to return home might be forced from the man. Perhaps he could buy the knight’s freedom and
then take him to the spot the nightmare occurred.
“A question.”
“Ask and then you must go,” the shopkeeper said.
“That howl, what’s the purpose?”
“To warn traffic out of the way of an oncoming ambulance.”
“Ambulance?”
“You are a loon.” He tapped the side of his head. “Crackers.”
“Please, excuse my ignorance, but tell me what the ambulance is.”
“It’s an emergency vehicle to take people to the hospital.”
Marchand knew a little about hospitals. They treated the sick and were in monasteries.
The king spoke of two, one in Montpellier and another in Tonnerre.
“Where is the nearest one?”
“The Centre Hospitalier du l’Universite de Poitiers is a kilometer south. Now be gone,”
the shopkeeper said and flipped his fingers in a shooing motion.
Marchand stepped out onto the sidewalk and walked south. They’d taken the Englishman
to a hospital. Good. It should be easy to buy access to the man or perhaps free him. Free him and bring him back to the spot this time nightmare began and force the devil’s knight to reverse what he’s done.
Chapter Thirteen
Stephen woke to the warm sunlight on his chest and arms. He rolled over and sat up,
stretched, rubbed his face and scratched his balls with a grunt of satisfaction. He’d slept well, better than in the hospital.
A handful of knights he knew disliked the racket of day-to-day life. For Stephen, the
unnatural quiet within the trailer had an eerie, solitary sensibility. Only the cheerful sound of small birds broke the silence. He stood, felt his way to the window, and opened it to the comfortable familiarity of their singing.
The animal medley ceased.
“Don’t stop on my account. Your song pleases me.”
He recalled little of life in his father’s home, snatches of memories, faces and moments he
couldn’t fix a purpose to. From the time of his father’s death until he went to the hospital, he’d never slept in a room alone. As a young boy, Guy’s father put him in the small barracks with
Elysian Fields other squires. Once he became a knight, he slept in the large barracks. Whether it was snoring, belching, bawdy talk, the rattle of weapons and armor being put on or taken off, or just the comings and goings of men, noise was always present. In the hospital, although he was
alone, the constant chatter from the nurses carried to his room.
The quiet around the trailer continued. The songbirds waited for him to leave. “All right,
I’ll go.” He dragged his hand along the wall and made his way to the bathroom.
Before he left for his cottage the night before, Alex had reminded him to be diligent with
his ablutions— shower and clean your teeth each morning.
“You need but tell me once,” Stephen had replied.
The foaming toothpaste still disturbed him, but he used it as instructed. The shower was
different, he enjoyed the experience and looked forward to it.
He ran the water until the warmth of steam filled the bathroom. After adjusting the water
temperature, he climbed inside. He turned the head to a hard spray to let the hot water beat on his back and shoulders. When the water started to cool, he soaped himself and quickly rinsed off.
Except for the jacket, he played it safe and put the same clothes on that he wore the
previous night.
Like most castle folk, he rose with the sunrise at home. He imagined he’d risen early
today too, but with no way to tell the sun’s position, he wasn’t certain. Nor had he a candle-clock that marked the hours in wax and he could count the notches.
“How am I supposed to know the time?”
He didn’t want to run to Alex’s with every issue. Stephen thought how he might ascertain
the approximate hour on his own.
Dew.
He grabbed his cane and stepped from his quarters, down the ramp, to the lawn. Kneeling,
he checked the wetness of the morning dew on the grass. The blades were still heavy with the
damp.
“Good. Plenty of time to eat.”
He pivoted and started back the four strides to the ramp, then stopped. The day before
Shakira had said flowers bordered the driveway. She’d mentioned it to warn him of the decorative edge and to be careful not to trip. She never said what kind of flowers but he didn’t think it
mattered. Ladies liked them. A handful on the table would be a nice bit of cheer for Esme.
From the ramp, Stephen tapped his cane along the outside wall of the trailer. When he
reached the end, he tested with his cane for where the ground changed from grass to the hard
edge of the border. He concentrated on keeping his path straight and strode twenty paces to the flower bed.
On his hands and knees, he fingered the blooms trying to identify what she’d planted. The
small, round, velvety face was easy to recognize.
“Pansies, I’ll need a handful of you.”
He plucked a bunch and moved a few feet to find another batch. The next plants weren’t
pansies. From their scent, they might be Lily of the Valley. He pinched off several buds of those too, then stood and headed for the trailer.
At twenty paces, he switched the flowers to his right hand and his cane to his left and
tested for the trailer’s wall. Not there. Stephen didn’t doubt the number of paces he’d taken to reach the drive or that he returned on the same path. He moved several strides, back and forth in each direction, arcing wide with his cane, searching for the wall. Not there. Somehow, he’d gone astray, which shouldn’t have happened. He’d been so careful.
