Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (32 page)

“Oh my God,” Esme whispered. Shocked, she stared unable to take her eyes from the

painting. How could this be? Identical down to the wound on the chin. She’d seen the scar on

Stephen’s chin up close.

Unlike the larger, more famous sister institutions, the simpler Museum of Canterbury didn’t

employ infrared protective alarms that go off when a visitor gets too close to an exhibit.

Davison’s hand on her arm stopped Esme as she stepped forward, fingers inches from the

canvas. “No touching allowed, Ms. Crippen,” he warned and removed his hand.

“Sorry,” she said, moving back to drop onto the bench in front of the painting.

“What is it?” Electra asked.

“Are you ill, my dear?” Davison asked.

She shook her head, too numb to speak.

Electra joined her on the bench. “You look like you’re going to faint. You’re white as a

ghost.”

“Would you like some water, Miss Crippen?”

Finally, she found her voice. “No. Thank you but I’m fine,” she told Electra and Davison.

Esme turned from the painting to ask, “Is this an exact copy of the original?”

“Yes. The curator at the time was meticulous man and would not approve even the

slightest deviation.”

“You’re positive?”

He nodded. “Very.”

“Esme—”

She held up her hand to stop Electra’s question. “Thank you, Mr. Davison. This is more

than I expected when I asked about the drawing. If it’s all right, I’d like a few minutes more to appreciate the excellent artistry.”

“No worries, Miss Crippen. If you require no more of me, I’m going to return to my office.

Take as much time as you like. The museum is open until five.” Davison gave each a polite tip of his head and left.

As soon as he was out of the room, Electra said, “Esme talk to me. There’s something up

with you and this painting. I want to know what.”

“The young man kneeling, two over from the prince’s left, the one holding a bloody

gauntleted hand under his chin.”

“What about him?”

“He looks just like Stephen.”

From Electra’s sour expression, she found the explanation anticlimactic. “That’s all? Jeez,

I thought it was something really big.”

“You don’t understand. He could be Stephen’s double. That’s not all. The man standing

behind him I’d swear is Alex Lancaster. A younger version but hand to heart, I think it’s him.”

“I’ve only seen pictures of Alex Lancaster when he’s been in the press. I agree. It does

look like him. But it isn’t either Stephen or Alex since those men,” she tipped her chin toward the painting, “lived close to seven hundred years ago. Why are you weirding out?”

Esme ignored the question. Too many of her own occupied her thoughts. How had his

face wound up on this medieval man: the narrow too long nose, the strong jaw, the broad

forehead, even the shape of his eyes...his injury didn’t change the slight downward tip to the

outside corners?

“Hello,” Electra waved her hand in front of Esme’s face.

“Stop it.” She dug her cell phone out. Conscious of how light and shadow might affect the

shots, she took pictures of the painting from different angles.

Electra tugged on her arm, pulling the camera away from her face. “He’s not Stephen.

Maybe he’s his ancestor, five-hundred times removed, but he’s not Stephen.” She let out a heavy sigh. “When you talked to the National Gallery man, did he mention if anything existed that

identified anyone other than the prince?”

“No. There’s nothing, only the drawing.”

“Who are you going to show the pictures to, clearly not Stephen?”

“I want them for myself.”

Another heavy sigh. “Why?”

“I just do.”

“What are you not telling me? I know you. I know that obsessed look. Whenever

something puzzles you, you’re like a dog with a bone. You can’t leave it alone until you find the answer.”

“That’s why I need the pictures—and that is all I’m going to say for now.”

Electra put her hands up in surrender. After Esme took a few more snaps, El said,

“You’ve taken a dozen shots. Isn’t that enough? I’m hungry. If we leave now, we can beat the

London traffic and grab a bite to eat on the way. That is, unless you want more ancient ancestor pictures.”

“An ancestor. Maybe.” She put her camera away. Or something else entirely, she

thought. She looked forward to a serious discussion with Shakira Lancaster. How was it that her husband had a medieval twin? Or, was there something else entirely going on there too?

