“Close enough to call him friend.”
“He never reigned. He died before his father.”
“In battle? Was it at Poitiers?”
“No, he died in June of 1376. From his symptoms, its most commonly believed he finally
succumbed to the disease of dysentery.”
“The disease can take a terrible toll on an army during a campaign.” Such a base way for
any man to die but was especially unbefitting the prince. “Given a choice, he’d have chosen battle, gone to his death fighting.”
He pushed away from the table. “I need some air.”
He didn’t bother with his cane but felt his way to the door and went out to the small
landing at the top of the ramp. He held onto the landing’s railing, closed his eyes and thought about what Esme told him—how Poitiers was a great victory for the English. She spoke of the capture
of the French king and the dauphin, his son, of how a Te Deum was sung praising God for his
blessing on the English Army. The Poitiers she talked of bore small resemblance to the battle he fought, where glory played no part. Every stride toward the enemy Arthur took, every clash of
swords, every action within the chaos, he remembered. The sum total of his presence there were
bits and pieces of a strange dream branded on his memory.
Sweet air surrounded him and he opened his eyes. The apple harvest was no doubt over, if
the season compared to his day. But the fruit trees pleasant scent lingered and he breathed it in, letting it cleanse his sadness away. A minute later, he returned. “I’m done with history for the day. I wish to move about.”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
The outside world hadn’t been too kind to him, so far. He instinctively touched his fingers
to the tender bruise on his back from his fall in the hospital garden. Not to mention the effort to obtain flowers that morning nearly got him crushed by a truck. To not go was to admit defeat.
Besides, an invitation for a walk in the fresh air tempted him too much to resist.
“I’ll get my cane.”
“Yesterday, I noticed a small road with no traffic that looks like it originates from Alex and
Shakira’s. I’m not too familiar with this area, but I believe it may be a back road to the village.
Shall we see where it leads?” Esme asked.
“Lead away, milady.”
Outside, she looped her arm through his as he stepped from the ramp. In the past, he’d
strolled arm-in-arm with ladies he wished to gain a kiss from. They’d peer up at him through their lashes to grant him a flirty smile. That couldn’t be Esme’s intention.
Stephen stiffened. “Do you clutch me to save me from falling?”
She pulled her arm from his. “I thought to offer a little guidance, help you head in the right
direction. And, I was concerned you might trip and fall.”
“Then fall I must if I’m to learn to function without constant aid.”
“It’s not a crime to get help once in a while. If the situation was one where you had your
sight and we went for a walk, you’d have offered your arm to me.” She looped her arm through
his. “We’re going to walk arm-in-arm. End of argument.”
It was slow going. If he had a longer cane, he’d clear a wider path and move a bit faster.
They walked along the side of the country road for about five minutes when Esme said,
“Ooh, what a fancy stable. The sign says Elysian Fields. Interesting name choice for a stable,
don’t you think?”
“It’s Alex’s. The name has special meaning for him. Plus, he told me he owns a great
amount of the acreage around the cottage.”
Alex...Guy as he knew him, kept a fine stable, one of the best in the shire. He favored
Percherons. If that breed still existed, Stephen would wager Alex filled this stable with them. “I’d like to visit.”
The closer they got to the stable the more complex and loud the air became with typical
barn noise: the clomp of shod hooves on a hard surface, the creak of stall doors being opened and closed, the dull thud and snorts of horses running and playing in the paddock.
From the side of the barn, came a large, shaggy dog, tongue lolling, it jumped up putting its
paws on his shoulders.
“Hello boy and who might you be?” Stephen asked with a smile, holding his ground.
“Sydney, get down. Sorry about that. He’s a she and I’m working on breaking her of that
bad habit.” The dog obeyed and dropped down on all fours.
“No apologies needed, she did no harm, besides, I love dogs,” Stephen said.
“Thank you for understanding. Can I help you? I’m Owen, the barn manager.”
“Yes.” Stephen turned toward the voice. “This is Alex Lancaster’s stable, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Stephen Palmer, I’m a friend of Alex’s.” Owen shook his extended hand. “I’d love to
visit with the animals. As you can see, I’m blind but have assistance to help keep me from doing harm or getting hurt.”
“Hi, I’m Esme Crippen.”
“I’ll be happy to walk around the facility with you and answer any questions,” Owen said.
“Please do,” Stephen said.
As Owen described the facility, Esme stopped in front of one stall. The horse was at his
manger eating from the sound.
“What a gorgeous black horse,” Esme said.
“Yes, that’s Eclipse. He belongs to Mrs. Lancaster. The horse in the next stall is Mr.
Lancaster’s. He’s called Thor.”
Thor. The name brought a smile to Stephen, remembering Guy’s fierce destrier.
“Tell me, is Thor a Percheron?”
“Yes. But Mrs. Lancaster’s is a Thoroughbred. Hers is a big gelding but not quite as big
as Mr. Lancaster’s stallion.”
“Are there two good hack horses here that Alex and Shakira don’t ride as often?”
