Rain drenched the other two nuns who used their only umbrella to protect the old one.
What choice did he have?
“Let me.” Marchand let go of the handle and relieved the nun holding the umbrella of it.
He held the cover high and assisted the women into the backseat. Once they were in, he closed
the umbrella, shook off the excess water, slid it behind the feet of the nuns and shut the door.
As that taxi drove away, he checked both directions. No others were in sight. Without
looking, he stepped back onto the grassy parkway. His foot slipped a bit, like he’d landed in
squishy mud. He looked down.
Not mud.
Dog foulings.
Shoulders sagging with a weary sigh, Marchand wiped the bottom of his shoe off in clean
grass. Disgusted, he thought somewhere in the Underworld, the Devil and his minions were having a rollicking good laugh at his expense.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cold to the bone from the walk back, Marchand knocked on Veronique’s door with numb
knuckles.
“Veronique, it’s me, Roger.”
“A moment,” she called out.
On the way to the inn, a mental replay of the evening’s events sparked another idea for
capturing Palmer. According to the tour website, which he’d memorized, the Englishman would
leave for Limoges tomorrow and perform at the Cathedrale Saint Etienne the day after. Palmer
spent a goodly amount of time with the carriage horse. Could he, Marchand, use Palmer’s horse
to lure the man away from the redhead and others?
Perhaps this was the advantage God finally chose for him.
The door opened and Veronique waved him inside. “Where have you been?”
“I had business to attend to.” Piles of Veronique and Mirielle’s clothes were folded and
stacked on the bed by an open suitcases. “Do you plan to stay in Rouen long enough to completely unpack? I thought you intended to see your parents in the east.”
“I’m not unpacking but packing. My plans have changed. Mirielle and I leave tomorrow
for Lyons.”
“Lyons? Why?”
“My husband and I are trying to reconcile.”
She’d never spoken of her husband so Marchand never thought to ask about him. “What
of Mirielle?”
That wasn’t the question he wanted to ask. In spite of the fact it shouldn’t matter, he
wanted to ask if Veronique still loved her husband. Part of him wanted to ask had she ever
thought to love another. Why it seemed important, he didn’t know because if all went as planned, he’d be returned to his own time in a couple days.
“What about her? She adores her father. He wasn’t always a good husband, but he was
always a good father. He deserves the chance to make amends. We can be a family again.”
“Yes, of course,” Marchand said, feeling hollow, like a man who hadn’t eaten, except he
wasn’t hungry. He’d tried not to dwell on the prospect of failure in his mission. But in his darker moments, he’d had to acknowledge the possibility. In those times, he found solace in the thought of Veronique and Mirielle becoming permanent in his life. Now if he failed, there was no one.
Like in the past, everyone he ever loved or might’ve loved, left or was taken from him. Once
more, fate emptied him of hope. He turned to leave.
“Roger, did you need something? You’re soaked to the skin. You must be freezing and
anxious to change into dry clothes, yet you came to my door. Why?”
At the door, he turned. “I hoped for a ride to Limoges. But, you obviously cannot do it.”
“I’ll drive you.” She began loading the smaller suitcase with the child’s clothes. “I can go
through Limoges on the way to Lyons. It’s not that far out of the way.”
She stopped packing and came to him. “Thank you for being so good to Mirielle. She’ll
miss you.” Veronique kissed him on the cheek and returned to packing again.
“I’ll miss her too. I will miss you both.” He gave her a faint smile that came and went
unseen. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
#
In Limoges, Marchand again waited outside the cathedral. This time he didn’t hide in the
shadows. As in Rouen, when the priests opened the main doors, the audience spilled out in a rush, and the other couple who traveled with Palmer exited first. Then out came Palmer arm-in-arm
with the redhead, the two encircled by a crowd of fans and well-wishers.
The priests and the man called Paul, whose image appeared on the website with Palmer’s
exited. Paul and the churchmen engaged the couple in conversation.
Marchand remained to the side until the group surrounding Palmer thinned. Then, he
moved through the gathering that remained and stepped close to the Englishman.
“We meet again,” he said in a quiet voice.
Palmer turned in his direction. “Pardon?”
“We met before a long, long, time ago and not so long ago.”
Palmer’s brows dipped. “I don’t understand.”
Marchand glanced over at the redhead who was busy talking with people from the
audience.
“I am the panther on a sea of orange,” Marchand replied.
Palmer shook his head. “You speak in riddles. I—”
“Maybe this will help.” He leaned in close, his mouth at the Englishman’s ear. “I am
literally the last person you saw. We need to speak.”
He pulled back and waited for the message to make sense. A moment of confusion stole
across the Englishman’s face. Then, as recognition flared, he stiffened and jerked his arm from the woman’s. “Marchand!”
“You know my name. I’m impressed.”
“Stephen?” The redhead turned from her conversation. “Is everything alright?”
Palmer nodded. “Yes. I need a moment with an old friend.”