Then, his cane struck a hard surface. Not the drive. The drive was gravel. As he bent to
touch it, a loud, unpleasant bellow sounded. A shameful cry escaped him. His cane fell from his hand as he shot up, stumbling as a steel carriage passed close, whipping his hair.
Heart pounding, he swore aloud, “God’s teeth.” He listened for any other approaching
cars. Nothing came from either direction. He eased back toward the spot he’d been when he lost
his cane and knelt. The surface felt the same as the pavement at the airport. To his relief, his cane lay within reach. He stood, turned around, and tapped the short pace to the unpaved surface
again.
“Stephen, what are you doing out here by the road?” Alex called out.
Stephen let out a sigh of relief and waited for Alex to join him.
“I saw you from my kitchen window. That truck nearly hit you.”
“Truck?”
“It’s like the car that took us to the airport only much larger as it carries cargo. Back to
my question, what are you doing?”
“I picked these flowers to set on the table. I wished to please Esme.” Stephen brought the
flowers he managed to hold onto up to show Alex. “I thought I traveled the same path when I
went to return to the trailer. Obviously, I had not. I’ve been trying to find my way since.”
“I can see in the wet grass where you walked from the driveway border. You almost had
it correct. You veered too far to the right is all.”
He grasped Stephen by the arm and the two stopped. “Why didn’t you come to the
cottage? You haven’t had time to adjust to the immediate area. Let Shakira and I help you for a little while anyway.”
Stephen jerked his arm from Alex’s hold. “I will not run to you every time I wish to go
more than a few strides from the trailer.”
“Your pride can get you hurt as is evidenced by the truck incid
ent.”
“Leave off the subject. Tell me, where is the trailer in relation to where we are?”
“Straight ahead.”
“How far?”
“Thirty paces. At twenty-eight, the ramp is on your right. Let’s walk together.”
“I’ll be fine. You needn’t attend to me.” Stephen counted the strides in his head.
“I’m not attending to you. I’m going back to my now cold fried eggs and tomatoes, which
happen to be in the same direction.”
Stephen’s stomach growled at the mention of breakfast. He’d have to hurry and fix
something if he wanted to eat before Esme arrived.
#
Esme knocked as he dropped the second slice of bread in a trash container under his sink.
“Dreadful device,” he mumbled and went to the door.
“Hi,” she said, sounding chipper.
“Hello, to you. Please, welcome.” He moved aside for her to enter.
A paper bag she carried in her right arm brushed his arm when she passed. She left a trail
of floral scented air that reminded him of a garden after a summer rain. He closed the door and followed as she set whatever she carried onto the dining table.
“Have you eaten this morning,” she asked and touched her palm to his chest. Was the
gesture for him alone or was the intimate touch common to ladies in this time?
“No. I made an attempt at heating some bread and jam but the microwave made my fresh
bread stale.”
She moved her hand, leaving a cool prickle of loss in its wake
“Do you like crispy bread that isn’t stale?”
He shrugged. “I like a crispy crust.”
“I’ll show you how to make a slice of bread crispy while it remains fresh.”
She had him feel a metal machine with two long holes in the top she called a toaster. “Put
a slice or two of bread in the holes, push this lever down and wait. When the bread is ready, it will pop up. Do not, under any circumstances, stick a fork or knife or metal utensil into the holes.
Don’t stick your fingers in either.”
She searched the cupboards, found what she wanted and set it down.
He ran his hand along the counter top and discovered she’d taken out cups.
“I’ll make a pot of coffee,” she said and began running water.
His mouth watered as the smell of the bread cooking grew strong. “Is the bread not close
to ready?”
“Be patient. It’s almost done.”
Stephen took a spoon from the drawer where he’d found the knife. Jam jar in hand, he
leaned against the counter’s edge. He dug in, filled the spoon and ate the sweet strawberry jam, then dipped the spoon in again for more.
“Stephen. Really?” She made a disapproving sucky noise. “I suggest you not do that in
front of anyone else.”
“What?”
A sound like a sprung trap came from the toaster.
“Your toast is ready,” Esme said.
She shifted as she spoke and a whiff of her perfume teased his nose then drifted away.
He swallowed the jam on the spoon and dipped into the jar for another to add a dollop to
his bread.
“Don’t do that.” She patted his forearm. Clearly, she liked touching him.
“What?”
“You ate a bite of jam and then stuck the spoon you licked off of into the jar again. No one
wants to eat jam if they’ve seen you stirring it with a spit covered spoon.” She placed the toast in his free hand. “Here.”
He rapped the slice of bread on the counter. “You said I’d get my crispy crust. This
toaster’s ruined the bread worse than the microwave. It’s all dry crumbles.”
“Trust me, when I’m finished you’ll like the bread.”
She snatched the slice from his hand. Another whiff of her scent wafted up with her
movement. Perhaps she’d dabbed her neck or even her hair with it. He imagined her hair
glistened in the sun. If he curled a lock around his finger, would she object? It’d be worth the risk to feel the silkiness on his skin.
