When the moon was high, he shed the pants, dressed in his chausses and put on his armor.
He tacked up Conquerant and then the English horse, except for the chanfron. That he fastened to Conquerant’s face and head. The protective piece of horse armor was expensive. He’d keep it.
After checking that he was alone, he walked the horses from the woods to the bush
behind the sign. He stayed mounted, ready to engage the enemy as soon as he arrived on the
battlefield. Marchand kept a loose hold on the reins of the English horse, thinking the animal might wish to nibble the grass where they stood. It was thicker than the river grass and both horses had to be hungry. Conquerant, he’d feed properly at camp once the battle was over.
Unlike Conquerant, the English horse did not graze as they waited. Instead, the horse
snuffled at the ground where the wounded knight had lain.
“Arthur.” Marchand repeated the name the knight whispered.
The horse flicked his ears and raised his head.
“Did he name you for their famous king of old?”
Arthur dropped his head and snuffled more.
Marchand’s mind wandered to the English knight who’d have to suffer this strange world.
Where had they taken him? What would he think when he discovered the year? What did they
plan to do to him? A small measure of sympathy for the enemy knight touched his heart at the
grim possibilities.
The uneventful hours passed at a tortuously slow speed. The abbey bells tolled ten.
Conquerant’s head dropped and he dozed. Marchand fought to stay awake but lost the battle to
tiredness. He too dozed. The bells tolling eleven woke him with renewed hope. Within an hour,
this world would be but a bad memory.
At midnight the bells rang but the ground beneath him didn’t sway nor did a cloak of
dizziness settle on him. Calm now, Conquerant’s head bobbed as he faded in and out of a doze.
The cursed day was ended, but everything else remained unchanged.
“No.”
Why had he failed? He sat in the exact spot as that morning. All was the same. All except
for the English knight. A new suspicion crept into Marchand’s thoughts. Perhaps the day wasn’t
cursed but the Englishman, who they’d taken away by unholy means. Perhaps this was his
punishment from either above or below. Fury replaced any sympathy he felt for the captured
man. The Lord or the Devil had invoked this penance upon the knight, and he, Marchand, was a
poor soul caught up in the man’s misdeeds.
A shiver passed over him at the thought of shared fate.
Chapter Four
Centre Hospitalier de l’Universite de Poitiers.
“It is time to wake,” a man said.
The voices had already woken him. Stephen lay still and said nothing, wanting to ascertain
what place this was that they’d taken him. He assumed he shared a cell with other English
prisoners, the dungeon of a local nobleman’s castle most likely. Strange that the room didn’t smell like a dungeon where tortured and injured enemy men were confined or worse, chained. Guy’s
holding, Elysian Fields, had a dungeon, but it hadn’t been used since before Guy’s father’s birth. In the past, Stephen visited other castles where the dungeons were used and often never empty. The odor of decaying flesh and corruption was potent and unmistakable. A sharp scent, perhaps from
an herbalist’s vinegar hung in the air here, but the room smelled clean. And, from somewhere to his left came a repetitious chirp, like a bird being poked again and again.
Puzzling.
The bed was unusually comfortable and his head lay on a feather pillow. He ran his hand
along the linen covering the mattress. It felt like a fine weave, not coarse and scratchy like in the barracks of Elysian Fields. He wiggled his feet under the softest of blankets.
“I believe he’s stirring,” a feminine voice said. The mattress sank with her weight as she
sat by his hip.
They’d removed his helm and armor, although he had no memory of them doing so. He
wore a short surcoat that tied in the back. A light cloth that kept the lids closed covered his eyes.
They hurt less, but without being able to open and close them, it was impossible to tell if his sight had returned.
“Are you awake?” the woman on the bed asked and brought his arm from under the
cover. She touched warm fingers to his wrist. Her fingers were softer than the blanket and she
smelled like a garden.
How cunning of the enemy to use a woman as a tormentor. Probably a witch. He’d never
believed in witches, not since he was a small boy. After the strange business last winter with
Guy’s wife, he’d rethought the possibility.
He tried to slide his arm back beneath the blanket. The woman didn’t allow it and laid his
arm across his waist.
“The surgeon and ophthalmologist are here to discuss your injury and answer your
questions.” She rose from the bed.
Ophthalmologist—another nonsense word . “Where am I?” He croaked out. He longed for
a cup of cool water to ease his dry throat.
“I am your surgeon, Dr. Monette,” a man’s voice said. “You are in CHU de Poitiers.”
“Under whose control is this prison? What noble holds me?”
“This is not a prison, monsieur,” Monette continued. “This is University Hospital Center de
Poitiers.”
He’d heard the term hospital used in reference to St. Giles in Norwich. A priestly place
that treated the sick, or so they said, although he didn’t put much store in the healing one received.
The ministrations of all the nuns and priests in England hadn’t stopped the plague. Besides, he was not sick but wounded. He knew of few folks, priestly or otherwise, who willingly treated enemy
soldiers.
