A strong hand pulled him back. Stephen yanked free then rammed his elbow into what he
hoped was the man’s stomach but missed. Two men seized him by the upper arms and wrestled
him to the ground.
“Cease. Be still.” One of them grasped Stephen’s wrist again. A long moment passed and
then he said, “Your heart is racing. Your pulse is dangerously high. What is his blood pressure?”
Before Stephen could ask him what he was talking about, the other man answered. “Low
and dropping.”
Stephen could bear it no longer. “What is going on? Tell me.” He started to rise onto his
elbow but both men pressed him flat.
The second man said, “You’ve sustained what appears to be a serious head injury. We
won’t know how serious until we can get you to the emergency room and your helmet removed.”
Emergency room? They spoke in riddles. What did they really plan to do to him?
Exhaustion began to take Stephen but he mustered what strength he had left and fought to stay
awake.
“We must stabilize you so as to not risk cervical spine injury. Lay quiet so we can put you
on a backboard,” the second man continued.
“Backboard?”
“Like a plank but not.”
The words made no sense. Did they mean to keep him in a state worth torturing? A jolt of
fear spiked through him.
Stephen was losing the fight with light-headedness, and the voices began to fade.
“He’s losing consciousness. Let’s get him onto the backboard.”
Stephen suffered a minor jostling as his helm banged against the plank. Sharp pain that felt
like spikes pierced its way to the back of his head. The agony of it spread from his temples to his jaw.
Why are they doing this? Stephen made one last plea. “What sport is it to taunt and torture a wounded man? I ask again for mercy. Please, kill me.”
Shortly after the couple found the Englishman, a fearsome iron-clad cart arrived.
Marchand shrank back, deeper into the woods. The English knight’s mount whinnied and tried to
rear as the huge cart rolled their way. The conveyance produced a deafening roar that drowned
out the horse’s whinny. Conquerant grew increasingly restless as the noise neared. Terrified
himself, Marchand thought to make the Sign of the Cross but held fast to the reins of both
destriers.
Atop the cart’s iron coat, a light as bright as a thousand candles flickered and spun in a
rapid circular path. The light hurt his eyes. He turned, fearful such candle strength might damage his sight.
Men in more odd clothing leapt from the strange cart. One carried a bag. The tools of a
torturer? They did things to the Englishman. He fought the men but they overpowered him.
Enemy though he was, Marchand respected him for his attempt to battle on. “I do not
blame you, chevalier.”
The men lifted the knight onto a plank where they strapped him down, and then they
loaded him into the rear of the iron cart. The hideous wail roared again. The thousand-candle-light flashed and the cart fled down the road at a speed Marchand never imagined possible. He shook
off the shiver that began at his neck and traveled down his spine. Where did they take the knight, and what waited for the Englishman once there?
Perhaps this world was the hell priests rail about. He looked over to the Abbey. Only its
roof was visible.
“How could such a place be in hell?” he whispered aloud. How could he be there when
his heart still beat? If not hell, then what place was this?
Chapter Three
Once the iron-clad cart left, the couple and their dog returned home. The few other people
who’d come out to see the excitement went home too, including a woman who had stopped
hanging laundry on a garden line to watch. Marchand noted most of the men wore leg coverings
like the blue ones on the clothesline. He eyed them. Might fit. Might not. To learn exactly what this place was, he needed to interact with the people.
Hot and sweaty under his helm, Marchand flipped his visor up and then cantered into the
woods with the English knight’s horse in tow. The cool air blew over him as he rode, a refreshing rush on his sticky hair and head.
He rode to the Clain River, dismounted, and let the horses drink their fill. Kneeling next to
the horses, he removed his helm then drank and drank. His mouth tasted dry as the sand around
his Normandy holding. Marchand paused, palms cupped and poised to scoop up more water. His
holding. Did his cliff side chateau exist anymore? He shook off his concern, filled his hands with water and swallowed it all in two gulps. He couldn’t concern himself over the holding now. One
worry at a time, more pressing matters were at hand.
After he drank what seemed like a bucket, he dipped his head into the river. The cold
shock of water helped to clear his mind. He smoothed his hair, squeezed the excess water out and stood. The horses nibbled on the grass growing along the bank. Battle is as hard on animals as
men. Before long they’d be hungry for more than the meager offering of river grass. Where could he graze them unseen, or at least find more fodder to feed both? Just finding food for Conquerant might prove difficult enough. He’d have to sell the English horse soon. But where to sell him——
another troubling question.
First he’d steal other clothes. His protective armor clanked when he moved away from the
river. He paused. With all that happened, awareness of the lack of noise suddenly touched him.
For months, the constant clamor of armor, horses, the jingle of tack, the hammering of farriers, the din of hundreds of men talking and shouting, the banging of cook pots and myriad of other noises filled the days and nights. Here the air was filled with soft woodland sounds. He gave himself to the peaceful moment, closed his eyes and listened. All around, birds sang. Some trilled sweet and cheery. Not all pleased the ear. The songs of some were closer to a harsh squawk, but they
weren’t the background to war. Nearby leaves rustled with the passage of small creatures. He
opened his eyes and got back to the business at hand.