“What is the perfume you wear?”
“L’air du Temps. It means—”
“The air of time.”
“You speak French.”
“Yes. You sound surprised. Because I do not know my letters doesn’t mean I cannot
learn a language other than the one spoken to me daily. I spent many months on two campaigns
with our army in France. ‘Tis wise to know what the people of your enemy are saying.”
“Shakira told me you couldn’t read but I never thought for a minute that your inability
meant you weren’t clever.” She gave his hand a light squeeze. Her hand was warm and soft as a
pansy bloom. How he’d love to know the touch of her lips was as well.
Maybe a kiss was possible. “Does your husband take offense that you’re spending your
days with another man?”
“I’m not married.”
Pleasant news. One question down, one to go. “Are you affianced?”
“Aff...what? Say it again.”
“Affianced. Are you betrothed?”
“No. Toast is almost done,” she said.
By the scraping sound against the toast, she was slathering it in butter. Good. He liked lots
of butter on his bread. Earlier, he’d found the butter on a dish in the refrigerator and set it out to soften. He failed to see why anyone wanted it cold and hard.
“Jam jar, please,” Esme said.
He handed it over to her with the spoon still inside.
Esme stepped to the sink and then back to where she was fixing his toast. “I put the spoon
in the sink. Hand me the knife or have you been licking it too?”
“No.” He gave her the knife handle first. “Why does it trouble you so much, my licking my
own cutlery?”
“Our mouths are filled with germs. Germs carry disease. People don’t know if you’re
carrying some illness,” she explained.
“Like the plague?”
“Along those lines, yes, although not the plague in this part of the world, but other
diseases.”
Their concern was understandable. Back in his time, the Black Death devastated England
eight years past, in 1348. No one at Elysian Fields had been struck down. While the plague raged, the baron, Guy’s father, ordered the holding closed to all outside the gates. Supplies were rationed until messengers from the king’s household arrived and announced the danger was over.
But he carried no disease or the hospital would’ve told him. Esme had naught to fear.
He’d dare to show her.
“I have something in my eye. Look, please. Tell me if you see a speck of dust or dirt,” he
said, pulling at the corner.
Esme leaned close and put her palm to his cheek to turn his face where she could check
with ease.
“I don’t see anything.”
When she spoke he knew where her mouth was to his. He dipped his head and captured
her lips for a kiss. His hands found the curve of her waist with ease and closed on the graceful bend.
The moment her palm touched his chest with gentle but firm feminine pressure, he broke
the kiss and straightened. Had he misread her touches? It would seem so.
“Now that our lips have met, you have no reason to fuss over my putting my jammy spoon
back in the jar.”
“I trusted you didn’t have a disease.”
But you do have a beast’s face. Mentally finishing for her, he traced the roughest of his scars with a finger. “Worry not. I shan’t press the issue again without your acquiescence.”
She moved his fingers away
from the scars. “You need to understand, I can’t do anything
unprofessional. I can’t afford to lose this job.”
“I won’t jeopardize your position but neither will I apologize for a sweeter than honey
stolen kiss.”
“Sweeter than honey, listen to you. Aren’t you a smoothie?”
“Smoothie?”
“I think you can figure the meaning out. It was a lovely kiss though, however brief.”
He heard a smile in her voice and wondered if it was truly because of the kiss, or a polite
kindness. He smiled and bobbed his head once. In spite of the slim odds, he hoped for the former and not the latter. “You flatter me.”
His empty stomach growled in protest and he tore off a bite of the toast, only to spit it into
his palm. “Ugh, jam or no, ‘tis no better than the stalest of bread. Why would a body possess a device,” he pointed to where he knew the toaster sat, “that ruins good, fresh bread? They call me mad, but that’s true madness.”
“I swear to you, toast is hugely popular,” she told him and wiped a cloth across his palm.”
Hungrier now after smelling the bread as it cooked in the toaster, he let out a loud,
frustrated sigh. “I just wanted some bread and jam for breakfast. A mite of food to tide me over.”
“Sit at the table, and I will fix you something.”
He heard her open the refrigerator and move items around and then close it.
“You good with scrambled eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, but don’t forget the real bread, and butter, and jam.” She wasn’t expected to cook
but since she offered, why argue the point?
#
They finished breakfast and spent the next four hours discussing the English and French
political issues that led to war. The Hundred Years War, as Esme said it was termed.
“I’m impressed with your knowledge of the English campaign leading up to the battle of
Poitiers,” she said.
“I merely repeat what I experienced.”
“Yes,” she dragged the word out in a soft tone, adding, “of course. Are there any specific
questions you want to ask regarding the period after Poitiers?”
“Edward of Woodstock, I’d like to know if he made a good king. I always respected him
and thought he’d be a fine monarch, when the day came.”
Short seconds passed in silence and then she asked, “Were you close?”
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 11