She shook her head, too numb to speak.
Electra joined her on the bench. “You look like you’re going to faint. You’re white as a
ghost.”
“Would you like some water, Miss Crippen?”
Finally, she found her voice. “No. Thank you but I’m fine,” she told Electra and Davison.
Esme turned from the painting to ask, “Is this an exact copy of the original?”
“Yes. The curator at the time was meticulous man and would not approve even the
slightest deviation.”
“You’re positive?”
He nodded. “Very.”
“Esme—”
She held up her hand to stop Electra’s question. “Thank you, Mr. Davison. This is more
than I expected when I asked about the drawing. If it’s all right, I’d like a few minutes more to appreciate the excellent artistry.”
“No worries, Miss Crippen. If you require no more of me, I’m going to return to my office.
Take as much time as you like. The museum is open until five.” Davison gave each a polite tip of his head and left.
As soon as he was out of the room, Electra said, “Esme talk to me. There’s something up
with you and this painting. I want to know what.”
“The young man kneeling, two over from the prince’s left, the one holding a bloody
gauntleted hand under his chin.”
“What about him?”
“He looks just like Stephen.”
From Electra’s sour expression, she found the explanation anticlimactic. “That’s all? Jeez,
I thought it was something really big.”
“You don’t understand. He could be Stephen’s double. That’s not all. The man standing
behind him I’d swear is Alex Lancaster. A younger version but hand to heart, I think it’s him.”
“I’ve only seen pictures of Alex Lancaster when he’s been in the press. I agree. It does
look like him. But it isn’t either Stephen or Alex since those men,” she tipped her chin toward the painting, “lived close to seven hundred years ago. Why are you weirding out?”
Esme ignored the question. Too many of her own occupied her thoughts. How had his
face wound up on this medieval man: the narrow too long nose, the strong jaw, the broad
forehead, even the shape of his eyes...his injury didn’t change the slight downward tip to the
outside corners?
“Hello,” Electra waved her hand in front of Esme’s face.
“Stop it.” She dug her cell phone out. Conscious of how light and shadow might affect the
shots, she took pictures of the painting from different angles.
Electra tugged on her arm, pulling the camera away from her face. “He’s not Stephen.
Maybe he’s his ancestor, five-hundred times removed, but he’s not Stephen.” She let out a heavy sigh. “When you talked to the National Gallery man, did he mention if anything existed that
identified anyone other than the prince?”
“No. There’s nothing, only the drawing.”
“Who are you going to show the pictures to, clearly not Stephen?”
“I want them for myself.”
Another heavy sigh. “Why?”
“I just do.”
“What are you not telling me? I know you. I know that obsessed look. Whenever
something puzzles you, you’re like a dog with a bone. You can’t leave it alone until you find the answer.”
“That’s why I need the pictures—and that is all I’m going to say for now.”
Electra put her hands up in surrender. After Esme took a few more snaps, El said,
“You’ve taken a dozen shots. Isn’t that enough? I’m hungry. If we leave now, we can beat the
London traffic and grab a bite to eat on the way. That is, unless you want more ancient ancestor pictures.”
“An ancestor. Maybe.” She put her camera away. Or something else entirely, she
thought. She looked forward to a serious discussion with Shakira Lancaster. How was it that her husband had a medieval twin? Or, was there something else entirely going on there too?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Marchand ignored the heavy traffic buzzing around them. He no longer flinched when cars
passed by fast like when he rode with Rene Patel to the bank in Poitiers.
Veronique was driving them to the library in Caen. “They’re building a new, ultramodern
one, but it won’t be finished until 2015,” she said.
He never heard of a library. When they talked over dinner the night before, he expressed
an interest in learning more about the war with England. She suggested they visit a library.
“Who will watch Mirielle?” he asked. The child had grown attached to him and he often
played the same games with her that he’d played with his son. He’d toss her high into the air and when he caught her, he’d swing her in a circle to squeals of laughter. Every evening after dinner she’d beg to ride on his shoulders and he’d pretend to be too busy. When he finally gave in, she’d beat the top of his head with tiny hands, demanding he jog her around faster.
Today, Fabian’s wife and the other women were out. Marchand didn’t have much
confidence in the quality of care Mirielle would receive from the men in the group. They weren’t a bad lot, just not as attentive as he wished.
“All the other jousters are here working on their equipment and so are several of the other
performers. They’ll keep an eye on her. They have before,” Veronique said.
“No. No. They are busy. They’re distracted. She could wander off and they wouldn’t
notice for who knows how long?”
“We’ll bring her then. There’s a park across from the library. I’ll take her there while you
read.”
#
“Turn here,” he said, shortly after they entered the city.
“Please.” Veronique glanced over at him and stopped at the corner just short of
completing the turn.
“Please what?”