Marchand chose to carry only his eating dagger as a weapon and slid it into his short boot.
He stripped off his armor and stacked it into a pile with the exception of his arming sword. Then, he placed armfuls of branches and limbs on top to hide the pieces. With no way to know how well traveled the woods were, he couldn’t chance losing the valuable armor. The cuirass cost him a
fortune to have made to fit his broad back and chest. Off came his surcoat with the Marchand
heraldic symbol embroidered on the front. The plain linen shirt he wore beneath it would draw no one’s eye.
The horses were next. He stuck his folded surcoat into his kit, removed the saddles,
bridles, Arthur’s chanfron and Conquerant’s caparison. Marchand concealed the horse trappings
as best he could behind another tree.
There was nowhere to hide the horses. For now, they were at peace and he decided to
leave them to eat and rest untethered. Conquerant he trusted not to wander far or bolt. As long as they’re not being shot with arrows, or being ripped from their known world and tossed into a
strange new one, a knight’s warhorse is trained not to spook. The English horse was undoubtedly trained in the same fashion. Absent the need to compete for a mare, neither stallion challenged the other. By nature a herd animal, the English horse would likely stay near a companion horse.
He needed another, better hiding place for his sword. If someone stumbled onto this dark-
wooded spot and stole the h
orses and armor, it would be a terrible loss. His sword though, was a special gift from his father, who’d been given it by the king. Trained in its use since his youth, Marchand was among the finest swordsmen in the province. The sword was as much a part of
him as his right arm. A search of the immediate area turned up a wild oleander covered in blooms.
Fallen blossoms covered the ground around it. Marchand shoved the sword as far as he could
reach under the dark umbrella of the bush and then shook the branches hard to thicken the blanket of petals.
He walked a different path back to the battlefield. When he reached the edge of the
woods, he stopped and watched. No one came or went from the houses. Nor did anyone travel
the road. Good. He spent a few minutes focused on the house where the laundry hung, looking for the woman. Twice she passed by an upstairs window. The bedchamber he assumed. If so, where
was the husband? From the sun’s position, it was mid-afternoon. The husband probably still toiled at his trade. All the men he knew worked from sunrise to sunset.
Marchand checked in both directions one more time and then casually walked across the
road. By the rear corner of the house, he stopped again and poked his head around the wall. No
sign of a dog. He dropped and crawled on his hands and knees to the clothesline, where he hid
between two rows of bed linens. All was quiet. No yelling, no door opening, he guessed it safe and crawled to the row with clothing. He ripped the blue chausses and two shirts from their fasteners, then quickly snatched a bed linen. As calmly as he crossed the road from the woods, he returned the same way.
In the shelter of the trees, he studied the strange leg garment with its metal rivets. He
toyed with the tiny flange, realizing after a couple of tugs, it cinched the top part together. He took off his chausses and after a struggle managed to get the still damp, too tight, new garment over his legs. They’d been made for a spare man, much narrower in width and shorter. The hem touched
four fingers above the top of Marchand’s ankle. The metal cinch was another struggle but he
sucked in a deep breath and got it closed. The material itself he liked. It seemed very durable and practical. He bundled his own chausses and the stolen shirts in the large linen, secreting the bundle behind the tree.
The French army had broken their fast at daybreak, hours ago. Since leaving his spot by
the river, his stomach gurgled and growled continuously. Around him all the houses had planted
flowers but no vegetable gardens or fruit trees, nothing to ease his hunger. His perusal shifted to the Noialles. Every church he’d ever visited had a fine garden. Once more, he checked for other villagers and seeing none headed toward the abbey.
Like the thief he’d become, he crept along the edge of the woods behind the houses,
including the one with the dog. When he reached that house, Marchand put more trees and
shrubbery between him and the dog’s yard as he made his way to the church.
A squat building sat across a cobblestone path wide enough for a carriage. A bright candle
or candles burned inside. Women, who didn’t wear nun’s habits or wimples crossed to and fro in
front of a window. The abbot’s whores no doubt. All knew the corrupt Italian Popes took women
to their beds. One had to expect their brethren did as well, although none spoke of the matter
except in whispers.
Marchand snuck closer and hid behind a garden wall and peeked over. Past the open gate
sat a bucket that held bird-ruined tomatoes, droopy carrots, and brown-edged lettuce. A floppy hat like those worn by farmers hung on a post. He eased through the open gate, snatched the hat from the hook, and munched a carrot as he loaded it with the imperfect vegetables.
“What are you doing there?”
His head snapped up. A woman stood before him. He was unaware she’d come upon
him...a bad mistake, not paying attention.
“I am hungry and you were throwing good food away. We’re both better served by my
filling my belly.”
