Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (21 page)

not when he had to share their earnings.

“We always have a stand that sells different medieval novelties. Posters we’ve posed for

and fake armor pieces and tiny, tin knights, that sort of thing are popular with people.”

Posters, fake armor, tin knights, this was meaningless chatter. “Why do you say fifteen-

thousand euros is pathetic?”

“Why? It’s poverty level. The company gets away with paying us so little because our

income is supplemented by tips.”

Tips. The taxi driver told him a job well done earned extra money as a reward. “The tips

are good then?”

“Roger, you can make a tidy sum if the crowd likes you. Little tricks are the secret.”

Fabian rested his arms on his thighs in a genial manner that men who are friends have when

talking. “After your joust, you walk among the audience. You stop and chat. Let the children

touch your helm, handle your gauntlets that sort of thing. They squeal with delight, the parents are grateful and voila, good tip. Pause to spread the charm to a group of ladies,” he wiggled his brows.

“And you often receive a generous tip and sometimes a more intimate gratuity.”

A winning combination in Marchand’s opinion. “Where and when do you want me?”

“Just outside the city limits, off a side road is a campground adjacent to the area where

we’re performing. I’ll draw you a map.”

“How long does it take to walk there from here?”

“Walk? You don’t have a car?”

Marchand shook his head.

“I’ll pick you up here tomorrow at ten in the morning. We’ll get you outfitted and see

which horse is best for you.” Fabian suddenly straightened. “I never asked if you could ride. Don’t worry if you can’t. You can do the sword duels.”

“I have the necessary equipment. I am an excellent rider and I have my own horse. He’s

stabled near the abbey.”

“Good, I’ll bring a trailer. Bring your equipment. Does it look as authentic as your sword?”

A zing of smug satisfaction shot through him. “Everything I own is authentic.”

“Any other questions before we meet up tomorrow?”

“Two. Where’s the hundred euros you owe me?”

Fabian dug in his back pocket. “I hoped you’d forget that part.” He took out five blue bills

and handed them to Marchand. “Your second question?”

“Does the company travel to England?”

“Yes, a few times a year.”

“Good.”

Chapter Nineteen

“That’s enough for today,” Fabian called out to Marchand and his partner in the sword

demonstration.

The men lowered their weapons and took a relaxed stance. Both were covered in sweat

and fought hard but like Andre and Christophe, Marchand’s opponent had tired. Weariness slowed

his reactions and once again Marchand used the advantage to put the man on the defense, forcing him to concentrate on parrying blows rather than attacking.

The other man was a twenty something Spaniard named Carlos. He’d learned to use a

medieval style sword specifically for the chance to join Fabian’s group of performers. When

Marchand was thirteen summers old, his father put a sword in his hand. His training wasn’t for

demonstration purposes and flamboyant display. He trained for battle and to defeat the enemies of France. Although younger, Carlos had succumbed to fatigue while he, Marchand, had learned

early how to endure.

“Who is next,” Marchand asked.

“No one. Sword practice is over. I wanted the troupe to see you work. We are a team.

It’s good for all to know the skill level of each man.”

Fabian stood by as Marchand slid his sword in its protective scabbard and put it in the

trunk that held his armor and saddle. With Conquerant in tow, that morning they’d stopped en

route to the group’s practice site to get Marchand’s equipment out of storage at the abbey.

Rene Patel, the stable owner, was surprised to have Conquerant taken away. Marchand

paid for a month and the horse had only been there twenty-four hours.

“I don’t prorate my stabling fees,” Patel told him.

Prorate. The term stumped Marchand for a few seconds then he deduced the meaning from the

gist of the conversation. Under no circumstances would he submit to surrendering the monthly

board charge of two-hundred euros without a fierce objection. In the end, he reluctantly

compromised with Patel. The re-enactment job may or may not be suitable. If not, he’d return

with Conquerant. Patel agreed to use the remainder of the money Marchand paid to continue his

boarding. If the job did turn out well, then, although he despised the thought, Marchand had to forfeit the balance.

