“How far off am I from locating the trailer?” he asked.
“Not too far. You veered too sharply to the right. Have you ever seen a clock face?”
“Yes. There’s a clock tower by Westminster Palace. I’ve visited the palace and seen it.”
“I’m impressed. You must have been a knight of some standing to be invited to the
palace.”
Stephen leaned into Esme and smiled as her hair tickled his cheek. A ripple of delight
washed over him when she didn’t move away.
“It wasn’t an invitation but the king’s command,” he said, sniffing. Her hair smelled of the
perfume she wore the night she came to dinner. “Edward ordered his nobles, which included Guy,
to London to discuss war strategy. The roads weren’t safe. Simon and I traveled with Guy in case of danger.”
She turned her head and bumped him on the chin. “Oops, sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
She started to pull away but Stephen tipped his head, keeping his cheek in touch with her
soft hair. “What about a clock were you going to tell me?”
“Picture a clock face. The trailer is at one o’clock and you walked a little past two
o’clock.” She tugged on his arm. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
He tried to feel the angle they walked as Esme led him to the trailer, but couldn’t. Some
clever means to gauge the proper route had to exist. That, too, escaped him.
#
“Want me to put something together for your dinner?” Esme asked when they entered the
trailer.
Stephen planned on trying to cook eggs again. During his lessons, she’d explained to cut
the microwave time. But she’d stay longer if he allowed her to cook. “That would be lovely.
Thank you,” he said and moved by the sink where she ran water.
“I’ll see what I can set up before Tony gets here. You should wash your hands too.”
“Who’s Tony?” He asked soaping his hands.
“He’s the man I’ve been dating for the last few weeks.”
“Dating?”
“We see each other socially. It’s sort of like courting but not as serious.”
“’Like courting.’ I don’t understand.” He rinsed and dried his hands and went on, “One
either courts a lady or he doesn’t. There are women a man hopes to bed. One works at charming
her. The other type of woman a man does indeed court in hopes the lady may wed him. You
make ‘dating’ sound like an animal that is in-between. I can tell you no such animal exists.”
The refrigerator door opened and cool air spilled out.
“Times change, Stephen,” she said with her head inside, judging from the hollow sound.
“You have precooked, cubed turkey. Very convenient.” She opened the bottom drawer where the
frozen food Miranda and Shakira bought was stored. “Perfect, you have frozen peas and carrots.
I can throw together a shabby turkey pie.”
“What is ‘shabby’ pie?”
“I’ll stir in a can of cream of turkey soup with the meat and defrosted veggies. Then, I’ll
whip up easy dough from biscuit mix and put several dollops on top. It’s not a proper pie, but
tasty.”
“As to our discussion, I don’t believe times have changed all that much, milady. I doubt
men now are so different in their desires as men in my time.”
The microwave whirred while she brought out pots and pans. He waited for an answer as
she worked, but she just busied herself with the meal.
“Do you deliberately ignore my thoughts on the desires of men?” He knew he was right.
Her denying it didn’t change the truth. Stephen tapped her on the shoulder. He might not be able to see her eyes, but he wanted her to face him and hedge her answer looking him in the eye. And hedge she would. He’d bet a bag of coin on it, if he had coin.
“I’m not ignoring your comments. I disagree. I think there’s a place in between where
men and women in this age can ease into a relationship after first seeing how well they get along.”
“Hogwash. Perhaps there’s this ‘place’ where the lady is concerned, but not the fellow.”
She had her back to him now, pulling items out of the refrigerator and cupboards. “What
makes you think men haven’t changed? Are you so prejudiced against your gender, you believe
them incapable of emotional growth?”
“I don’t know what ‘emotional growth’ is. As I’m a man, I believe I possess some
expertise regarding my ‘gender.’ Are you mixing my biscuits or beating them? From the banging
on the bowl, I suspect you’re pounding the poor batter to death.”
“You want me to make this or not?”
He stepped back, hands raised in surrender. “Trust me, I know the minds of men.”
“I’m not discussing the matter with you any further.”
“At least I’m blind with cause.”
“Stephen—”
“I’ll say no more. Perhaps we’ll find common ground in wine. Would you like a glass? I
found a nice red in the rack above the stove.”
“How do you know it’s red?”
“Alex said most of the bottles here were reds as that’s Miranda and Ian’s preference. I
drank a couple of glasses of this. It tastes like the finest variation of wine the prince served from Bordeaux. When I say the finest, I mean this is the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’ll have one if you’re having some. Not too much though. I have to leave soon. Do you
need help getting the glasses?”
“No. I memorized where things are kept and where the furniture sits. My memory is
excellent.”
An appreciative grin came and went as he stepped behind her, his hip brushing against her
firm bottom in the trailer’s tiny u-shaped kitchen. He removed two goblets from the cupboard by the wine rack. The night before he’d placed the bottle on the counter in the corner, where he
wouldn’t knock it over.