“Do you want to know about your injury?” Monette asked.
Stephen nodded.
“Whatever struck your helm crushed the visor and drove it into your face and eyes. The
depth of your injuries are not life threatening, nor is there intracranial injury...brain damage. That is the good news. The high impact of the blow did shatter the anterior table of the frontal sinuses.”
Intracranial and sinus, what manner of babble was this? He’d make the fellow explain...if he could. “Tell me what you mean by frontal sinuses.”
“They’re airway passages.” Monette took Stephen’s hand and drew his fingers along his
cheek from the bridge of his nose out. “Your sinuses are here.”
Odd as the word was, perhaps there was some useful information involved. Out in the
field, he’d suspected his nose was broken. “Is that why I can’t draw breath through my nose?”
“Yes. The injuries together will block the air passage. The worst damage is to your eyes.
Bone fragments penetrated the orbit, the eye socket. Splinters of metal from your smashed visor also pierced your eyeball and ruptured the globe. The splinters of both were removed in surgery.”
Stephen pushed himself up and sat straight. “The damage...I am not blind, am I.” The bird
to his left chirped faster. “It will heal, won’t it?”
“Dr. Berger is the ophthalmologist. He can explain better.”
“I am Dr. Berger.”
Stephen felt the presence of the doctor as he stepped near the bed. While the man
remained standing, the stench of onion breath traveled down to Stephen.
“Any delay in follow up treatment and surgery may result in permanent loss of sight. You
need another surgery. Tomorrow we will remove the bandage from your eyes and treat the
p
uncture wounds.”
“So, I will know tomorrow?”
“No, the day after. By then you will have healed enough for us to test the degree of sight
that was salvageable, if any.”
Degree that was salvageable, if any.
“You sound as though my cause is hopeless.”
“Your prognosis is not good.”
He didn’t understand what prognosis meant, but he understood not good.
The horror of permanent blindness took hold. If this French hospital was a place where a
prisoner such as himself was not to be tortured and killed, then they must plan on releasing him.
That was as big a horror as the possibility of torture. All knew how the blind suffered. His life as a knight was finished. With no trade or skill he could learn or still perform, he had no means of earning money to provide for himself. The life of a beggar was all that remained.
Berger was wrong.
Yes, the enemy’s sword struck his face and he was injured, perhaps terribly, but not blind.
He threw the blanket off and swung his legs to the floor. He wanted out. They were lying to him and he knew it. He didn’t believe for a moment that he was permanently blind. This was some
new form of cruel trickery devised to beat his spirit down before they killed him. Hadn’t they lied about him being alone on the field, when he knew there were many dead and injured?
He wobbled as he stood. Dizzy, he staggered and started to fall. A pole that had been next
to his bed came down on him. Something inserted in the back of his hand tore free. A malleable bag hit him on the side of the face. He cried out, flailing at the pole and bag and stumbled, his ribs striking a metal chest as he fell. He landed hard, knees first, then onto his side. The pole crashed to the floor. The bird-like chirping increased to a galloping pace. Excited voices combined with the other noise into a garbled jumble of sound.
Ignoring the bruising pain, Stephen rolled back onto knees. The chaotic clamor didn’t
matter to him, only his sight. He just wanted to see. He grabbed the top of the thick cloth they’d placed over his eyes and tried to pull their blinding device off.
“No monsieur!” one of the doctors ordered, while the woman and one of the men seized
his wrists and forced his hands from his face.
Stephen yanked free of the woman’s grip. The man held fast to the other wrist. Stephen
lashed out. He punched where he’d expected the man’s face to be and found only air. The men
exchanged more strange French words he didn’t know. He continued to fight one-armed, finding
only air. The second man managed to grasp his free arm. The man pressed it tight to Stephen’s
side. Then, something sharp stabbed him in the arm.
He sagged. He couldn’t stop himself from dropping into the first man’s embrace. “Sleep,
monsieur,” the man said, and Stephen felt light, light enough for angels to carry him.
Chapter Five
Stephen woke from the dreamless sleep groggy. Since the Frenchmen took him from the
field, he’d lost all sense of time. Bits and pieces of events faded in and out of memory. He
recalled at one point he’d tried to fight and they’d stuck him with a small spiked weapon. It hadn’t hurt, no more than a prick from a lady’s sewing needle. Then, he was floating and had the sense of angels lifting him.
Not angels but his captors.
The delicious scent brought him awake. He might’ve slept hours or days, he didn’t know.
All he knew was the food smelled like fine fare and his stomach felt stuck to his backbone, he
was so hungry. Those last weeks before the battle the army had run short of provisions. The
knights had foraged for food along with their horses. The night before the battle he’d dined on overripe berries and dandelion soup. Soup indeed . Nothing but a handful of dandelion greens thrown into a kettle of boiling water.
“Is the food for me?” he’d asked, stomach rumbling.