“After lunch, there’s a jousting practice. When they’re done, we leave Poitiers,” Fabian

said and walked with Marchand to the picnic area where some of the women in the group set out

a light meal.

“Where do we go?” Marchand asked.

“There’s a month long festival in Normandy we participate in every year. Good tips.

Winter is a slower season for us, a feast or famine time. Some years we are booked solid with

indoor performances. Some years we are surviving on stews with little meat and only our tips.”

Marchand immediately pivoted, hooked Fabian by the arm and stopped him. “Where in

Normandy is the festival?”

“Outside Deauville. Why?”

Deauville was but a stone’s throw to Honfleur and the village of Honfleur was but a

stone’s throw to his chateau. Marchand considered how his home must’ve changed over the

centuries. A castle is a castle, formidable and not given to much change. To see her again, feel her walls, smell the sea air that blows across her ramparts, to stand on his soil, his land, he’d do whatever was needed to hurry Fabian to the province.

“Roger? Roger? Hello.” Fabian snapped his fingers in Marchand’s face. “Wake up. You

stare. Where are you?”

“Just thinking about business I can see to in Honfleur.”

“If I’m around, I’ll give you a ride there. If not, one of the others will I’m sure. Honfleur is a popular with our people. It has lots of nice cafes and little shops.”

The words ‘little shops’ filled Marchand’s heart with hope. Perhaps the village remained

similar to how it looked in his time. How wonderful if true.

#

Emile Tailler jousted well, Marchand thought, but not as well as he could. He suffered

inconsistency problems with his strikes. The first pass he unhorsed his opponent and received

maximum points. On the second tilt, his lance hit the grand guard low. His opponent rocked in the saddle but stayed seated and Emile scored minimum points for only breaking his lance. The third pass he missed the other jouster altogether.

During the short rest the jousters took before their second match, Marchand approached

the group.

“You lowered your lance too soon on the second pass and your position in the saddle was

not as it should be on the last pass,” he told Emile. “Your horsemanship suffered as a result.”

Emile swallowed the mouthful of water he’d swigged from the bottle. “Our new

swordsman gives me advice on jousting,” he said to his companions who smirked at Marchand or

mumbled their insults without making eye contact. The mumblers looked leery of a confrontation

with him. In his time, he stood higher than most men. Here, he was only medium tall, but taller than many of them, and he possessed a powerful build. His arms were thick from years of

practice in the lists and from battle. Narrow at the waist, his chest was broad and his legs well-muscled. They’d seen him in the sword demonstration. In a one-on-one situation, he wouldn’t be

easily defeated.

“You want to have a go, sword man?” Emile asked.

Marchand smiled. “I only have to saddle my horse.” He smiled again walking away. He’d

have fun with this arrogant fool.

“I’ll hold your horse for you,” a lush-lipped, pretty brunette said and took the lead line from Marchand.

He opened his mouth to say she needn’t bother. Conquerant would stand still while being

tacked up. Marchand eyed the bosomy lady. Pale. If the past summer sun stained her skin, it left no evidence. She wore her hair short, only to her chin. He’d seen women in Poitiers who wore

theirs in similar fashion. Hers curled here and there along her jaw line in a way he found fetching.

Instead he said, “Thank you.”

“I’m Veronique. Veronique Durand,” she said as he settled the saddle pad on Conquerant.

“I’m Roger Marchand. What demonstration is yours?” What job she might perform he

couldn’t imagine other than that of bawd.

“The other women and I act as waitresses to the crowd. We dress like tavern wenches

and bring drinks or light meals. But we alternate between that and acting as noble ladies cheering our knights on and bestowing favors. The Deauville festival has food tents and food stands. There we’ll be nobles.” She tossed her head back and stuck her nose in the air.

Marchand spread the black and orange caparison over the pad. “Which do you like better?

Being a tavern wench or a noble?”

“We get gratuities when we waitress. As nobles all we get is applause. I prefer the

money. What is the meaning of the panther surrounded by orange stitched on the caparison?”

