Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (39 page)

horse is the best I can do within my power.”

“I am at the Hotel Mercure Royal Limousin. I’ll be downstairs at 7:00.”

“’Til tomorrow then.”

As he reached the top of the stairs, Stephen heard Alex talking to someone several strides

away. Laughter came from the same area and he recognized the sound of Paul and Shakira’s

voices. He started toward the group when Esme linked arms with him.

He stopped and pulled her to the side. “You’ll never guess who that was.”

“I have no idea. From his appearance, I’d say maybe a French television actor. I’ve seen

a fair number of French movies and he doesn’t look like anyone in them.”

“No milady, not even close. I’ll give you a hint. You researched him.”

Stephen waited while she ran through her list, which was short.

“It’s not Simon. He’s buried at the ruin. It’s not Guy and Basil. They’re accounted for so

that has to be...oh, my God. That leaves Marchand. He...he came through with you. How the

devil did he go undiscovered?”

“I didn’t ask. I imagine he hid when he saw the Frenchman start to approach where I lay

on the ground.”

“Wow, do you think others came through?”

“I doubt it. Two can go unnoticed but more than that, I think we’d have heard about a

group claiming medieval origins. They did not come completely alone. My horse Arthur, and his

horse, are here too.”

“But Alex checked. No one in the neighborhood reported seeing a horse.”

“Marchand must’ve secreted him too when he hid. The point is: tomorrow he’s taking me

to where Arthur is stabled.”

Paul called out, telling them he was leaving and to please join him for a private dinner at

the home of a friend. Alex said he and Shakira would be in the car.

“Be there in a minute,” Stephen said.

“What? Why would you trust Marchand to take you anywhere? You were mortal

enemies. Not to mention that a couple of days ago you wanted to piss on his grave.”

“Since he is very much alive, the option is taken from me,” Stephen teased.

Bitterness and resentment toward Alex for the battlefield warning lay buried within him,

while hatred and anger toward the man who blinded him had never been far from the surface. In

talking to Marchand, the enemy who was no more, the weight of bitterness and anger for both

men lifted. Alex didn’t do anything Stephen wouldn’t have done had he the knowledge to save a

friend’s life. Nor had Marchand done anything but fight for what he believed a just cause.

“As he pointed out, our battle is over. Our countries have survived to become allies. No

reason why we shouldn’t.”

“Still—”

“He’s extended an olive branch and I have accepted,” Stephen said matter-of-factly.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No you’re not. I’ve no need for a nursemaid. I can handle arrangement for the transport

of my horse.”

She gripped the lapels of his overcoat and pressed her forehead to his. “It’s not the horse

part I’m worried about. It’s Marchand alone with you I dislike.” She raised her head from his.

“Please, at least take Alex.”

“No. I’m a man capable of dealing with his own affairs. When I know where we’re going,

I’ll leave a message on your phone.”

“Stephen, I have a bad feeling about this. I’m pleading with you, let me come.”

“Please, you’re suffocating me.” He couldn’t keep a straight face when he said it. He

wrapped her in a tight embrace. “I jest.”

A car honked and Alex yelled out. “Let’s go.”

“Coming.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Stephen pressed his watch. The drive had taken one hour and fifteen minutes. He’d

tracked their direction of travel with the GPS on his watch, which said they drove north by

northwest. The direction the English army had traveled on his last campaign. The battlefield was north by northwest of Limoges, not far outside the city walls of Poitiers. He’d asked, and the

driver told him ninety-six KPH or sixty miles per hour,
choose the one
you fancy
.

By Stephen’s calculations they were at or very near the battlefield. How could a stable sit

so close and no one have seen his horse? “How did Arthur end up stabled here?” he asked

Marchand after getting out of the car. “A friend looked into the matter. Arthur was nowhere to be seen the night I was taken to the hospital nor the next day.”

“I hid in the forest with him in tow until the medics drove away and the crowd dispersed. I

took him to the stable once I learned one was close by.”

“Thank you.”

