Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (3 page)

In the shelter of the trees, he studied the strange leg garment with its metal rivets. He

toyed with the tiny flange, realizing after a couple of tugs, it cinched the top part together. He took off his chausses and after a struggle managed to get the still damp, too tight, new garment over his legs. They’d been made for a spare man, much narrower in width and shorter. The hem touched

four fingers above the top of Marchand’s ankle. The metal cinch was another struggle but he

sucked in a deep breath and got it closed. The material itself he liked. It seemed very durable and practical. He bundled his own chausses and the stolen shirts in the large linen, secreting the bundle behind the tree.

The French army had broken their fast at daybreak, hours ago. Since leaving his spot by

the river, his stomach gurgled and growled continuously. Around him all the houses had planted

flowers but no vegetable gardens or fruit trees, nothing to ease his hunger. His perusal shifted to the Noialles. Every church he’d ever visited had a fine garden. Once more, he checked for other villagers and seeing none headed toward the abbey.

Like the thief he’d become, he crept along the edge of the woods behind the houses,

including the one with the dog. When he reached that house, Marchand put more trees and

shrubbery between him and the dog’s yard as he made his way to the church.

A squat building sat across a cobblestone path wide enough for a carriage. A bright candle

or candles burned inside. Women, who didn’t wear nun’s habits or wimples crossed to and fro in

front of a window. The abbot’s whores no doubt. All knew the corrupt Italian Popes took women

to their beds. One had to expect their brethren did as well, although none spoke of the matter

except in whispers.

Marchand snuck closer and hid behind a garden wall and peeked over. Past the open gate

sat a bucket that held bird-ruined tomatoes, droopy carrots, and brown-edged lettuce. A floppy hat like those worn by farmers hung on a post. He eased through the open gate, snatched the hat from the hook, and munched a carrot as he loaded it with the imperfect vegetables.

“What are you doing there?”

His head snapped up. A woman stood before him. He was unaware she’d come upon

him...a bad mistake, not paying attention.

“I am hungry and you were throwing good food away. We’re both better served by my

filling my belly.”

He studied her. Deep creases lined the area by her eyes and mouth. Her hair was shot

with grey and twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She looked over ripened for a whore.

Like the other women he’d seen gathered by the English knight, this one wore a skirt sinful in its short length, exposing bare lower calves. At least her blouse covered her bodice.

“Who are you, a priest’s whore to question me?”

She gave a short gasp and clasped her hands tight to her bosom. “I am no whore. I am

Sister Catherine.”

“Liar.” Marchand stood, keeping the hat with the vegetable treasure out of the whore’s

reach. “Where is your habit, your wimple? No nun dresses thus,” he said with a small tip of his chin.

Her eyes widened slightly then narrowed. “Where have you been? Many Orders don’t

require us to wear habits. My wimple is inside. It’s hot so I took it off while I worked in the kitchen.”

Then, she looked him up and down. “What is your name?”

“Com...” Out of habit, he started to use his title, but then thought not to until he knew more

about this place he found himself. “Roger Marchand.”

“Why don’t you come into the office?” Her eyes lingered on his chausses. “I’ll search the

donation basket for pants that fit,” she said, raising her eyes to his face. “And you can have a hot meal with fresh vegetables, but you must be on your way afterward.”

Marchand followed close behind her, happy at the prospect of
pants
less tight and a full belly.

“The donation basket is here on the mud porch. She dug through the contents and found a

pair in the same material with torn knees but they were larger. “These should fit.”

She led him to a small chamber she called a bathroom. “You may change in here. Also,

whether or not you use the toilet, wash your hands before you come to the table.”

“Toilet? I don’t—”

“You heard me. Wash your hands, whatever you do.” Her eyes darted to the large basin

attached to the floor. It had a fair-size hole in the bottom and was vaguely similar to a garderobe.

He used the
toilet
first. He stood to the side and worked the metal pedal, not trusting the piss to swirl down but end up spraying him instead. “Where do the leavings go?” he wondered

aloud. Intrigued, he played with the pedal a few more time before washing his hands.

As he made his way to the kitchen, he noticed a paper stuck to the wall—an ecclesiastical

calendar. The top had the portrait of some saint drawn in ink and on paper of strange origin. At the bottom, the calendar read September, 2013. He knew his letters. He knew his numbers. He

knew this day was September 19, 1356. What did the numbers 2013 refer to?

“Sister Catherine, tell me what this means?”

She joined him in the hall. “What?”

“This,” he said and pointed to the numbers.

“It’s a calendar.”

“Yes, I know what it is. These numbers...what do they mean?”

“That’s the month and year.” She pointed to a square three rows down from the top.

“Today is September 19, 2013.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “It cannot be the year you say,” he insisted, hammering a

finger on the date.

The heated denial was less convincing than he wished. A litany of the day’s oddities went

through his mind—the dizziness when he started to kill the Englishman, Conquerant’s rebellious

behavior, the iron cart that howled and bore blinding candlelight, everything he’d experienced

undermined his conviction.

She laid a hand on his arm. “Are you all right? You’ve gone deathly white.”

“2013. You would swear this on your soul, Sister?”

“Yes.” Concern crossed her face. “Roger, have you been recently released from a

sanatorium?”

Sanatorium? The word meant nothing to him, but from her expression he surmised it

wasn’t a good place.

“No, Sister.” Marchand gave her a weak smile. “Is...Is the abbey open?”

“No, the main doors are locked after noon mass. The north chapel is still open. I’ll keep

your food warm, if you wish to pray.”

