Two steps and the sink is to your left. Then, one small step more, make one turn to
the left again, raise the seat— the man set his hand on an oval-shaped device and had him lift it.
Aim straight and down and you’re good to go.
“I need no instruction on how to piss. Not since I was a tyke,” he told the man.
The man took no offense and then told him when he finished, he should always wash his
hands in the basin.
“To what purpose?”
“It cuts down on your risk of getting sick.”
“Ah, with my ogre’s scarred face and sightless eyes, I wouldn’t want to catch a fever too.
Now that would be awful.”
“No, you don’t. A good sneeze can ruin the reconstructive work to your nose and
cheeks.”
Stephen hadn’t considered that. Since then, he’d tried to remember to wash his hands.
Juliette interrupted his thoughts. “You’ve gone very quiet. I suggested we walk in the
garden.”
For all the strangeness of his now small world, at least he had learned it. The garden was
unseen treacherous ground for him to trip and fall, again and again, like a clumsy oaf. Clumsy oaf.
Two words he’d never have associated with himself.
“You hesitate, Stephen. Don’t. I’m here to show you that the world is still a place to be
enjoyed. You can have a full life.”
Juliette stood and tugged him up by the hands. “There’ll be a robe and slippers in the
cupboard. I’ll hand them to you.”
Hinges squeaked and a moment later she put a lightweight garment over his arm and he
heard the slippers drop at his feet.
He fumbled trying to find the robe’s armholes but managed to get it on without help. The
slippers were a decent fit, which surprised him.
“I wish I’d known about the robe sooner. This surcoat they gave me to wear is drafty in
the back, if you take my meaning.”
“I do. Bum coverage is never good with those gowns.”
Two snaps. Then, two more snaps. Another cane? He was blind not crippled.
She placed the cane’s curved top into his palm. “This is a white cane. It tells others that
you are blind. It also helps you find a clear path so you can maneuver about without injury.”
He slid his hand down to the floor. The cane was made of a lightweight metal, with two
joints where it folded, and had a round, cushioned tip at the bottom.
“Are you ready for your first adventure?” she asked.
“I don’t know that I’d call this endeavor an adventure. I suspect it will be more of a
misadventure,” he said in a humorous tone but with a bit of seriousness.
“Which hand holds your cane?” she asked.
“My right.”
She looped her arm through his left. “Think of your cane as an extension of your arm.
You’re reaching out and sweeping the area in front of you in a half circle motion, finding a clear path.”
He did as she said and found the cane blocked on both his right and left but not directly in
front of him. The doorway . He let her go first then stepped through and waited while she captured his arm again.
They continued forward, their two canes making a soft rubbing sound as they went. After
they’d gone about fifteen strides by Stephen’s reckoning, the noise of talk and hustle and bustle grew loud.
“Where are we now?”
“At the edge of the nurse’s station.”
‘Nurse’s station.’ No music came from this station, only the chatter of feminine voices.
“We’re almost to the door to the garden,” Juliette said and gave him a tug on the arm and
they changed directions.
He jumped at the sudden whoosh and gust of fresh air.
“It’s all right. You’re fine. The doors open automatically.”
How convenient. Why didn’t King Edward have this nicety?
Juliette took his elbow in a light clasp and led him into garden. A strong scent of roses
filled the air. Whatever other flowers that were planted, their fragrance stood no chance against the rose bed.
“The hospital is known for their garden and wide variety of roses. Each has been chosen
for a different reason, some for color, some for shape, some for their scent and some for the size of their blooms.”
Stephen ran his cane along what he suspected was a cobblestone path from the uneven
surface. With Juliette on his left, he tapped and found the path’s border on his right.
“Sit.” Juliette knew the location of a bench and they sat quiet for a long time.
He freed his mind of worries and relaxed. It felt good to be outside. He tipped his head,
enjoying the sun on his face. Around him birds sang and he bent his ear to their individual songs.
Where in the past, he’d never appreciated how each had a melody of his own, the singer in
Stephen appreciated it now.
After a time, she asked, “Shall we walk more in the garden?”
“I feel no need to do so.” Further meandering brought risk. “I like this spot.”
He reached out in hopes a bush would be within arm’s length. First he found a stem laden
with thorns and then the blossom. “Am I permitted to pluck a flower?”
“Not really.”
He stood and tapped to find how high the path border was and then stepped over it to the
shrub. He cupped a bloom. How lush and soft it felt.
“Do you happen to know what type of rose grows near the bench?”
Juliette joined him. “One moment. She bent and then rose again. “It’s called a Brother
Cadfael.”
“How do you know this?”
“The tag has a Braille title.”
“Braille?”
“Braille is a form of written language for the blind.”
“Who is Brother Cadfael?”
“He’s a character in a mystery series.”