Out of the car, Stephen held still and listened. Something was wrong, starting with the

absence of common, everyday sounds in a normal stable. The time was 8:15; the horses would’ve

been fed within the last hour. Mangers would still be partially filled. Absent were the snorts and whinnies of horses as they ate, the shuffle and stamping of hooves, the scratchy sound of hay

being pulled through the manger grates. Early mornings, stable hands were busy going in and out of stalls and turnouts, cleaning droppings from the night before. Stall doors creak as they’re

opened and latches are slid into place, while high-strung horses are calmed with soft assurances.

He sniffed the air. Where was the sweet smell of alfalfa? The feed even when stored for

a long period, maintains much of its scent. Where was the smell of horse dung? Where was the

smell of animals in general?

Stephen unfolded his cane and came around the other side of the car where Marchand

stood. “Where are we? We’re not at a stable?”

“You may go. Thank you,” Marchand said to their driver, and a moment later the car

drove away.

“I asked a—”

The point of a dagger pushed through Stephen’s cotton shirt into his ribcage. He winced as

the tip broke the skin.

“Walk straight ahead,” Marchand instructed.

The angle Marchand was at made attacking him awkward. But if he could maneuver him

into the position he wanted, Stephen had a plan. Marchand likely thought since he lacked sight, he lacked a strong defense. What the Frenchman didn’t realize was Stephen didn’t lack the will or

the determination to be a challenging foe. Most important, he didn’t lack the cunning and ability to execute a powerful counter action.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.” Marchand added, “That came out wrong.”

Stephen swept his cane over the smooth sidewalk surface as the two continued. Utley had

taught him, not just how to judge objects and openings in confined areas, but how to judge open space from space that held structures when outside. A door of one of the structures opened and

he thought to call for help. He didn’t turn at the sound of low talk from the building and run the risk of giving his intention away. He had to do something else while he yelled for aid, something to get the dagger from his side. Stephen lowered his elbow ready to swing his arm backward against Marchand’s hand. A baby cried. Stephen held tight. The structure was a home. He wouldn’t

jeopardize a woman or child. The door closed. Behind them, a car started and drove away.

“If you intend on finishing your work and killing me, then you’ve had ample opportunity.

You needn’t put on a show. Make your move,” Stephen taunted. The best way to disarm

Marchand was to force him into an action that he could parry and play off.

“Quiet, we’re almost where we need to be.”

They continued in silence past a few more structures Stephen assumed were homes too.

They didn’t walk for long when sidewalk paving stopped and turned to soft soil, which probably

meant they were beyond the houses and crossed into open space.

Their destination didn’t matter. Stephen decided to stand his ground. Fast and hard, he

stomped on Marchand’s instep as he rammed his elbow into Marchand’s arm, driving the dagger

from his side.

He had to control the knife and assumed the Frenchman held onto it. Stephen pivoted,

brought his cane down, delivering a strong blow to the other man’s head. With his left hand, he blocked the swipe he knew Marchand would take as he came back at him with the knife. It’s the

counter move Stephen would’ve taken. He grabbed onto Marchand’s wrist. The two struggled

over the knife, Stephen digging his strong fingers into the soft flesh of the Frenchman’s wrist.

Marchand managed to keep hold of the dagger in spite of the pain inflicted. Stephen raised his

cane to hit Marchand again but the Frenchman locked onto the cane and twisted it from Stephen’s grip. Stephen used the freed hand and delivered a powerful punch to Marchand’s chest. The

man’s warm breath blew out in a rush of air, he grunted and stumbled back but not before

grabbing a handful of Stephen’s shirt front pulling him forward.

Marchand shifted his weight to the left. Stephen prepared. He’d fought more times than

he could count in the lists and knew the man intended to strike with the opposite hand. Stephen brought his hand up in time to deflect the dagger. As he did, he grasped Marchand’s wrist, pivoted again, wrenched his arm up behind his back and kept pushing until Marchand’s hand was palm up.

