Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time

by Knight Blindness

  out.”

  “Oh, he can definitely kiss. I kissed him one time before, which was pretty darn good. He

  told me he had better ones in his repertoire. Boy, does he.”

  Like a gleeful child, Electra clapped her hands in quiet applause. “Spill.”

  “He did things with his teeth and tongue and hands, incredible things. I was like a treasure

  map for him to explore.”

  “On a scale from one to ten, how was he overall?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Not really,” Esme said, shaking her head. “Afterward things didn’t go as I hoped.”

  The waiter came over with two menus and asked if they wanted a drink.

  “A glass of your house red is good for me,” Esme said.

  “Make it two,” Electra told him. When he left she asked, “What happened?”

  “He split. First he made a nasty crack about my spreading my legs not mending the broken

  trust. Then he mounted up and rode off, like the Sheriff of Nottingham or something.”

  Electra reached across the table and laid her hand on Esme’s. “I’m sorry. That had to

  hurt.”

  It hurt but not as bad as Electra thought. When Esme rode to find him, she’d accepted the

  likelihood of a negative reaction. If the next time she tried to earn his forgiveness and he rejected her, that would be a crushing blow.

  Esme withdrew her hand. “I won’t give up yet. He’s a very stubborn man and I’m going

  to be equally stubborn in pursuing my goal,” she said in a lofty tone that carried no small measure of false bravado.

  The server came with their wine. Electra waited for him to set the glasses down and leave

  before she asked, “Where do you go from here?”

  “When he talks about his life as a knight, he mentions the people around him by name and

  laces the retelling with specific details. He told me the baron he served, Guy Guiscard, rode to the aid of his friend, Basil Manneville, the Earl of Ashenwyck. Since they were titled, I assumed a record of them being in the battle must exist somewhere and researched them. Both men died at

  Poitiers. There’s a little information on Manneville and less on Guiscard.”

  “You’re the history expert in the family. If you can’t find info on them, no one can.”

  Esme took a sip of wine. “Stephen also talked about a knight friend called Simon Harrow.

  Harrow definitely existed. I saw his grave. I figured it was hopeless, but I even tried researching him. I was right. There’s zilch.”

  “What kind of info are you after? I mean, what if there were pages and pages on the lot?

  What does that prove for you?”

  “I hope it gives me some direction on where or how Stephen learned about them. He

  believes they’re connected to him. If I know more about the others, I might understand why he

  feels this. From that, I have an avenue into how they relate to his break from reality. To get better, he needs to see and acknowledge his time travel belief can’t be true.”

  Electra wore a familiar look. She had that whole I’m older and wiser thing going with her

  eyes and mouth. The brows notched up a fraction, the widened eyes, the lips pursed just enough to be annoying.

  “What?”

  Electra’s expression relaxed and she asked, “Do you really need him to get better? I don’t

  think you do. You’re hung up on him now as he is.”

  “No, my feelings for him don’t hinge upon him changing. But that said, I’d like to

  understand him more—the how and why of his belief.”

  Her curiosity was truly piqued. Everything else about him was normal. If a morbid recluse

  suffered delusions, she’d accept it because she’d half expect he wasn’t right to begin with. If a druggie with an addled brain from too much of whatever he sniffed, snorted, or injected had

  delusions, again, it was expected. Stephen’s delusions weren’t random or nonsensical. They were focused and when he spoke of his so called medieval life, he was coherent, knowledgeable about

  details, logical.

  Electra said, “All right, let’s start with Poitiers since he thinks he was there along with the baron and earl. I assume Simon too.”

  Esme nodded. “But information on them in regards to Poitiers is slim and none in Simon’s

  case.”

  “Other than Elysian Fields, where were they all together that may have generated

  documentation or some kind of chronicling?”

  Esme thought for a moment. “Crecy. Stephen said he fought shoulder to shoulder with

  Simon at Crecy. Guiscard and Manneville fought with the Black Prince there too.”

  “Give me a minute to think.”

  If anyone could come up with an out of the box idea, it was Electra. She had one of those

  mousetrap type brains that were great with puzzles and mind teasers. In World War Two, she’d

  have been a decoder, hunkered down in a London bomb shelter, reading German spy

  transmissions.

  Electra snapped her fingers. “Got it.”

  A jolt of excitement spiked in Esme. She straightened and leaned closer. “What?”

  “Besides being a huge victory for us, the thing my teachers made a point of is: the prince’s

  age and the large number of other young men he raised to knighthood. Also, the king was there to witness the prince’s excellent battle skills.”

  What a letdown. Esme expected a grand plan, not a history lesson rehash. “I’m sorry. I

  don’t see how this helps,” she commented and sat back.

  “Tunnel vision thy name is Esme. You may find a lot more info on Crecy because of the

  king’s presence and all of that biz with the prince.” Electra waggled a finger at Esme. “In a

  museum in Savannah, Georgia, there’s a painting of the Black Prince at Crecy—”

  “Savannah, America?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  Electra tossed her head so her hair flipped back and tipped her chin, to look down her nose

  at Esme. “I am the artiste in the family. It’s natural I’d know these things.”