His woman gave Marchand an odd look. “I didn’t think you had any friends here in
France.”
“There are friends and there are friends. We have an...an event of importance in
common.” He shifted his attention from the woman back to Marchand. “That event aside, why are you here?”
Marchand paused as he searched for a plausible reason. He offered a half truth. “After I
got over the great shock of what happened to us, and reconciled myself to my new circumstance,
I realized, for us, the war was over. We now have more in common than we have in differences.
I went to the hospital and inquired after you, hoping we’d find in this a common ground, a reason not to be enemies. You’d already left. I’ve been looking for you ever since.” The common ground part was true. The search for Palmer was true. All else was rubbish, of course. “I wish to speak with you over a matter of importance. But I prefer we talk in private.”
The redhead who’d been momentarily distracted by the questions from a couple who’d
been in the audience, returned her attention to he and the Englishman in time to hear the last.
“What can’t you say in front of me?”
“Milady, with all due respect, this is a matter between men.”
“You make it sound like a duel or something.”
Marchand didn’t answer.
She hooked her hand through the Englishman’s elbow and turned him. She pressed
forward. “Stephen, I don’t know who this man is to you, but his insistence on secrecy concerns
me.” She said it quietly but loud enough for Marchand to hear
Palmer brought her hands up to his mouth and kissed the back of her fingers. “I am
charmed that you worry for me but I’ll be fine. I shouldn
’t be long.”
“There’s a spot just at the foot of the stairs we can talk. Feel free to hold onto my arm
while we step out of earshot.”
“I’ll manage with my cane alone.” Palmer went down the stairs without hesitation, and
faster than Marchand expected for a blind man. He stopped at the base. “Be brief. I’d like to get back to my friends. What do you want with me? Have you not done enough?”
Marchand looked over his shoulder. The couple who traveled with Palmer and the redhead
stood together. The women talked back and forth, watching, the dark-haired one with mild
curiosity. The tall man maintained a casual stance with his hands in his pockets but his focus, like the redhead’s was intent on him and Palmer.
“I asked a question,” Palmer said.
“As you can tell, you did not come through the door of time alone. I came as well and I
had company.” He waited a beat as possibilities and questions chased each other across the
Englishman’s face.
“You loved your warhorse, did you not?”
“Very much. Why?”
“He’s stabled not far from here. I can take you to him.”
Palmer clamped a hand onto Marchand’s forearm. “Arthur lives?”
“Yes,” Marchand said and peeled Palmer’s hand from his arm. “He came through the
door of time with the two of us and my horse.”
“No others, just us and our horses?”
“Yes.”
He looked again to the group on the portico and gave them an insincere smile that hid his
anxiety. In Rouen, the other couple didn’t linger for a carriage ride. They’d said goodbye to
Palmer and his woman and left by car. He’d hoped for the same here. If so, Marchand thought to
tell Palmer they’d go for a quick visit to the stable and return in the daylight to arrange transport for Arthur. Under those circumstances, he might’ve been able to sway the redhead to stay behind.
After all, it was dark and cold and this was but a quick reunion between a man and his beloved
horse. Now he had to deal with the presence of the other couple. The dark-haired woman could
be swayed by the redhead, she wasn’t so troubling. The man presented a tougher problem. He’d
never go along with a plan that involved going to the stable at night and Marchand couldn’t blame him. Under most any other circumstance, going to the stable at this hour would be unheard of. The plan had hinged on Palmer’s desire to immediately see the animal he loved. Marchand made a fast readjustment.
“If you wish, we can meet at your hotel early tomorrow and I will take you to Arthur.” A
good hotel, like where Palmer stayed no doubt, would have taxis available. In little more than an hour taxi ride, they’d be home again.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I took your eyesight. I cannot give that back. As a peace offering, reuniting you with your
horse is the best I can do within my power.”
“I am at the Hotel Mercure Royal Limousin. I’ll be downstairs at 7:00.”
“’Til tomorrow then.”
As he reached the top of the stairs, Stephen heard Alex talking to someone several strides
away. Laughter came from the same area and he recognized the sound of Paul and Shakira’s
voices. He started toward the group when Esme linked arms with him.
He stopped and pulled her to the side. “You’ll never guess who that was.”
“I have no idea. From his appearance, I’d say maybe a French television actor. I’ve seen
a fair number of French movies and he doesn’t look like anyone in them.”
“No milady, not even close. I’ll give you a hint. You researched him.”
Stephen waited while she ran through her list, which was short.
“It’s not Simon. He’s buried at the ruin. It’s not Guy and Basil. They’re accounted for so
that has to be...oh, my God. That leaves Marchand. He...he came through with you. How the
devil did he go undiscovered?”
“I didn’t ask. I imagine he hid when he saw the Frenchman start to approach where I lay
on the ground.”
“Wow, do you think others came through?”
