In Time for You
Page 1
In Time for You
Knights in Time
Book 4
Chris Karlsen
Table of Contents
Title Page
Excerpt from In Time for You
Copyright
Look for Other Books by Chris Karlsen
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
READ BOOK 1 in the BLOODSTONE SERIES | SILK
CHAPTER ONE SILK | Chapter One
About the Author
Books to Go Now
Excerpt from In Time for You
While she ate, the button on Electra’s sleeve fell out of the frog loop. She didn’t hook the button again, reaching for her wine instead. The sleeve pulled back from her wrist to expose her watch, which she hadn’t thought to remove.
“What is that?” Simon asked and pointed to her Seiko.
“A watch.” What a bizarre question. There wasn’t a corner of the planet that people didn’t recognize a wristwatch.
A frown slowly formed and he stretched across Emily and took hold of Electra’s hand to tug it toward him for a better look. He turned her hand over and in a matter of seconds had the clasp undone.
He brought the candle in front of his trencher closer and held the watch under it. “What do the numbers mean?”
“It’s a clock, a miniature timepiece you wear on your wrist.”
From his expression, the explanation puzzled him. “Do they not have candle clocks in this Greenland you claim you’re from?”
How to explain the abundance of various clocks to a man who apparently has no context for the anything beyond a candle clock or similar ancient means of telling time?
“Are you saying you’ve never seen a clock?” Emily asked.
“One like this? No, I have not.”
Emily bent her head nearer Electra and whispered, “Are you thinking what I am?”
“Sadly, yes.”
Simon ran his finger over the watch face. “These small digits, what is their meaning?”
“It’s the date and year: 5.14.15.”
He shook his head. “What year is 15?”
“2015, of course.”
“You are mad. It’s the year of our Lord, 1357.”
“What year were you born?”
“1327, why?”
Electra didn’t care for the speed which Simon answered. She held onto the small hope this was some odd reality show and that he’d stumble or hesitate before coming up with a year. “No reason, I was just curious.” She turned to Richard who’d been chatting with the serving girl. She tapped his arm. Getting his attention she asked, “Richard, what year is this?”
He tipped his head like a dog hearing a strange noise. She assumed he too thought her mad for asking. “1357. Do you measure your years differently in your native country?”
“Yes, it’s a different time there.” A different world. She looked over at Emily, who’d been listening. The color had drained from her face.
For both their sakes, Electra fought to keep from falling apart in front of the whole room. She failed and began to tremble uncontrollably. She balled her hands into fists and turned from Simon to Richard. “I need to go outside. I feel sick.”
“I’d like to go too,” Emily told Simon.
“I’ll go as well.” He smiled. “Just to make certain nothing untoward befalls you.”
Copyright
In Time for You
Books to Go Now Publication
Copyright © Chris Karlsen 2017
Books to Go Now
Cover Design by Romance Novel Covers Now
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First eBook Edition April 2016
Second eBook Edition April 2017
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
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Look for Other Books by Chris Karlsen
Bloodstone Series
Snifter of Death
Silk
Knights in Time Series
Heroes Live Forever
Journey in Time
Knight Blindness
In Time for You
Dangerous Waters Series
Golden Chariot
Byzantine Gold
Prologue
Poitiers, France
September, 1356
Roger Marchand stood by his destrier, Conquerant, and waited for the order to mount. He watched as the English enemy formed up on the opposite plateau, his French countrymen greatly outnumbering them. What madness possessed the English he couldn’t guess. Why would Edward, the Black Prince, a man said to have a brilliant mind for tactics, choose to stand his ground and fight? The Prince could easily retreat back to Bordeaux, the English held French province. To stay was suicidal pride.
“Comte...” Henri, Roger’s squire, handed him a silver cup of wine. “It’s from the King’s own supply. A taste of wine now. A taste of victory soon according to his majesty.”
“Thank you.” Roger took a large swallow but saved some for the squire. “Have the rest.” He handed the cup back. “No reason for you not to enjoy the royal harvest.”
Henri tipped his chin toward the English side. “I’ve secretly followed a few of them for the past week as they left their camp. They forage for food for them and their horses. They scratch for dandelions to boil and eat. Weeds.” Henri curled his lip in distaste and turned to Roger. “Look at them, tattered and hungry. There’ll be no surprise victory for the invaders today, like at Crecy.”
