Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (38 page)

Englishman, first in France, then England. When he found Palmer in London, did God grant him a

true opportunity to capture the Englishman? No. The man had surrounded himself with two able

bodied men and three women. Now the Lord forced him to freeze.

One of the tall men he’d seen with Palmer outside the London television studio appeared

with the same black-haired woman. They stopped at the side of the portico. At last, Palmer and

the redhead came out. A cluster of adoring men and women encircled them while others trailed

behind. All strived to speak with the Englishman. The redhead looped her arm in the crook of his elbow and guided him down the stairs of the church. Palmer smiled and replied to questions and

comments out of Marchand’s hearing. The man and woman who accompanied Palmer said their

goodbyes and left. Finally, Palmer’s woman eased the Englishman away and walked toward the

line of carriages.

“No. No. Turn and come this way,” Marchand whispered.

The couple continued to a carriage drawn by a large, grey horse with a wreath of bells

about his neck. While the woman chatted with the driver, Palmer tapped with his cane and came

around to the front where the horse stood.

Marchand crept forward where he remained hidden within the shadowed archway of a

cathedral door but near enough to hear part of what was said.

He heard bits and pieces of the woman and the driver’s conversation but Palmer didn’t

join in the conversation. He stroked the muzzle of the horse and then moved up along the jaw,

scratching as he did. He cupped the animal’s ear and rubbed. Then he rolled his knuckles over the indent where the horse’s shoulder met his neck. Marchand caught the occasional word Palmer

spoke to the horse, telling him how handsome, and what a strong fellow he was. At one point,

Palmer held the horse by the bridle and bent, kissing the beast on top of the nose.

Marchand loved his horse, Conquerant, as much and understood Palmer’s strong

connection. A knight and his mount move as one. In battle, they are a shared soul. As Palmer lay wounded and bleeding on the ground that day at Poitiers, his destrier stayed close, nudging him to rally. Palmer had called him Arthur, perhaps after the fabled English king. Although, Marchand

didn’t believe such a king lived and dismissed the stories as English drivel.

He focused his hearing back onto Palmer’s woman and the driver. She told him they

wouldn’t be returning to this spot but wanted to be let off on the far side of the park, close to their hotel.

“Damnation,” Marchand exclaimed in a low voice. All was not lost. He turned and rushed

back toward the café where a taxi stand stood not far.

The skies opened and freezing rain found its way under the collar of his shirt and ran down

his neck. He pulled his coat tighter and jogged faster. At the end of the block, a taxi with its light on came his direction. Marchand stepped off the sidewalk into the street and raised his hand to hail the driver. As he did, a well-dressed couple, probably part of the cathedral audience, also stepped off the curb. The taxi stopped and the couple climbed inside.

Another taxi with its light on pulled up to the curb in front of the café. Marchand hopped

into the street again. He had his fingers around the passenger door handle, when another hand

covered his to claim the taxi. It was the nun who asked about the chair. He opened his mouth to tell her he, too, did God’s work and needed the taxi to do so. Before he could say anything, the two other nuns joined the first. The ancient one looked up at him with milky blue eyes and smiled revealing small teeth the color of parchment.

Rain drenched the other two nuns who used their only umbrella to protect the old one.

What choice did he have?

“Let me.” Marchand let go of the handle and relieved the nun holding the umbrella of it.

He held the cover high and assisted the women into the backseat. Once they were in, he closed

the umbrella, shook off the excess water, slid it behind the feet of the nuns and shut the door.

As that taxi drove away, he checked both directions. No others were in sight. Without

looking, he stepped back onto the grassy parkway. His foot slipped a bit, like he’d landed in

squishy mud. He looked down.

Not mud.

Dog foulings.

Shoulders sagging with a weary sigh, Marchand wiped the bottom of his shoe off in clean

grass. Disgusted, he thought somewhere in the Underworld, the Devil and his minions were having a rollicking good laugh at his expense.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Cold to the bone from the walk back, Marchand knocked on Veronique’s door with numb

knuckles.

