written to a lady or two from the fields of France. Written when he longed for the green fields of home, or when he longed for a walk in the garden with a sweet lady, or when loneliness couldn’t be abated, even among the company of friends.
“As I understand the use of the word squalor here, it speaks to the wretchedness of war,
yes?” he asked Esme.
“Yes. Once you learn Braille, you can read it. Or, there may be an audio version of the
story.”
“Not necessary. I need no reminder of the sorrows of war.”
Esme pressed her hand to his arm. “Of course, I didn’t mean to raise bad memories.”
“You needn’t worry for me.” He reached for a way to lighten the moment.
In his experience, a smile and a wink went a long way with the ladies. Stephen winked and
gave Esme a crooked smile that usually brought giggles from the ladies.
She didn’t giggle but he sensed her leaning closer. A whiff of her perfume accompanied
the shift. Flowers. Carnation influenced by gardenia with a hint of jasmine.
“Esme,” Stephen stretched her name out and gestured open-handed like presenting the
word before the gods. “It sounds like silk caught on the breeze. Is there meaning behind your
name, other than being the object of man’s love and squalor?”
“I’m told it’s old French for ‘beloved.’ Others have said it’s short for the Spanish name,
Esmeralda, which means ‘emerald.”
Stephen sipped his wine and pretended to contemplate on the meanings. At last, he said,
“For you, I would choose a soldier’s ideal. Beloved.”
Chapter Twelve
Poitiers, France
A long field of lush grass lay across the river from where Marchand camped. Every
afternoon young men in girlish short, silk braies kicked a ball up and down the field. Apparently, the goal was to kick it into a net at each end. They acted happy to bounce the ball off their heads to maneuver closer.
“Such poor tactics,” he said low from behind the cover of shrubbery where he watched.
“Just throw the ball you band of fools.”
In the early morning hours and late in the afternoon after the young men left, he let the
horses graze on the grassy field. When the players returned each day, he laughed to hear them
complain about the manure and loudly wonder who was responsible.
Sister Catherine told him about the local stable. He’d walked the three kilometers, as she
called the distance, to see if the place suited his needs. He found it well kept and the horses in good condition.
Over the last few days, when the field was empty, he worked with Arthur to learn which
cues the horse responded to. Like Conquerant, he’d been trained with leg cues and vocal clicks
and whistles. As a potential buyer, the stable owner was bound to ask for a display of his training.
Confident, Marchand rode Arthur to the stable using only the pad and left the saddle
stored at the abbey along with Conquerant’s and the armor. The riders he observed rode in
saddles far different than the war saddles he and the English knight used.
“Satisfied?” Finished with demonstrating Arthur’s skills, he jumped down.
“I am; which surprises me.” Rene Patel, the stable’s owner rubbed Arthur’s left ear.
“Shabby as you are—” he said, and when the horse didn’t pull away, Patel switched sides then
rubbed the right ear. “I didn’t believe you owned this horse and if you did, I doubted his training. I certainly questioned your skills when I saw you had no stirrups.”
Shabby. Marchand bristled. In his time, he was a count who rivaled the king in fashion.
Fists clenched, he crossed his arms over his chest and checked his temper. “Stirrups are
convenient, but I’ve ridden all my life, often without them.”
“I had my wife call Sister Catherine. She said she believes the horse is yours,” Patel
continued.
“If he was not mine, would he respond so well? No, he would not. Now that you’ve seen
what he can do, how much will you pay?”
“Five-thousand euros.”
Marchand mouth briefly dropped open. He didn’t know what a euro was, but if it was the
equivalent of a livre tournois, the man offered a fortune.
“I accept,” he said with a straight face. If Patel knew his delight, he might think he
overpaid and reduce the payment.
Patel led him to what he called his office, which was in an out building near the main
stable. He withdrew a large ledger from a desk drawer. Marchand kept a similar one for his
household accounts.
“What is your full name,” he asked as he sat.
“Roger Louis Philippe Marchand.”
“I’ll simply make it out to Roger Marchand.”
Marchand watched with increasing indignation as Patel scribbled the date, Roger
Marchand, and the five-thousand number, then signed the scrap of paper.
“Here you are,” Patel said and presented the paper to Marchand.
“Do you take me for a fool or mad vagabond?” He batted Patel’s hand away. “You think
to give me this worthless paper?”
Patel’s brows lifted high. “Worthless? This is a bank draft allowing you to be paid from my
account.”
“Paper instead of coin. Hah! I know nothing of banks or drafts not wind created. I do
know the look and feel of real money and that is coin.”
“What do you mean you don’t know about banks or drafts? Where have you been living—
in some Afghan cave?”
“Where I’ve been is not important. I demand coin.”
“I do not have five-thousand euros sitting around. Few do. From your expression, I
honestly believe you’re sincere about this coin business. How about you come with me to my
bank? Show them the draft and ask them to pay you in coin.”