“I’m trying to teach Mirielle to be polite. You never say please. You set a bad example.”
Wasn’t she the bold creature with her stern tone to think it acceptable to chastise him?
Saying please wasn’t something he gave much thought to. In truth, he never gave it any thought.
In his past life, he merely issued an order and the person did as asked or faced the consequences.
Since she made a point of not doing his bidding, she clearly was not going to let the issue
drop. Some arguments women were destined to win. Why this was—no man knew. But all men
knew it was unavoidable fact. This was one of those arguments.
“Roger?” She fixed on him, eyes brimming with expectation.
He relented, as any man who wants the car to start moving again would. “Please turn
here.”
She smiled and said, “Thank you.”
The street was almost an exact copy of a cobblestone one in Honfleur, the Honfleur of his
world. Buildings, some half-timbered, or with carved figure on their façades, lined the street for blocks.
“Interesting, with all these medieval buildings, it’s like stepping back in time,” Veronique
said, looking right and left as they passed different structures.
“Yes. When I am finished, we will return here to eat,” he said, seeing a café with
sidewalk tables for him to sit outside and enjoy the surroundings.
“There are nicer cafes close to the library.”
“We’ll eat here. If you please,” he added as a second thought.
#
Pain, intense and concentrated filled him. Both enraged and sick at heart, Marchand stared
at the words. In disbelief, after he read the history of the B
attle of Poitiers as it was referred to in the first book, he pulled another half dozen from the shelf. All told the same tale. The battle ended not in mere defeat but in a loss of lives that affected dozens and dozens of French noble houses.
Worse, the English had captured King John and held him for ransom.
He looked up from the grim accounting as a young woman with purple hair, a silver loop in
one nostril, and wearing a wooden cross large as a friar’s sat across from him. Black cats of
enamel hung on thin chains from her ears. His badge displayed a black panther. Her cats looked
nothing like his. Hers looked like what they probably were, symbols of a witch’s familiar. He
knew villagers who’d have burned her at the stake, cross or no.
She set what Veronique said was a laptop down on the table and opened it. As the woman
tapped away on the lettered tabs, Marchand eyed her, curious why she showed no interest in the
books that surrounded them.
She took a swig from a bottle of water she’d brought and studied the screen of her laptop,
fingering the cross as she did.
“Are you done?” Veronique whispered. She scooted her chair next to his, placing Mirielle
between her knees.
He hadn’t seen her arrive. Looking from the girl with the purple hair, he said. “Yes.” He
closed the depressing book and laid it on the stack of others that spoke of the battle.
“Why do you have an earring in your nose?” Mirielle asked the girl across the table.
“I like it. Look at this.” She stuck her tongue out and to Marchand’s disgust displayed a
metal stud.
Unaffected by the unpleasant sight, Mirielle lay halfway onto the table, feet dangling.
“Where’s your book?” Mirielle asked.
The young woman leaned in toward the child. Her wooden cross banged against the table
edge. “I don’t need a book. I’m working on a paper and need a quiet spot to do it.”
Marchand suddenly understood the purpose to a woman with no interest in books coming
to the library. Of the many empty seats all around, she chose the spot across from him.
This was God’s way of sending him a message. The Lord gave her purple hair so he,
Marchand, would notice. The holy man’s cross so he knew God sent her. The ugly nose ring and
evil looking metal stud had no heavenly origin, unless they were a form of penance. That made
sense. She was a strange woman, yes, but the message was clear. All the wickedness that
followed the battle was his, Marchand’s, to change. It was his duty alone to save his comrades
from slaughter, prevent the capture of the king and find the path to victory. God had led him to the books of the future so he could change the past.
“Mirielle, get down.”
The sound of Veronique’s voice snapped his attention away from God’s message.
“I got a call from Fabian while we were at the park,” Veronique said.
“What news?”
“We’re booked through all of next month. We’re touring England and Scotland.”
Marchand silently thanked the Lord for opening the door of opportunity. Palmer lived in
England and he’d find him.
Chapter Thirty
Esme found Stephen by the side of the trailer where a large wood post had been setup. He
stood shirtless, sword in hand and delivered blow after blow to the post, growling as he did. After a series of hits, he’d change tactics and attack from another angle or he’d switch from a one-handed attack to two-handed. The two-handed strikes buried the sword’s blade deep into the
wood, which he managed to free with relative ease every time. The still fresh feel of his powerful biceps and hard, corded forearms wrapped around her, flooded back as thoughts of the day at the ruin claimed her. Now, with each pull, she saw just how well-defined the muscles in his chest and back were.
The weather turned in the past week. The days held a chill, the wind carried a nip warning
of a colder than usual winter but his face and arms glistened with perspiration. How long had he been out here to break such a sweat?
