Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time

by Knight Blindness

  “All is forgiven then?”

  Esme nodded.

  “Great. Come tell me all about your victory.”

  “Not much to tell, really. He didn’t admit it, but I think he missed me,” Esme said. “Electra

  made him a wind chime. I used the chime as an ice breaker. One thing led to another and voila,

  here I am.”

  “You bought him off with a wind chime?”

  “Not just the chime. There was charm involved.”

  Shakira crossed into the kitchen. “Good for him and good for you. Coffee?”

  “I’d love some, black please.” Esme followed and sat in one of the two pine chairs at the

  tiny table.

  Esme blew on the hot coffee but didn’t take a sip. The real reason she knocked on

  Shakira’s door wasn’t easily broached. Where to start? What could she open the conversation

  with that didn’t sound looney, or accusatory, or both? No sneaky or clever roundabout way came

  to her, so she went with the obvious and pulled her cell phone from her sweater pocket. “I have several photos of a painting I saw recently. I’d like to show them to you,” she said, scrolling through her gallery. “I’m interested in your opinion of the subject matter.”

  She laid the phone down in front of Shakira. “The painting is in Canterbury. If you’d like a

  bigger version than what’s on my phone, we can go there.”

  Shakira picked up the phone and quietly scrolled through the series of photos. She stared

  at the small screen and after the last one, went through the series again. “The young, kneeling knight bears a strong resemblance to Stephen,” she said, her gaze lifting to Esme’s.

  “They could be twins as could the knight standing behind him be your husband’s double.”

  Shakira handed Esme the phone. “Yes, uncanny. What’s this a painting of exactly? The

  center figure looks like the Black Prince.”

  “He is.” Esme explained how she found out about the painting and that the original

  drawing the painting was taken from dated to the time of Crecy. “I went to see it for myself. My cell pictures don’t do the resemblance between the men justice.”

  Esme hesitated but only for a moment. She’d push the envelope as the saying goes. “Have

  you told me everything about Stephen?”

  Shakira eyed her hard, without blinking. “Yes. What makes you ask?” The expression in

  her eyes softened but unmistakable wariness laced her tone.

  Did Shakira fear a secret might be revealed? Esme thought...maybe so. Dare she confess

  she’d begun to believe Stephen told the truth about what he was? She had to give answers to get answers. “I find the longer I know him, more and more questions about his past arise.”

  “Like?”

  “This painting for one. The indent on Stephen’s chin that looks like a cleft is really a scar.

  When I asked about the scar, he told me he got it from a dagger slash at Crecy. As you can see, the young man being knighted is bleeding from the chin.

  Shakira listened without comment. Esme went on. “Dirt clung to the hilt of Stephen’s

  sword when he showed it to me. He said he dropped it when the French knight struck him and

  unhorsed him. I sent soil scrapings to a lab. The test samples don’t match those the lab has from modern day French provinces. Nor are they from any English shires.”

  “So?”

  “When I say it doesn’t match, I mean the lab confirmed the samples contain nothing

  commonly found in the soils of today.” Esme slid the phone over to Shakira again. “Stephen claims he served Baron Guiscard, a noble who fought at Crecy and Poitiers. I researched him. You and

  Alex just happen to live on what was Guiscard land. The nearby ruins are of the baron’s castle.

  I’ve been to the cemetery there and seen three new headstones. Two were of the baron’s parents

  and one of a knight who Stephen claims was his dear friend. Since it’s your land now, who else

  would provide new headstones?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “To most people it looks like you and Alex feel...shall I say...an unusual connection to the

  Guiscard family and to a knight who served them.”

  When Shakira didn’t respond, Esme leaned in. “I’m begging you, if there’s something

  you’re not telling me about Stephen, please don’t hold it back. I won’t care for him any less.”

  With a trembling hand, Esme sipped her coffee, half-relieved she had the courage to ask Shakira for answers and half-worried she would call her bonkers and kick her out of the cottage. “I need the truth.”

  “What do you think is the truth?”

  “He hasn’t suffered a psychotic break. I can’t even begin to explain how or why but some

  way the real medieval knight, Stephen Palmer, has come forward in time.”

  Shakira stared at the phone, took a deep breath and sighed. When she finally looked up,

  she fixed her gaze on the wall. After a long minute Shakira turned to Esme. “I will tell you what you need to know about Stephen. As to the rest regarding the Baron Guiscard, our living here, and the knight in the picture who resembles Alex, that’s personal and not open to discussion.”

  Shakira got up, removed the coffee cups, poured two glasses of wine, and handed Esme a

  goblet. “Some truths go better with a drink.”

  “That means I’m right.”

  Shakira nodded. “He’s the medieval Stephen Palmer.”

  They both took a large swallow of wine. Esme let the information settle into her mind. She

  didn’t say anything because she couldn’t. There’s no easy response to the impossible becoming a reality.

  “Are you all right?” Shakira asked.

  “As all right as I can be.”

  “Quite the shock. It’s a lot to take in.”

  “That it is. I’ve harbored a suspicion for a while. The painting added fuel to my suspicions

  but to hear them actually confirmed...wow.”