“I doubt it. Two can go unnoticed but more than that, I think we’d have heard about a
group claiming medieval origins. They did not come completely alone. My horse Arthur, and his
horse, are here too.”
“But Alex checked. No one in the neighborhood reported seeing a horse.”
“Marchand must’ve secreted him too when he hid. The point is: tomorrow he’s taking me
to where Arthur is stabled.”
Paul called out, telling them he was leaving and to please join him for a private dinner at
the home of a friend. Alex said he and Shakira would be in the car.
“Be there in a minute,” Stephen said.
“What? Why would you trust Marchand to take you anywhere? You were mortal
enemies. Not to mention that a couple of days ago you wanted to piss on his grave.”
“Since he is very much alive, the option is taken from me,” Stephen teased.
Bitterness and resentment toward Alex for the battlefield warning lay buried within him,
while hatred and anger toward the man who blinded him had never been far from the surface. In
talking to Marchand, the enemy who was no more, the weight of bitterness and anger for both
men lifted. Alex didn’t do anything Stephen wouldn’t have done had he the knowledge to save a
friend’s life. Nor had Marchand done anything but fight for what he believed a just cause.
“As he pointed out, our battle is over. Our countries have survived to become allies. No
reason why we shouldn’t.”
“Still—”
“He’s extended an olive branch and I have accepted,” Stephen said matter-of-factly.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No you’re not. I’ve no need for a nursemaid. I can handle arrangement for the transport
of my horse.”
She gripped the lapels of his overcoat and pressed her forehead to his. “It’s not the horse
part I’m worried about. It’s Marchand alone with you I dislike.” She raised her head from his.
“Please, at least take Alex.”
“No. I’m a man capable of dealing with his own affairs. When I know where we’re going,
I’ll leave a message on your phone.”
“Stephen, I have a bad feeling about this. I’m pleading with you, let me come.”
“Please, you’re suffocating me.” He couldn’t keep a straight face when he said it. He
wrapped her in a tight embrace. “I jest.”
A car honked and Alex yelled out. “Let’s go.”
“Coming.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Stephen pressed his watch. The drive had taken one hour and fifteen minutes. He’d
tracked their direction of travel with the GPS on his watch, which said they drove north by
northwest. The direction the English army had traveled on his last campaign. The battlefield was north by northwest of Limoges, not far outside the city walls of Poitiers. He’d asked, and the
driver told him ninety-six KPH or sixty miles per hour, choose the one you fancy.
By Stephen’s calculations they were at or very near the battlefield. How could a stable sit
so close and no one have seen his horse? “How did Arthur end up stabled here?” he asked
Marchand after getting out of the car. “A friend looked into the matter. Arthur was nowhere to be seen the night I was taken to the hospital nor the next day.”
“I hid in the forest with him in tow until the medics drove away and the crowd dispersed. I
took him to the
stable once I learned one was close by.”
“Thank you.”
Out of the car, Stephen held still and listened. Something was wrong, starting with the
absence of common, everyday sounds in a normal stable. The time was 8:15; the horses would’ve
been fed within the last hour. Mangers would still be partially filled. Absent were the snorts and whinnies of horses as they ate, the shuffle and stamping of hooves, the scratchy sound of hay
being pulled through the manger grates. Early mornings, stable hands were busy going in and out of stalls and turnouts, cleaning droppings from the night before. Stall doors creak as they’re
opened and latches are slid into place, while high-strung horses are calmed with soft assurances.
He sniffed the air. Where was the sweet smell of alfalfa? The feed even when stored for
a long period, maintains much of its scent. Where was the smell of horse dung? Where was the
smell of animals in general?
Stephen unfolded his cane and came around the other side of the car where Marchand
stood. “Where are we? We’re not at a stable?”
“You may go. Thank you,” Marchand said to their driver, and a moment later the car
drove away.
“I asked a—”
The point of a dagger pushed through Stephen’s cotton shirt into his ribcage. He winced as
the tip broke the skin.
“Walk straight ahead,” Marchand instructed.
The angle Marchand was at made attacking him awkward. But if he could maneuver him
into the position he wanted, Stephen had a plan. Marchand likely thought since he lacked sight, he lacked a strong defense. What the Frenchman didn’t realize was Stephen didn’t lack the will or
the determination to be a challenging foe. Most important, he didn’t lack the cunning and ability to execute a powerful counter action.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.” Marchand added, “That came out wrong.”
Stephen swept his cane over the smooth sidewalk surface as the two continued. Utley had
taught him, not just how to judge objects and openings in confined areas, but how to judge open space from space that held structures when outside. A door of one of the structures opened and
he thought to call for help. He didn’t turn at the sound of low talk from the building and run the risk of giving his intention away. He had to do something else while he yelled for aid, something to get the dagger from his side. Stephen lowered his elbow ready to swing his arm backward against Marchand’s hand. A baby cried. Stephen held tight. The structure was a home. He wouldn’t
Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Page 31