Alex introduced the man and said he was the stage director. Stephen extended his hand
when Alex got to him. Nigel shook it and asked. “Do you prefer to have one of the crew lead you to the conversation area or would you rather have one of your friends?”
“Esme will.” Stephen reached an arm out to where he believed she stood, and she stepped
into it.
“Don’t blame you. She’s far lovelier than my backstage lads. Show starts in five minutes.
My assistant will come for you when you’re to make your entrance. One more thing, I like to
announce any future tour dates you have scheduled. Do you have any?”
“He does,” Alex interjected. “He’s opening for Paul McCartney on his holiday tour next
month.”
“I am. I didn’t know,” Stephen said.
“We sealed the deal today. I was going to surprise you with the news later this evening.”
“Do you want to write down the locations?” Alex asked.
“Tell me. I’ll remember and have them put on a cue card for Graham.”
“Christmas week, starting the 21st, they’re playing at: the Liverpool Cathedral, York
Minister, Ely Cathedral, Canterbury on Christmas Eve, and St. Paul’s on Christmas day.
Then they hop over to France and starting the 27th, will play five more cathedrals: Bayeux,
Rouen, St. Etienne, Chartres, and St. Chappelle.”
“Wonderful settings. Can dates and times be found on your website?” Nigel asked.
“Yes, they were posted today,” Alex said.
“See you in a wee bit, Stephen.” Nigel left the room.
“The holiday tour is short but gives you a taste of what to expect on a tour,” Alex said.
“We’ve received appearance offers from several countries, including the States, which is a huge opportunity. If you’re interested, Esme, Shakira can show you how to handle the bookings.”
“I’d love to learn.”
“Rather strange returning to France, especially to Limoges where St. Etienne is. We went
through there shortly before reaching Poitiers,” Stephen told Esme. He smiled and continued, “The prince strongly encouraged the priests at cathedral to surrender their casks of wine. They wisely agreed. I understand it was very fine wine indeed.”
“Two things you’ll never see, a skinny priest or one drinking rot gut wine,” Alex said with
a sarcastic tone.
The comment raised another grin from Stephen. Guy never cared for churchmen. His
friend may have changed names and time periods but not attitude.
Stephen turned to Esme who’d looped her arm through the crook of his elbow. “You’ll
come with me on these tours, won’t you?”
“It would my pleasure.”
“What does the tie you chose for tonight look like?”
“White with pink polka dots.” A giggle vibrated through her and he knew she was making
sport of him. He’d agreed to her flashy ties but forbidden any with silly spots. “It’s white and gold paisley print. Not to worry, you’re stylin’ Mr. Palmer.”
#
While they toured England, Marchand had seen a man who called himself Stephen Palmer
on the Jools Holland show on his hotel television. The man was several inches taller than Holland, about the same height he guessed the English knight at Poitiers was. Although he never saw the Englishman without his helm, this Palmer was blind and carried scars around the eyes. He looked the approximate age as the majority of the knights both the English and French fielded the day of battle. When Holland asked why no one heard of Palmer sooner, Palmer claimed he’d
been out of the country, in France of all places, for months, and prior to that he didn’t pursue a singing career. To Marchand’s mind, singer Palmer had too much in common with knight Palmer
to be ignored.
As the end of the month approached, the BBC ran promotional footage for the Graham
Norton Show mentioning Palmer’s appearance tonight. Marchand smiled when the announcer
named the guests and pictures of them came onto the television screen. Palmer was the first guest in the evening’s program. Marchand asked Veronique to find out where the Norton show was
located, which she did. The company of re-enactors was performing late in the day in the area
adjacent to the gardens at Hampton Court Palace. By a stroke of good fortune, the palace was
near London. Immediately after their jousting performance ended, Marchand hired a taxi to take
him to the city. He brought only his dagger, confident that the weapon was sufficient for getting Palmer to come with him.
The taxi let him off at the end of the block. He began to grow concerned as he came up
the sidewalk towards the theatre. A large crowd of people formed up between the building and a
velvet rope. He understood they, like him, wanted inside. The line moved fast and he joined it at the rear. The people in front of him held tickets like those used to gain entry to their re-enacting demonstrations, which they showed a man at the door. Marchand didn’t have any documents to
show, but he had money to offer the man. That morning, he’d made certain to exchange a stack
of euros for English pounds.
“Ticket please,” the man at the door said when Marchand reached him.
“I have better.” Marchand tried to hand the man a twenty pound note.
“You can’t buy your way in. We run a full house every night. You had to have written
ahead and requested a ticket for the show tonight.”
“I do not need to sit if that is your worry. I can stand and watch. Here take this and let me
in.” Marchand shoved the bill in the man’s direction.
“Look mate, I’ll not tell you again. Put your money away and give me a ticket or get out of
line. You’re holding up everyone behind you.”
“My money is good. I obtained it from a London bank.”