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Marchand ignored the heavy traffic buzzing around them. He no longer flinched when cars

passed by fast like when he rode with Rene Patel to the bank in Poitiers.

Veronique was driving them to the library in Caen. “They’re building a new, ultramodern

one, but it won’t be finished until 2015,” she said.

He never heard of a library. When they talked over dinner the night before, he expressed

an interest in learning more about the war with England. She suggested they visit a library.

“Who will watch Mirielle?” he asked. The child had grown attached to him and he often

played the same games with her that he’d played with his son. He’d toss her high into the air and when he caught her, he’d swing her in a circle to squeals of laughter. Every evening after dinner she’d beg to ride on his shoulders and he’d pretend to be too busy. When he finally gave in, she’d beat the top of his head with tiny hands, demanding he jog her around faster.

Today, Fabian’s wife and the other women were out. Marchand didn’t have much

confidence in the quality of care Mirielle would receive from the men in the group. They weren’t a bad lot, just not as attentive as he wished.

“All the other jousters are here working on their equipment and so are several of the other

performers. They’ll keep an eye on her. They have before,” Veronique said.

“No. No. They are busy. They’re distracted. She could wander off and they wouldn’t

notice for who knows how long?”

“We’ll bring her then. There’s a park across from the library. I’ll take her there while you

read.”

#

“Turn here,” he said, shortly after they entered the city.

“Please.” Veronique glanced over at him and stopped at the corner just short of

completing the turn.

“Please what?”

“I’m trying to teach Mirielle to be polite. You never say please. You set a bad example.”

Wasn’t she the bold creature with her stern tone to think it acceptable to chastise him?

Saying please wasn’t something he gave much thought to. In truth, he never gave it any thought.

In his past life, he merely issued an order and the person did as asked or faced the consequences.

Since she made a point of not doing his bidding, she clearly was not going to let the issue

drop. Some arguments women were destined to win. Why this was—no man knew. But all men

knew it was unavoidable fact. This was one of those arguments.

“Roger?” She fixed on him, eyes brimming with expectation.

He relented, as any man who wants the car to start moving again would. “Please turn

here.”

She smiled and said, “Thank you.”

The street was almost an exact copy of a cobblestone one in Honfleur, the Honfleur of his

world. Buildings, some half-timbered, or with carved figure on their façades, lined the street for blocks.

“Interesting, with all these medieval buildings, it’s like stepping back in time,” Veronique

said, looking right and left as they passed different structures.

“Yes. When I am finished, we will return here to eat,” he said, seeing a café with

sidewalk tables for him to sit outside and enjoy the surroundings.

“There are nicer cafes close to the library.”

“We’ll eat here. If you please,” he added as a second thought.

#

Pain, intense and concentrated filled him. Both enraged and sick at heart, Marchand stared

at the words. In disbelief, after he read the history of the Battle of Poitiers as it was referred to in the first book, he pulled another half dozen from the shelf. All told the same tale. The battle ended not in mere defeat but in a loss of lives that affected dozens and dozens of French noble houses.

Worse, the English had captured King John and held him for ransom.

He looked up from the grim accounting as a young woman with purple hair, a silver loop in

one nostril, and wearing a wooden cross large as a friar’s sat across from him. Black cats of

enamel hung on thin chains from her ears. His badge displayed a black panther. Her cats looked

nothing like his. Hers looked like what they probably were, symbols of a witch’s familiar. He

knew villagers who’d have burned her at the stake, cross or no.

She set what Veronique said was a laptop down on the table and opened it. As the woman

tapped away on the lettered tabs, Marchand eyed her, curious why she showed no interest in the

books that surrounded them.

She took a swig from a bottle of water she’d brought and studied the screen of her laptop,

fingering the cross as she did.

“Are you done?” Veronique whispered. She scooted her chair next to his, placing Mirielle

between her knees.