“Strange someone would name a flower for a holy man.” He cupped the plump bloom
again. “This feels so soft and heavy with petals, almost like a peony. I imagine it’s beautiful.”
“I imagine you’re right. Shall we go back to your room now?”
“Yes. I’m hungry.”
He stepped away from the rose bush without turning and testing his path with his cane.
One moment he was on his feet, the next he was falling backwards, futilely wind-milling his arms in an effort to regain his balance. The scalloped stones of the border dug deep into the small of his back. His elbow slammed against the sharp edge of one. He’d have a mean bruise there
tomorrow and another painful one on his lower spine. New bruises to go with the ones on his
knees from when he fell days earlier.
“Are you all right?” Juliette knelt next to him her hand on his chest. “Air rushed past me.
When you groaned, I knew you fell.” She wrapped her hand around one of his to help him up.
Stephen jerked his hand from hers.
“What were your words,” he said and rolled onto his sore knees and pushed himself to his
feet. “The world is still a place you can enjoy.” He snorted. “Perhaps...if I am not made a cripple first.” He patted the ground, found his cane and left without waiting for Juliette.
Chapter Seven
Gloucestershire, England
Alex had experienced the strangest changes and events nature can throw at a person. He
dealt with the tragic and the fantastic and found success and happiness. He believed himself
beyond surprise at anything.
Then, he opened the morning paper.
His eyes snapped up to where Shakira
, his wife, was refilling her coffee cup.
“You’re not going to believe this.” Alex laid the newspaper down on the table.
“What?”
“You’d better sit.”
Shakira pulled out the chair next to him and sat. “What?”
Alex turned the paper so she could read it and slid it in front of her.
It didn’t take her long to react. “This has to be a coincidence,” she said, slightly wide-
eyed. “A really weird coincidence.”
“As much as I’d like to agree with you, I’m afraid it is what it appears...Stephen has
somehow come through a time portal.”
She continued reading. “The article says the man received a serious wound to the head. A
hospital spokesman says his story could be the result of the injury. It sounds like the patient is just delusional.”
“You’re grasping at straws. Look at the facts. He’s in a hospital in the City of Poitiers, a
short ambulance ride from what was the battlefield. An expert from the Musee de l’Armee
confirmed when found he was wearing authentic armor from the period.” Alex pointed. “Keep reading.”
Shakira skimmed through the rest of the story. “My god, he mentions Baron Guiscard,”
she said in a breathy voice, looking up and more than slightly wide-eyed now.
“Even if he was a master history buff and re-enactor, there’s nothing written about Baron
Guiscard. There’s only a minor notation by the prince’s campaign chronicler of the baron being
killed in battle. Someone other than Stephen wouldn’t know of the man.”
“You told me Stephen was killed at Poitiers. You were certain of his death. How did he
escape his fate?”
Alex shook his head. A year earlier he and Shakira had been caught in a freak lightning
storm that triggered a portal and threw them back in time. How the combination of the lightning and the granite outcropping formed a portal, a tear in time, he had no idea. The shocking trip
almost cost him his life. Once they’d returned to this century, they never went near the spot again.
He’d happily donated that portion of his land to the renowned astrophysicist, Dr. Oliver Gordon.
From what Alex overheard in the local pub, the appreciative scientist ran every sort of time-travel experiment.
The question was: if the Stephen Palmer mentioned in the newspaper was, Stephen
Palmer, the knight he knew centuries ago, how did he survive the battle to get caught in a time warp in France? Had it been because of Alex’s warning? And what triggered this portal? There
was no freak storm that day at Poitiers.
“This Stephen is blind,” Shakira continued. “Do you think he was only injured in the battle
and left for dead? Maybe that’s why you believed him killed at the time.”
“You know I had ways to be certain. For him to have escaped death, he had to escape the
battlefield.”
“We need to do something. Help him.”
“I know. I’ll get hold of Ian. The two of us will go to France and see if we can get
Stephen released.”
“Will they release him to a non-relative?”
“The hospital is asking for help in identifying who he really is. I imagine they’ll be grateful to be rid of him.”
“How will you explain the authentic armor, which I’m sure the French museum wants?”
The easiest way to handle that situation, as far as Alex could see, was to not fight over the
armor. Any effort to regain possession would generate too many questions about the origin.
“Let them have it. We tell them his wealthy family here has tried to keep his mental
condition quiet and will gladly gift the armor to the museum in exchange for their silence regarding the source.”
“That sounds rather gothic novel-ish...a toffee-nosed family hiding their wacky relatives in
the attic.”
“Like that hasn’t been done a thousand times.”
She handed the paper back to Alex. “After you bring him back, then what?”
“We convince him of the truth and hope he keeps his sanity. One more thing, Miranda’s
been with the History Channel a long time, see if she knows someone who can assist Stephen.”
“Assist how?”