“Veronique, it’s me, Roger.”

“A moment,” she called out.

On the way to the inn, a mental replay of the evening’s events sparked another idea for

capturing Palmer. According to the tour website, which he’d memorized, the Englishman would

leave for Limoges tomorrow and perform at the Cathedrale Saint Etienne the day after. Palmer

spent a goodly amount of time with the carriage horse. Could he, Marchand, use Palmer’s horse

to lure the man away from the redhead and others?

Perhaps this was the advantage God finally chose for him.

The door opened and Veronique waved him inside. “Where have you been?”

“I had business to attend to.” Piles of Veronique and Mirielle’s clothes were folded and

stacked on the bed by an open suitcases. “Do you plan to stay in Rouen long enough to completely unpack? I thought you intended to see your parents in the east.”

“I’m not unpacking but packing. My plans have changed. Mirielle and I leave tomorrow

for Lyons.”

“Lyons? Why?”

“My husband and I are trying to reconcile.”

She’d never spoken of her husband so Marchand never thought to ask about him. “What

of Mirielle?”

That wasn’t the question he wanted to ask. In spite of the fact it shouldn’t matter, he

wanted to ask if Veronique still loved her husband. Part of him wanted to ask had she ever

thought to love another. Why it seemed important, he didn’t know because if all went as planned, he’d be returned to his own time in a couple days.

“What about her? She adores her father. He wasn’t always a good husband, but he was

always a good father. He deserves the chance to make amends. We can be a family again.”

“Yes, of course,” Marchand said, feeling hollow, like a man who hadn’t eaten, except he

wasn’t hungry. He’d tried not to dwell on the prospect of failure in his mission. But in his darker moments, he’d had to acknowledge the possibility. In those times, he found solace in the thought of Veronique and Mirielle becoming permanent in his life. Now if he failed, there was no one.

Like in the past, everyone he ever loved or might’ve loved, left or was taken from him. Once

more, fate emptied him of hope. He turned to leave.

“Roger, did you need something? You’re soaked to the skin. You must be freezing and

anxious to change into dry clothes, yet you came to my door. Why?”

At the door, he turned. “I hoped for a ride to Limoges. But, you obviously cannot do it.”

“I’ll drive you.” She began loading the smaller suitcase with the child’s clothes. “I can go

through Limoges on the way to Lyons. It’s not that far out of the way.”

She stopped packing and came to him. “Thank you for being so good to Mirielle. She’ll

miss you.” Veronique kissed him on the cheek and returned to packing again.

“I’ll miss her too. I will miss you both.” He gave her a faint smile that came and went

unseen. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

#

In Limoges, Marchand again waited outside the cathedral. This time he didn’t hide in the

shadows. As in Rouen, when the priests opened the main doors, the audience spilled out in a rush, and the other couple who traveled with Palmer exited first. Then out came Palmer arm-in-arm

with the redhead, the two encircled by a crowd of fans and well-wishers.

The priests and the man called Paul, whose image appeared on the website with Palmer’s

exited. Paul and the churchmen engaged the couple in conversation.

Marchand remained to the side until the group surrounding Palmer thinned. Then, he

moved through the gathering that remained and stepped close to the Englishman.

“We meet again,” he said in a quiet voice.

Palmer turned in his direction. “Pardon?”

“We met before a long, long, time ago and not so long ago.”

Palmer’s brows dipped. “I don’t understand.”

Marchand glanced over at the redhead who was busy talking with people from the

audience.

“I am the panther on a sea of orange,” Marchand replied.

Palmer shook his head. “You speak in riddles. I—”

“Maybe this will help.” He leaned in close, his mouth at the Englishman’s ear. “I am

literally the last person you saw. We need to speak.”

He pulled back and waited for the message to make sense. A moment of confusion stole

across the Englishman’s face. Then, as recognition flared, he stiffened and jerked his arm from the woman’s. “Marchand!”