  Shakira spent the next few minutes talking about the news article that mentioned Stephen

  was a patient at a French hospital. She told of Alex and Ian returning with him. Information Esme knew.

  “No, no. You need to tell me the medieval part. He claimed Alex is Guy Guiscard, the

  baron he served. Is it for the reason I think?” Esme prodded, confident Shakira knew what she

  meant. She threw the question out in hopes Shakira might have a change of heart and fill in the gaps regarding her own situation. She was tempted to say, I know at some point you went back in time. Stephen spoke of the songs you had him sing for Guy’s birthday.

  “You asked about Stephen. As I told you, Alex and I, are off the table.”

  “What did he say about this...this...beaming forward?”

  “He told Alex and Ian that he crawled away from the French knight that struck him.

  Arthur, his horse, nudged him and Stephen tried but couldn’t rise. He thought he was dying. Then, the next thing he knew, a Frenchman spoke to him and said there was no battle, no war, and his

  wife called an ambulance. After much handling by other Frenchmen, he was taken to the

  hospital.”

  Esme considered how people who traveled through time in the movies acted. None of the

  characters faced whatever alien time or world they arrived at blind. They all had the advantage of sight to help them adjust to their environment. Admiration surged within her for Stephen’s handling of his situation. She didn’t think she’d handle it a tenth as well.

  When it initially occurred, he had to have been terribly frightened, and how odd that the

  Frenchman of this world didn’t say anything about Stephen’s horse.

  “If Arthur was close enough to nudge Stephen, he was likely bea
med here too. So, if he

  wasn’t in the immediate area when Stephen was found, where was he? Where could a horse

  wander off to and not be seen and where is he now?”

  “Ooh, good question,” Shakira’s brows arched with the suggestion. “I’ll have Alex look

  into the matter.”

  “At least, only Stephen and perhaps Arthur traveled forward. Can you imagine the French

  knight and his comrades running around, jabbering in middle French and threatening folks with

  swords?”

  “Thank God, that didn’t happen. Everyone would’ve gone to the looney bin, Stephen

  included.”

  Esme considered what scant facts they had. Obviously, the rip in time didn’t remain open

  for long. People being deposited, appearing out of thin air from another century would prompt a major investigation. Worse, a panic. Nor could that particular spot have a reputation for sweeping people away. Logically, a rip in the fabric of time could just as easily take modern people to

  another place, the future even. If others disappeared, no one would go near, including the

  Frenchman who discovered Stephen. He’d never have lingered close to him. The openings must

  be sporadic in addition to short lived. How many of these existed? There’s a worrisome thought.

  “Do you have any idea what triggers these, for lack of a better description, doors through

  time?”

  “No idea. If there’d been a lightning storm, I might suggest it created a super conductor.

  But no storm like that occurred that day,” Shakira said. “I asked—” She paused. “I looked it up.”

  “Why did you think lightning might trigger this time door?”

  “Lightning is a pretty powerful force. Why not think it might be that?” Shakira asked.

  “Last year I had a talk with Dr. Oliver Gordon. He’s the physicist conducting experiments in time travel on the nearby land Alex donated. He mentioned something called super lightning.” Shakira waved a dismissive hand and added, “Doesn’t matter as it didn’t occur the day of the battle.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Dr. Gordon.”

  “No, don’t do that. He’s a sciencie guy. If you go to him with a bunch of questions, in

  return he’s going to ask more than he answers of yours.”

  “Good point.”

  #

  When he came home from his lesson, Esme greeted Stephen at the door with a deep kiss.

  “I would gladly go out and come back a hundred times, were I guaranteed the same

  welcome with each,” he said after she broke the kiss off.

  She grazed his lips with a light, soft kiss and stepped from his embrace. She took his small

  duffle bag with his towel, a few toiletries, sandals he wore in the locker room and set it on the floor. Then, she led him by the hand into the drawing room. “We have to talk.”

  “Very well.”

  The easy agreement brought the flash of a smile to her. He had to be the only man in the

  western world who didn’t view the words we have to talk with dread.

  “I believe you,” she said as he joined her on the sofa.

  “You believe me...what? I don’t understand.”

  “I believe you’ve come forward in time. That you are Stephen Palmer, medieval knight

  who somehow during battle found himself transported in time.”

  Only Stephen’s chest rose and fell as he sat still as stone, silent. Where was the

  enthusiasm she anticipated when she played out this scene in her head? After telling him in the past that he wasn’t a time traveler, never hiding her doubt when he spoke of his medieval life, she thought he’d be incredibly happy with her news. She expected a grand response, a big display of gratitude for starters. If she’d told him they ran out of his favorite jam, she’d get this dull reaction.

  He removed his shoes, relaxed against the sofa back and propped his bare feet onto the

  coffee table.

  “What changed?” he asked, simply.

  “Little things you said and did that made me wonder,” Esme said, resigned to the fact her

  grand scene wasn’t going to happen. “I started to look for answers. The more I investigated the more questions I had.”

  “And?”

