Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (35 page)

“What did he say about this...this...beaming forward?”

“He told Alex and Ian that he crawled away from the French knight that struck him.

Arthur, his horse, nudged him and Stephen tried but couldn’t rise. He thought he was dying. Then, the next thing he knew, a Frenchman spoke to him and said there was no battle, no war, and his

wife called an ambulance. After much handling by other Frenchmen, he was taken to the

hospital.”

Esme considered how people who traveled through time in the movies acted. None of the

characters faced whatever alien time or world they arrived at blind. They all had the advantage of sight to help them adjust to their environment. Admiration surged within her for Stephen’s handling of his situation. She didn’t think she’d handle it a tenth as well.

When it initially occurred, he had to have been terribly frightened, and how odd that the

Frenchman of this world didn’t say anything about Stephen’s horse.

“If Arthur was close enough to nudge Stephen, he was likely beamed here too. So, if he

wasn’t in the immediate area when Stephen was found, where was he? Where could a horse

wander off to and not be seen and where is he now?”

“Ooh, good question,” Shakira’s brows arched with the suggestion. “I’ll have Alex look

into the matter.”

“At least, only Stephen and perhaps Arthur traveled forward. Can you imagine the French

knight and his comrades running around, jabbering in middle French and threatening folks with

swords?”

“Thank God, that didn’t happen. Everyone would’ve gone to the looney bin, Stephen

included.”

Esme considered what scant facts they had. Obviously, the rip in time didn’t remain open

for long. People being deposited, appearing out of thin air from another century would prompt a major investigation. Worse, a panic. Nor could that particular spot have a reputation for sweeping people away. Logically, a rip in the fabric of time could just as easily take modern people to

another place, the future even. If others disappeared, no one would go near, including the

Frenchman who discovered Stephen. He’d never have lingered close to him. The openings must

be sporadic in addition to short lived. How many of these existed? There’s a worrisome thought.

“Do you have any idea what triggers these, for lack of a better description, doors through

time?”

“No idea. If there’d been a lightning storm, I might suggest it created a super conductor.

But no storm like that occurred that day,” Shakira said. “I asked—” She paused. “I looked it up.”

“Why did you think lightning might trigger this time door?”

“Lightning is a pretty powerful force. Why not think it might be that?” Shakira asked.

“Last year I had a talk with Dr. Oliver Gordon. He’s the physicist conducting experiments in time travel on the nearby land Alex donated. He mentioned something called super lightning.” Shakira waved a dismissive hand and added, “Doesn’t matter as it didn’t occur the day of the battle.”

“Maybe I should talk to Dr. Gordon.”

“No, don’t do that. He’s a sciencie guy. If you go to him with a bunch of questions, in

return he’s going to ask more than he answers of yours.”

“Good point.”

#

When he came home from his lesson, Esme greeted Stephen at the door with a deep kiss.

“I would gladly go out and come back a hundred times, were I guaranteed the same

welcome with each,” he said after she broke the kiss off.

She grazed his lips with a light, soft kiss and stepped from his embrace. She took his small

duffle bag with his towel, a few toiletries, sandals he wore in the locker room and set it on the floor. Then, she led him by the hand into the drawing room. “We have to talk.”

“Very well.”

The easy agreement brought the flash of a smile to her. He had to be the only man in the

western world who didn’t view the words
we have
to talk
with dread.

“I believe you,” she said as he joined her on the sofa.

“You believe me...what? I don’t understand.”

“I believe you’ve come forward in time. That you are Stephen Palmer, medieval knight

who somehow during battle found himself transported in time.”

Only Stephen’s chest rose and fell as he sat still as stone, silent. Where was the

enthusiasm she anticipated when she played out this scene in her head? After telling him in the past that he wasn’t a time traveler, never hiding her doubt when he spoke of his medieval life, she thought he’d be incredibly happy with her news. She expected a grand response, a big display of gratitude for starters. If she’d told him they ran out of his favorite jam, she’d get this dull reaction.

He removed his shoes, relaxed against the sofa back and propped his bare feet onto the

coffee table.

“What changed?” he asked, simply.