“Milady,” he said, offering her a glass after he finished pouring for them both. She took it
from him and he raised his goblet. “Peace...for now.”
“Peace, forever I hope.” She touched her glass to his. “I’ve put your pie in the oven. I set
the timer, the button on the far right will go off when it’s done. Push the button in to stop the pinging. Pot holders are on the counter to the left of the stove. Turn the big dial in the middle and above the door to shut the oven off. Are you all right to do that?”
“Yes.”
A higher, lighter version of the bellow the truck made sounded outside. “Is that a car?”
“Yes.”
“What makes the noise? What is the purpose? The truck yesterday made a similar noise.”
“It’s the horn. It can be a warning, like with the truck that almost hit you. Or in this case,
Tony, the guy I told you about, is letting me know he’s here to pick me up.” There was a soft
clang as she set her wine glass on the counter.
“You mean give you a ride?”
“Yes.”
“And this is the way he signals his arrival...with an ugly blast of noise?”
“You can get the sour look off your face. You’re acting upset and you shouldn’t be.
Everyone does it.”
“’Everyone does it,’ is no excuse for bad manners.” He stepped closer forcing her to step
back. “Let me make certain I understand. This Tony person sits on his arse and expects you to
come dancing out to him. Yes?”
Esme sighed loud and hard. “I’m to meet him at the car, yes. Dancing isn’t required.”
“That is not how a courtship goes. He’s to show you he is honored by your presence. He
needs to get out of the car, walk to the door, greet you properly, and escort you to wherever
you’re going.”
The horn beeped again, twice.
“I’ve heard enough.” Stephen turned, grabbed his cane propped at the end of the counter,
and headed for the door.
“Don’t you dare say anything to Tony.” She was right on his heels. “Stephen, listen to me.
I don’t mind him honking, but I do mind you sticking your nose in my business.”
He continued, jerking his arm out of her grasp when she caught up with him on the ramp.
Tony parked near to the trailer. Stephen reached his car easily and ran his hand along the frame to the driver’s window, which was up. He rapped his knuckles hard on the glass. “Roll the window
down. I would have words with you.”
There was short whir and Tony said, “Hi, you must be Stephen. The man Esme is
tutoring.”
“I am. Leave off talk about me. I’m here to speak to you.”
“Me? About what?”
“Your manners. Using your horn to signal for Esme to join you is unacceptable. You care
about her. You wish her company. Then show it. Next time, I insist you come to the door.”
“Stephen please, let it go,” Esme groaned out.
Tony chuckled. “Yeah, I know where this is coming from. She told me you had a weird
breakdown and think you’re some kind of medieval knight. Bottom line Stephen, I’m in the real
world. Esme doesn’t mind me honking. Why should you?”
Esme told him as much but she was wrong. She should care. “The better question is: why
don’t you care enough to treat her as a cherished lady rather than cargo?”
“You’re out of line nutter.” Tony sighed and said, “Look, I’m not interested in fighting with
a crip so you need to back off.”
Crip...Stephen suspected he knew what was meant by the word but asked, just to be
certain, “Crip?”
“Yeah, as in cripple. I’m not beating up a blind guy, but you’re pushing the issue, and I
don’t know why. I guess you figure you can say anything you want because you’re blind.”
“Tony...” Esme said.
“What? He’s giving me an earful about something that not only doesn’t concern him, but
we don’t have a problem with.”
“Stephen, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Esme said, and a car door opened then slammed shut.
“Get out of the car,” Stephen said. “I’m blind, but I’m not a coward to hide behind my
disadvantage. Get out of the car.”
“Listen, fuckwit—”
“Pull away now, Tony,” Esme ordered. “Now.”
“Fucking nutball,” Tony said loud out the window as the car started toward the drive.
Stephen stood there until he couldn’t hear the car anymore. The lout was right. Once he
was a force to be reckoned with, now he couldn’t hold his own in a fight.
“Knave.” He spit on the ground like he used to when drawn into a fight. Whatever it took,
no one would ever think him a defenseless cripple again. Somehow, some way, he’d be strong in a new way, a way that didn’t require sight. Before her tutoring job ended, he’d challenge Tony.
“I’ll make it my mission to see you lose. She deserves better,” he said and returned to the
trailer.
Chapter Seventeen
Poitiers, France
“You’re speaking of Stephen Palmer,” the nurse at the desk said. She clicked lettered
buttons on a board while reading a screen that looked like Sister Catherine’s television.
“He’s an Englishman who suffered a serious injury to the eye area and wore armor,”
Marchand said.
“Yes, I know who you’re talking about. According to our records, he was discharged two
days ago.”
“Discharged? You mean he’s gone. How can this be with such a wound?” When the men
carried him off the field, Marchand thought the English knight knocked at death’s door.