This time, he dug into the flesh with his thumb between the sensitive small bones, Marchand

groaned in pain and Stephen heard the soft thud as the dagger fell to the ground.

At the same time, Marchand managed to break free and turned. Stephen expected a blow

to the face and raised his arms to defend against the anticipated strike. Instead, he took a vicious kick to the knee. Stephen grunted and staggered but stayed upright. If he was to win, he had to fight close in, body to body.

To win, Marchand had to get within arm’s reach, which meant he’d move forward to

continue on the offense. Stephen adjusted and used the
randori
against Marchand. He lowered his right shoulder and attacked, powering his shoulder into the armpit of the Frenchman’s right armpit like Ota taught him. Once he had him on the ground, he’d pin Marchand and control him

with a choke hold. Stephen tried to flip him over his shoulder but the Frenchman had also trained in hand-to-hand combat. Just as Stephen rose up to position for the throw, Marchand swept his

feet from under him and they both went down.

Each grappled to pin the other down. Like logs the two men rolled back and forth, neither

gaining enough momentum or advantage to overpower the other. Stephen’s head snapped back as

he took a nasty fist to the jaw.

Marchand shifted as he drew back to strike again, but Stephen blocked the blow. His arm

took the force of the strike as Marchand’s fist came down. Stephen counter punched with his

right and connected with cheekbone.

Stephen tried to scramble to his feet but Marchand got a leg around him and rolled him

over like a turtle on its back. Then he clamped both legs around Stephen’s middle and squeezed.

Stephen fought for breath, certain any moment his ribs would break under the pressure.

Marchand partially sat up and brought his forearm around Stephen’s neck to choke him. Stephen

turned his head as Marchand’s arm came round. He grabbed the arm and bit down hard.

Marchand screamed and jerked his arm away. His legs loosened enough for Stephen to roll to the

side. He grabbed a handful of dirt and followed the sound of Marchand’s heavy breathing. Hoping to blind him temporarily, he threw it where he knew his face was and quickly got to his feet. A small cry escaped Marchand who sounded as though he was rising to his feet too.

Focus
. Stephen heard John Swallow’s voice as he had so often told him during their

lessons.
Sense your opponent’s presence. Feel the air change where he stands. Listen.

Stephen charged, hit Marchand in the midsection, and then tackled him to the ground. Marchand

tried to resist but his blows either missed or glanced off without injury to Stephen. He guessed the Frenchman’s vision must still be affected. On the ground, Stephen levered him onto his belly, face down, in the dirt. He felt for the man’s kidney’s and knelt, pressing a knee down hard to inflict excruciating pain.

“What is this about?” he demanded. “Why attack me?”

“You know why. You’re the devil’s servant,” Marchand said between ragged breaths.

“You’re mad.”

“The devil has given you the power to control time. God has sent me to fetch you and

force you to take me back to our true time.”

“I don’t possess such power. Nor have I ever consorted with the devil or his minions.”

“God told me you do. He does not abuse the truth as your wicked deity does. Why else

would he rip me from my time to this place other than to save king and country? You are the key to my success.”

“And what does God sound like? French? English? Rich of voice?” He almost said, a

woman, but that’d be taking mockery too far.

“Heretic.”

“No, not a heretic. Just a curious man. No more evil than the next. What exactly are you

saving king and country from?”

“Poitiers should’ve been our victory not yours. You will return us so I can warn King John

and steal victory back from the jaws of the English.”

Marchand pressed his hands to the ground and attempted to rise.

Stephen pressed harder on his kidney. “Try to rise before I give you permission and I will

grind both my heels into your soft organs.” Marchand stilled. “Again, I do not hold sway over

time.”

“It is my duty to change France’s defeat.”

Gravel crunched as someone stepped close. “You cannot change history. What has

happened is forever done,” Alex said.

“Alex?” Stephen turned at the sound of his friend’s voice. “How did you find me?”

“Esme told me what you planned and asked me to follow you. I did at a discreet distance.