“Little things you said and did that made me wonder,” Esme said, resigned to the fact her

grand scene wasn’t going to happen. “I started to look for answers. The more I investigated the more questions I had.”

“And?”

“My investigation led to Canterbury where there’s a painting of the Black Prince at Crecy.

It’s the day he conferred knighthood on the soldiers who fought in his column. You and Alex are in it. You’re kneeling before the prince, and Alex is standing behind you.”

“You’re sure it’s me?”

“Yes, it’s a very youthful you, but you’re easily recognizable, even down to the bleeding

wound on your chin.”

He ran his thumb over the scar. “The moment is still vivid in my memory.” A pensive

expression crossed his face. “’Tis a great weight to be thought mad when you are not. Now, I am at last free of the burden.” He bent, touched his fingertips to her face and found her lips with his to give her a tender kiss. “Thank you for believing.”

He sat back and crossed his arms looking akin to a genie from a bottle in his tee-shirt and

sockless feet. A slow grin spread across his face.

“What are you thinking?” Esme asked.

“This painting—I’m immortalized now, yes?”

Esme hadn’t given that aspect any thought but she’d have to say, yes. “In your own way,

yes, as long as the painting survives.”

“I like it...being immortalized.” He turned to her and said, “Strange that all it took to

convince you was a painting and a few odd bits of information? I suspect there’s more to your

change of heart.”

“I was ninety-nine percent certain but wanted to be one-hundred percent. After I saw the

painting, I went to Shakira and begged her to be honest about what she knew.” Esme used the last to segue into a question about Shakira and Alex. “She confirmed your past.”

She’d planned on cautiously leading up to the subject of them having time traveled. That

plan didn’t survive her extreme curiosity. “Shakira refused to discuss it but I know she and Alex were caught in some kind of time warp too. From the painting, I also know that Alex is Guy

Guiscard and you told me about singing for Shakira.”

“Yes, he’s Guy, please don’t ask me to tell you how he became Alex Lancaster. He

explained it to me, but I don’t really grasp how it all occurred.”

“The thing is: he somehow came forward but not from the battlefield like you because he

died there.”

“Right.”

“Weird. What about her? Since Shakira wasn’t at the battle, she went from modern

England, to your time. I wonder where the shift occurred.”

“Not far from here on an old road to the castle in the area Alex gave to Dr. Gordon for

research.”

“Do you think the portal or whatever it’s called could open again?” Esme asked alarmed

at the prospect.

He shrugged. “I hope not. But I wouldn’t go near it just in case. Time travel is Gordon’s

area of expertise, if it opens, let him handle the consequences.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

London, four weeks later:

“Shakira, did you get what I sought?” Stephen asked.

“Yes.” She handed him the square box.

He felt all around the square, running the ribbon between his fingers. “Good, you wrapped

it with a satin tie. Ladies like ribbon. The paper is pretty, I assume.”

“I followed your instructions to a tee.”

Backstage at The Graham Norton Show, the Green Room was filled with Stephen’s

friends: Alex, Shakira, Miranda, Ian, and of course, Esme. They’d come to wish him well and join him afterward for a private celebration. He hadn’t won on
Britain’s Got Talent
. He didn’t place in the top five contestants, although he was told the audience gave him a standing ovation. Alex said winning them over was more important than winning over the judges. The Jools Holland’s

audience gave him an equally enthusiastic response, cheering and applauding loud and long.

“I took a peek out front,” Esme said as she came into the Green Room. “People are lined

up all the way to the end of the block waiting to get in.” She stepped close and fiddled with

Stephen’s tie. “Look at you.”

She’d taken him shopping before he made his appearances. He bought three suits, which

she had tailored for him along with six dress shirts and ties. He’d told her he didn’t much care for bright colors. She’d followed his wishes. The shirts were dark blue, dark grey, white, and black.

There’d been a minor kerfuffle over ties. She insisted on flashy ones to add interest to his somber outfits. He gave in when she told him he needed to look like an entertainer and not an undertaker.

“You’re positively dishy,” Esme said, resting warm hands on his chest.

“Dishy?

“Good enough to eat.”