“It’s my...it’s the heraldic symbol of the Compte D’Honfleur.”

“Why do you use it?”

“The symbol appeals to me.”

“Funny saddle,” she said while he adjusted the girth. “Looks like a medieval war saddle,

not a jousting one.”

“I don’t have a jousting one with me. I don’t even have my jousting helm.” No need for a

helm suited to the sport when in battle. On the campaign, he’d only used his war one.

The last piece of gear was the English horse, Arthur’s, chanfron. Marchand fastened the

face protector to Conquerant, checked the fit wasn’t too tight and then mounted.

Veronique carried Conquerant’s halter and lead line and walked next to Marchand and the

stallion to the tilt area.

“Emile is very good. I shall cross my fingers you do well and are not hurt.”

It crossed Marchand’s mind to ask for something of hers that might pass for a lady’s

favor. But then, she might be the wife of someone or spoken for, so he said nothing and took up his position.

On the first pass, Marchand unhorsed Emile. In medieval times, as Sister Catherine called

the centuries before, the unhorsing ended the match. Marchand could claim a prize of his choice from the fallen opponent. He’d won many a fine stallion for his stable.

Emile demanded another chance. “If you wish,” Marchand said. Different time, different

place. Today from Emile, he could only take pride, which he was happy to do.

Again, Emile found himself on the ground. When he scrambled to his feet, he removed his

gauntlet and offered his hand to Marchand who removed his gauntlet and shook it.

“You have talent, Tailler. Dropping your lance on occasion is a minor mistake. This error

is easily corrected but your horsemanship needs work too,” Marchand counseled.

“Will you work with me?”

Marchand nodded.

“All right my friends. We’re done here. On to Normandy,” Fabian said.

#

The group worked fast to load horses and equipment. Five hours later they arrived at the

festival grounds outside Deauville. Emile showed Marchand to the stables and where to store his trunk. Fabian passed out room keys to the chambers at the small hotel where he’d arranged for

the team to stay. The jousters declined to go to the hotel and chose to stay in tents at a nearby campground. When asked, Emile told Marchand they felt it easier to remain in their medieval

character by using tents and sleeping on the ground.

“Wouldn’t you be even deeper in character if you avoided clean water, cafes, and did not

avail yourself of modern plumbing?” Marchand asked in a humorous tone.

“We’re dedicated, not crazy. We’re off to the campsite. See you later.”

Marchand paced the perimeter of the carpark and waited for Fabian.

“Roger,” Veronique called as he began to circle the lot again.

“Yes.”

“Fabian is busy with the festival organizers. He told me to drive you to Honfleur.” She had

a young girl about four with her as she joined him.

“Thank you, I’ve been anxious to be on my way. Are you Fabian’s wife?” he asked on the

way to Fabian’s car.

She pointed to a very pregnant blonde taking a small case from the trunk of Fabian’s car.

“No, Sophie is.”

“Do you belong to one of the group?” If she did, he’d wait for Fabian to be available

rather than risk her man’s ire.

“Do I ‘belong’ to one of the men? What an odd way to phrase the question. No, I’m

divorced. I don’t belong to any of them or anyone.”

“But the child is yours, yes?”

Veronique smiled and nodded. “This is Mirielle.” She gave the girl a light push on the

shoulder. “This is Monsieur Marchand. Say hello.”

Mirielle scooted back to her mother and buried her face against Veronique’s thigh.

Marchand dug in his pants pocket, removed a couple of coins, and then knelt on one knee

close to the child. “Hello Mirielle. If you give me a smile, I will do a magic trick for you.”

Mirielle turned and gave him a shy child’s smile and large eyes curious to see the trick he

promised. She had her mother’s brown eyes and long, feathery dark lashes. She’d be a beauty

one day. For the briefest of moments, sadness filled Marchand with thoughts of the many lovely

girls of his time who came from families with little or no money, like Veronique. They spent their lives as servants. And the pretty ones so often suffered the unwanted sexual attentions of the lord of the house. He shook off the dreary remembrance.

“Where’s my trick?” Mirielle asked.