  “My investigation led to Canterbury where there’s a painting of the Black Prince at Crecy.

  It’s the day he conferred knighthood on the soldiers who fought in his column. You and Alex are in it. You’re kneeling before the prince, and Alex is standing behind you.”

  “You’re sure it’s me?”

  “Yes, it’s a very youthful you, but you’re easily recognizable, even down to the bleeding

  wound on your chin.”

  He ran his thumb over the scar. “The moment is still vivid in my memory.” A pensive

  expression crossed his face. “’Tis a great weight to be thought mad when you are not. Now, I am at last free of the burden.” He bent, touched his fingertips to her face and found her lips with his to give her a tender kiss. “Thank you for believing.”

  He sat back and crossed his arms looking akin to a genie from a bottle in his tee-shirt and

  sockless feet. A slow grin spread across his face.

  “What are you thinking?” Esme asked.

  “This painting—I’m immortalized now, yes?”

  Esme hadn’t given that aspect any thought but she’d have to say, yes. “In your own way,

  yes, as long as the painting survives.”

  “I like it...being immortalized.” He turned to her and said, “Strange that all it took to

  convince you was a painting and a few odd bits of information? I suspect there’s more to your

  change of heart.”

  “I was ninety-nine percent certain but wanted to be one-hundred percent. After I saw the

  painting, I went to Shakira and begged her to be honest about what she knew.” Esme used the last to segue into a question about Shakira and Alex. “She confirmed your past.”

  She’d planned on cautiously leading up to the subject of them having time traveled. That

  plan didn’t survive her extreme curiosity. “Shakira refused to discuss it but I know she and Alex were caught in some kind of time warp too. From the painting, I also know that Alex is Guy

  Guiscard and you told me about singing for Shakira.”

  “Yes, he’s Guy, please don’t ask me to tell you how he became Alex Lancaster. He

  explained it to me, but I don’t really grasp how it all occurred.”

  “The thing is: he somehow came forward but not from the battlefield like you because he

  died there.”

  “Right.”

  “Weird. What about her? Since Shakira wasn’t at the battle, she went from modern

  England, to your time. I wonder where the shift occurred.”

  “Not far from here on an old road to the castle in the area Alex gave to Dr. Gordon for

  research.”

  “Do you think the portal or whatever it’s called could open again?” Esme asked alarmed

  at the prospect.

  He shrugged. “I hope not. But I wouldn’t go near it just in case. Time travel is Gordon’s

  area of expertise, if it opens, let him handle the consequences.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  London, four weeks later:

  “Shakira, did you get what I sought?” Stephen asked.

  “Yes.” She handed him the square box.

  He felt all around the square, running the ribbon between his fingers. “Good, you wrapped

  it with a satin tie. Ladies like ribbon. The paper is pretty, I assume.”

  “I followed your instructions to a tee.”

  Backstage at The Graham Norton Show, the Green Room was filled with Stephen’s

  friends: Alex, Shakira, Miranda, Ian, and of course, Esme. They’d come to wish him
well and join him afterward for a private celebration. He hadn’t won on Britain’s Got Talent. He didn’t place in the top five contestants, although he was told the audience gave him a standing ovation. Alex said winning them over was more important than winning over the judges. The Jools Holland’s

  audience gave him an equally enthusiastic response, cheering and applauding loud and long.

  “I took a peek out front,” Esme said as she came into the Green Room. “People are lined

  up all the way to the end of the block waiting to get in.” She stepped close and fiddled with

  Stephen’s tie. “Look at you.”

  She’d taken him shopping before he made his appearances. He bought three suits, which

  she had tailored for him along with six dress shirts and ties. He’d told her he didn’t much care for bright colors. She’d followed his wishes. The shirts were dark blue, dark grey, white, and black.

  There’d been a minor kerfuffle over ties. She insisted on flashy ones to add interest to his somber outfits. He gave in when she told him he needed to look like an entertainer and not an undertaker.

  “You’re positively dishy,” Esme said, resting warm hands on his chest.

  “Dishy?

  “Good enough to eat.”

  “There are times I could gobble Ian up,” Miranda chimed.

  “I know. Alex is like a decadent, two-legged, sticky toffee pudding,” Shakira added.

  “Sticky toffee pudding? Really? I prefer to think of myself as a decadent rum baba cake.”

  “I don’t know what kind of dessert I am,” Ian said, “I do know I’m holding Miranda to the

  gobble me part later.”

  Stephen clasped Esme’s hand and turned it up and then pulled the box from his coat

  pocket. “For you.” He laid the box on her palm.

  “Pretty ribbon. I’m going to save it and put it in my journal with the first rose you gave

  me.”

  There was a tiny pop of the tape coming off followed by the soft rustle of paper.

  “L’air Du Temps, you remembered the name of my perfume.” She wrapped her arms

  around him and nuzzled his neck.

  “How could I not, milady. ‘ The air of time,’ is it not suited to us?” he whispered in her ear.

  Someone knocked and the door opened.

  “Hello, hello. Nice to see you again, Alex.”

  “Hello, Nigel.”

  “Introduce me.”