Was Patel leading him into some kind of trap? Marchand debated the possibility. If he
didn’t need money so badly, he’d take Arthur and go. Sister Catherine was nice enough to feed
him in exchange for labor. He completed most of the odd jobs she wanted done, but he couldn’t
count on her feeding him forever. Plus, he longed for the comfort of an inn, to sleep in a bed again with a pillow under his head and out of the elements. Then there was Conquerant to think of and his need for a stable and a reliable food source. He planned on asking Patel to stable Conquerant too and that cost money.
Maybe he was walking into a trap, maybe not. One way or the other, he had to go. If it
turned out to be a trap, he’d find a way to kill Patel.
“I will accompany you to this bank of yours.”
He climbed into what Sister Catherine said was a car with Patel. He’d secretly peeked in
the Sister’s car. The inside of Patel’s was similar: a wheel, a stick between the seats that looked like the brake on a tradesman’s cart, and steel housing with numerical displays.
Marchand suffocated his yelp behind a fake coughing fit as the car went faster and faster.
He stifled more yelps as other cars flew past them. But he couldn’t keep from wincing when they did.
Not long later, Patel entered Poitiers proper. People and cars crowded the street. The
town he’d enjoyed when the army passed through seemed to be no more. Patel turned and the
Cathedrale Saint-Pierre and its beautiful Crucifixion Window came into sight. A welcome vision to Marchand’s familiarity starved eyes. Patel turned again, and Marchand relaxed a little as they
drove by the narrow streets he recognized from his first visit.
Patel sto
pped the car in front of a stone building with a glass door and a sign that read
Societe Generale. “My bank,” he said and indicated for Marchand to get out.
Inside, Patel had him stand to the side and observe as people approached windows of thick
glass and talked to the man or woman who stood behind it. Scraps of paper were presented by
those who approached in exchange for colored paper of different shapes.
“What are they receiving?” Marchand asked.
“Euros.”
“Euros, like what you wish to pay me?”
Patel nodded.
“This draft you gave me looks nothing like what they’ve been given.”
“Come.” Patel walked up to a window and handed the woman stationed there the five-
thousand euro draft. A friendly conversation followed while she appeared to read a device the size of Sister Catherine’s calendar. Then, the woman withdrew a handful of the colored paper and
counted them out for Patel.
Marchand pushed him aside. “Do you give him euros? And, are they accepted for
payment of goods and services?”
She gave him a quizzical look and said, “Yes.” She finished counting and slid the stack to
Patel, who handed them to Marchand.
“Are you happy now, Mr. Marchand?” Patel asked as they returned to his car.
“Yes,” he said with a chagrined grunt. “I have need of a stable for another horse who is
not for sale. Will you take some of these for housing him?”
“Of course.”
“One more thing, how long is the walk here from your stable?”
“If you need to come back, I’ll give you a ride.”
“Thank you. I do wish to return after I bring my horse to your barn.”
#
Once Conquerant was stabled, Patel dropped Marchand off in the center of town, as he
referred to the spot. Before driving away, he pointed out a Galeries Lafayette store. A place he said that sold men’s clothing and shoes. Marchand thanked him, told Patel he’d visit Conquerant soon and headed toward the store.
Inside he wandered the first floor before locating a sign with an arrow that said “men’s
department,” above one that read, “escalator.”
“Pardon.” A woman edged him to the side as he stood fixated by the moving steel stairs
and marveling at the ease of transport that filled this world. He saw no wheels or gears. How did the clever creation work? Stepping onto a stair as soon as it peeked out, he rode it to the top, immediately turned and rode the stairs down. Like a child with a new puppy, a broad smile burst from him.
After a couple of repetitions, a stern faced man in a brown shirt with a metal badge on his
pocket and a round, brown cap approached.
“What are you doing?”
“I am riding the es-ca-la-tor. Did you not see?”
“I don’t care for your sarcasm.”
The man’s eyes dropped to Marchand’s pants then lifted to the faded shirt before settling
back onto his face. Such disdain in the man’s expression. Marchand thought about the times he’d looked upon a beggar at his gate the same way before ordering the cook to give the wretch scraps from his table.
“Are you sure you have the right store?” the man asked.
“I have coin.”
“Then either shop or leave.”
In the “men’s department,” he changed into new clothes and hurried to finish choosing
more. Twice he ventured a glance at the statues painted to look alive. Their dead eyes chilled his soul.
The young fellow who assisted him suggested he buy shoes. According to the man, his
boots were a little “too Renaissance Faire” for the street and most “babes.”
“Babes?” What would infants know of boots?
“You know—babes, chicks, ladies.”
What a baffling comparison. If women were called babes, what were infants called? Sure
the answer would baffle him further, he let the question go and headed for the “shoe department.”
In his old world, Marchand never had a lady comment on his boots. Based on the young man’s
advice, he purchased a pair of Nike trainers, which were the strangest shoes he’d ever seen but comfortable.
