Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time

by Knight Blindness

  Knight Blindness

  Chris Karlsen

  Knight Blindness

  A Books to Go Now Publication

  Copyright © Chris Karlsen 2013

  Books to Go Now

  Also Published at Smashwords

  For information on the cover illustration and design, contact bookstogonow@gmail.com

  First eBook Edition July 2013

  Printed in the United States of America

  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.

  If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please stop by

  www.bookstogonow.com

  Other Stories by Chris Karlsen

  The Knights in Time Series

  Heroes Live Forever

  Journey in Time

  The Dark Water Series

  Golden Chariot

  Byzantine Gold

  Acknowle dge me nt

  I would like to thank Dr. Michael Jungkeit who patiently answered my many medical questions

  and provided much appreciated expertise. I’d also like to thank Tara Annis of the American

  Foundation for the Blind who shared her personal experience and insight with blindness along with helping me find the additional research material and information I needed throughout the story.

  Finally, I’d like to thank martial arts expert, Lex Sensenbrenner, whose knowledge was invaluable as I choreographed the fight scenes.

  Dedication

  To Mike and Sig.

  Chapter One

  Poitiers, France

  September 19, 1356

  Cries of the injured and dying French men-at-arms filled the air as Welsh bowman cut

  down the initial enemy onslaught. The vibration from the second charge toward the English lines traveled up through Arthur’s powerful legs, the tremor slight against Stephen’s armored calf.

  “Be still,” he ordered as the warhorse stamped his impatience.

  His friend and baron he served, Guy Guiscard, said something indistinguishable over the

  noise.

  Stephen leaned closer. “What?”

  “We cannot hold them here, even on the high ground, not with their superior numbers.”

  Both eyed the grassy gap between theirs and the French held plateau. Unfurled enemy

  banners flapped in the breeze, a colorful swell that continued up the expanse.

  “Maybe not but we can blanket the field with their blood,” Stephen said, exchanging a

  smile with Guy.

  Black-robed priests, who had earlier busied themselves blessing bows and swords now

  busied themselves taking confessions, offering prayers, and the Holy Eucharist. A decade before, at Crecy, he believed himself invincible—a young man’s arrogant mantle. Today’s hard battle

  would leave few unscathed. When the fattest of the churchmen approached, Stephen looked to

  the dying below. They’d prayed too. He turned to the priest and waved him off.

  On the other rise, squires stood and took the reins from a contingent of French cavalry

  who’d dismounted. They retained their arming swords, axes, and morning stars. Behind them, line after line of mounted knights amassed on the grassy gap.

  “They’re saving the best horsemen for the initial cavalry charge,” Stephen said.

  He and Guy were in Edward of Woodstock--the Black Prince’s column. They’d be the

  first to challenge the cavalry charge.

  “I’m tired of watching the devils parade around foolishly thinking they cannot lose,” Guy

  said.

  Stephen flipped his visor down, the sound of the battle dimmed by the drone of his rapid

  breathing inside the steel helm. The waiting was worse than fighting. He glanced over at Prince Edward. “Let us be done with this. Give the order,” he said low.

  The prince straightened in his saddle as more of the enemy climbed the hill in front of their

  column. Then, the French cavalry charged. No longer a mere tremble of vibration, the ground

  quaked with the bruising the soft earth took from the oncoming horses. They rode over the men on foot and made for the breach in the hedge where Edward sat.

  English arrows darkened the sky. A deafening roar rose from below as the arrows found

  their marks. Horses screamed as multiple shafts pierced their hides. Those who didn’t fall reared, bucking their riders off. Others bolted, crushing French and English alike.

  Edward gave the signal. The prince’s column charged into the butchery. Arthur slid on the

  grass wet from a lingering morning mist, blood, and the entrails of eviscerated horses and men. To Stephen’s right, Basil Manneville, best friend to Guy, went down. His horse had taken an ax to the chest as Basil leaped the hedge.

  Guy, several strides ahead, turned and rode to his aid. Stephen spun Arthur around,

  spurring him hard to help. His pursuit was cut off by a mounted enemy knight. The Frenchman

  came at him with his long sword, which Stephen maneuvered away from then quickly pivoted to

  engage.

  The long sword was never his favored weapon and Stephen faced the knight with his

  shorter arming sword drawn. The Frenchman shielded his sword and drew his morning star.

  Trained by Stephen since he was a colt, Arthur didn’t flinch or shy from the charge. He bared his teeth at Stephen’s cue, ready to bite either the enemy or his horse. The Frenchman’s mount

  danced to the left. The knight’s position altered a fraction leaving a vulnerable space open under his arm between the back and breastplates of his armor.

  Stephen plunged his sword deep into the Frenchman’s side, striking ribs then soft tissue.

  The knight swung once with his morning star and then fell from his mount. The strike missed.

