jeopardize a woman or child. The door closed. Behind them, a car started and drove away.
“If you intend on finishing your work and killing me, then you’ve had ample opportunity.
You needn’t put on a show. Make your move,” Stephen taunted. The best way to disarm
Marchand was to force him into an action that he could parry and play off.
“Quiet, we’re almost where we need to be.”
They continued in silence past a few more structures Stephen assumed were homes too.
They didn’t walk for long when sidewalk paving stopped and turned to soft soil, which probably
meant they were beyond the houses and crossed into open space.
Their destination didn’t matter. Stephen decided to stand his ground. Fast and hard, he
stomped on Marchand’s instep as he rammed his elbow into Marchand’s arm, driving the dagger
from his side.
He had to control the knife and assumed the Frenchman held onto it. Stephen pivoted,
brought his cane down, delivering a strong blow to the other man’s head. With his left hand, he blocked the swipe he knew Marchand would take as he came back at him with the knife. It’s the
counter move Stephen would’ve taken. He grabbed onto Marchand’s wrist. The two struggled
over the knife, Stephen digging his strong fingers into the soft flesh of the Frenchman’s wrist.
Marchand managed to keep hold of the dagger in spite of the pain inflicted. Stephen raised his
cane to hit Marchand again but the Frenchman locked onto the cane and twisted it from Stephen’s grip. Stephen used the freed hand and delivered a powerful punch to Marchand’s chest. The
man’s warm breath blew out in a rush of air, he grunted and stumbled back but not before
grabbing a handful of Stephen’s shirt front pulling him forward.
Marchand shifted his weight to the left. Stephen prepared. He’d fought more times than
he could count in the lists and knew the man intended to strike with the opposite hand. Stephen brought his hand up in time to deflect the dagger. As he did, he grasped Marchand’s wrist, pivoted again, wrenched his arm up behind his back and kept pushing until Marchand’s hand was palm up.
This time, he dug into the flesh with his thumb between the sensitive small bones, Marchand
groaned in pain and Stephen heard the soft thud as the dagger fell to the ground.
At the same time, Marchand managed to break free and turned. Stephen expected a blow
to the face and raised his arms to defend against the anticipated strike. Instead, he took a vicious kick to the knee. Stephen grunted and staggered but stayed upright. If he was to win, he had to fight close in, body to body.
To win, Marchand had to get within arm’s reach, which meant he’d move forward to
continue on the offense. Stephen adjusted and used the randori against Marchand. He lowered his right shoulder and attacked, powering his shoulder into the armpit of the Frenchman’s right armpit like Ota taught him. Once he had him on the ground, he’d pin Marchand and control him
with a choke hold. Stephen tried to flip him over his shoulder but the Frenchman had also trained in hand-to-hand combat. Just as Stephen rose up to position for the throw, Marchand swept his
feet from under him and they both went down.
Each grappled to pin the other down. Like logs the two men rolled back and forth, neither
gaining enough momentum or advantage to overpower the other. Stephen’s head snapped back as
he took a nasty fist to the jaw.
Marchand shifted as he drew back to strike again, but Stephen blocked the blow. His arm
took the force of the strike as Marchand’s fist came down. Stephen counter punched with his
right and connected with cheekbone.
Stephen tried to scramble to his feet but Marchand got a leg around him and rolled him
over like a turtle on its back. Then he clamped both legs around Stephen’s middle and squeezed.
Stephen fought for breath, certain any moment his ribs would break under the pressure.
Marchand partially sat up and brought his forearm around Stephen’s neck to choke him. Stephen
turned his head as Marchand’s arm came round. He grabbed the arm and bit down hard.
Marchand screamed and jerked his arm away. His legs loosened enough for Stephen to roll to the
side. He grabbed a handful of dirt and followed the sound of Marchand’s heavy breathing. Hoping to blind him temporarily, he threw it where he knew his face was and quickly got to his feet. A small cry escaped Marchand who sounded as though he was rising to his feet too.
Focus. Stephen heard John Swallow’s voice as he had so often told him during their
lessons. Sense your opponent’s presence. Feel the air change where he stands. Listen.
Stephen charged, hit Marchand in the midsection, and then tackled him to the ground. Marchand
tried to resist but his blows either missed or glanced off without injury to Stephen. He guessed the Frenchman’s vision must still be affected. On the ground, Stephen levered him onto his belly, face down, in the dirt. He felt for the man’s kidney’s and knelt, pressing a knee down hard to inflict excruciating pain.
“What is this about?” he demanded. “Why attack me?”
“You know why. You’re the devil’s servant,” Marchand said between ragged breaths.
“You’re mad.”
“The devil has given you the power to control time. God has sent me to fetch you and
force you to take me back to our true time.”
“I don’t possess such power. Nor have I ever consorted with the devil or his minions.”