A new man, one whose voice he’d never heard answered, “Yes.”
He attempted to rise but tethers kept him prone. His wrists and ankles were tied to the bed
with padded cuffs instead of chains. A small but curious kindness.
“How am I to eat it tethered as I am? Smell alone will not get it to my stomach.”
“I’ll release you, but first you must promise not to fight or to touch your eye wrap.”
“Yes, yes, I promise.” He’d agree to most anything for a full belly.
Stephen sat up as soon as he was free.
The man put the tray of food on his lap and set cloth wrapped utensils into his palm.
“What is this?” Stephen poked the tined edge of a four-pronged eating tool to his fingertip.
“What is it? It’s a fork. You know—for sticking your food with and bringing pieces to your
mouth.”
Seems silly. Why bother with cutting then sticking your food with the fork before bringing
it to your mouth, an eating dagger is faster, more sensible? Stab and eat.
The aroma of meat and bread filled his nose and he put the fork aside. His head low to the
tray, he shoveled the vegetables into his mouth with the spoon. A juicy, plump chicken breast
nestled next to the vegetables. He tore the meat from the bone with his fingers, licking the buttery drippings from the tips as he devoured it. He last ate chicken in July and then it wasn’t a fat hen but a wiry, tough rooster. When the spoon no longer scooped vegetables, he used his bread to
wipe up any remaining morsels on the plate. The captors brought two more plates and he finished those before he was finally full.
Stephen sensed someone enter the room as the man left with the last tray.
“Who is there?”
“I’m here to give you a sponge bath, if you like,” a female, young by the sound of her said.
“You wish to bathe me?”
The pass of his hand over his hair told him somebody had washed it. No dried blood was
caked anywhere. He sniffed his forearms. They smelled of soap and had also been cleaned. He
had no need of a bath. The woman offered something other than a wash.
He smiled with knowledge. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the services of a
bawd. Tempting as the harlot’s offer was, he suspected enemy devilry and declined.
“Would you like to listen to music?” she asked.
The bawd traveled with minstrels. He wasn’t in the mood for her other services, but he’d
welcome a cheerful tune. “I would.”
“What station do you wish,” she asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll turn it to a classical one.”
A tune different from any he ever heard came from across the room. “I’ll come back
tomorrow,” the bawd said. Her light footfalls told him she left.
Classical station ? Lovelier than any minstrel’s music, he dozed off still baffled by weird words and goings on of his captors. They’d woken him an unknown amount of time later and said
it was the day and hour for his eye surgery. A man told him to make a fist. He said perfect when he found a vein and then stuck a needle into the crook of Stephen’s elbow. That was the last he remembered.
“Monsieur, monsieur,” a female voice said, patting his hand. “Wake up.”
Stephen yawned and propped himself up on an elbow. “Ugh.” His mouth tasted like sour
milk and his tongue felt like it was wrapped in a mitten. “I’d like some water.”
“Here.” The woman slid a flexible spout between his lips. “Suck.”
He didn’t know what the spout was made of, nor did he care. The water tasted sweet to
his parched mouth and he sucked the cup dry. “More.” When he’d sucked another cup dry, he
asked. “Wh
at day is this?”
“September 22,” the woman said, taking the empty cup.
Three days had passed since the battle. Why had they let him live? There could be no
good reason for it.
“I’m Dr. Berger. Do you remember me speaking to you two days ago about your eye
surgery?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Monette is here too. We want to talk to you about the day they found you. The more
we know about you, the more we can help.”
“Who is the woman?” She didn’t sound like the first woman, the one who smelled like a
garden. This one carried no scent of any flower. Nor did she sound young as the bawd. What was
this one’s purpose? The first, he suspected, had created the potion that put him to sleep.
“She is Nurse Cloutier.”
Probably Witch Cloutier. “Ask what you will.”
“What is your name?”
“Stephen Palmer.”
“What’s the last thing you remember before receiving your injury?”
“I am a knight in service to the Baron Guiscard. He rode to the aid of his friend. I saw
your men surround the baron. They were trying to pull him from his mount. I was about to ride to his aid when one of your knights, his heraldic symbol was of a panther on a field of orange,
challenged me.” Stephen thought again how Guy’s warning had made him falter. “I...I hesitated
and your man struck with his sword.”
“Monsieur Palmer, your eye injury is serious. If this answer is an attempt at humor, then it
is a poor time to engage in such a jest.”
“You asked what I remembered. I told you. I’m not in the habit of making jests with my
enemies.”
“Monsieur Palmer, we are not your enemy. We are not at war.” A long moment passed
and then Berger asked, “What year do you believe it to be?”
“The year of our Lord, 1356.”
“Mon Dieu,” Cloutier said in the background.
“From what the paramedics told us you said when they arrived, and your answer today, I
am convinced that you do believe this is 1356. Monsieur Palmer,” Berger covered Stephen’s hand
with his own. “The year is 2013.”
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 3