“You know my name. I’m impressed.”

“Stephen?” The redhead turned from her conversation. “Is everything alright?”

Palmer nodded. “Yes. I need a moment with an old friend.”

His woman gave Marchand an odd look. “I didn’t think you had any friends here in

France.”

“There are friends and there are
friends.
We have an...an event of importance in

common.” He shifted his attention from the woman back to Marchand. “That event
aside, why are you here?”

Marchand paused as he searched for a plausible reason. He offered a half truth. “After I

got over the great shock of what happened to us, and reconciled myself to my new circumstance,

I realized, for us, the war was over. We now have more in common than we have in differences.

I went to the hospital and inquired after you, hoping we’d find in this a common ground, a reason not to be enemies. You’d already left. I’ve been looking for you ever since.” The common ground part was true. The search for Palmer was true. All else was rubbish, of course. “I wish to speak with you over a matter of importance. But I prefer we talk in private.”

The redhead who’d been momentarily distracted by the questions from a couple who’d

been in the audience, returned her attention to he and the Englishman in time to hear the last.

“What can’t you say in front of me?”

“Milady, with all due respect, this is a matter between men.”

“You make it sound like a duel or something.”

Marchand didn’t answer.

She hooked her hand through the Englishman’s elbow and turned him. She pressed

forward. “Stephen, I don’t know who this man is to you, but his insistence on secrecy concerns

me.” She said it quietly but loud enough for Marchand to hear

Palmer brought her hands up to his mouth and kissed the back of her fingers. “I am

charmed that you worry for me but I’ll be fine. I shouldn’t be long.”

“There’s a spot just at the foot of the stairs we can talk. Feel free to hold onto my arm

while we step out of earshot.”

“I’ll manage with my cane alone.” Palmer went down the stairs without hesitation, and

faster than Marchand expected for a blind man. He stopped at the base. “Be brief. I’d like to get back to my friends. What do you want with me? Have you not done enough?”

Marchand looked over his shoulder. The couple who traveled with Palmer and the redhead

stood together. The women talked back and forth, watching, the dark-haired one with mild

curiosity. The tall man maintained a casual stance with his hands in his pockets but his focus, like the redhead’s was intent on him and Palmer.

“I asked a question,” Palmer said.

“As you can tell, you did not come through the door of time alone. I came as well and I

had company.” He waited a beat as possibilities and questions chased each other across the

Englishman’s face.

“You loved your warhorse, did you not?”

“Very much. Why?”

“He’s stabled not far from here. I can take you to him.”

Palmer clamped a hand onto Marchand’s forearm. “Arthur lives?”

“Yes,” Marchand said and peeled Palmer’s hand from his arm. “He came through the

door of time with the two of us and my horse.”

“No others, just us and our horses?”

“Yes.”

He looked again to the group on the portico and gave them an insincere smile that hid his

anxiety. In Rouen, the other couple didn’t linger for a carriage ride. They’d said goodbye to

Palmer and his woman and left by car. He’d hoped for the same here. If so, Marchand thought to

tell Palmer they’d go for a quick visit to the stable and return in the daylight to arrange transport for Arthur. Under those circumstances, he might’ve been able to sway the redhead to stay behind.

After all, it was dark and cold and this was but a quick reunion between a man and his beloved

horse. Now he had to deal with the presence of the other couple. The dark-haired woman could

be swayed by the redhead, she wasn’t so troubling. The man presented a tougher problem. He’d

never go along with a plan that involved going to the stable at night and Marchand couldn’t blame him. Under most any other circumstance, going to the stable at this hour would be unheard of. The plan had hinged on Palmer’s desire to immediately see the animal he loved. Marchand made a fast readjustment.

“If you wish, we can meet at your hotel early tomorrow and I will take you to Arthur.” A

good hotel, like where Palmer stayed no doubt, would have taxis available. In little more than an hour taxi ride, they’d be home again.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I took your eyesight. I cannot give that back. As a peace offering, reuniting you with your