  “I’ve never seen you paint anything but your nails.”

  “In here,” she patted her chest with her hand. “I’m an artist here.”

  “Right, so what about this painting?”

  “I saw a picture of it in a travel magazine that spotlighted towns in the American south.

  Before you ask, it depicts the battle’s end and the prince is staring soberly at the dead body of one of England’s enemies, the King of Bohemia.”

  Once Electra described the painting, Esme remembered seeing a picture of it in a text

  book when she was at university. “You’re talking about the Julian Story painting. Call me thick, but again, how does this help? Story’s work is from the nineteenth century, not the Middle Ages.”

  “The chance is small, I know, but maybe some chronicler of the king’s, some courtier who

  campaigned with him, did a drawing to commemorate the victory. La-La-La, he whips up a

  painting or sketch of the prince to impress the king.”

  Esme didn’t see this as viable at all. “I’m not sure about the survivability of paints from

  that time. An extant sketch is real doubtful.”

  “True, but it’s the only idea that came to me. Sorry.”

  Electra opened her menu, looked pensive, eyes darting from one side to the other then up

  at Esme. “You didn’t open your menu.”

  Esme picked hers up, gave the dishes a quick scan and laid it down.”

  “Cornish pasty sounds tasty. I’m in the mood for a warm, hearty dish for a blustery day.”

  Electra closed the menu. “What are you getting?” />
  “Toad in the hole.”

  Esme signaled the waiter to come take their order. “Got any ideas for how I approach

  Stephen next time?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Electra reached into the shopping bag and pulled out an item wrapped in layers of tissue.

  She removed the layers and made a bed of the tissue on the table. On top she laid a metal wind

  chime depicting the solar system. A metal bar hung from an iridescent orange sun. Iridescent

  planets in various bright colors hung around and down the length of the bar. Mercury was yellow, Venus an emerald green, the earth a Aegean blue, Mars, a fire engine red and so forth.

  “How pretty. May I?” Esme asked and made to pick it up.

  “Of course.”

  When Esme lifted the chime and held it out to the side, making it sway. As in the real solar

  system, the planets also varied in size so each produced a different tinkling sound when it banged against the bar.

  “I love this. Where did you get it?” Esme asked.

  “I’m glad, but it’s not for you. I made it for you to give to Stephen.”

  “You put this together? I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m taking a DIY class at Starling’s Nursery Center. We learn how to make ornamental

  bits and bobs for the garden. After you told me Stephen got mixed up twice returning to his trailer, I thought a wind chime on the front might be helpful. When he hears it, he knows he’s close and the direction.”

  “What a great idea and a great conversation opener. Thank you.”

  “Fingers crossed it works,” Electra said and finished her wine, looking less than confident.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  After the lunch with Electra, Esme broadened her research to include any paintings,

  sketches, or other artist’s renderings of the Black Prince at Crecy. It didn’t hurt to try El’s idea, miniscule as the chances were that anything of the sort existed from that time. She’d searched for three days, spent hours with little sleep, sifting and skimming every document the British Museum Library had on Crecy and everything The British Library had on the subject. Then, she worked

  her way through the brutally long list of the Bodleian Libraries and the other libraries that were part of the University of Oxford’s system. In that time, she learned unlike at Poitiers, Manneville hadn’t been an earl and Guiscard hadn’t been a baron at Crecy as their fathers still lived. No

  surprise with the ten year difference between the battles. Nothing came of her search for

  pictures. Nothing in the documents mentioned drawings of any type.

  Her tired eyes ached. The drops she’d used stopped helping to relieve their scratchy

  soreness and eliminate the bloodshot red. She kneaded the tight muscles of her lower spine, which also ached in spite of her using a good, ergonomic chair.

  She sat back, rested her head on the padded top of the chair, closed her eyes, and took a

  break from staring at the monitor. She questioned whether she should stop spinning her wheels

  with her search or give one last ditch effort?

  The pursuit of written docs had been exhausted without results so she stopped. Any

  paperwork of value would be part of one of the libraries. What about pictures? Ninety-nine

  percent of her thought it smart to terminate that search too.

  An irritating one percent whispered a question with no immediate answer: What if, as the

  expression goes, the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing? What if a drawing or painting wound up at the National Gallery or the Tate instead? What if the powers that be at the time felt one of the galleries the most appropriate to house a painting or sketch? The National Gallery had existed for over one-hundred-fifty years and the Tate a little over a hundred. A big stretch of time for both. Something like relegating a drawing or painting of the medieval period to a museum

  could’ve happened.

  “Damn.” Esme sat up straight. She rolled her head around her shoulders, got a small pop

  with each circle, then faced the monitor ready to search.