“God told me you do. He does not abuse the truth as your wicked deity does. Why else
would he rip me from my time to this place other than to save king and country? You are the key to my success.”
“And what does God sound like? French? English? Rich of voice?” He almost said, a
woman, but that’d be taking mockery too far.
“Heretic.”
“No, not a heretic. Just a curious man. No more evil than the next. What exactly are you
saving king and country from?”
“Poitiers should’ve been our victory not yours. You will return us so I can warn King John
and steal victory back from the jaws of the English.”
Marchand pressed his hands to the ground and attempted to rise.
Stephen pressed harder on his kidney. “Try to rise before I give you permission and I will
grind both my heels into your soft organs.” Marchand stilled. “Again, I do not hold sway over
time.”
“It is my duty to change France’s defeat.”
Gravel crunched as someone stepped close. “You cannot change history. What has
happened is forever done,” Alex said.
“Alex?” Stephen turned at the sound of his friend’s voice. “How did you find me?”
“Esme told me what you planned and asked me to follow you. I did at a discreet distance.
I lost sight of your vehicle a short way back but when I saw a Heritage Site sign commemorating the battle and an arrow pointing this way, I surmised this was the intended destination.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I came upon you while Marchand here had his legs around you tighter than the finest of
bawds.”
Stephen tamped down the temptation to get up and punch Alex in the nose. “You didn’t
think to help?”
“You were always a good fighter. You needed to win on your own to know you still are.
Besides, Simon put that hold on you many a time and you found a way out of it. The rest was just fisticuffs. If I thought you’d get truly hurt, then I’d have lent a hand and separated the two of you.”
Alex gave voice to the niggling prick of self-doubt that
had eaten at Stephen in spite of the
judo lessons. He had needed to see for himself that he was much the same man he used to be.
“Thank you.”
“Hello, I am here still.” Marchand wiggled, trying to ease the pressure on his kidney.
“How does your friend know what can and cannot be changed? Does he serve the devil too?”
“For the last time, no one here serves the devil.” Alex helped Stephen to stand, gave him
his cane, and said, “Let’s get this one up. If he does anything foolish, you can thrash him some more.”
Marchand moaned as he stood and brushed himself off. When he finished he turned his
attention to the two Englishmen, looking from the one called Alex to Stephen and back.
“How is it I find myself here? What purpose have I if not to help my country? Unlike
Palmer’s blasphemous questions, God did not speak words to me, he spoke to my heart.”
“Whatever conversation you had with the Lord, by whatever means, I assure you, a tear in
time brought you here. It’s not the devil, or Stephen’s, or anyone else’s doing. I don’t know the source. Neither of us does. Miracles don’t have explanations. That’s why they’re deemed such.
Like miracles, this has no explanation either. It is what it is.”
An answer that was no answer at all. He should’ve expected as much. Marchand moved
to a nearby stone bench and sat. Stephen followed and sat next to him. Alex joined them but
remained standing.
Marchand reached into his shirt and tore the chain with a small cross from his neck. He
took Stephen’s hand and laid the cross on his palm.
“What are you doing?”
“Just checking...to see if it burns you.” He ignored the man called Alex’s chuckle.
“You can’t be serious?”
“Because you say you are not the devil’s merchant doesn’t mean it is the truth.”
“Do you think if I was in league with him I’d stay blind?”
“Well...”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, look for yourself.” Palmer stuck his uninjured hand out.
Marchand snatched the cross back. “It was worth checking.” He turned to Alex. “Are
you certain there is no way back? How can this be when two of us here are proof we can move
through time?”
“Three of us, actually. I’ve also experienced the same. But I can’t tell why or how it
happened to me.”
“What am I to do?” Marchand asked.
“Why are you so bent on returning? Has your time here been so terrible?”
“No, but it is not my time. Here, I play at being myself. For the last few months, I pretend to be what I once was in front of crowds who find my group ‘good fun,’ and ‘cute.’” He sighed
and added, “The job is a constant reminder of all I lost.”
“Do you have a family?” Stephen asked.
Family. Memories of Claudine surged. They’d been betrothed to each other while she
was still in her cradle. As a boy, he’d seen her once, when she was but ten summers old. The
next time she was fifteen and ready for marriage. Escorted by her parents, she’d come through
the door of his family’s great hall, where he and his parents waited. As she approached, she
looked up at him and smiled. She smelled of lilac and tiny flowers were woven into her hair.
Golden curls framed a face that would make angels cry with envy. Green eyes sparkled beneath
soft brown lashes and delicate dimples etched her porcelain cheeks. One smile captured his heart.
He knew with certainty that she’d saved that warm smile to bestow upon only him, but his
certainty proved wrong. She possessed one even more inviting. That one she bestowed on Jean-
Pierre, his Captain of the Guard and closest friend, and who in anger, he dismissed from his
service.
As always, memories of Yves welled up along with Claudine’s. Those Marchand pushed
away out of painful habit.
