Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time

by Knight Blindness

  “There it is.” He pointed the castle out to her. Veronique ducked her head and peered up

  through the windshield.

  “Now that I see it, I know how to get up there.” She wove her way through the winding

  streets to the intersection with the chateau’s road.

  “No. No. This cannot be,” he said when they pulled up to where his gate and outer wall

  once stood. In their place was a massive courtyard with a circular gravel drive and shrubbery cut to resemble animals.

  Veronique parked off to the side next to several other cars.

  Marchand got out as soon as she’d stopped and headed towards the front door. A brass

  plaque next to the walkway that led to the entrance read, Hotel Oberon.

  “Wait for us, Roger,” Veronique called to him.

  Fixed on the sign, he asked, “What is this? Hotel Oberon, what does this mean?”

  “I don’t understand the question. That’s the name of this place. It looks beautiful. Let’s go

  inside.”

  Veronique took Mirielle by the hand and the three entered what was Marchand’s great

  hall. Now they’d filled it with gilded furniture of silk brocade and velvet. Vases of flowers sat on small tables that were useless for any real purpose in his opinion and scattered around the room.

  “May I help you?” asked a bespectacled man with thinning hair and stood behind a marble

  topped desk.

  “Oberon, where does this name come from?” Marchand asked.

  “It’s the name of the last family who owned the chateau. The Soliel Chain owns it now but

  chose to keep the family name.”

  “What about the original family, the one that built the chateau?”

  “This is a brochure with the history of the building and area.” He pulled a folded paper

  from the desk drawer and offered it to Marchand. “Are you interested in a room, sir?”

  “Not at the moment,” he said and skimmed the paper.

  The brochure said nothing of his family, no mention of their name. It spoke of a hunting

  lodge being the first building on the land, which was true. His great-great grandfather on his

  mother’s side, Gerard Perrault, had it constructed. But his grandfather, a Marchand, made it into a grand chateau. Apparently, an aristocratic family named Oberon owned it during the Renaissance

  and up until the Revolution, when they were condemned and executed. Afterward, it had various

  occupants but no real owners.

  Angered by the lack of information pertaining to his family, the reference to a renaissance

  followed by a revolution also puzzled him. Renaissance? What rebirth had France gone through?

  What revolution? When did the revolution occur? From what he’d seen, France wasn’t suffering

  the chaos an uprising creates. He’d try to find out more about both on his own, without directly questioning anyone if possible. Many of his questions led to people calling him crackers

  “Let me know if I can assist you in anyway,” the man behind the desk said and returned to

  his paperwork.

  “I’d like to walk around the grounds if possible,” Marchand said.

  “Feel free. You’ll find our gardens magnificent and the sea vista in the rear is

  remarkable.”

  “We’ll catch up. I have to take Mirielle to the bathroom first,” Veronique said.

  As he walked to where the stables, the kennels, and the barracks stood, he saw nothing

  remained except the main structure they called a hotel. They’d turned his home into a house for strangers.

  A path led to the garden that overlooked the water and the rocky cliff the chateau was

  built upon. Marchand followed it and when he found the exact spot he wanted, he sat on a stone

  bench behind a glass safety wall waist high. An invisible fist clamped around his heart. He closed his eyes as his chest tightened and memories flooded back. Events sharp as the day they occurred rolled through his mind. Torment filled minutes passed. When he heard Mirielle’s laughter, he

  opened his eyes, turned his head and dragged the back of his hand across his eyes.

  “We’ve been looking for you,” Veronique said and joined him on the bench. “Lovely view

  isn’t it?”

  The water view didn’t hold his attention only the rocks below.

  “Roger?” Veronique ducked her head to get a better look at his face. “Is something

  wrong?”

  Marchand glanced to see where Mirielle was and saw she played on the grass with a doll

  Veronique brought.

  Turning back to the rocks, he said, “I was remembering a small boy who fell to his death

  here a long time ago.”

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “No, but I saw his body. He was my son.”

  One hand went to her chest, the other to his leg. “I am so sorry. How awful for you. Do

  you want to talk about it?”

  Did he? He’d never spoken of it, not even with his wife who wailed alone in her chamber.

  The few times they saw each other after, she kept her distance and her silence with him. His

  friends at the time waited in vain for him to broach the subject of his child’s death. But empty of the courage to do so, he could not. The servants feared to speak.

  The nightmare was as fresh in his memory as the day it happened. In the early morning

  hours on that tragic day, his son’s nurse beat on his chamber door. She’d awoken to find the

  child’s crib empty. A massive search ensued. Marchand searched the woods on horseback to no

  avail and returned to search a different area. As he rode into his bailey, he saw one of his knights approaching, his son’s lifeless body in the man’s arms.

  “No. No.” To his ears, the painful cry sounded like someone else’s. He jumped from his

  mount, took his son from his friend, and brought the tiny boy to his chamber. Rocking back and

  forth, he cradled him to his chest. Hours passed before he granted the priest entry to prepare the body for burial.

  Perhaps it was time he found the strength to speak.

