Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time

by Knight Blindness

“Why?” The word barely left Esme’s lips when the possibility she was talking herself out

  of a job popped into her head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not questioning your decision for me to work with him. I trying to understand the goal,” she rushed to add.

  “Ah...” Miranda shot Shakira a questioning look.

  “Think of this as more of a re-education rather than a traditional tutoring job. We hope as

  you bring him closer and closer to the modern world, the familiarity will help with the psychotic break,” Shakira said.

  The challenge involved interested Esme. She sipped her wine and considered how she’d

  go about teaching someone so many things. Her marks at university were superior. She was

  perfectly capable of teaching him what he needed to know, as long as the sciences were kept to

  the basics.

  “Is he going to dress in medieval clothing? Because, if he is, then he’ll expect me too, and

  I don’t have those kinds of costumes.”

  “No, he’ll dress normally. There is one other thing you should know.”

  “Yes...” Esme drew out the word suspicious of what tidbit Shakira would drop on her

  now.

  “He’s blind from the injury as well. He’ll be struggling to adjust. If you feel it’s too much

  to cope with, we understand.”

  Heartfelt sympathy for the poor man filled her. The unfortunate man awoke from his

  injury to a black, unfamiliar world. “No worries. How traumatic for him. Will he be learning

  Braille?”

  “Yes, and if you’re amenable, would you arrange for a Braille instructor?” Miranda asked.

  “Consider it done. I’d like to study it along with him. I think learning together is good. It’s good for his pride. Hopefully, as a result, my position as tutor is less awkward.”

  “I agree. I like your attitude,” Shakira said with a smile.

  “All this talk about the man and I still don’t know his name.”

  “It’s Stephen Palmer. If you’re available tonight, we’d like you to meet him over dinner,”

  Miranda said, “rather than starting off tomorrow as strangers.”

  A man who believes he’s a medieval knight. Even if she had plans, she’d cancel them.

  Curiosity wouldn’t let her put off meeting him. “Tell me where and when and I’ll be there,” Esme said.

  Chapter Eight

  Poitiers, France

  Alex and Ian waited in the doctor’s lounge while Monette finished with the last of the

  emergency room patients. As Alex had predicted, Monette and the hospital administrator were

  relieved they’d come for Stephen. The promise of a substantial donation to the favorite charity of Minister Tomlinson, Alex’s local MP, helped grease the way for them. Harrow called Deputy

  Favreau, his equal in the French Parliament. Favreau contacted the hospital administration and

  requested they co-operate and not worry about English paperwork.

  “Thank you for your patience,” Monette said and sat on the sofa across from them. He

  rifled through the discharge paperwork, signed the last page, and handed the forms to Alex. Then he removed a small envelope from Stephen’s file. “This is a receipt from the Musee de l’Armee

  representative for Mr. Palmer’s armor.” The doctor leaned forward. “I wish you luck with him,

  gentlemen. He’s an annoyingly arrogant man with sneaky rat eyes.”

  “Good to know. Can we see Mr. Palmer now?” Alex asked.

  “In a moment, but first I want to make certain you understand his mental state. We’ve

  tested him. There’s no brain damage. We don’t know who inflicted the injury to him. He claims it was a French knight. Clearly, the attack has triggered a psychotic break, from which he may

  never recover.”

  “We understand.” Alex folded the paperwork and tucked it into his inside coat pocket.

  “I have a question,” Ian said.

  Monette gestured for him to continue.

  “Where exactly in that field did they find him, if you know?”

  “I was not there, but I am told he was lying in the grass a few meters behind the sign

  commemorating the battle. Shall we?”

  The doctor led them to a room past ICU and near the nurse’s station. He stopped in the

  corridor just outside the closed door.

  “I’m afraid the musee representative took all of the garments Mr. Palmer wore when

  found. The expert seemed as interested in the cloth pieces as the armor. My staff went through a stack of clothing left behind by previous patients so he’d have something other than the hospital gown and robe to wear. Nothing fits properly, but it is the best they could do.”

  “Thank you, I’m sure he appreciates the effort,” Alex said.

  “Good day and good luck,” Monette said and walked away.

  Ian looked at Alex. “I won’t sound like the man he remembers. I think it’s best if I stay

  quiet until we get him out of here and the way home.”

  “I sound different too. I don’t know how or where to start to explain what’s happened.”

  Alex took a deep breath and blew it out, then opened the door.

  Stephen sat in front of the window, enjoying the sun on his face and the classic music

  Cloutier made happen from the mysterious station. He turned at the sound of the door opening.

  “Who is it?” That morning the bawd who offered to bathe him two days earlier brought

  him a tasty cake, flaky and filled with crème. A pastry she called it. He hoped it was her again with another cake.

  “Hello, Stephen. It’s Guy and Basil.”

  He straightened. What new trick of his captors was this? Had his blindness not pleased

  them enough? “You’re not Guy. I know his voice as well as my own.” He’d test the impostors

  and show them he wasn’t the dolt they thought him. “If you are who you say you are, then you

  will know the answers. What is the name of your favorite destrier?”