He went another round, circling the post. Chest heaving, he stopped, and wiped his face
and neck with a towel he’d laid nearby. He tossed the towel down, rubbed his palms on the front of his jeans, and raised the sword for yet another set of maneuvers.
“Stephen,” Esme called out and approached.
“Esme.” He lowered the sword.
“What are you doing? I mean, is there a reason for the swordplay?”
“I’m a medieval knight,” he said in a firm tone that challenged her to contradict him. “I
was anyway. Swordplay is part of our daily routine.”
“You’re very strong.” The desire to discourage his medieval references had gone by the
wayside, especially since visiting the Museum of Canterbury. “What else do you do as part of
your routine?”
She knew, of course. History was her major in college and she’d interned under Miranda
at the History Channel. She asked the question to make conversation and crossed her fingers he
wouldn’t point out this was information she had.
“We practice many things in the lists: wrestling in case one finds themselves in hand-to-
hand combat, ax throwing, lance and long sword use on horseback are a few.”
“You practiced on campaign too?”
“Yes, when not engaged in real battle. I’ve grown weaker since Poitiers.” He gestured
toward the post. “Now I am able to gain my strength back.”
Esme came closer just outside arm’s reach.
“All these questions, why do you care?” he asked.
“I’m interested in how you stayed strong.”
“Now you know.”
She’d hit a dead end. If she didn’t think of something else to talk to him about, he’d
dismiss her like the day at the castle ruins.
“I came by a couple of times this week but you were never home,” she blurted. “Where’d
you go?”
Had she been able, she’d have kicked herself in the butt. She’d basically admitted to being
a low grade stalker. So much for her ability to filter what came out of her mouth, which until now was a source of pride.
“I’ve been in London,” Stephen said. “Alex had me practice songs at his studio, which is
incredible. The equipment and the talented men who worked it, amazed me. The difference in my
singing is...well, leave it at better than imagined.”
“Does he plan to release a CD of you for sale?”
Stephen nodded. “Among other things. He told me he pulled strings, called in a few favors.
I am scheduled to appear on several shows where much of England will see me.”
She hadn’t seen that coming. She’d never considered the commercial possibilities of
Stephen’s voice. Again, she gave herself a mental kick for thinking of him as just blind Stephen with the lovely tenor voice but with no useful modern day skill. Good for Alex. He recognized it and already had him on the road to what might turn out to be a great career.
“Which shows?” she asked.
“Something called, Britain Has Talent, then Jools Holland, and Graham Norton.
“ How nice. He must’ve pulled some big strings. Those are popular shows. They book
way ahead. When are your appearances?”
“Over the course of several weeks next month.”
He reached down and found the towel with ease. “Why are you here?”
“I have a gift for you. A little something my sister made especially for you.”
“Thank you but—”
“Don’t say no yet. You don’t know
what it is.”
The wind chime jingled as she took it from the bag she carried.
“What is that tinkling sound?”
“A wind chime. I thought to hang it under the eave near the front door. Its sound will tell
you when you are close to the trailer.”
“You say your sister made this for me. What makes the sound?”
She described how it looked and the purpose. Although he didn’t understand what she
meant by solar system, he grasped the concept of the chime. He acted interested. Maybe he
wouldn’t send her away.
“It is clever. I like the idea. Will you put it up or should I ask Alex?”
If he wanted her to put it up, then he was fine with her staying. She took it as a victory, a
small one, but a victory none the less. Those words lifted two sleepless nights of worry and panic from her mind. The rhinoceros-sized lump of uncertainty that had sat on her chest and squeezed
the air from her as she drove over lifted and cantered off. Tightness gone, she sucked in the first free breath of the last hour.
“I’ll hang it. Shall we go into the kitchen? I only need a small hook and to stand on a chair
to reach the eave.”
“Yes, let’s go in. I’m thirsty.” Stephen slung the towel over his shoulder, slid his sword into a new scabbard, and grabbed his cane.
He’d never know how broad she smiled. If he gave her the chance, she’d show him in a
much bigger way how happy she was.
“Tell me about working in Alex’s studio,” she said when they went inside. “Was it fun?”
“Yes, most of the time. It was a bit tiring at times too. Some songs required lots of
repetitions for me to get the rhythm right.”
Esme laid the chime on the counter. She poured them both a large glass of water and put
Stephen’s in his hand. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” he said and sat at the table.
Esme searched for a hook. The compact kitchen only had four drawers. Three held
cutlery and other utensils. She rummaged through the last one, which was Miranda and Ian’s junk drawer.
“Wow, you can’t believe this drawer. There’s a bazillion pens, scotch tape, a mini stapler,
staple remover, scissors, letter openers, but not a hook of any kind.”
“I’ll get one from Owen later.”
“Good idea. Back to your upcoming debut, I want to hear more about your singing career.
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 26