  “He was but two summers, fair-haired, like me, with his mother’s blue eyes. A sturdy little

  fellow, had he lived, he’d have had my build. It was in the midst of summer. Window shutters

  were left open to allow for the cool sea breeze. My boy awakened in the night and climbed from

  his crib without his nurse hearing. A curious child and filled with energy, he crawled into the window embrasure.” Marchand twisted to indicate a tall window on the hotel’s third floor. “That one.” He blinked away the image of his son in the window that flashed across his mind. “The cliff abutted the rear of the chateau then, only a footpath separated the two. He fell to his death upon the rocks.”

  “Dear Lord.” Veronique’s hand tightened on his thigh. “What was his name?”

  “Yves.” He turned to face the sea again.

  Strong waves crashed onto the lower rock face, sending an arc of spray high. Somewhere

  in the Channel a storm brewed.

  “In the hot months, when the water warmed, I’d take him to the beach and we’d play in

  the sand. The day before he fell, I’d waded in the surf with him on my shoulders. He demanded to get down. I held onto him while he paddled along.”

  “You mentioned your wife. You arrived with Fabian alone. Where is she?”

  “Dead. She died shortly after my son. A suicide.”

  “How your heart must’ve broke. Her taking her life because she lost her child.”

  “Perhaps that contributed. But my wife was sad for months prior to the accident. Were I

  to choose, I’d say she mourned the loss of the man I had sent away, the man she loved, over that of her son.”

  “Oh.”


  He expected talking about it to trigger the hurt of that day again. Instead, a sense of relief

  came. The fist that crushed his heart loosened its hold. Questions he’d asked himself over and

  over seemed irrelevant. Guilt for things he hadn’t done that might’ve saved his son, eased.

  As for his wife, nothing other than divorcing him would ease her torment and that the

  church would not allow. In the end, he gave her the respite from him she sought. He could count on one hand the number of times their paths crossed after his son’s death until hers.

  “Why do you return to this place of sorrow?” Veronique asked.

  “I had business here or thought I did.”

  With one last look at the third floor window, he looked at Veronique and wrapped his hand

  around hers, still on his thigh. “I’m ravenous. Are you and Mirielle hungry? I’d like to go to a café with a table outside under one of those colorful canopies. My business here is done.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Gloucestershire, England

  Stephen spent the evening learning more Phantom songs. One, All I Ask of You, wasn’t

  sung by the Phantom but he liked it, and felt Esme would too. He practiced that song along with the others. He’d stayed awake until a nearby owl screeched success in its hunt.

  He woke to songbirds. Again, he had to guess at the hour and how much time until Esme

  came. “Let the hour be early.”

  Dew on the grass idea helped the first day. A mad dash outside in his underwear to feel

  dew revealed little today. He’d likely rose later than usual, assuming he had, he jumped in the shower and soaped up fast.

  Mid-rinse, he paused. Hot water beat on his shoulders as a pleasant scenario of her joining

  him in the shower danced across his mind. He turned. The scar tissue around his eyes stung as

  the water sprayed his face. A harsh reminder she showed little tender interest in him. He snapped out of daydream mode and hurried to finish.

  Someone knocked as Stephen prepared himself a bowl of crisp wheat flakes. The cereal

  tasted sweet and nutty, which he liked. The milk tasted odd, not bad, but not what he was used to drinking.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  “Morning,” Alex said.

  “Alex, I expected Esme.”

  “It’s only been a day, but I thought to check-in to see how things worked out for the two

  of you. I figured pretty well, as Owen tells me you went riding together.”

  “I enjoy her company very much. She’s a fine teacher.”

  “Good, but that’s not the only reason I’m here.” Alex lay something on the dining table

  with a dull thud and then took Stephen’s hand, placing his palm on top of an object wrapped in

  thick cloth. “Feel.”

  Stephen peeled away the layer of fleeced-lined material. He pulled in an excited breath as

  relief rushed through him. He squeezed the familiar hilt in a tight grasp. “My sword. Thank you for getting it back.” He removed the sword from the table. “Did the Frenchman who took it give you

  trouble?”

  “A bit. What he really wanted was to talk to you about how you acquired the sword and

  armor. I told him that wasn’t going to happen.”

  Stephen moved to the part of the room where he knew no furniture was located to slice

  the air with a couple controlled maneuvers. “He can take his questions and bark at the moon with them. He had no right to steal my possessions.”

  “It wasn’t stealing exactly. He left you a receipt and a way to contact him.”

  “Bah! A receipt given to a man who can’t see what he wrote. ‘Tis one step away from

  trickery, if you ask me. What about my armor?”

  “Sorry, he’s kept the rest. But I made a bargain with him regarding it. I think you’ll be

  pleased.”

  Not having his armor returned rankled Stephen. If he wore it for Esme, maybe she’d see

  he wasn’t a madman but indeed told her the truth. Nor did he care for the fact Alex bargained

  without his consent. The armor and sword weren’t Alex’s to barter with.

  He stopped slicing the air and rested the blade point on the floor and his hands on the

  pommel. “What agreement have you made without my say?”