“He has almost seven-hundred years of history, science and everything else to catch up
on. We need to find a tutor. We’ll leave that to you and Miranda.”
In a familiar open-handed sign of impatience, Shakira asked, “What are we supposed to
tell him or her? We’d appreciate it if you don’t Tweet this, but we’ve a friend who’s here from the real Medieval Times and can’t get back.”
“You clever ladies will think of something. I’ve got to call Ian and get going.”
#
Esme pulled up to the house wondering if she had the right place. The plaque by the front
door of a swan playing a guitar above their name confirmed it was Shakira and Alex’s home. The
size surprised Esme. The Lancasters were quite well off financially. She expected a large manor house, not a humble crofter’s style cottage.
Miranda greeted her at the door. “I haven’t seen you in months. How are you?” she
asked, stepping aside.
“All right. Finding a full time job has been difficult. You’d think with my education, I’d
have found a position by now.”
“The economy is terrible everywhere. Bad as it is, I thought for sure the channel would
hire you after your internship,” Miranda replied.
“I did too. It really knocked me for six when they didn’t.”
“Please sit.” Miranda indicated a spot next to her friend on the sofa. “You remember
Shakira? She joined me for lunch several times while you were working at the station.”
“Yes.” Esme extended her hand. “It’s nice seeing you again.”
Shakira shook her hand and said, “Same here. Speaking of lunch, have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Coffee then?”
“No thanks. Your call intrigued me. Not just because you’re offering me a job but your
description of the man I’m tutoring. He has special issues. Like what?” She looked to Miranda then Shakira and back for an answer as she sat.
“Glass of wine, perhaps?” Shakira asked and stood.
Esme’s mind raced with the possible issues the man might have that required wine to
soften the telling. An odd duck in one of her university classes referred to himself in the third person all the time. No problem. She could handle that sort of weirdness. Nor is it wine-worthy.
The issue had to be something else. Maybe he suffered from an off-the-wall phobia, like fear of clouds. It’d be a pain dealing with something like that but she’d make it work. That wasn’t wine-worthy either. A horrible scenario occurred to her. What if he was into mimes or clowns? What if he got done up like that a lot. Ugh. Clowns and mimes creeped her out and Miranda knew it. That was wine worthy. “A Medoc sounds good, if you have it.”
While Shakira was in the kitchen pouring the wine, Esme prodded Miranda. “Truthfully,
how weird is this guy?”
“I don’t know him. Shakira does. To be accurate, she knows him from before his trouble
started. She speaks highly of him. Alex and Ian know him well, especially Alex.”
The vague answer didn’t relieve Esme’s worries an iota. In fact, it stirred up new ones.
What trouble? What issues? Whatever they were, did she dare turn down a job, especially one
that paid as well as the Lancasters generous offer?
Shakira returned with three glasses of wine.
“To answer your question, he isn’t weird in a dangerous way. We woul
dn’t put you in that
situation,” Shakira said.
“I didn’t think that, but before we go any further, I need his issues defined, no glossing,”
Esme said and took a sip of the fine Medoc.
“He’s suffered a head injury and...” Shakira hesitated, “And had a psychotic break—”
Esme choked as wine went down the wrong way. After a short coughing fit she set her
glass on the table and managed, “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Haven’t either of you seen that American
TV show, Criminal Minds? Every one of those crazy serial killers has had some kind of
psychotic break.”
“That probably wasn’t the best term to use,” Miranda added quickly. “It’s the term the
French hospital he’s a patient at used. He’s delusional but not violent.”
Shakira jumped in. “No. He’s a sweetheart.”
She and Miranda were waving their hands in a no-no you’ve got it wrong gesture.
Esme thoughts were on the paycheck she might be waving goodbye to. “Sweetheart, meat
heart, delusional how?”
“He believes he’s a medieval knight...as in Age of Chivalry. He’s honorable, courteous
and charming with ladies,” Miranda said.
“You said you didn’t know him.”
“I don’t. I was just, you know, bundling all the stuff we think of when we talk about
chivalry.”
“I can attest to what Miranda said.” Shakira went on, “Women adore him. Alex can tell
you about his unquestionable loyalty as a friend.”
More at ease after hearing the medieval knight part, Esme calmed down. “Why a knight?
Why not a gladiator, or a Viking? Do you know?” She looked from Shakira to Miranda and back.
And they exchanged a look between them like each hoped the other could explain.
Miranda answered, “He was a history buff and medieval period fascinated him. Our best
guess is he’s chosen an era that’s comfortable for him, a timeframe he identifies with on some
level.”
“What do you want me to do with him as a tutor? He needs a therapist to help him return
to reality.”
“We’re only going to deal with his current reality, which is he’s a knight living in our world.
You’re to teach him the important events that occurred since the late thirteen hundreds,” Miranda said.
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 5