. His gauntlets were for journeys or battles. He

saw no cause to bring them and chose to work barehanded. While a very young man just learning

swordsmanship, he’d earned painful blisters. After a time, as the other knights told him would

happen, the blisters turned to calluses and so they remained.

His late wife complained they were rough on her breasts and shunned Marchand’s early

efforts to rouse her passion with his touch. The young Captain of the Guard she’d lusted for had calloused hands. Would his touch have reaped the same offense? Had it? The captain denied any

liaison when confronted and dismissed. His wife kept silent. Where had the truth lay?

The intrusion of the memories distracted Marchand. Andre lunged but Marchand managed

to parry the strike. The power of his rapid, upward strike forced Andre to adjust his grip on the hilt. The subtle compensation would be missed by many opponents. Marchand prided himself on

quick observation and the ability to readjust his tactics.

Andre expected the follow through to come as a down strike, which was a natural

assumption. Trained to deliver an unanticipated counter strike when possible, Marchand turned his hand. The blow came at Andre in a sharp right angle. Andre displayed the same excellent

footwork he used with Christophe. How often the knight who’d instructed Marchand scolded him

for his graceless manner. His inelegant footwork didn’t slow him or affect his skill. With a twist of the wrist, Marchand now executed a powerful down stroke. At the same time, he advanced two

strides.

The other man’s quick responses with parries in answer to Marchand’s advances

exhibited long experience in swordplay. But he dueled by the rules of the master who instructed him and not the action of the moment. Rules had little place for Marchand. They served few in

battle, or in this case, where a wager was involved. He wanted the money. Again, he pushed

Andre back through sheer body force and with the flat of his blade, putting him on the defense. To his credit, Andre tried and failed to become the attacker.

Any advantage Andre might’ve had, he lost to tiredness. Marchand recognized the signs

as the other man’s arm dropped several times to a weaker position, and his breathing through the mask sounded more labored. Little by little, he retreated until one more step would put him against the wall. When he surrendered, Marchand nodded in respect to the man’s fine showing.

“Do you desire a break before we engage?” Christophe asked.

“No.”

This time no painful memories insinuated themselves into his thoughts. Another time and

place, he might’ve called off the challenge and let Christophe save his pride. He hadn’t wanted to go against Marchand. He’d weakened and let Andre talk him into it. Now, he’d lose money along

with face.

“Ready, when you are,” Marchand said.

The younger man made the mistakes all the young do and rushed without analyzing. With

an almost imperceptible lift of the toe of his front foot, and the bringing up his back foot, he signaled his intent to lunge. Ready for each thrust, Marchand parried them with the same strength he used against Andre until he ultimately, if unintentionally, cleaved off half of Christophe’s blade.

“You might’ve given me one chance to show you what I can do rather than coming on like

a Crusader at Acre,” Christophe said, pushing his mask up on his head.

“Your petulance is unmanly. To learn, you have to taste failure in its truest form. If this

disturbs you, then perhaps you should fence with a woman,” Marchand said, wrapping his sword

in the caparison again.

Christophe stiffened and opened his mouth to respond when Andre cut him off. “Roger,

where do you work?”

“Work?” He worked at being a knowledgeable lord of his property and the villages in his

domain. He worked at learning the skills a nobleman needs to fight for his king and defend his

country. “Do you mean as in a trade?”

“Yes. What are you by profession?”

To tell Andre the truth served no purpose. He’d ask if he was from Mars again, wherever

or whatever Mars was. “Is there a point to your inquiry? And, lest you forget, you and Christophe owe me seventeen euros.”

“If you need a job, I’ve a friend, Fabian St. Clair, who I know will hire you in an instant.

He can always use good swordsmen and you’re better than any he currently has.”

“This job...it is for euros, yes?”

“Of course. I don’t know how much it pays, but you can ask him yourself, if you’re

interested.”

The five-thousand euros Patel paid him might be a lot, or might not. Either way, they’d run

out. “I’m interested.”

“Here’s the money we owe and my friend’s card. Go see him. Tell him I sent you.”