“Marchand? Is there family awaiting you?” Stephen repeated.
“No. Only my home and land is left to me.”
“The loss of one’s heritage is terribly difficult. I know. But it isn’t the end of the world
either,” Alex said.
“Even if we could go back to our time, what awaits us?” Stephen asked and then
continued, “Plague, winters where you’re never truly warm, loved ones taken too soon because
we don’t have the medicine to save them.”
Everything Palmer said was true. Marchand considered his lost future in the time he came
from. Good or bad, at least he was familiar with it.
“Is there no one or nothing here that makes you wish to stay?”
He shook his head. “There was a woman and child, but they have left.
“If there’s one thing we’ve no shortage of in this time, its women.” Alex took a ring with
keys out of his pocket. “I’m ready to go.”
“Me too,” Stephen said. “Your given name is Roger, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well Roger, we’re leaving. You’ve a choice. You can stay here and mourn the past or
you can come with us. We’ll drop you off in Limoges.”
Mourn the past. Palmer had a point. He could make himself mad wishing for what
couldn’t be or forge a new, hopefully better path for himself. “I’m coming.”
“Good choice. Let’s go to my car and on the way to Limoges, we’ll discuss options for
you,” Alex said.
“Options?”
“You look strong and healthy. Well suited for a job I have that you might like better than
playing your old self.”
Stephen grasped Marchand by the arm as he stood. “Wait. You’ve not mentioned Arthur.
You said he came through time with you.”
“Yes. That part was true. He’s stabled not far from here. I will take you to him.”
#
“Mr. Marchand, good to see again,” a man greeted them as they approached. Stephen
guessed it was Patel, the stable owner Roger mentioned.
“Good to see you. As Mr. Lancaster told you on the phone, we’re here to see Arthur, the
horse you purchased from me.”
“I had him brought to the round pen. This way.”
“Take me to him,” Stephen said. He stumbled in his haste to follow Patel.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” Alex told him. Stephen did, too anxious to get to Arthur
to turn down assistance.
They walked a short distance, when Patel said, “Here we are.”
Stephen dropped his hand from Alex’s shoulder and tapped over to the pipe rail. He didn’t
call Arthur by name, instead he gave two short whistles. Arthur trotted over immediately and
nickered.
Stephen let his cane fall to the ground and leaned in to put a hand on each side of Arthur’s
muzzle, using the back of his fingers to stroke the soft area behind the nostrils. “What a good boy you are. How I’ve missed you.” Arthur gave a soft nicker and bobbed his head. His way of
saying, “don’t stop.”
Stephen rubbed his muzzle a few more times, before he swung his leg between the rails to
enter the ring. “I would see how you’ve tended to him, Mr. Patel.”
“I’ve an excellent reputation for keeping my stable healthy.”
A slow hand over Arthur’s flanks, ribs, and spine proved Patel correct. The horse was fed
properly. Another hand over all four legs, front and back, revealed no injury and his hooves were well shod.
“I wish to buy him back from you. How much do you want?” Stephen asked as he
climbed back out
from the ring.
“Seventy-five-hundred euros.”
“You only paid me five-thousand,” Marchand interjected.
“I didn’t want the horse as badly as your friend. Seventy-five-hundred, take it or leave it,
monsieur.”
“I will have the money wired to your account today. Alex—”
“No worries. I’ll arrange for transport.”
Now that he’d discovered Arthur alive and in this time, Stephen hated the thought of
leaving him, even for the brief bank visit. Arthur must’ve too, judging from his plaintive whinny as Stephen turned to go.
Chapter Thirty-Six
England
Stephen answered the door to his trailer and a flowery scent washed over him. “Hi, we’ve
never met. I’m Electra.”
“Ah, the wind chime sister. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet you. The chime is very handy and
much appreciated. Please come in.”
“Hold out your hands.” He did and she put a small tray in them. “Homemade teacakes.”
Stepping inside, she closed the door and then gave him an unexpected hug. “I saw you on the telly Christmas Eve. You were brilliant.”
“Thank you, Electra,” he said, trying not to spill the cakes as she embraced him. “You’re
very kind.”
“Call me El, everyone does. I’ll just put my coat on the bed, if that’s all right.”
Stephen set the tray onto the counter and returned to the drawing room, but he remained
standing in the capacity filled room. Every available seat was taken by Miranda, Ian, Alex,
Shakira, Esme, and Roger. He’d give his chair to Electra.
A few seconds later, she came out but dashed into the kitchen where Esme prepared
coffee. They began whispering. He couldn’t hear all they said but heard the painting in Canterbury mentioned. In the drawing room, the others were busy talking. Stephen edged closer to the
kitchen. El still spoke of the painting with his face. What would she make of the likeness?
“Yes, yes, I told you they could be twins. It is an amazing coincidence,” Esme said in a
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