Marchand knew from dining earlier was the amount he owed. He held his hands under the table,
looking up twice to see if anyone watched, and counted out the exact amount of euros demanded.
He glanced around at the nearby tables then placed the coins and paper currency on the tray and left.
At the entrance to the bistro, he waited a moment to see if someone stole the money.
Twice today he’d been called names that indicated he was touched in the head. After such insults, he was in no mood to tolerate a thief. If anyone other than the old man who brought the wine
snatched the tray, there’d be trouble. When no one showed interest in the money, he continued on, desiring to walk around the area.
He stopped and entered a shop that displayed wrist clocks. He looked at several inside the
glass box. A few caught his eye.
“May I show you a watch?” the shopkeeper asked as he scurried from the other side of
the room.
A watch. Strange name, wrist clock sounded more suitable to him. “Yes. I prefer one with a quality leather band, like that,” Marchand told him, pointing out the one that interested him.
The shopkeeper removed the one Marchand chose. With his thick wrist, he could only use
the first hole, but the band fit. Marchand paid and wore it out of the store.
He stood in the passageway of the building staring at the tiniest of metal strands moving
across the numbers. A second hand the shopkeeper called it. What an amazing thing, to break up a minute in this way.
Words of challenge exchanged and the sound of shuffling feet drew his interest from the
watch. The ring of metal against metal came from a chamber above the shop. Swordplay.
“Finally, something I know.” He smiled and climbed the stairs.
He followed the sounds to a room at the end of the corridor. A plaque outside the door
read, Classes de Sabres. He stood inside the open doorway, curiously watching the lesson. The swords used were not like any he’d ever seen. They were thin-bladed and the pretty, basket-shaped hilts suited more for a woman and not as practical as his heavy steel hilt. And of what use were the strange wired masks the swordsmen wore instead of the better protection of a helm?
The man nearest who’d offered another verbal challenge to another defending himself
stopped and turned to Marchand.
“Can I help you? Are you interested in fencing lessons?”
“Fencing?” Marchand smirked. “Is that what you call this toying with girlish swords?”
“Fencing is a sport of skill and artful tactics. Nor are sabers girlish. How dare you insult us and the sport with your degrading comments,” the man who’d been on the defense said as he
joined the other.
They both pushed their masks up and the first man said, “I suppose you think you can do
better?” The fool made a poor attempt at intimidation. He brought the saber parallel to his head splitting the air as he whipped it down.
Marchand didn’t flinch. “Your footwork is good,” he told the first man. “Yours is
satisfactory,” he told the defender who blushed pink.
“En garde? The announcing of your intent is unacceptable as it is silly. Touche? More
babble. And these sabers,” Marchand tipped his chin at the man’s hand. “Are sillier yet. As for lessons, I am happy to show you how to handle a real sword, a merciless one.”
“Are you?” The first man made a rude fart sound with his lips.
The second man took several steps back. “Don’t encourage him,” he said eyeing
Marchand. “His opinion means nothing.”
“Are you with me or not? This is a matter of pride,” the first man said to the second.
The second man looked Marchand up and down, making no effort to hide how boring he
found Marchand’s challenge. “Yes, all right. I’m with you,” he said at last.
“Where is this fearsome sword,” the first man asked Marchand in a disdainful tone.”
“Stored at Noialles Abbey. It will take me an hour to walk there and back. Will you be
here when I return or do you plan to run?”
“Walk? Take a taxi or do you hope we’ll leave so you don’t need to prove your alleged
skill?”
“Taxi? Is it like a car?”
“Yes. Are you from Mars? How do you not know a taxi?”
“Where is one found?”
“End of the block under the sign that says, ‘taxi stand’ imbecile.”
He didn’t care for the sound of the word imbecile and suspected this man too thought him
touched in the head. He’d rather show his superior sword work than waste words on getting the
man to apologize for the insult.
“Wait. I’ll return shortly.” Marchand turned to go and then turned back. “Would either of
you care to wager on my ability to defeat you in swordplay?”
The first man looked over to the other who shrugged and nodded. “If we are going to
engage him, why not make some money? “By all means, what do you wish to lose?” the second
man asked.
Concerned how many euros a taxi charged he said, “The cost of my taxi ride both ways.”
“Done.”
“One more question. What are your names? I like to know who I’ll be raining defeat
upon.”
“I’m Andre, and trouncing you is going to give me great pleasure,” the first man said.
“This is Christophe.” He gestured to the man next to him.
“My given name is Roger.” He turned and rushed down the stairs to the street, grinning all
the way to the taxi stand. At last, a place and chance to enjoy something from the life he knew, an opportunity to step back into his world.
Chapter Eighteen
When he returned to the fencing studio, the taxi driver refused to let Marchand out of his
sight and demanded immediate payment.
“How much do you require?”
“Fifteen euros, it’s right there on the meter,” the driver tapped a device with numbers
displayed.