Roger made the sign of the cross. “You must not speak about such a thing before battle. To give voice to our past defeat is to invite bad fate.” The squire was young, too young to have accompanied Roger at Crecy, ten years earlier. Roger had been twenty-four at the time. Older than his cousins who died in the battle and clever enough to avoid capture and ransoming by the English. But if he had been taken prisoner, his father would’ve paid any price asked for the return of his only son. After the heavy tax imposed by th
e king to cover the cost of the war, ransom would’ve seriously depleted the family coffers, but of no matter to his father.
“Let us speak prayers this is the battle that will bring an end to the English challenge. I want nothing more than to go home,” Roger said. “I want to tend to my land, sit in front of my hearth, and bed my mistress when the mood is upon me.”
“You will, sire. Soon.”
Priests were blessing weapons and men. Roger waved one over. When he came, Roger unsheathed his sword and knelt, Henri by his side. “Father, I do not ask for my life but whatever God’s will, I ask to meet it with courage and honor.”
“HE will see you through, my son.” The priest sprinkled Holy Water on Roger’s bent head and on the sword he presented. Roger rose and said, “My squire and horse as well, father.” The priest pulled back and looked about to balk. Roger took one step closer to him. “My squire and horse as well, father.”
The priest nodded, said a fast blessing, sprinkled water on Conquerant’s head then eyed Roger seeing if the action met with his approval. Roger nodded in return and sheathed his sword. The priest quickly moved on to another man.
The best of the cavalry lined up behind rows of foot soldiers armed with various weapons. Behind them, but on foot, were cavalry knights who lacked the skill of riders like Roger. All the French ranks were flanked by crossbow men. He had mixed feelings regarding the crossbow men. While their bolts penetrated armor, it took the men far longer to load than it did an English long bowman. The English devils could turn the heavens black with their arrows, and black again, and again. Close in, at fifty yards, their arrows could also penetrate armor. At great expense, Roger had armor for Conquerant made. The terror of an arrow-wounded horse magnified the chaos of battle. Bad enough he had to be aware of the men and mounts around him when one or the other was wounded. An injury to Conquerant could prove deadly to them both.
Roger removed his surcoat from the saddlebag and slipped it on over his armor. The garment bore his family’s coat of arms: a black panther on a field of orange. Like all the knights, Roger wouldn’t put his helm on until the last minute. The helm made even a shouted command nearly impossible to hear. On the far side of the French plateau, when the King put his helmet on and mounted, Roger followed suit and mounted. The dauphin raised his father, the King’s, banner. For those who couldn’t hear the order to charge, the banner would drop and signal to advance.
Henri laid a hand on Roger’s arm. “God be with you, sire.”
“I pray God is with us all this day.”
The first banner dropped and all but the cavalry line charged. The flat field between the armies grew thick with fallen foot soldiers, the English arrows taking a terrible toll. The banner for the mounted knights dropped and Roger rode hard over English and French dead and wounded alike. To ride too slow while enemy arrows rained down Would mean death.
The last column of English cavalry, the Black Prince among them, charged down the plateau. A knight on a large white horse who’d been engaged in a sword fight, killing a French knight, turned to challenge Roger who was almost upon him. In explicably, the Englishman paused, for only a fraction of a second, but long enough for Roger to bring his sword down on the Englishman’s helm hard, smashing the visor into the enemy’s eyes. The blow knocked the man from his saddle to the ground. He crawled from the spot where he fell toward an area of shrubs and stones, his horse trailing next to him and occasionally nudging the wounded knight. The knight finally stopped. Blood dripped from behind his helm, pooling on the ground. He tried to rise on all fours but collapsed.
The white horse pawed the earth and nudged the knight again.
“Arthur,” the knight whispered just loud enough for Roger to hear.
Roger pulled his long sword from the saddle ring and raised it high, prepared to drive through the Englishman’s neck mail and finish him off. “English pig.”
Conquerant pinned his ears and reared. He tossed his head as though the bit pained him. Arching, he positioned himself to lunge and bolt.
The stallion never spooked. Mystified, Roger struggled to control the powerful animal, forgetting about the English knight.
“Conquerant—” Roger tightened his grip on the reins. As he did, a sudden dizziness washed over him and the ground rolled beneath him. The enemy knight blurred and the image of nearby fighting men grew hazy.
He locked his hand onto the pommel to stay astride. His mouth had been dry as sand when he rode into battle but now it watered like a mad dog’s.
The odd disturbance ceased and Conquerant stopped his defiance, although the animal’s mane stood strangely on end. Roger’s vision cleared and the wounded knight came back into focus.