  Several lengths off, enemy soldiers had Guy surrounded. As Stephen reversed direction to

  ride to his aid, he caught a flash of orange and black in his peripheral vision. Guy’s warning from Yuletide the year before came back to him. Beware the black cat in a field of orange.

  The image closed in on him. He turned and saw the Frenchman’s surcoat, a panther on a

  background of orange silk. Stephen hesitated for a split second as the warning became real. The French knight raised his sword high. Stephen brought his up.

  A second too late.

  Chapter Two

  Poitiers, France

  Present day

  Roger Marchand followed as the English knight crawled, blood leaking from the slits in his

  visor. The knight’s mount trailed along, nudging his master with his nose when he stopped and lay helpless by a flowering bush.

  Marchand slid his long sword from its ring to finish the knight off. “English pig.” He moved

  to plunge the blade into the exposed part of the man’s neck. Before he could, his mount pinned his ears and reared. The animal’s mane bristled, he tossed his head, fighting the bit, and attempted to lunge, ready to bolt.

&nbs
p; The stallion never spooked.

  “Conquerant—”

  With his free hand, Marchand tightened his grip on the reins, trying to control the excited

  horse, when sudden dizziness possessed him. Beneath him, the ground appeared to sway. The

  wounded knight turned to a watery image as did Marchand’s sword and gauntleted hands.

  Unable to focus as all around him shifted, he squeezed his eyes shut then opened them

  again to the same bewildering sight. Conquerant lurched from side to side. Unsteady, Marchand

  wavered in the saddle and grasped the pommel to stay astride. He spit and spit again. How his

  mouth watered, yet when he’d gone into battle, his tongue stuck to the roof it was so dry.

  As sudden as the confusing disturbance occurred, it ceased. Conquerant stilled. The

  dizziness passed. The ground no longer moved. The Englishman’s image was solid again. Here

  and there, the hair on his horse’s mane and tail stood on end.

  Eerie quiet surrounded them.

  War is never silent.

  Marchand looked to his right and then left. Other than the Englishman and his mount, all

  else had changed. The battle no longer raged. The men and horses were no more. He looked to

  where armies once gathered. The woods where the English had camped endured, but the rise

  they’d formed upon had disappeared along with the French plateau. Strange houses stood there

  now on a flat field. A strange, black road with painted lines lay where no road existed before.

  He made the Sign of the Cross. By all the saints, what happened to him and the

  Englishman? He twisted in the saddle, searching for anything familiar and saw the profile of

  Abbey Noialles not far away.

  He sighed and touched a hand to his heart. At least he was still in France. “Merci Dieu,

  merci Dieu,” he said, thanking God, relieved by the small grace.

  A few strides away stood a large, wooden plaque. He sheathed his sword and walked

  Conquerant to the front of the plaque. Written in both French and English, the story spoke of a great battle fought on these grounds in 1356. The French was different than what he spoke, but he understood the words.

  Fought. What was the meaning of this tale? It claimed an English victory. He shook his

  head in disbelief. How? The battle had not ended. The French greatly outnumbered the army of

  the famous Black Prince. Unlike the hungry English, their bellies were full. Like all the other French nobles, weeks earlier, Marchand with his company of knights seized most of the

  province’s harvest. They left only enough to feed the peasant farmers through the winter and

  spring.

  English victory? Impossible.

  He turned at the sound of faint voices. Out of one of the strange houses came an oddly

  dressed couple with a dog. He backed Conquerant a few feet so the sign offered partial

  concealment. The dog immediately turned toward where he hid.

  The other horse pawed the ground. “Arthur,” the Englishman said barely above a whisper.

  Marchand’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. The dog remained alert, his snout raised,

  sniffing the air, but the animal didn’t move. It may not have heard the knight’s soft utterance.

  Marchand eyed the dog then the knight. He should finish the Englishman off. But to kill him might draw attention. One death groan would bring the dog.

  The man and woman headed in the opposite direction towards the Abbey. The dog trotted

  to the edge of the odd road and stopped. Again, the animal fixed on the spot where Marchand hid.

  The dog barked and trotted a few steps closer.

  His owner turned and whistled. The dog didn’t move but stayed fixed on Marchand and

  the knight. The man whistled a second time and called the dog. Only then did the animal turn and run to his master. The man and woman continued toward Noialles.

  When Marchand lost sight of the couple, he forced himself to action. He grabbed the reins

  of the Englishman’s mount. The horse had value. Using the cover of trees that dotted the field, he galloped into the woods where the forest thickened with old oaks.

  From under the dark canopy, he watched the couple from the house return. As they

  walked alongside the road, the dog ran ahead several paces then turned toward where the knight

  lay.

  Face down, the ground was cool beneath Stephen’s hands. The other knight’s blow

  must’ve unhorsed him. What happened to Arthur? Did he wander near or had he fallen into

  enemy possession?