Marchand kept the bundle of money low, next to his thigh where the driver couldn’t see.
He counted out fifteen euros and handed them over.
The driver twisted to look at him over his shoulder. “What, no tip?”
“Tip?”
“Yes,” the driver said, bobbing his head. “I got you to your destination in a timely manner
with no hassles. It is common to show your gratitude by adding an extra couple of euros.”
Marchand debated. He resented the driver’s attitude when asked to wait until the
challenge was won. His servants never exhibited such insolence, but the man spoke true. The ride went fast without trouble on the road and he’d get the money back from Andre and Christophe.
He pulled two euro coins from his pocket and dropped them into the driver’s outstretched palm.
In the studio, Andre and Christophe who sat drinking bottled water, stood and came
towards Marchand. “Show us this ‘manly’ sword of yours,” Andre said.
Marchand arched a brow. “Pardon?” Behind him, Christophe chuckled.
Andre’s cheeks flushed pink. “That didn’t come out right.”
“No, it didn’t.” Marchand removed Conquerant’s caparison, which he’d wrapped the
sword in for protection and laid it on the equipment table. “Gentlemen.”
He stepped to the side, allowing them room to handle the weapon. All swordsmen like to
feel the weight, test the balance, and invariably take some practice maneuvers.
“I’ve cleaned it, but as you see I haven’t had a chance to sharpen or polish the blade.”
“You practice with a medieval style sword.” Andre picked it up first. “Why? Doesn’t it<
br />
start to wear you out? This weighs what—one and a half kilos?”
Marchand nodded unsure what a kilo was but assumed Andre made a reasonable guess.
Andre made a show of moving it in a circle above his head, then lowered it to waist height
to take several slicing maneuvers.
“Now me,” Christophe said.
Unlike Andre, the first thing Christophe did was inspect the pommel. When Marchand
ordered the sword from the armourer, he’d insisted the pommel have a representation of his
family’s heraldic symbol. The armourer arranged for a jeweler to carve a miniature panther in
onyx and set the cat in a round of orange enamel. The cat and colors of the Comte D’Honfleur.
Below the crosspiece, he laid the blade’s blunt edge on his finger. “Good balance,” Andre
said and walked over to a practice dummy where he executed slashing and thrusting maneuvers.
“Are you both done?” Marchand asked. “If so, who wants to lose first?”
“Do you wish to wear a padded underarm vest?” Andre asked.
“No.”
“A mask at least?”
“No.”
Andre removed a metal cap from a wall cabinet and attached it to the tip of his saber. He
pulled his mask down, donned the soft, cuffed gloves, and took a position that looked like an
invitation to dance. “Ready.”
“You’re sure you don’t want gloves even?” Christophe frowned briefly. By his tight-lipped
expression, he appeared to find Marchand’s lack of equipment other than his sword
incomprehensible.
Marchand looked at his hardened palms. His gauntlets were for journeys or battles. He
saw no cause to bring them and chose to work barehanded. While a very young man just learning
swordsmanship, he’d earned painful blisters. After a time, as the other knights told him would
happen, the blisters turned to calluses and so they remained.
His late wife complained they were rough on her breasts and shunned Marchand’s early
efforts to rouse her passion with his touch. The young Captain of the Guard she’d lusted for had calloused hands. Would his touch have reaped the same offense? Had it? The captain denied any
liaison when confronted and dismissed. His wife kept silent. Where had the truth lay?
The intrusion of the memories distracted Marchand. Andre lunged but Marchand managed
to parry the strike. The power of his rapid, upward strike forced Andre to adjust his grip on the hilt. The subtle compensation would be missed by many opponents. Marchand prided himself on
quick observation and the ability to readjust his tactics.
Andre expected the follow through to come as a down strike, which was a natural
assumption. Trained to deliver an unanticipated counter strike when possible, Marchand turned his hand. The blow came at Andre in a sharp right angle. Andre displayed the same excellent
footwork he used with Christophe. How often the knight who’d instructed Marchand scolded him
for his graceless manner. His inelegant footwork didn’t slow him or affect his skill. With a twist of the wrist, Marchand now executed a powerful down stroke. At the same time, he advanced two
strides.
The other man’s quick responses with parries in answer to Marchand’s advances
exhibited long experience in swordplay. But he dueled by the rules of the master who instructed him and not the action of the moment. Rules had little place for Marchand. They served few in
battle, or in this case, where a wager was involved. He wanted the money. Again, he pushed
Andre back through sheer body force and with the flat of his blade, putting him on the defense. To his credit, Andre tried and failed to become the attacker.
Any advantage Andre might’ve had, he lost to tiredness. Marchand recognized the signs
as the other man’s arm dropped several times to a weaker position, and his breathing through the mask sounded more labored. Little by little, he retreated until one more step would put him against the wall. When he surrendered, Marchand nodded in respect to the man’s fine showing.
“Do you desire a break before we engage?” Christophe asked.
“No.”