“Patient privacy prevents me from discussing his treatment or injuries. I can only tell you
that he was released into the care of an Alex Lancaster and an Ian Cherlein. Family friends it
says here.”
Marchand’s worst suspicions surfaced. “Were they English too?”
“I don’t know.”
“I was on duty when the men came for Mr. Palmer,” another nurse said as she
approached the desk. “They were English.”
“You must get Palmer back. It’s urgent,” Marchand told them.
“We don’t want him back,” the second nurse said.
Marchand slammed his fist on the desk. “I insist. He and his friends are in league with the
devil. They possess dangerous secrets.”
The second nurse’s eyes widened and she pressed a button on the wall.
“You need to calm down. Security is on the way,” the desk nurse said and stood, putting
more space between him and her.
“I tell you they know secrets of time. They move through it at will. This ability has stolen a
great victory from us. I demand you go after Palmer.”
Two beefy men dressed in similar blue clothing came around the corner. One rested his
hand on a club attached to a ring on his belt. The second man had a club attached to a ring also but kept his hands free. Both nurses pointed at Marchand.
“He’s crazy. He thinks a patient who was here earlier in the week is possessed by the
devil and is demanding we do something about it,” the first nurse said.
The second man moved next to Marchand and grasped his arm. “Come along nice and
quiet while we escort you to the door.”
Marchand yanked out of the hold and stepped away. “Do not touch me with your filthy
hands. I am the Comte D’Honfleur.”
The first man slid the club from its holder. “What is it with these lunatics? They’re always
a duke or a count or Napoleon. They’re never simply Pierre, chimney sweep.”
“You can cooperate and come with us. Or, we can call more men and you’ll end up in the
psyche ward bruised and sore,” the second man said and fingered a smallish black box with a cord affixed to the end that hung on his collar.
Marchand’s strength was well known to many in his province. He eyed the men the
nurses referred to as security. They could be beaten. They’d get a few good hits in but lose the fight. The threat of others arriving to their aid gave him pause. To know how many enemies you
face is excellent information to have. Conversely, not knowing could have drastic results.
“I will go. But you are all warned.” Marchand swept the air with his finger. “I tell you the
truth when I say the English are enslaved to Satan and possess his tricks.”
“I hate when you loonies bring the devil into your ramblings,” the man with the club said.
Marchand watched him out of the corner of his eye as the three of them walked to the
door. God had let him see the power the devil and his minions possess. What fools not to listen.
“Don’t come back,” the first man said and slid his club back into the ring holder.
When Marchand reached the end of the walkway that led to what people referred to as a
carpark, he turned and looked over his shoulder. The two men stood behind the glass doors
watching him. The one who threatened to call more security flapped his hand back and forth, as
though Marchand were a troublesome fly.
“Scum,” Marchand said aloud, making a show of h
ow he mouthed the words in hopes they
read his lips.
He started on his way to town, thoughts of the evil power in the hands of the English on
his mind. Perhaps a measure of good might come from it. If he found out where the knight was
taken, somewhere in England, Marchand assumed, he’d force him back to the battlefield. Once
there, he’d compel the knight to work his magic to return them to their true time. He’d convince the king to retreat from the site of defeat, regroup, and fight on another day, in another place.
Victory would once again be France’s. A terrible possibility crept into his thoughts. What if it was too late? What if the battle here, near Poitiers, was a decisive one? He shook his head as he
walked. How could this place be so important?
#
Marchand wanted to sit with a glass of wine and consider how he might discover the
whereabouts of the Englishman, Stephen Palmer.
Down the street from the Champs Vert, where he ate lunch, was another inn called Vue
Sur Le Lac. Bright canopies covered their tables too. In a mood to try a different place, he went there. He sat at an outdoor table, ordered a demi-carafe of red wine and wondered briefly at the inn’s odd name as the place had no view of a lake. La Torchaise, the small lake closest to the city, was two leagues away.
His thoughts returned to Palmer. How did Lancaster and Cherlein know to find him at the
hospital? The answer came to him on the tail end of the question. The devil knew and sent the
other two to fetch Palmer. Satan’s magic had healed him enough to allow him the strength to
travel. But with that kind of power available to the English, why send men to remove him? Why
not move Palmer through the air like an evil spirit? That answer came on swift wings to Marchand too. Once a favorite of God’s with the wealth of heaven’s knowledge and now turned to fallen
angel, the devil remained a cunning creature. For his own protection, perhaps the devil limits the powers of those who do his bidding. Makes sense, Marchand thought. It’s what he’d do.
An older, gray-haired man in a long, white apron brought the wine and set it on the table
with a goblet then left. By the time Marchand finished the wine, the canopies over the tables cast long shadows. Unsure how much time passed, he estimated it was around late afternoon. If he
had a wrist clock, he’d know. The server left a paper with numbers scribbled on it, which
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 15