Marchand pocketed the euros and took the card. Any funds he didn’t need for food and

shelter, he’d use to find the English knight, Palmer.

#

Marchand walked to the small hotel listed on the card but St. Clair was gone on other

errands. Marchand stated his business to a woman who knew the man. She said he was the

supervisor of their group and would be interested in another swordsman. She told him to meet with St. Clair back at the fencing studio later that evening.

With little else to do Marchand arrived early at the studio. A short time later a man about

medium height and build that looked Marchand’s age entered the fencing studio. He carried a

scabbard with a sword inside. From the hilt, Marchand knew it to be a sword in the same style as his and not a saber like Andre’s.

Marchand straightened from the window embrasure he’d been leaning on as the man

approached.

“You must be Roger Marchand,” the man said. “I’m Fabian St. Clair. He transferred the

scabbard to his left hand and extended his right.

“I am.” Marchand shook Fabian’s hand.

“My cell number was on the card. If you called, I’d have come sooner.”

The only cells Marchand knew of housed prisoners, which couldn’t be what Fabian meant.

Rather than ask for his meaning and look silly, he ignored the comment.

“Waiting doesn’t bother me. A measure of time from my day is not an issue.” The days of

my life spent in the wrong time is. “I see you have a sword. Did you wish to challenge me to a

friendly duel? I warn you. A wager is needed for me to agree.”

Fabian drew his sword from the scabbard. “I like your confidence. I spoke to Andre

before I came. He said you were a cheeky fellow.”

“Cheeky?” Marchand’s brows dipped as he tried to discern the man’s intent. “You pass

comment about my face. Do you mean to flirt with me? I do not dally with men.”

“Me neither. By cheeky, I mean audacious. Back to our match. What do you wish to

wager?”

The scabbard Fabian carried bore wear marks. His proud manner showed no sign of

concern regarding a match. Fabian must be adept with the sword. The fact Andre desired a

match between the two indicated his belief in the man.

He named what he assumed was a high number, testing Fabian’s determination. “One-

hundred euros.”

“Done.”

The match lasted longer than Marchand expected. He won but not by much. Twice, if

Fabian changed course, altered a move in the right way, he’d have had Marchand in a difficult

position to defend.

“I made a couple of mistakes,” Fabian said.

They exchanged smiles.

“Yes, you did.”

“The first was underestimating you.”

Marchand made the same mistake but wouldn’t admit it.

“Andre, do you have a couple bottles of water?”

Andre pulled two bottles from a canvas bag on the floor. “Here.” He handed one to

Fabian and one to Marchand.

“Let’s sit.” They took the chairs Andre and Christophe sat in earlier. “Are you interested

in a job? I can use a man with your skill and the work is fun most of the time.”

“What must I do?” Marchand asked, hoping that whatever Fabian offered, it paid enough

to search for Palmer.

“I supervise a re-enactment company.”

“Re-enactment?”

“We travel Europe as medieval knights. We put on mock battles or create competition

scenes with swords or jousts.”

Fabian wanted him to play himself, basically. Marchand didn’t know or question how such

good fortune happened to befall him.

He was about to say yes when Fabian added, “The ladies love it when we put on jousting

exhibitions. You cannot believe the women the show draws. It’s the whole knightly image, the big horse, the tall boots, the flashy swords, and the armor regalia in the jousts, unbelievable, my friend, gets to the ladies every time...goes right to their sweet spot.”

The opportunity to feel a woman beneath him again was tempting, real tempting. More

important, did the job pay decently as well?

“I’m most interested. Before I agree, what is the pay?”

Fabian shoulders lifted to his ears and Marchand disliked the pained expression.

“Fifteen-thousand euros...pathetic I know.” He took a long swallow of water and

continued, “Before you decline, there are other benefits. Besides the women, the company pays

your travel expenses, transportation, and hotel, if we’re lucky but more often than not, it’s a campground. They don’t pay for food or drink. All the performers share in the take from

souvenirs—“

“Souvenirs?” Whatever a souvenir was, Marchand didn’t think he’d care much for them,