  “Thor,” the one calling himself Guy said.

  He expected that one question to foil their plan. The odds of the man guessing the right

  name were beyond measure. “When did we last see one another?”

  “We fought together at Poitiers. You were a knight in my service.”

  Information Monette might’ve told the man. Stephen considered his next question and

  couldn’t imagine the French had any knowledge of Guy’s family. He needed to ask more personal

  questions. “Tell me of your family?”

  “At the time of the battle, my father was dead. My mother lived with the holy sisters at

  Hailes Abbey. I had a sister Madeline and a nephew, Geoffrey.”

  How could the man know such details? If Stephen hadn’t heard the difference in this

  man’s voice, he’d surely believe him to be the true Guy. But the true Guy lay in the ground for hundreds of years now.

  Stephen posed the toughest test question. None other than he and Guy, the real Guy, knew

  the answer. “You gave me a warning before we sailed. What was it?”

  “Beware the black panther in a sea of orange,” the man said, then added, “You were

  flirting with a servant girl on the stairs at Elysian Fields.”

  “God’s blood, it is you.” Excited, he said, “You say Basil is with you.”

  “I’m here.”

  Wariness tempered Stephen’s excitement hearing the other man’s voice...a voice that

  bore little bearing to Basil’s with his Midland rhythm. He’d test this man as well. He turned his head slightly toward the place this Basil spoke from. “What of your family?”

  “My father and mother were dead when we went to France. I had a younger brother,

  Grevill.”

&
nbsp; “What was your Coat of Arms?”

  “A leopard rampant on a bronze field.”

  “What was your destrier’s name?”

  “Saladin.”

  “Whose column did you ride in?”

  “Same as yours and Guy’s, Edward of Woodstock’s, the Black Prince.”

  Relief filled Stephen. Guy and Basil were here. That made the year 1356. He’d been right

  not to trust his captors. They’d claimed almost seven hundred years had passed. The liars told him the year was 2013. He knew not to believe such absurdity. Taking him for a fool, they’d filled his room with oddities to convince him.

  Cane in hand, he stood, put a hand out, found Guy’s chest and embraced him. “I thought

  you dead. I saw their men-at-arms drag you from your horse. And Basil...” He gave him a quick

  embrace. “I cannot believe you survived. I saw you trapped under your mount at the mercy of an

  enemy knight. How is it you live?”

  “It’s a most unusual story. We’ll explain everything on the way home,” Alex told him.

  “Home?” The possibility of returning to England never occurred to Stephen. He expected

  if his captors ever set him free, he’d live a beggar’s life in the enemy countryside. Guy must’ve paid a huge ransom for the French to release him as well as himself.

  “I thought never to see home again.” He gave a grunt of bitter humor at his sadly correct

  choice of words. He might stand on English soil, but he’d never see home again.

  “What is this place where they’ve kept us imprisoned?” he asked, hoping Guy or Basil

  could offer some explanation for the strange things he’d experienced since he became a prisoner.

  “You’re not a captive of the French. This is a hospital. You were brought here to treat

  your wounds. Nothing more.”

  “They told me when I woke from a dreamless sleep that this was a hospital. I thought of

  St. Giles, but this is nothing like what I heard about St. Giles.”

  “It is a hospital, totally different but a good place.”

  Stephen begrudgingly agreed in part. He’d eaten well, his bed was the most comfortable

  he’d slept on, the folks he’d spoken with were kind. He didn’t trust the doctors though, not about his lost eyesight.

  “The one who calls himself Monette, I believe he is truly a surgeon. The one called

  Berger; I suspect he is no surgeon but a necromancer. Did they tell you I am blind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Berger did this to me.”

  “He didn’t. He’s not a sorcerer,” Guy said.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  Maybe Guy was guessing. Maybe they’d taken his sight too and convinced him otherwise.

  “How badly injured are you?” Stephen asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are in good health?”

  “Yes.”

  Not injured. Resentment welled inside him. Guy had somehow known about the knight,

  beware the black cat on a field of orange, he said. The warning was meant to help a friend, but Stephen couldn’t keep the bitterness at bay. If Guy hadn’t warned him, left him to his fate, then he would’ve died in all likelihood. And in his heart, he wished that had been the outcome. His life was forever changed, while Guy was as he had always been.

  Stephen took a moment to collect himself and not let his anger taint the conversation.

  “They tell me it is permanent, my blindness. But you remain unharmed. How is that?”

  “It is part of the same strange and long story Basil and I will relate on the trip home.

  “A man who said he was from a musee, whatever that is, stole my things. I want my

  sword returned to me. He can have the armor, my surcoat and chausses as well, but not my

  sword.”

  “We have his contact information. We’ll get your sword. If you’re ready, we’ll go.”

  Stephen pushed the anger from his thoughts. His friends had come and he was leaving this

  strange place at last.

  “I’m ready. There’s nothing for me here.” As he reached for his cane, he wondered how

  much there was for him at home.

  #

  In the corridor, Guy took him by the elbow.