“I don’t give a bull’s bullocks where you got it. Your money is not good here. Now bugger
off.”
The arrogant ass’s nose presented a tempting target. Marchand flexed his fist and fought
temptation knowing how satisfying the man’s blood on his knuckles would feel. He stepped aside.
No point in pushing the issue. He’d seen many blue-suited men who carried clubs like the ones
carried by the security men in the French hospital. The blue-suited men in England were obviously some sort of security too. They’d no doubt be happy to lock up a Frenchman in some smelly cell
with drunkards and thieves.
Before he left the area, Marchand stopped to speak to two young women still in line. “This
show, does it broadcast live?”
The plumper of the two said, “No, the next sixty minutes will be recorded and broadcast
later this evening.”
“Thank you.” Marchand left. He bought beer and a battered fish meal and fried potatoes
from what they called a chippie. It galled him, but he had to give the English credit. They did produce a tasty fish and chip combo. He grabbed a bottle of Fuller’s from the cooler and headed for a park he’d passed.
In an hour, he’d return to the studio and wait for Palmer to exit. Once he got his hands on
the man, he’d question him about Poitiers. If he was the knight Palmer, Marchand had to devise a way to drag him back to the site of the battle. Transporting the man presented a major difficulty.
When doing heaven’s work, the task was never easy. The relocation issue tested Marchand’s
ingenuity. Threat of death seemed the most viable. When Palmer realized who was behind the
threat, the bitter memory of what happened the first time they met would encroach and courage
would fail him. In France, he’d force Palmer to exe
cute his demands. The blind man couldn’t
defend himself against a foe with sight and who possessed the Lord’s blessing. God entrusted he alone, Roger Marchand, with the duty of saving France from defeat. The greatest honor a mortal
can receive and he’d not fail. The devil’s minion had to open the time portal again.
#
Marchand hid in the shadow of a doorway across the alley from the BBC’s rear entrance.
A burp tasting of malt vinegar spurt out of him. He waved away the sour smell that lingered by his face. The malted vinegar chips tasted good going down the first time. The gaseous revisit he could do without.
A man in a grey uniform and what Marchand now knew was a radio hanging from his belt
along with the ever present club, opened the rear door and held it open. Light from inside
illuminated the people exiting and the immediate area of the alley near the door.
An attractive redhead in a scarlet-red coat had her arm looped through Palmer’s and led
him outside. They stopped a few feet away from the door. Their heads nearly touching, they
talked low to each other as they stood in the alleyway. Momentary curiosity about their
relationship passed through Marchand’s thoughts. Was she Palmer’s woman? Probably.
Veronique was prettier.
His thoughts returned to the problem at hand. The woman’s unexpected presence ruined
Marchand’s initial plan. He slid his dagger from his boot and deliberated possible ways to separate the two. The method couldn’t rouse the woman’s suspicions or she’d scream for help. A struggle
with Palmer had to be avoided.
The redhead drew her arm from the crook of Palmer’s elbow but kept hold of his hand.
She ran the fingers of her free hand through his hair and chatted with him. Whatever she said
made him laugh, and he pulled her close for an embrace.
Their interaction offered a solution for Marchand’s problem. While shielding the dagger
along the inside of his arm, he’d calmly approach Palmer and identify himself with the simple, “I am the black panther on the field of orange.”
If he had the right Palmer, that one line would prove it. The English knight would know the
heraldic emblem of the man who blinded him. Marchand displayed the badge of his family with
pride on his shield and Conquerant’s caparison.
Once Palmer realized who stood next to him, Marchand would say he wanted to speak to
him alone. When Palmer stepped away, he’d let him feel the sharp blade of his dagger and inform him, “You have a choice. Cooperate and come along with me now or your woman will feel the
sting of my blade next. Make up some excuse why you have to go.” He’d never harm a woman,
of course, but Palmer didn’t know that. “Know this English pig, if you try to alert her, when I’m done with you, I’ll hunt her down,” he’d warn. “She will never be the same when I am finished.”
The plan wasn’t without fault, but it was the best he could come up with on the spur of the
moment. All his previous plans, all the scenarios he ran in his head, they faced each other one on one. No superfluous people were involved.
The uniformed man drew the door closed. Dagger in hand, Marchand inched forward only
to retreat back into the shadows as the door opened again and two well-dressed, dark-haired
women came out followed by two men.
The redhead released her hold on Palmer and the other women took turns hugging him.
“You were fabulous,” the woman with shoulder length brown hair said.
“I love your version of Nat King Cole’s classic, I Remember You. I’ve always liked that song,” the second woman with long, straight, black hair said.
“Thank you, both of you. I must confess. I did not choose the Nat King Cole song on my
own. Alex suggested it. He told me you were fond of it.”
Marchand cocked his head and listened close to Palmer’s voice. That day at Poitiers, he’d
spoken one word when he stopped crawling in the grass... Arthur. The horse had nuzzled the knight trying to rouse his master. And when the knight said the name, the horse nickered and
nudged the man harder, the clear bond between the two evident.