“There are times I could gobble Ian up,” Miranda chimed.

“I know. Alex is like a decadent, two-legged, sticky toffee pudding,” Shakira added.

“Sticky toffee pudding? Really? I prefer to think of myself as a decadent rum baba cake.”

“I don’t know what kind of dessert I am,” Ian said, “I do know I’m holding Miranda to the

gobble me part later.”

Stephen clasped Esme’s hand and turned it up and then pulled the box from his coat

pocket. “For you.” He laid the box on her palm.

“Pretty ribbon. I’m going to save it and put it in my journal with the first rose you gave

me.”

There was a tiny pop of the tape coming off followed by the soft rustle of paper.

“L’air Du Temps, you remembered the name of my perfume.” She wrapped her arms

around him and nuzzled his neck.

“How could I not, milady. ‘
The air of time
,’ is it not suited to us?” he whispered in her ear.

Someone knocked and the door opened.

“Hello, hello. Nice to see you again, Alex.”

“Hello, Nigel.”

“Introduce me.”

Alex introduced the man and said he was the stage director. Stephen extended his hand

when Alex got to him. Nigel shook it and asked. “Do you prefer to have one of the crew lead you to the conversation area or would you rather have one of your friends?”

“Esme will.” Stephen reached an arm out to where he believed she stood, and she stepped

into it.

“Don’t blame you. She’s far lovelier than my backstage lads. Show starts in five minutes.

My assistant will come for you when you’re to make your entrance. One more thing, I like to

announce any future tour dates you have scheduled. Do you have any?”

“He does,” Alex interjected. “He’s opening for Paul McCartney on his holiday tour next

month.”

“I am. I didn’t know,” Stephen said.

“We sealed the deal today. I was going to surprise you with the news later this evening.”

“Do you want to write down the locations?” Alex asked.

“Tell me. I’ll remember and have them put on a cue card for Graham.”

“Christmas week, starting the 21st, they’re playing at: the Liverpool Cathedral, York

Minister, Ely Cathedral, Canterbury on Christmas Eve, and St. Paul’s on Christmas day.

Then they hop over to France and starting the 27th, will play five more cathedrals: Bayeux,

Rouen, St. Etienne, Chartres, and St. Chappelle.”

“Wonderful settings. Can dates and times be found on your website?” Nigel asked.

“Yes, they were posted today,” Alex said.

“See you in a wee bit, Stephen.” Nigel left the room.

“The holiday tour is short but gives you a taste of what to expect on a tour,” Alex said.

“We’ve received appearance offers from several countries, including the States, which is a huge opportunity. If you’re interested, Esme, Shakira can show you how to handle the bookings.”

“I’d love to learn.”

“Rather strange returning to France, especially to Limoges where St. Etienne is. We went

through there shortly before reaching Poitiers,” Stephen told Esme. He smiled and continued, “The prince strongly encouraged the priests at cathedral to surrender their casks of wine. They wisely agreed. I understand it was very fine wine indeed.”

“Two things you’ll never see, a skinny priest or one drinking rot gut wine,” Alex said with

a sarcastic tone.

The comment raised another grin from Stephen. Guy never cared for churchmen. His

friend may have changed names and time periods but not attitude.

Stephen turned to Esme who’d looped her arm through the crook of his elbow. “You’ll

come with me on these tours, won’t you?”

“It would my pleasure.”

“What does the tie you chose for tonight look like?”

“White with pink polka dots.” A giggle vibrated through her and he knew she was making

sport of him. He’d agreed to her flashy ties but forbidden any with silly spots. “It’s white and gold paisley print. Not to worry, you’re stylin’ Mr. Palmer.”

#

While they toured England, Marchand had seen a man who called himself Stephen Palmer

on the
Jools Holland
show on his hotel television. The man was several inches taller than Holland, about the same height he guessed the English knight at Poitiers was. Although he never saw the Englishman without his helm, this Palmer was blind and carried scars around the eyes. He looked the approximate age as the majority of the knights both the English and French fielded the day of battle. When Holland asked why no one heard of Palmer sooner, Palmer claimed he’d