He studied her. Deep creases lined the area by her eyes and mouth. Her hair was shot
with grey and twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She looked over ripened for a whore.
Like the other women he’d seen gathered by the English knight, this one wore a skirt sinful in its short length, exposing bare lower calves. At least her blouse covered her bodice.
“Who are you, a priest’s whore to question me?”
She gave a short gasp and clasped her hands tight to her bosom. “I am no whore. I am
Sister Catherine.”
“Liar.” Marchand stood, keeping the hat with the vegetable treasure out of the whore’s
reach. “Where is your habit, your wimple? No nun dresses thus,” he said with a small tip of his chin.
Her eyes widened slightly then narrowed. “Where have you been? Many Orders don’t
require us to wear habits. My wimple is inside. It’s hot so I took it off while I worked in the kitchen.”
Then, she looked him up and down. “What is your name?”
“Com...” Out of habit, he started to use his title, but then thought not to until he knew more
about this place he found himself. “Roger Marchand.”
“Why don’t you come into the office?” Her eyes lingered on his chausses. “I’ll search the
donation basket for pants that fit,” she said, raising her eyes to his face. “And you can have a hot meal with fresh vegetables, but you must be on your way afterward.”
Marchand followed close behind her, happy at the prospect of pants less tight and a full belly.
“The donation basket is here on the mud porch. She dug through the contents and found a
pair in the same material with torn knees but they were larger. “These should fit.”
She led him to a small chamber she called a bathroom. “You may change in here. Also,
whether or not you use the toilet, wash your hands before you come to the table.”
“Toilet? I don’t—”
“You heard me. Wash your hands, whatever you do.” Her eyes darted to the large basin
attached to the floor. It had a fair-size hole in the bottom and was vaguely similar to a garderobe.
He used the toilet first. He stood to the side and worked the metal pedal, not trusting the piss to swirl down but end up spraying him instead. “Where do the leavings go?” he wondered
aloud. Intrigued, he played with the pedal a few more time before washing his hands.
As he made his way to the kitchen, he noticed a paper stuck to the wall—an ecclesiastical
calendar. The top had the portrait of some saint drawn in ink and on paper of strange origin. At the bottom, the calendar read September, 2013. He knew his letters. He knew his numbers. He
knew this day was September 19, 1356. What did the numbers 2013 refer to?
“Sister Catherine, tell me what this means?”
She joined him in the hall. “What?”
“This,” he said and pointed to the numbers.
“It’s a calendar.”
“Yes, I know what it is. These numbers...what do they mean?”
“That’s the month and year.” She pointed to a square three rows down from the top.
“Today is September 19, 2013.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “It cannot be the year you say,” he insisted, hammering a
finger on the date.
The heated denial was less convincing than he wished. A litany of the day’s oddities went
through his mind—the dizziness when he started to kill the Englishman, Conquerant’s rebellious
behavior, the iron cart that howled and bore blinding candlelight, everything he’d experienced
undermined his conviction.
She laid a hand on
his arm. “Are you all right? You’ve gone deathly white.”
“2013. You would swear this on your soul, Sister?”
“Yes.” Concern crossed her face. “Roger, have you been recently released from a
sanatorium?”
Sanatorium? The word meant nothing to him, but from her expression he surmised it
wasn’t a good place.
“No, Sister.” Marchand gave her a weak smile. “Is...Is the abbey open?”
“No, the main doors are locked after noon mass. The north chapel is still open. I’ll keep
your food warm, if you wish to pray.”
“Thank you.”
Marchand hurried across the cobblestone carriageway and inside the modest sanctuary.
Alone there, he fell on his knees in front of the altar. He made the sign of the cross and raised his eyes to the large wooden cross on the wall.
“Have mercy Father. Please help me to understand what has happened, why I am in this
place. I beg you help me find a way back to my time.”
He bowed his head and prayed. He vowed to be a better man, although he didn’t think
himself a bad one. He vowed to give more to the poor. He vowed to stop hating his late wife for loving another man.
When his mind ran dry of promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, Marchand stood. He
went to the altar rack of votive candles before the statue of the Virgin Mary. As he lit a candle for the souls of his dead son and wife, God answered his prayers. Understanding came to him.
The calendar was God’s message to him. The Lord wanted him to see the date. The
Devil’s handiwork was at play here. This day and this place were cursed, which was why only the year changed. Marchand turned to the cross. “Thank you.”
The Devil loved tricks. But even he had limitations and knew defeats. Tonight, while it
was still September 19, he’d return to the spot he and the Englishman encountered the time shift.
Battle or no battle, he’d return to his true time and warn his king to retreat, to fight another day, in another place, and win.
#
Marchand waited until the last of the pink streaks the setting sun left in the sky
disappeared. He finished the bread, a baguette Sister Catherine called it, and the whack of cheese she’d given him. Take this home with you, she said. If she knew where home was, she’d faint, he thought with some amusement.
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 2