  “For the sake of expediency, I made a deal with him. You can’t use the armor anymore.

  When we left the hospital, you even said you didn’t care about it, only your sword. So, I told the museum man he could buy the pieces from you.”

  “Buy? You mean for money, right, as I desire no trade items?”

  “Yes, for money. A tidy sum too.”

  Stephen’s irritation with Alex vanished with his news. Money made a big difference.

  Esme wouldn’t have to worry about losing her job should the opportunity to kiss again present

  itself. He’d pay her. No more living off Alex’s charity. Hopefully, the sum gave him the

  opportunity to find a place of his own to live and provide for himself in every way.

  “How much is a tidy sum?”

  “Ten-thousand pounds.”

  “Pounds?”

  “Pounds are what our currency is called. I know the figure doesn’t mean anything to you.

  There’s no viable means to compare the cost value of necessities centuries ago to their cost now.

  But it’s enough to give you a measure of independence for quite some time.”

  “I’ll take my money.” Stephen stuck his hand out.

  “It’s been wired into my account. We’ll have to open an account for you at the bank.”

  “Bank?”

  “Esme can explain. We’ll take care of the transfer tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want Esme to go with us.”

  “Do you distrust her for some reason?”

  “No,” Stephen said in quick response. The last thing he wanted was for Alex or Shakira to

  grow concerned over Esme’s honesty. “I trust her completely. I just prefer this business to remain private.” When the time was right, he’d tell her about his good luck.

  Gravel crunched as a car drove up the driveway and stopped by the trailer. The engine

  shut off and the door slammed.

  “Is it Esme?” Stephen asked.

  “Yes. We’ll talk more later about the bank.”

  After a couple quick, light raps, the trailer door opened. “Hi-hi,” Esme said. “Oh dear, am

  I interrupting?”

  “No,” Alex said. “I’m leaving.”

  “I was about to have a bowl of cereal when Alex came by,” Stephen said after Alex

  closed the door behind him. “Would you like some?”

  “No thanks. What’s up with the sword?”

  “It’s mine. A man from a Paris museum took this and my armor from me in the hospital.

  Alex got my sword returned but not the armor.”

  “May I handle it?”

  “Certainly.” He presented it to her with two hands, one under the blade and the other

  under the hilt, like an honored gift.

  “I’m no expert, of course, but this looks authentic,” she said, taking the sword from him.

  “Is it the sword you believe you carried into battle?”

  “I more than believe. I did carry it on the campaign and at Poitiers, where I was injured.”

  She moved away, past where he stood, toward the drawing room. He followed and she

  stopped in front of the large window.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I need better lighting and the morning sun pours through this window.” She was quiet for

  a moment—then asked, “Stephen, the injury you believe you received at Poitiers, did it cause you to drop your sword?”

  “I wish you’d quit using the term ‘believe’ as though
my reality can’t possibly have

  occurred. In answer to your question, yes, I dropped my sword when I was unhorsed. Why?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called but the half-moon piece by the cross-guard...”

  “The chappe.”

  “Beneath the chappe on one side bits of grass and dirt are stuck. I’d like to send the

  scrapings for analysis and comparison to a current soil sample from the battlefield area.”

  “There’s nothing to test. Dirt is dirt.”

  “But there is. Experts can do radio-carbon testing on organic matter. The modern soil will

  show residue from fertilizers, acid rain, and organic matter from more recent plants. Do I have your permission?”

  “If it pleases you, it pleases me.”

  “I need a jar from your cupboard.”

  Stephen shrugged off her plan and picked up his bowl. “Fiddle, my cereal is mushy now.”

  Esme came back to the table. From the sounds, she’d dug out what she required and

  rewrapped the sword. “I put the sword away. Are you ravenous or can you wait a couple of

  hours to eat?”

  “I can wait.”

  “Good. Let’s go to Cheltenham. They have a store that sells aides for the sight impaired.

  We’ll grab a bite at a pub afterward.”

  Stephen didn’t move. “I heard a car when you arrived. Does Tony wait outside for you? If

  so, you may forget taking me to the store. I will not ride with him.”

  “I came in my own car.”

  “Is the man gone from your life? Good riddance if he is.”

  “No, we’re still seeing each other. Since you brought the subject up, I don’t want you to

  tell him what to do or not do again. You don’t have the right to interfere in my life. Tony and I—”

  Her argument was foolish and without merit. He’d disabuse her of such flawed thinking.

  “Of course I have the right. He treated you poorly. Not at all chivalrous and needed chastised.”

  “Stephen—”

  “Esme, it is the duty of an honorable knight to protect where the gentle nature of a lady

  keeps her from doing so herself.”

  “Oh boy,” she said with a sigh. “Stephen, I am not gentle natured. I am more than capable

  of standing up for myself.”

  “Perhaps, if you were awake to the need, which you were not.”

  “I wasn’t in need.”

  “Honnnk,” he imitated the horn in a deep, guttural way. “This is the sound of an oversize, pregnant goose, not how a man calls upon a lady. That you allow it proves my point.”