Stephen asked.
“Stephen...” Esme tugged on his elbow and pulled him away several feet out Owen’s
earshot, he guessed. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking. Are you?”
“Milady, you’ve asked what is more a tangle than a question. In answer to what I believe
is your question, I desire to ride and wish to know if any of Alex’s horses are suitable for non-arena work.”
“You can’t go riding in the countryside. You’re bound to get lost or worse.”
“Or worse?” He chuckled. “I’ve been riding since I could walk. There’s nothing a horse
can do that I haven’t experienced, I—”
“What if he bolts or rears? You could get slammed into a tree or something.”
“Your fear for me is delightful and amusing. Should he bolt, he will eventually stop as I’ve
never known an animal to deliberately run itself into a tree. I’ve had horses rear. Staying on is leg strength not eyesight, along with good horsemanship skills, which I possess.”
“I still have grave misgivings. How are you going to keep from getting lost when you can’t
see?”
“I’m not going to ride so far that the animal won’t know how to find the barn. Even if I am
lost, when a horse wants dinner, he’ll find home.”
“No. It’s not safe.”
“Esme, I am blind and you believe mad, but above all else, I am a man. I will choose what
I do or do not do.”
“It’s an uncontrolled environment. There are too many things that can go wrong.”
“Try to understand. Nothing in my life is normal for me now. Every aspect of my world
has changed. I used to ride my warhorse, Arthur, every day. He’s gone, but the horses here will do. Allow me th
is small connection to my old world.”
Disagreement gurgled in her throat but she finally said, “I do understand.”
Stephen turned to Owen. “Sorry for the interruption. Are there two horses suited for
country riding?”
“Yes, most are. But, I will need Mr. Lancaster’s permission before I allow you to take any
of his horses out.”
“You’ll have it by tomorrow. If you’re not too peeved with me, I’d like to keep walking,”
Stephen said to Esme.
“I’m not angry. I just think you’re bound to get hurt.”
“As you can see, I’ve survived worse than any horse could afflict.” Stephen stopped. The
one thing he wanted was to have Esme come with him on the ride, not as a guide but for the
pleasure of her company. “Do you ride?”
“Yes.”
“I’d be greatly honored if you’d join me.”
“Yes. I don’t know if I’m as good as you allege you are, but I had lessons for many
years.”
“Good. Tomorrow we ride.”
Chapter Fourteen
Stephen tossed and turned as he lay awake thinking of the hurdles to overcome. A simple
thing like clothes troubled him. He didn’t know how to make sense of them yet. What if he wound up looking like a court jester? Today, he’d have his first orientation and mobility lesson. What troubles that entailed he couldn’t imagine. For his personal pleasure, he hoped the lessons would go well. It’d be nice to go for a stroll without getting lost.
Unable to sleep, he swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, yawning.
Stephen rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands, stretched and stood, then
padded over to the window. He opened it to a chorus of crickets and frogs. Like the morning
before, the quiet of the trailer vexed him.
“What time is it?” he muttered, having taken to talking to himself.
Barn owls made their presence known during the heart of the night. Since none hooted, he
guessed the hour was right before dawn.
Yawning again, Stephen cautiously made his way to the bathroom. After splashing water
on his face, he went to the kitchen to make breakfast.
“What to have?” Eggs with buttered bread to dip in them sounded tasty. This time he’d eat
his bread fresh out of the bag, rather than ruin it in the microwave or toaster.
He fished around the cupboards for a bowl, cracked three eggs into it and put the dish in
the microwave. The taped one minute timer button was the only one he’d used so far. Confident
the eggs wouldn’t dry out the way the bread had, he pushed the button three times. While they
cooked, he took out two slices of bread and slathered them with butter.
His head snapped up as a sudden loud bang followed three rapid pop, pop, pops. The
clamor had come from the microwave.
“Ugh, what new deviltry is this?”
Stephen stood at arm’s reach and opened the oven door. When nothing bad happened, he
inched his hand inside to remove the bowl of eggs. He instantly let go of the hot bowl, spun around to the sink, fumbled for a few precious seconds, and then ran cold water over his fingers. “Cursed thing.”
When his fingers stopped throbbing, he tapped the side of the bowl with the back of his
hand. It had cooled enough to handle and for him to try and salvage breakfast. He began scraping out the contents of the bowl onto a small plate.
There should’ve been a measure of resistance as he dug, but there wasn’t. “This cannot
be.”
He stuck his finger into the eggs scrapings on the plate and then into the bowl. Shredded
bits stuck to the side of the dish and mouthfuls fit only for a mouse lay on the plate.
“What calamity has this foul device heaped upon my food today?”
He reached inside the microwave and poked along the sides and top. Yolk and sticky
white made a mess of the roof and walls. The thing had blasted them everywhere. “Disgusting.”