The sounds of war were no more. No clanging of metal on metal or cries from dying men and horses. Battle is many things but never quiet. Roger gripped the pommel tight again. His heart raced as a strange uncertainty settled over him as he took in the sights around him and he tried to make sense of what he saw. Houses were built where the French and English camps existed. The armies were gone. Black material with white lines covered the dirt road that bordered the field where they fought. He twisted in the saddle surrounded by a world he didn’t recognize and worked to hold fear at bay. The sight of the distant Noialles Abbey and the familiar woods gave him some comfort. But even those familiar sites couldn’t keep the worst from his mind.
What was this place?
Where had God sent him?
Chapter One
Gloucester, England
Spring-current year
“You have everything I asked for?”
The cafe owner nodded.
“You made certain the champagne is French. My lady loves French champagne, which is natural, of course,” Roger told the man.
“Yes. We’ve prepared the luncheon according to your wishes. The cheese is French as well. We made our own baguette. Honestly sir, we know how to bake bread on this side of the English Channel too. I included a variety of sliced meat, berries and fruit. Fret not,” the owner said. “We even have a small vase of flowers for you.”
He didn’t doubt the English were capable bakers of bread but there was a reason people asked for French bread and never said, bring me a loaf of English bread. An observation he thought best to keep to himself lest the man do something wicked to the food.
“Thank you.” As he left, Roger looked at his reflection in the large display window. He’d awakened early to polish his riding boots to a high gloss, and broke out his new jodhpurs and a crisp white shirt. In the pocket of his riding jacket was the velvet box with a marquis cut ruby and diamond engagement ring. Rubies were Electra’s favorite gem. The ring wasn’t as many carats as he’d have liked to give her but he couldn’t afford a larger ring. In his previous life, price wouldn’t have mattered. Not being rich now didn’t often bother him. But for Electra, he wished he had more.
Worry over whether she’d accept his proposal hung like a dark cloud over his plans and hopes. Before he asked for her hand, he’d have to tell her the truth of his past—who and what he was then, and how he came to be here. Stephen had told Esme and although she didn’t believe him at first, she eventually accepted the truth. Esme’s love for Stephen wasn’t diminished by the bizarre tale of traveling through time. Roger hoped her sister shared that quality of trust.
****
Electra opened the door just as Roger raised his hand to knock. “Hi.” She leaned up and kissed him, then took him by the hand into the vestibule. “I’m ready. We’re just waiting on Emily. She’s putting her phone and driver’s license in a carrier for the saddlebag.”
“I didn’t know Emily was joining us.” Roger fingered the velvet box and plastered a smile on his face. Of all days to invite her younger sister, Electra chose today. Emily hadn’t ridden with them in weeks.
“You don’t mind do you?” Electra asked. Behind her, Emily looked up from retying a boot.
“Of course not.”
“Ready,” Em
ily said and came over with her small phone in hand. An obsessive worrywart, she reminded everyone on a regular basis you can never be too careful. Anytime she went someplace new, she had her car GPS on, the phone GPS, plus a physical map in her glove box.
“Leave the phone for once. Roger has his,” Electra told her.
“No can do. I feel naked without it.”
Electra rolled her eyes at Roger who just walked away.
They rode through the heavily wooded area of the forest that abutted Lancaster land. Shafts of sunlight broke through the leafy green canopy giving life to occasional patches of wildflowers. They followed a worn path to a clearing that ended at the Old Roman Road. It had fallen into disrepair from decades of neglect. Traffic on the road was predominantly folks on foot or horseback; motorists favored the nearby dual carriageway.
The spot Roger chose to have the picnic lay halfway between where the forest path intersected the road and the ruin of Elysian Fields. According to Alex Lancaster, Elysian Fields was a grand Norman Castle built by his ancestors in the twelfth century. Cromwell ordered it laid to waste five centuries later during the English Civil War. Alex purchased what was left, including a thousand acres around the site, from the Heritage Society. Two years ago, he’d donated a large parcel of the site to Cambridge University for a study being conducted by a renowned astrophysicist Oliver Gordon.
Other than to offer a brief history of Elysian Fields, Alex didn’t speak about his ancestral home. Understandable. Roger expected the pain of seeing its destruction was best left buried. In his day, Roger’s own beautiful, and formidable, chateau made an impressive sight perched high on her rocky cliff. Most of the Marchand chateau still remained but had been turned into a popular chain hotel. The conversion wasn’t much better than being turned into a ruin, in his opinion.
He shook off the memory of seeing what had been his home converted to a commercial enterprise and turned toward Elysian Fields. “This way.”
Off in the distance, out over the Bristol Channel, lightning spiked. “Did you see that?” Electra asked. “It was almost pretty. It had a purple aura around the bolt.” She turned to Roger. “You checked the weather for today didn’t you?”