Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time

by Knight Blindness

  The caution she didn’t bother to hide in her question alluded to his madness and pricked his

  sore pride. Let her hear the truth.

  “It was the Guiscard family’s holding. I understand the castle was destroyed during the

  English Civil War, which is a mystery to me—the war that is.”

  “I’ll tell you about it one day. You mentioned Guiscard. Isn’t that the family name of the

  baron you said you served?”

  “Yes, Elysian Fields was home to both of us.”

  She asked him to tell her about the castle. He described the round Keep made of local

  blonde stone. The holding included a small family chapel and a large stable of the same stone. The baron also kept sizeable vegetable and flower gardens, kennels and clean barracks. He knew

  knights who couldn’t claim the last in the holdings where they lived.

  Vidar stayed steady and kept an even pace. None of the forest sounds bothered him, nor

  did he shy when asked to cross a wide stream.

  “We’ve reached the old Roman road,” Stephen said, coming to a halt.

  “Yes, but how did you know?”

  “The breeze blows stronger without the shelter of the trees.” He nudged Vidar forward.

  When Vidar’s hooves struck pavement, Stephen turned left. “We’ll be there soon,” he

  said.

  “I’m going to look up this Elysian Fields in some of my research books. If it had any

  historical value, it’ll be listed somewhere,” Esme said.

  “I don’t know what qualifies as historical value. It had great value to those of us who

  called it home.”

  “Guiscard sounds French, not English.”

  “It was originally. Guy’s distant ancestor was Norman and came over with William the

  Conqueror. Those knights who fought with him received—,”

  “Saxon holdings as a reward,” Esme finished for him.

  He looked in her direction and lifted a brow in mock curiosity. “Is milady of Saxon descent

  perhaps?”

  “I’ve no idea. Maybe. I know my family didn’t come over with the Normans or the

  Norsemen. So maybe they were here already. What about you? Did your ancestors come over

  with the Conqueror also?”

  “Doubtful. I remember my uncle saying something about early Palmers settling in

  Northumberland then migrating here to escape the marauding Scots.”

  “Would you like me to research your heritage? I can.”

  His heritage. Stephen thought it funny in a dark way that she’d offer to do that when he’d

  rather she take an interest in researching Stephen Palmer, medieval knight who fought at Poitiers.

  Though why there’d be a single word about him, a knight of no distinction in any chronicle, he

  couldn’t imagine.

  “Stephen? Would you like me to look into your family name?”

  “No.” He had no heritage, only a life he enjoyed and was now lost.

  He cued Vidar into a trot, and then into a canter. Wind from the Bristol Channel that

  smelled of salt and the sea and felt like freedom blew over him. He tipped his face into it and filled his lungs.

  “Stephen, I think this is a little fast for your first ride,” Esme yelled over the sound of the horse’s shod hooves striking the road.

  “It’s not my ‘first’ ride,” he said in a loud voice. “Nor, am I afraid. Ride slower if you

  wish, but I desire to get where I want without further delay.”

  “Stephen, please, for me, just this one time, slow down.”

  He reined Vidar back to a trot. “Just this once, milady.”

  After a short distance, Stephen thought he heard other voices and halted Vidar to listen.

  He’d heard right. Two men talked, not far from them.

  “There are people in the woods. Did you hear?”

  “Yes. There’s a ravine a short distance from here that’s part of a science project. Mr.

  Lancaster gave the immediate area around it to a university professor and his students. That’s

  probably who we’re hearing.”

  “I know the ravine you speak of. There was once another road near to it that led to the

  abbey.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  They didn’t go far before Esme said, “I think we’re here,”

  Stephen slowed Vidar to a walk. “What do you see?”

  “Ruins. Hunks of Cotswold stone lying here and there.”

  Stephen halted Vidar and dismounted. “Help me find a good spot to tie the horses up.”

  The leather creaked again as Esme dismounted. “Over here.” She took Stephen by the

  hand and led him to a tree. The low-hanging branches brushed the top of his head. He tied Vidar loosely to the lowest of them. From the loud chomp, the horse had immediately started chewing

  the bark off the tree’s trunk. Stephen plucked a leaf, crushed it between his fingers, and smelled the damp green. He inhaled the pleasant sweet scent of apple. Arthur loved to strip apple trees of both their fruit and their bark when they were beyond bearing decent fruit.

  “I’ve tied Monty. Vidar’s munching a branch.”

  “I know. This is an apple tree. Horses find them tasty.”

  “Really? We both learned something today. Anyway, let me guide you around what’s left

  of the holding.” She looped her arm through his and slowly they walked the grounds.

  “Oh my, I think we found the family graveyard. I see some tumble-down headstones.

  Let’s have a look.”

  Stephen expected she’d deposit him on the ground while she explored, but she kept hold of

  his arm as they walked through the cemetery.

  “Wow, this is interesting,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Two headstones appear new. The rest are all knocked over, or moss covered, or

  unreadable. But these are upright and the inscriptions are clear.”