This time no painful memories insinuated themselves into his thoughts. Another time and
place, he might’ve called off the challenge and let Christophe save his pride. He hadn’t wanted to go against Marchand. He’d weakened and let Andre talk him into it. Now, he’d lose money along
with face.
“Ready, when you are,” Marchand said.
The younger man made the mistakes all the young do and rushed without analyzing. With
an almost imperceptible lift of the toe of his front foot, and the bringing up his back foot, he signaled his intent to lunge. Ready for each thrust, Marchand parried them with the same strength he used against Andre until he ultimately, if unintentionally, cleaved off half of Christophe’s blade.
“You might’ve given me one chance to show you what I can do rather than coming on like
a Crusader at Acre,” Christophe said, pushing his mask up on his head.
“Your petulance is unmanly. To learn, you have to taste failure in its truest form. If this
disturbs you, then perhaps you should fence with a woman,” Marchand said, wrapping his sword
in the caparison again.
Christophe stiffened and opened his mouth to respond when Andre cut him off. “Roger,
where do you work?”
“Work?” He worked at being a knowledgeable lord of his property and the villages in his
domain. He worked at learning the skills a nobleman needs to fight for his king and defend his
country. “Do you mean as in a trade?”
“Yes. What are you by profession?”
To tell Andre the truth served no purpose. He’d ask if he was from Mars again, wherever
or whatever Mars was. “Is there a point to your inquiry? And, lest you forget, you and Christophe owe me seventeen euros.”
“If you need a job, I’ve a friend, Fabian St. Clair, who I know will hire you in an instant.
He can always use good swordsmen and you’re better than any he currently has.”
“This job...it is for euros, yes?”
“Of course. I don’t know how much it pays, but you can ask him yourself, if you’re
interested.”
The five-thousand euros Patel paid him might be a lot, or might not. Either way, they’d run
out. “I’m interested.”
“Here’s the money we owe and my friend’s card. Go see him. Tell him I sent you.”
Marchand pocketed the euros and took the card. Any funds he didn’t need for food and
shelter, he’d use to find the English knight, Palmer.
#
Marchand walked to the small hotel listed on the card but St. Clair was gone on other
errands. Marchand stated his business to a woman who knew the man. She said he was the
supervisor of their group and would be interested in another swordsman. She told him to meet with St. Clair back at the fencing studio later that evening.
With little else to do Marchand arrived early at the studio. A short time later a man about
medium height and build that looked Marchand’s age entered the fencing studio. He carried a
scabbard with a sword inside. From the hilt, Marchand knew it to be a sword in the same style as his and not a saber like Andre’s.
Marchand straightened from the window embrasure he’d been leaning on as the man
approached.
“You must be Roger Marchand,” the man said. “I’m Fabian St. Clair. He transferred the
scabbard to his left hand and extended his right.
“I am.” Marchand shook Fabian’s hand.
“My cell number was on the card. If you called, I’d have come sooner.”
The only cells Marchand knew of housed prisoners, which couldn’t be what Fabian meant.
Rather than ask for his meaning and look silly, he ignored the comment.
“Waiting doesn’t bother me. A measure of time from my day is not an issue.” The days of
my life spent in the wrong time is. “I see you have a sword. Did you wish to challenge me to a
friendly duel? I warn you. A wager is needed for me to agree.”
Fabian drew his sword from the scabbard. “I like your confidence. I spoke to Andre
before I came. He said you were a cheeky fellow.”
“Cheeky?” Marchand’s brows dipped as he tried to discern the man’s intent. “You pass
comment about my face. Do you mean to flirt with me? I do not dally with men.”
“Me neither. By cheeky, I mean audacious. Back to our match. What do you wish to
wager?”
The scabbard Fabian carried bore wear marks. His proud manner showed no sign of
concern regarding a match. Fabian must be adept with the sword. The fact Andre desired a
match between the two indicated his belief in the man.
He named what he assumed was a high number, testing Fabian’s determination. “One-
hundred euros.”
“Done.”
The match lasted longer than Marchand expected. He won but not by much. Twice, if
Fabian changed course, altered a move in the right way, he’d have had Marchand in a difficult
position to defend.
“I made a couple of mistakes,” Fabian said.
They exchanged smiles.
“Yes, you did.”
“The first was underestimating you.”
Marchand made the same mistake but wouldn’t admit it.
“Andre, do you have a couple bottles of water?”
Andre pulled two bottles from a canvas bag on the floor. “Here.” He handed one to
Fabian and one to Marchand.
“Let’s sit.” They took the chairs Andre and Christophe sat in earlier. “Are you interested
in a job? I can use a man with your skill and the work is fun most of the time.”
“What must I do?” Marchand asked, hoping that whatever Fabian offered, it paid enough
to search for Palmer.
“I supervise a re-enactment company.”
“Re-enactment?”
“We travel Europe as medieval knights. We put on mock battles or create competition
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 16