He left wearing the new clothes and shoes. He threw out the donation clothes Sister
Catherine gave him but kept his boots. If he ever got back to his own time, he’d need them.
Across the street from the Galeries Lafayette was a building called Champs Vert where
someone had placed chairs and tables outside. Men and women sat under colorful circular
canopies that attached to the tables. Servants came and went with plates of food and carafes of wine for the guests seated at the tables.
Hidden in the shade of a tree, he leaned against the trunk and wondered how to get
invited. He didn’t have to wonder long. “Ah, this is good,” he said as excitement shot through him.
The guests who rose to leave left euros for the servants.
First food then he’d find an inn that took euros. Mindful of the cars that sped past, he
waited for a break in the flow and dashed across the road.
An attractive woman sat him at one of the outdoor tables, handed him a stiff card with the
fare they offered printed on it, and left. Many of the dishes were unknown to him. He knew eggs, cheese, bread, lamb’s brains, beef tongue, and a few others. Sister Catherine served breakfast
with a warm chocolate drink each morning when he came to labor for her. The chocolate drink
was new to him and tasted like heaven in a cup. He requested a chocolate drink when a different servant came to the table. He hadn’t decided on what fare yet and looked to see what others at
nearby tables ate.
“Pardon, what is this you eat?” He pointed to the plate of the man at the table next to him.
“A croque madame.”
“You think me a woman? What is wrong with you? Are you blind?”
“I didn’t call you a woman. You asked about my sandwich. It’s called a croque madame.
Wow, a French guy who doesn’t know his own food.”
The man had an accent that was neither French nor English. “Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
Marchand never heard of the place. He wanted to question him more but worried he’d get
asked something he couldn’t answer.
“I’ll have the croque madame,” he told the servant when she brought his chocolate.
The croque madame was two slices of bread with ham and cheese stuffed between and
fried with a fried egg on top. Marchand took a bite and found it tasty. If he dipped the rest in his drink, it would be even better. So, he dipped each bite into the warm chocolate.
After he ate, he walked to the inn the servant called a B&B. With no grasp how long his
euros would last, he thought an inn that included a meal with the bed a good choice. Next to the B&B was a shop with a sign hung out that displayed a green cross called a pharmacy. The
Knights Templar bore a red cross on their white tunics and banners. The Knights Hospitaller bore a white cross on their black surcoats. What brotherhood bore a green cross?
The shop did not appear to be affiliated with any religious order. Other than the green
cross, nothing holy was displayed. On shelves, behind glass windows in the front were boxes,
bottles, and brushes attached to very short metal poles. The brush implements had cords like many things he’d seen at the abbey. The boxes had the faces of folks touching their heads as though in pain or some showed people sneezing. Picture boxes weren’t new, he’d seen them at the abbey.
Then it made sense to him. He recognized what manner of place this was. An apothecary,
he t
hought with a smile. Curious how it differed from those in the village close to his Norman
home, he went inside.
Everywhere shelves held more boxes and bottles, oddities all around. Marchand scratched
at his cheek. His beard itched even after he soaped and rinsed it in the abbey bathroom. It also grew in radish red instead of blond like the hair on his head and the rest of his body. Worse, it grew in tufts. During the campaign, he used his squire’s dagger. He’d have shaved days ago here but didn’t want to use his eating dagger.
“I want to shave,” he told the white-coated keeper of the apothecary.
The shopkeeper pointed to a shelf where the strangest looking wrapped razors hung on
hooks. Marchand removed one and studied the small razor inside. The blade appeared thin and
sharp.
On the stand next to the razors were cans of something called shave cream.
“What is this?” he asked the shopkeeper.
“Foam to help make shaving easier. What else?”
Marchand turned the can over and over searching for the means to get the cream out of
the spout. Once he figured out how, he waited. When the shopkeeper was busy elsewhere, he
popped the flimsy cap off a can and pressed down on the soft top.
Foam shot from the can onto other cans and dripped down over the shelves below. “Oh
no.”
“What are you doing? You must buy that now.” The shopkeeper rushed over with paper
rags and began to wipe up the mess.
“Yes, of course.” Marchand pulled the wad of euros from his front pocket. He twisted
enough to shield the bundle from the shopkeeper’s eyes and asked, “how much for both razor and
the can of cream?”
“Eight euros and you are not to come back. Make your next mess at the pharmacy down
the road.”
Marchand counted out exactly eight, a five euro piece of paper and three one euro coins.
The coins excited him when he first received them. They appeared to be a combination of gold
and silver. To his disappointment, Patel explained they contained less valuable metals.
The shopkeeper finished cleaning and yanked the money from Marchand’s hand.
In the distance, came the deafening hi-low howl like that of the iron-clad car that took the
Englishman away.
The cursed Englishman. If he wasn’t dead already, and if Marchand could find him, a way
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 10