  Warm fluid ran into Stephen’s eyes and over his cheeks and seeped into his mouth. It

  tasted foul, metallic, as though he’d licked his armor or sword. The taste wasn’t unfamiliar. He’d cut his mouth or lip often enough during practice in the lists to recognize the tinny quality. Blood .

  Panic raced through him. He needed to take his helm off and wipe his eyes to know how badly he

  was hurt. He blinked. Something sliced at his eyelids. Stephen cried out and pounded the earth

  with his fist as tortuous pain seized both eyes. Everything was black. His eyes were open and all he saw was black. The horrible reality of how bad his injury might be struck him.

  “Mon dieu,” a man’s voice above Stephen said.

  French. I am a prisoner.

  His captor rolled him over before he could rise.

  Stephen wasn’t a nobleman but a captive with no ransom value. Better dead. “Etre

  rapide... Please—be fast,” he said, hoping one knight to another, the enemy would honor his request to kill him quickly.

  “You are English,” the Frenchman replied.

  Obviously . It occurred to Stephen he was the prisoner of a fool.

  “You have a serious injury, monsieur. And, why are you dressed like this? Are you...” the

  man paused then added, “a re-enactor?”

  Stephen had no idea what a re-enactor was but was now certain he’d been captured by a

  fool...a fool who spoke a strange manner of English, even for a Frenchman.

  “I am dressed for battle. You are French. I am English. We are at war. My injury is a war

  wound.”

  “We are not at war. Your head wound has made you delirious I fear. You will be all right.

  My wife has called for an ambulance.”

  Worse than a fool, this Frenchman talked like a madman. Blind or not, he had to get away

  from him. Perhaps, he’d find a merciful death at the hands of a different knight. Stephen rose onto his knees. Light-headedness and nausea washed over him. He forgot what happened when he

  blinked and tried to close his eyes against the sensations. Once more, piercing pain raged. He bent and dropped his head, supporting himself on his forearms.

  “Stay still. You are in no condition to move.” From the weight, the French madman had

  laid a hand on Stephen’s vambrace.

  In the distance came a howl like a wolf’s but different. The tone was not like any wolf

  he’d ever heard. Nor had he heard any howl so long without breath. What hideous animal had

  come to dine on the battlefield dead?

  “The ambulance will be here in a moment,” the madman said.

  Stephen didn’t know what an ambulance was and didn’t care. The announcement was just

  more ramblings. What of the battle? “You won, then?”

  “Won? Monsieur, again I tell you, we are not at war.”

  “How did I receive this wound if we are not?”

  “I cannot imagine.”

  “In battle!”

  “What battle do you believe you fought in?”

  “Poitiers.”

  “Poitiers,” the man repeated. “It explains why you are dressed so odd. But the b
attle you

  speak of is many centuries past. Many.”

  His injury must’ve affected his hearing. The man might be mad but surely he knew in

  which century he lived.

  Before he could ask the man what year he believed it was the piercing howl came closer

  and closer until it sounded right on top of him. His helm did little to muffle the hellish noise. Horror and panic like none he’d known gripped him.

  Then it stopped, and Stephen heard the footfalls of people running toward him. Male

  voices speaking in rapid French joined a female voice. The madman’s wife no doubt since she

  described to the new men how she and her husband found him in the field. She made it sound like he was alone on the battlefield, which could not be. He had seen dead from both sides as he, and Guy, and Basil, rode to challenge the French cavalry. Guy. Basil.

  “My friends...there...” He swung an arm out and gestured to the area he believed he saw

  them last. “Are they dead?” The people whispered but did not answer.

  The newly arrived men eased him onto his back. One groaned and another sucked in air

  through his teeth.

  “My friends... mes amis...are they dead... sont-ils morts?” Stephen repeated.

  “We speak English, monsieur,” said a deep-voiced man kneeling by his shoulder. “There is

  no one here but you,” the man told him and removed the vambrace from his left arm.

  “I don’t believe you.” What was going on? Why were they lying?

  The deep-voiced man cut through his mail and wrapped what felt like a wide bandage

  around his arm. There was a huffing noise but not human, and the band tightened with each huff.

  “What are you doing?” He dug at the armband.

  The man on his right grabbed him by the wrist and held his hand down against his chest.

  The huffing and tightening stopped.

  Above him, the madman and his wife mumbled. “Could the injury have affected his

  sanity?” she asked someone. Stephen didn’t know what she meant. What was this sanity she

  referred to?

  There was the sound of expelled air, a soft hiss, and the band loosened. The man who

  strapped it to his arm ripped it off, judging from the tearing noise. As he tore the band away, the man who restrained him placed his fingertips onto Stephen’s wrist. He jerked his hand from the

  man’s grip and drove his booted heels into the ground. Pushing off with one hand, he tried to get up. Better they kill him while he attempted escape than be fed to the battlefield beast or worse.