  “Read them to me.”

  “The first says: Charles Marion Guiscard died 1349, Fortiter et Fideliter. That last is Latin. I wonder what it means.”

  “Charles was Guy’s father. Fortiter et Fideliter is the Guiscard motto. It means, Boldly and

  Faithfully. What is the other headstone?”

  “Margaret Anne Guiscard beloved wife of Charles and mother of Guy and Madeline died 1360. Who would replace the old headstones of people who died almost seven-hundred years ago? It’s weird.”

  “Not really. I am sure Alex had the headstones done.”

  “Why?”

  “Charles and Margaret were...” Stephen paused to think of a plausible reason.

  “Were what?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he’s done one of those heritage searches you spoke of and found

  out he’s related to this couple.”

  “This cemetery was likely attached to the family chapel you spoke of, wouldn’t you

  think?”

  “I know it was.”

  “The son of this couple is the man you believe you served. What happened to him? If Alex

  is possibly related to the couple then he’s related to Guy and Madeline. I don’t see a new

  headstone for either.”

  “Guy died at Poitiers. He was killed trying to aide his friend, Basil Manneville. Madeline

  lived with her husband in Somerset. I assume she’s buried in his family’s cemetery.”

  Esme moved close, close enough for him to feel her warm breath on his neck. “Stephen,

  how is it you know all these details about an obscure baron? I mean, there can’t be a ton of

  material written about him or I’d have read something.”

  “I cannot speak to what you should or should not remember of your readings.”

  “Don’t deflect. I’m puzzled. You obviously read ab
out Guy somewhere and remember

  who these other people are. How is it you don’t remember your current life?”

  He made no comment. No truth he spoke was believed or would help her be less baffled.

  “You’ve no response?” She gave a heavy sigh of frustration with his silence. She took

  both his hands in hers. “The memory of this life is buried deep inside you somewhere. I wish I

  knew how to bring it forth.”

  He pulled his hands away and cupped her cheek in his palm. “What you don’t grasp is that

  there’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

  Stephen bent to kiss her on the forehead and found her lips instead. She had turned enough

  for him to have missed his mark. This time no hand pressed against his chest to stop him. He felt the hint of a quiver and a smile beneath his lips. He didn’t waste a second analyzing why Esme let him kiss her. She did, and that’s all that mattered.

  From somewhere to the right came a loud quack followed by several tiny peeps. “I think

  we’ve disturbed a mother duck and her ducklings,” Stephen said.

  “We have,” she said. “Momma is leading her brood away toward an overgrown field.”

  The field wasn’t always overgrown. Once it was the well-kept list, where he and all

  Elysian Fields’ knights practiced jousting and exercises with their weapons. The hours spent there in comradeship were beyond his ability to count.

  “Hmm. Oh wow, there’s another new headstone. It’s a flat in-ground one. I’m going to go

  read it,” Esme said. She led him by the hand over the soft soil. The grave wasn’t far from Charles and Margaret’s.

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  “Simon Harrow, born 1326 died 1375, Good friend and courageous knight. Rest in

  peace. Considering the times, forty-nine years old is a fairly long life.”

  “Simon.” At least his stout-hearted friend had survived Poitiers.

  The still fresh memory of how he looked when Stephen last saw him came to mind. It was

  the morning of the battle. They’d gone down to the river to water the horses. Stephen had teased Simon about his beard. Where Stephen preferred no beard, Simon was proud of his thick, ginger

  one and kept it well trimmed at home, in England. As the campaign wore on, Simon’s beard went

  unattended as foraging for food demanded more time. That morning, Stephen told him he looked

  like a bear’s bastard offspring. They’d shared a hearty laugh and talked about the first thing they planned on doing upon returning home. Simon said he was going to avail himself of the innkeeper’s daughter’s bosomy charms. Had that come to pass? Stephen hoped so.

  Thoughts of the battle raised more questions. Once the battle ended, Simon would have

  searched for Stephen. What would he think when he couldn’t find his body? God willing, he found Arthur at least.

  “You say the name like you’re familiar with him too. Do you believe you are?” Esme

  asked.

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you. You knew Guy’s parents and how he died. This person lived at the

  same time frame and must’ve had a connection to Elysian Fields if he was buried on the grounds.

  How can you not know anything about him?”

  “What would you have me say?”

  “The truth or what you believe is the truth.”

  Not all lies are bad. Not all truths are good. He told countless lies in his life, but made an

  effort to be honest most of the time. Right or wrong, the truth about him needed telling.

  “He was my good friend.”

  A denial of the possibility was what he expected but she said nothing at first. He didn’t

  know what to think of her silence. Then she said, “Tell me about him. You say you came as a

  young boy here. Were the two of you friends from childhood?”

  “No. Simon was a few years older than me and friendly with those his age. He’d already

  become a knight when I became a squire. Like all the knights, he treated us squires like a

  steaming pile of horse manure when it suited him.”