He hadn’t seen her arrive. Looking from the girl with the purple hair, he said. “Yes.” He

closed the depressing book and laid it on the stack of others that spoke of the battle.

“Why do you have an earring in your nose?” Mirielle asked the girl across the table.

“I like it. Look at this.” She stuck her tongue out and to Marchand’s disgust displayed a

metal stud.

Unaffected by the unpleasant sight, Mirielle lay halfway onto the table, feet dangling.

“Where’s your book?” Mirielle asked.

The young woman leaned in toward the child. Her wooden cross banged against the table

edge. “I don’t need a book. I’m working on a paper and need a quiet spot to do it.”

Marchand suddenly understood the purpose to a woman with no interest in books coming

to the library. Of the many empty seats all around, she chose the spot across from him.

This was God’s way of sending him a message. The Lord gave her purple hair so he,

Marchand, would notice. The holy man’s cross so he knew God sent her. The ugly nose ring and

evil looking metal stud had no heavenly origin, unless they were a form of penance. That made

sense. She was a strange woman, yes, but the message was clear. All the wickedness that

followed the battle was his, Marchand’s, to change. It was his duty alone to save his comrades

from slaughter, prevent the capture of the king and find the path to victory. God had led him to the books of the future so he could change the past.

“Mirielle, get down.”

The sound of Veronique’s voice snapped his attention away from God’s message.

“I got a call from Fabian while we were at the park,” Veronique said.

“What news?”

“We’re booked through all of next month. We’re touring England and Scotland.”

Marchand silently thanked the Lord for opening the door of opportunity. Palmer lived in

England and he’d find him.

Chapter Thirty

Esme found Stephen by the side of the trailer where a large wood post had been setup. He

stood shirtless, sword in hand and delivered blow after blow to the post, growling as he did. After a series of hits, he’d change tactics and attack from another angle or he’d switch from a one-handed attack to two-handed. The two-handed strikes buried the sword’s blade deep into the

wood, which he managed to free with relative ease every time. The still fresh feel of his powerful biceps and hard, corded forearms wrapped around her, flooded back as thoughts of the day at the ruin claimed her. Now, with each pull, she saw just how well-defined the muscles in his chest and back were.

The weather turned in the past week. The days held a chill, the wind carried a nip warning

of a colder than usual winter but his face and arms glistened with perspiration. How long had he been out here to break such a sweat?

He went another round, circling the post. Chest heaving, he stopped, and wiped his face

and neck with a towel he’d laid nearby. He tossed the towel down, rubbed his palms on the front of his jeans, and raised the sword for yet another set of maneuvers.

“Stephen,” Esme called out and approached.

“Esme.” He lowered the sword.

“What are you doing? I mean, is there a reason for the swordplay?”

“I’m a medieval knight,” he said in a firm tone that challenged her to contradict him. “I

was anyway. Swordplay is part of our daily routine.”

“You’re very strong.” The desire to discourage his medieval references had gone by the

wayside, especially since visiting the Museum of Canterbury. “What else do you do as part of

your routine?”

She knew, of course. History was her major in college and she’d interned under Miranda

at the History Channel. She asked the question to make conversation and crossed her fingers he

wouldn’t point out this was information she had.

“We practice many things in the lists: wrestling in case one finds themselves in hand-to-

hand combat, ax throwing, lance and long sword use on horseback are a few.”

“You practiced on campaign too?”

“Yes, when not engaged in real battle. I’ve grown weaker since Poitiers.” He gestured

toward the post. “Now I am able to gain my strength back.”

Esme came closer just outside arm’s reach.

“All these questions, why do you care?” he asked.

“I’m interested in how you stayed strong.”

“Now you know.”

She’d hit a dead end. If she didn’t think of something else to talk to him about, he’d

dismiss her like the day at the castle ruins.

“I came by a couple of times this week but you were never home,” she blurted. “Where’d