The wounded knight hadn’t said enough for Marchand to compare to this Palmer. From
time to time, between English invasions, Marchand had the occasion to conduct business with
some of them. He’d also been present during interrogations of English deserters. The majority,
both tradesmen and deserters, often spoke with different accents depending on where they made
their home. Neither the knight, nor this man, spoke with a heavy regional accent. Another
commonality they had.
The redhead took Palmer’s arm again. “Where are we headed?”
The man who wrapped his arm around the straight-haired woman said, “Tamarind
restaurant. I told the limo driver to bring the car around.”
A long, sleek black vehicle with darkened windows pulled up. A man in a suit exited the
driver’s side and came around to the rear passenger door.
“Mr. Lancaster, ladies,” he said and stepping to the side, held the door open.
Marchand found it rather interesting two men accompanied the blind man this night—just
as two men had come for the knight Palmer in the hospital.
After the group departed, Marchand hailed a taxi to take him back to his hotel near
Hampton Court Castle. He knew the name of one of the other men connected to this Palmer,
which might prove useful. He’d watch the broadcast of the show to see if there was anything else he might glean.
#
Graham Norton came out, made some funny observations, teased the audience and then
announced the guests. Palmer was third. The redhead Marchand saw in the alley led him to the
sofa. Palmer extended his hand and the other two guests shook it, and then Norton shook his hand and welcomed him to the show. Once he was seated, they discussed his previous appearances.
“On Britain’s Got Talent you told the judge’s panel you suffered a serious accident while in France that resulted in your blindness,” one of the female guests said. “And because of the
blindness, you could no longer work your previous job and decided to pursue a singing career.”
“Yes.”
Blinded by an accident, there—in France—“Yes,” Marchand shouted, and raised a fist. “I
finally found you.”
“What was your previous profession?” she asked.
Palmer glanced over toward the area where he walked onto the stage. Marchand thought
he might bolt like a startled deer in the forest. He wished Palmer would run just so he could see the devil’s man stumble and no doubt fall cane or no cane.
“I...I...I worked with steel,” Palmer said.
“Not sure what you mean but kudo’s to you for reinventing yourself and entering a new
career. Having had your sight and suddenly losing it, many people wouldn’t adjust as well.”
“There are days I haven’t either,” he said with a smile. “But I’m getting better at it. I’ve
learned to think of my blindness as a disadvantage not a disability.”
Norton announced the songs Palmer would sing and assisted him to the center of the
stage.
Marchand took a swig of beer not listening to Palmer sing. How could he get to him? He
lifted his eyes to heaven. “Lord grant me a way to bring him to France.”
The entreaty was barely off his lips when God answered his prayer. As Norton started to
close the show he announced a tour Palmer was scheduled on with someone called Paul
McCartney. The dates and places were li
sted on Palmer’s website. Veronique showed Marchand
how to use a computer. The hotel offered the mysterious wifi system. Marchand found the
keyboard in the dresser drawer and brought the site up on the television in his hotel room. To his delight, the tour was headed to France at the end of December.
Marchand held his bottle of beer up. “Til we meet again,” he said to Palmer’s picture on
the site.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Esme watched from the door as Stephen ran the razor one last pass under his jaw and
then switched it off. “I sense the presence of a lovely lady.”
“What gave me away? I’m not wearing perfume.” She’d only finished her shower a few
minutes earlier and still wore only a towel. She stepped behind Stephen, slid her arms around his waist and kissed his shoulder, eliciting a low, guttural moan from him. “I’m not wearing much of anything at all. Hint. Hint.”
Stephen reached behind and ran a hand down her thigh. “’Tis a small bathroom but the air
is no longer moist and warm with steam. The heat from your hot shower yet rolls off your body
and I could feel it as I shaved. Tell me, why do you watch me do such a menial task? That is not a complaint by the way,” he quickly added. “You may gaze upon me all you wish... and more.”
She bent and kissed the base of his spine then slipped her hands under the towel he’d tied
around himself. “Shaving is such a masculine thing.” She thumbed the cheeks of his butt. “You
look so sexy. Feet spread like a Viking, head tilting this way and that as you stroke away the
night’s stubble.”
“You should’ve seen me when I could use my dagger,” he said and turned. Aroused, he
tugged at his towel so it fell to the floor. Then he eased back against the sink surround and pulled her closer.
Esme climbed on top of the surround and straddled him, her towel dropping to her hips as
she did.
“The phallic appeal of the sight might have done me in,” she said as he slipped inside her.
“I don’t know what a phallic is,” he said, breathing harder. “I know other ways to do you
in. Like this.” He pressed her hips tighter to him and pushed deeper into her.
“Oh God...” A tiny whimper escaped her. “Just like that.”
He skimmed the sensitive underside of her breasts with his fingertips, then cupped them in
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 29