Stephen shut the door, leaned against the counter edge, and nibbled his bread, ruminating
over his ruined meal. The morning already weighed on his foul mood. Weary from a poor night’s
rest, hungry because of the wicked oven, and he faced a day of new tasks. No surprise if the rest of the day turned into a cavalcade of mishaps, considering how the morning had already begun.
“I’d touch the teat of a momma boar for a hearty breakfast,” he said. Stomach growling,
he spread butter over another chunk of bread.
Miranda and Shakira stored various foods for him in the refrigerator. Cheese and sliced
ham filled one drawer. After sniffing the wrapped cheeses, he cut off a whack of cheddar, pulled out several slices of ham and tucked them in the bread. Fruit was in another drawer and he
grabbed an apple.
More eggs remained in a container in the refrigerator door, but he saw no point in
wrecking them in the oven. A strange, waxy carton contained milk, which he knew from sniffing
it. He wasn’t certain about the other bottles and jars. Esme would help identify them.
If he hadn’t wolfed the dinner Shakira brought him the night before, he’d have gravy for
his bread. Soon he’d have to learn how to put a meal together for himself. He couldn’t rely on Shakira and Alex to provide him meals. At some point, they’d leave for London. Then what?
Dawn arrived with the singing of birds. First light in the early fall came around five in the
morning. Their songs were a small occurrence to help him measure the time.
Even though Esme wasn’t due for several more hours, Stephen showered and shaved. He
dressed in the jeans and a shirt with sleeves that didn’t cover his whole upper arm.
Alex and Ian had shown him how to operate the CD player. With time on his hands, he
decided to memorize the words to Phantom of the Opera. Esme helped arrange the CD’s for him so that one was in the first slot. He’d memorized the melodies of his favorite songs the
previous night. Remote in hand, he sat on the floor in front of the CD player. He played the
thunderous beginning music a dozen times or more, then moved onto Angel of Music.
Esme knocked louder. The music and singing poured from the open drawing room
window. As she expected, Stephen hadn’t heard and she let herself in, calling out to him.
“Stephen.”
He still hadn’t heard over the CD and his vocal accompaniment of the song. She set her
laptop on the table while she paused to listen. He roamed the compact room without a cane.
Arms outstretched, head tipped back, he insisted he was the Phantom of the Opera. When that song ended, he turned, closed his eyes and began singing along to Music of the Night. A remarkable tenor, his voice was different but as equally powerful as Michael Crawford’s.
Arms no longer outstretched, his hands moved through the air with gentle strokes, like an
orchestra conductor. His brow furrowed a fraction as he sang of stirring the imagination. What
woman did he see behind those closed eyes? What lady did he passionately woo with the beautiful words? Did he visualize a medieval woman seen in a painting somewhere? Or, did he picture a
modern lady buried deep in his pre-injury, mental break psyche and mentally dress her as a
medieval lovely?
She waited for his love song to end before calling, “Stephen,” again.
“Esme.” He pressed the remote and paused the CD.
“I hated to interrupt. You were having such a nice time.”
“I was. Singing gives me wings. The music of my time wasn’t big, like songs on this CD,
or the ones La
dy Shakira had me sing.”
“Big?”
With a broad open-armed gesture said, “Grand, as big as the man who sings wishes.”
This was the most animated she’d seen him. His infectious, cheerful grin prompted hers.
“One song she gave me was called, Tusk. When I practiced, I’d get to the part where I
sang out the title and punch the air.” He twisted to the right away from her, and like a pub fighter, threw his fist out brawler style.
“I understand why she chose you. Your voice is impressive. Did you take lessons?” If he
had, maybe the question would trigger a modern memory.
“No. I practiced with Lady Shakira but that’s all. Who sings to the Phantom’s songs?”
“This version is Michael Crawford. Too bad you couldn’t see the original stage play . The way he touched Sarah Brightman——she played Christine, when he sang the last song it was
both intensely romantic and carnal. He—”
“Tell me not. I wish to keep the ideal of how I’d sing it to a lady. I am curious about what
torments him.”
“He was born with a disfigured face. Shunned and abused by society growing up, as an
adult he lives beneath the Paris Opera House, hidden away. He has a brilliant musical mind. A
beautiful young chorus girl catches his attention and from a position where he’s hidden behind a mirror, he gives her voice lessons. Through his coaching, she grows into the most talented singer at the opera. When she falls in love with a handsome young man, the Phantom is driven mad with
jealousy and threatens to kill the man. But, in the end, although it breaks his heart, his love for her moves him to ultimately release both of them.”
Stephen listened, his face a passive mask as Esme gave him the brief summary of the plot.
“Interesting,” he said when she finished. “That I favored the songs of the man with the disfigured face.”
“Nowadays we’d call it ironic.”
“Ironic? I don’t know this word.”
“Let’s leave it at your scars are nothing like the Phantom’s. You’re sufficiently attractive
even with them.”
“You find me attractive then?”
“Such a smirk. You look like the cat that ate the canary and yes, I find you handsome.”
With a feathery touch, Esme traced the scars around his eyes. “The swelling diminishes
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 12