  “What changed?”

  “Crecy. Our army was terribly outnumbered as you know. We older squires were given

  the opportunity to fight and prove ourselves. Simon’s mount was injured, and he had to fight on foot. We fought shoulder to shoulder.”

  Esme made no comment.

  “Do you believe me?” Stephen asked.

  “It doesn’t matter whether or not I believe. What matters is what you believe.”

  “Ah, you don’t.” No surprise.

  “I didn’t say that,” Esme said in a female’s clipped, brook-no-nonsense manner.

  “A crafty avoidance is an answer.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Let’s walk around the ruin some more,” she said and took

  his arm.

  “This weekend when I’m off I’m going into the city to the British Museum Library.”

  “British Museum? What the devil is a museum?”

  “A place that houses artifacts and other objects of historical value.”

  “’Historical value,’ you like this phrase. I take the library has old...what...manuscripts,

  illuminated bibles, for what do you search?”

  “I’m going to start researching Poitiers campaign records.”

  “To what end?”

  “I’m curious to see if the people you talk about are listed.”

  Stephen didn’t see how anything she might discover would affect either he or Alex in the

  present. But he might be wrong.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At the stable, he dismounted and handed Vidar’s reins to Owen. “We’ll see you tomorrow

  at the same time, if that’s all right.”

  “No problem. Your cane Mr. Palmer,” Owen placed the folded cane in Stephen’s palm.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll have the horses ready unless you wish different mounts,” Owen said.

  “I’d like Vidar again.” Stephen turned toward Esme. “Did you like Monty, or do you

  prefer another?”

  “I’ll stay with Monty if we go for a hack, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

  “Still afraid of a mishap?” Stephen asked.

  “A little, yes. I’m also concerned about how the Lancasters will feel about my taking time

  from tutoring to dilly-dally on horseback.”

  “Should Alex or Shakira ask, I’ll tell them you are dogged in your determination to help me

  learn. That said, Lady Esme, my ability to learn falters when my bottom grows weary of sitting.”

  “Thank you. I’m not sure they’ll be appeased with your butt-boredom reason for spending

  part of our time away from the books. Let’s see how it goes.”

  They walked back to the trailer with her arm looped through his again. Esme led him

  around the driveway’s flower border, which was the way they went before. Maybe riding a horse

  with the same skill he possessed while sighted gave him back some of the confidence his injury

  had drained from him. Maybe it was because he’d done well with his mobility lesson, but the

  desire to test himself even more welled up.

  “Walk me to somewhere in the middle of the driveway, if you would,” he told Esme.

  She stopped. “What’s going through your head?”

  “I must work on finding the trailer better. Yesterday, I lost my way and wandered into the

  road and into the path of a truck. It nearly struck me.”

  “You say that so calmly when you were almost killed.”

  “There’s no ‘almost killed,’ my caring tutor. It’s simple. You either live or you die. There’s

  no in between. I moved out of the truck’s way. I lived.” />
  “Maybe there’s no in between for you, but there is for those who care about you, me

  included. The prospect of you almost being killed scares us less aloof types.”

  “Thank you for your kind worry.”

  They walked a short distance when Esme stopped and released his arm. “You’re in the

  middle of the drive. Go for it.”

  Stephen went straight but stopped when he heard her following. “Please stay where you

  are and give me the chance to try and do this alone first.”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  He moved on, touched the brick edge on the flower border, and stepped over onto the

  grass beyond. He continued, working his cane the approximate distance between his shoulders,

  the way Utley instructed. When he’d gone twenty paces, he stopped and listened. The trailer

  could be to the right or to his left. He refused to ask Esme.

  It seemed forever while he waited to hear some clue. The enclosed area of the school

  auditorium didn’t carry such a variety of noises. Here in the open, fixing on one sound hint was impossible. Finally, a car passed by on the road. From the proximity of the crunch on the

  pavement, Stephen guessed he was forty strides away. The trailer ramp was twenty-seven paces

  from the road, which meant the trailer sat on his right.

  He worked the cane as he moved right to well beyond where the trailer should’ve been in

  his estimation. Then, he worked it to the left. Somehow he’d gotten the position wrong, again. He threw the cane to the ground, bent and picked up a rock ready to hurl it hard.

  “Let me help now.” Esme put a light hand on his arm.

  Stephen shook it off and threw the rock hard to the right.

  “Stephen stop.”

  “I can’t find my way home,” he said, his voicing rising. “What sort of man does that make

  me?”

  “You have a learning curve and that takes time but you will get a handle on everything.

  This is a small set back. For God’s sake, look how well you did in mobility orientation. Today you went riding and not in a confined arena. Those are big accomplishments. Be proud.”

  He nodded in hope she’d leave off the subject of pride. The accomplishment in the school

  wasn’t as big as she thought. Riding Vidar meant little, he’d ridden since he could climb onto a pony.

  Stephen knelt and patted the ground until he found his cane.