  “Don’t get too excited. This will probably turn out another goose chase,” she told herself

  as she pulled up the permanent exhibits at the National Gallery and it was. “Nuts.” She’d taken up talking to herself like Stephen said he’d started to do. She went to the Tate’s site and searched the exhibits there with the same dismal results. “Double damn.”

  A short blurb in the About Us section on the Tate website caught her attention. It spoke of the hundreds of paintings and artwork in the basement due to limited display space.

  “Hmm...”

  The National Gallery must have stored tons of artwork in their basement too. If one did, so

  did the other. The problem was getting entry into the basement. She knew no one at either gallery.

  But Miranda had connections all over the city from her job at the History Channel as did Ian.

  A phone call to Miranda worked. Within minutes Esme had the name and contact

  information for both places along with permission to use Miranda and Ian’s names as references.

  She made personal calls to each man rather than send a less personal email. Both curators

  spoke to her at length. The man at the Tate wasn’t able to think of a work similar to what she

  looked for, but the National Gallery curator offered a huge hope.

  She made one more call.

  “Electra, want to come with me tomorrow? I am going to a small museum in Kent.

  #

  “I’m guessing we’re going to the Museum of Canterbury and not the Rupert Bear

  Museum,” Electra asked, checking out the side by side buildings.

  The comic strip bear had been a favorite character of Esme and her sisters growing up.

  All the girls had stuffed versions of him. Electra and Emily’s were packed away in an attic box for the day they had children. Esme’s would’ve been too if she hadn’t taken him into the bathtub with her one day to give a proper wash.

  “No, we’re going to Rupert Bear to wade through all their docs on Crecy and Poitiers,”

  Esme said straight-faced.

  “Really?”

  “No. We’re going to the Canterbury one, duh.”

  They walked around to the mews entry of the curator, Will Davison’s office. When Esme

  had called ahead and spoke to him explaining what she hoped to find, he enthusiastically invited her down.

  She knocked and a short, compact man with grey, thinning hair, cloudy blue eyes, and the

  reddest lips she’d ever seen on a man answered. In a way, he reminded her of Rupert Bear. He

  wore a red sweater vest over an open-collared white shirt, unfashionable brown plaid cuffed

  trousers that looked a size too big, and well-worn brown, wing-tipped shoes.

  “You must be Esme Crippen.” He gestured for her and Electra to come inside. He closed

  the door and extended his hand. “Will Davison.”

  “I’m Esme,” she said, shaking his hand. “This is my sister, Electra.”

  “Electra, a fine literary name,” Davison said as they shook hands.

  Esme took a quick scan of the cluttered office, surprised a curator, even of a small

  museum, hadn’t a secretary.

  “You said you’re looking for a drawing lent to us by the National Gallery in 1960. The

  Black Prince at Crecy, you said.”

  “Yes. Does it sound familiar?”

  “I was an apprentice here then. I believe I know the work you’re speaking of, an

  impressively detailed rendering considering the environment. It was done on vellum, we believe for the king, as colored inks were used, including gold, although no gold leaf was applied. We think the work was probably done by one of his priests. Unfortunately it was placed in
to storage back in the seventies and the facility burned to the ground in 1979.”

  The news sucked every ounce of energy from her. She had so much hope. Why didn’t

  Davison tell her over the phone and save her the trip? The bloody drive took three hours. Bad

  enough to waste those hours not to mention they’d hit the London rush hour on the return. She’d like to wrap her hands around his scrawny neck and shake the fillings from his teeth.

  “Fortunately,” he continued, “We had a copy made prior to the drawing going into storage.

  “The original was fragile, obviously. The curator and I worried it might deteriorate more if it stayed on display. As the Black Prince was the subject, and is such a big part of Canterbury’s

  history, we did want to keep a representation exhibited. We had it copied in oil. It hangs in the main room of the museum. Come, I’ll show you.”

  He led them to a side door of his office that also served as a door to the rear of the

  museum proper. This section of the museum displayed artifacts and pictures from the Victorian

  period up to and including the hard fought air war, the Battle of Britain.

  Through another archway to the next room, Davison led them to a painting. The gilded-

  framed oil was about a meter wide and a half meter high and hung in the center of one wall.

  “Remarkable isn’t it?” he said. “It depicts the aftermath of the battle. This is where the

  young prince raised up so many young men who fought alongside him to knighthood.”

  “Oh my God,” Esme whispered. Shocked, she stared unable to take her eyes from the

  painting. How could this be? Identical down to the wound on the chin. She’d seen the scar on

  Stephen’s chin up close.

  Unlike the larger, more famous sister institutions, the simpler Museum of Canterbury didn’t

  employ infrared protective alarms that go off when a visitor gets too close to an exhibit.

  Davison’s hand on her arm stopped Esme as she stepped forward, fingers inches from the

  canvas. “No touching allowed, Ms. Crippen,” he warned and removed his hand.

  “Sorry,” she said, moving back to drop onto the bench in front of the painting.

  “What is it?” Electra asked.

  “Are you ill, my dear?” Davison asked.