  “I appreciate your attempt to assist me, but let go—please. I am capable of walking the

  hall.” Stephen worked the cane the way Juliette had instructed, side to side, while Guy and Basil walked behind him. Past the nurse’s station, he stopped and waited for the whoosh of the

  impressive doors that opened without touch.

  “Our king should have these,” he said and stepped through.

  He’d gone four strides when Guy warned, “Watch out, there are stairs directly in front of

  you,” and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Don’t.” Stephen tore from the grasp. “I must learn to do things on my own. He used his

  cane to feel the depth of the rise and then took a tentative step forward. He found his way to the flat path without incident.

  “Stop. This is a dangerous spot. You have to let us help you now,” Guy said. Stephen

  sensed they flanked him.

  A carriage of some kind went by in front of him at a speed no carriage he knew of could

  travel. Nor was there the clatter of hooves or grinding of wheels. He’d witnessed carts and

  carriages with runaway horses rushing down a road. Never were they so fast as to generate a

  wind like the one that blew over him. He’d jerked back and shamefully gasped like a woman. The

  carriage fouled the air in its wake. It didn’t stink as bad a tanner’s shop, but it left the air smelling sour and heavy.

  “What manner of carriage passed?” he asked.

  “Stephen, do you remember how you got to the hospital?” Guy asked.

  “I fell into one of several dreamless sleeps I experienced these past days. I have no

  recollection of the journey.”

  “A special steel carriage brought you from the field to the hospital. Another type of steel

  carriage like the one we’ll ride in just drove past. The unfamiliar ride may disturb you. You must trust us when we say you are safe.”

  He didn’t like the sound of the last.

  “Ah good, the limo driver saw us,” Guy added.

  A moment later, there was the crunch of grit on the ground. Stephen sensed the presence

  of a large carriage in front of him. Something...a door...opened and slammed shut. If it was a

  door, it didn’t sound wooden. No thud. It too, must be steel.

  “Monsieur Lancaster, Monsieur Cherlein,” a new voice said and the opening sound

  repeated.

  Guy urged him forward a couple of steps, then placed a hand on Stephen’s head and

  started to press down.

  Stephen pushed his hand away. “What are you doing?”

  “You need to duck or you’ll bump your head on the doorframe.

  “Show me the top and I can handle the rest,” he said, folding his cane, he lifted his free

  hand. Guy took it and pressed it to a hard metal lintel. Stephen dipped his head enough to clear the entry.

  Guy took the cane from him and instructed him to raise his foot knee height and over to

  the left until he found the edge of the carriage floor. When Stephen did, he told him to bend as though sitting on a chair and he’d guide him to the right spot.

  “Slide to your left,” Guy said.

  Stephen tested with his hand how far he could move. Soft leather, like deerskin, covered a

  sturdy but comfortable bench. He slid until his left hip and leg hit a solid surface. Guy and Basil climbed in after him.

  Stephen settled into the seat prepared to be jostled as they rode over a rough road.

  “Why did the servan
t call you both by strange names?” he asked after the odd sounding

  door closed.

  “Those are the names we use now. Do you want to explain?” Basil asked.

  Stephen followed the direction of the voice and knew he asked the question of Guy, who’d

  chosen a seat diagonal to him.

  “I think its best,” Guy said. “Stephen, the doctor told us you refused to believe the year is

  2013. This is a shock to you...” He leaned closer as he spoke, close enough for the warmth of his breath to be felt. “But it is.”

  Stephen reared back. To hear Guy confirm what the French surgeon said struck like a

  lance blow to the chest. Had he been hit with a real lance he’d know how to react. He’d defend, or attack, or evade. For this, he knew no response.

  “No, this cannot be.”

  “I swear to you on my honor as a knight.”

  “You’re telling me I’ve come hundreds of years in time?”

  “Yes.”

  At a loss for words, he tried to understand how such a thing might happen. Guy and Basil

  were friends he trusted completely. Never for a moment did he think they’d lie about such a

  serious matter, not even in jest.

  Nothing made sense. But then, since the day they’d found him in the field, nothing was

  normal in his life.

  “How is it you both are here, in this time with me?”

  “Do you believe in fate?” Guy asked.

  “I used to. I don’t know what to believe now.”

  “You were right to think me dead. Dragged from my horse, the enemy blades...well, you

  can imagine.”

  Alarm seized Stephen. He didn’t fear death, but he feared the prospect of facing eternity

  condemned to walk the earth between the real world and the afterlife he hoped existed.

  “You are a ghost.”

  Before Guy answered, the bellow of a massive beast came from the front of the carriage.

  “Merciful God, what animal rides with us?”

  “It’s not an animal. Don’t worry about the source of the noise. We’re quite safe. To

  answer your question, I’m not a ghost now, but I once was. Basil too.”

  Ghosts once but no more? Only in stories did a man or woman come from the shadow

  world into the world of the living again. “What happened?”

  “When we charged the French knights, Saladin took an ax blow to the chest and went

  down. You saw me trapped. Guy tried to reach me. As you know, he was killed in the attempt.”