“Thank you.”

Marchand hurried across the cobblestone carriageway and inside the modest sanctuary.

Alone there, he fell on his knees in front of the altar. He made the sign of the cross and raised his eyes to the large wooden cross on the wall.

“Have mercy Father. Please help me to understand what has happened, why I am in this

place. I beg you help me find a way back to my time.”

He bowed his head and prayed. He vowed to be a better man, although he didn’t think

himself a bad one. He vowed to give more to the poor. He vowed to stop hating his late wife for loving another man.

When his mind ran dry of promises he wasn’t sure he could keep, Marchand stood. He

went to the altar rack of votive candles before the statue of the Virgin Mary. As he lit a candle for the souls of his dead son and wife, God answered his prayers. Understanding came to him.

The calendar was God’s message to him. The Lord wanted him to see the date. The

Devil’s handiwork was at play here. This day and this place were cursed, which was why only the year changed. Marchand turned to the cross. “Thank you.”

The Devil loved tricks. But even he had limitations and knew defeats. Tonight, while it

was still September 19, he’d return to the spot he and the Englishman encountered the time shift.

Battle or no battle, he’d return to his true time and warn his king to retreat, to fight another day, in another place, and win.

#

Marchand waited until the last of the pink streaks the setting sun left in the sky

disappeared. He finished the bread, a baguette Sister Catherine called it, and the whack of cheese she’d given him.
Take this home with you
, she said. If she knew where home was, she’d faint, he thought with some amusement.

When the moon was high, he shed the pants, dressed in his chausses and put on his armor.

He tacked up Conquerant and then the English horse, except for the chanfron. That he fastened to Conquerant’s face and head. The protective piece of horse armor was expensive. He’d keep it.

After checking that he was alone, he walked the horses from the woods to the bush

behind the sign. He stayed mounted, ready to engage the enemy as soon as he arrived on the

battlefield. Marchand kept a loose hold on the reins of the English horse, thinking the animal might wish to nibble the grass where they stood. It was thicker than the river grass and both horses had to be hungry. Conquerant, he’d feed properly at camp once the battle was over.

Unlike Conquerant, the English horse did not graze as they waited. Instead, the horse

snuffled at the ground where the wounded knight had lain.

“Arthur.” Marchand repeated the name the knight whispered.

The horse flicked his ears and raised his head.

“Did he name you for their famous king of old?”

Arthur dropped his head and snuffled more.

Marchand’s mind wandered to the English knight who’d have to suffer this strange world.

Where had they taken him? What would he think when he discovered the year? What did they

plan to do to him? A small measure of sympathy for the enemy knight touched his heart at the

grim possibilities.

The uneventful hours passed at a tortuously slow speed. The abbey bells tolled ten.

Conquerant’s head dropped and he dozed. Marchand fought to stay awake but lost the battle to

tiredness. He too dozed. The bells tolling eleven woke him with renewed hope. Within an hour,

this world would be but a bad memory.

At midnight the bells rang but the ground beneath him didn’t sway nor did a cloak of

dizziness settle on him. Calm now, Conquerant’s head bobbed as he faded in and out of a doze.

The cursed day was ended, but everything else remained unchanged.

“No.”

Why had he failed? He sat in the exact spot as that morning. All was the same. All except

for the English knight. A new suspicion crept into Marchand’s thoughts. Perhaps the day wasn’t

cursed but the Englishman, who they’d taken away by unholy means. Perhaps this was his

punishment from either above or below. Fury replaced any sympathy he felt for the captured

man. The Lord or the Devil had invoked this penance upon the knight, and he, Marchand, was a

poor soul caught up in the man’s misdeeds.

A shiver passed over him at the thought of shared fate.

Chapter Four

Centre Hospitalier de l’Universite de Poitiers.

“It is time to wake,” a man said.

The voices had already woken him. Stephen lay still and said nothing, wanting to ascertain

what place this was that they’d taken him. He assumed he shared a cell with other English

prisoners, the dungeon of a local nobleman’s castle most likely. Strange that the room didn’t smell like a dungeon where tortured and injured enemy men were confined or worse, chained. Guy’s

holding, Elysian Fields, had a dungeon, but it hadn’t been used since before Guy’s father’s birth. In the past, Stephen visited other castles where the dungeons were used and often never empty. The odor of decaying flesh and corruption was potent and unmistakable. A sharp scent, perhaps from

an herbalist’s vinegar hung in the air here, but the room smelled clean. And, from somewhere to his left came a repetitious chirp, like a bird being poked again and again.

Puzzling.

The bed was unusually comfortable and his head lay on a feather pillow. He ran his hand

along the linen covering the mattress. It felt like a fine weave, not coarse and scratchy like in the barracks of Elysian Fields. He wiggled his feet under the softest of blankets.

“I believe he’s stirring,” a feminine voice said. The mattress sank with her weight as she

sat by his hip.

They’d removed his helm and armor, although he had no memory of them doing so. He

wore a short surcoat that tied in the back. A light cloth that kept the lids closed covered his eyes.

They hurt less, but without being able to open and close them, it was impossible to tell if his sight had returned.

“Are you awake?” the woman on the bed asked and brought his arm from under the

cover. She touched warm fingers to his wrist. Her fingers were softer than the blanket and she

smelled like a garden.

How cunning of the enemy to use a woman as a tormentor. Probably a witch. He’d never

believed in witches, not since he was a small boy. After the strange business last winter with

Guy’s wife, he’d rethought the possibility.

He tried to slide his arm back beneath the blanket. The woman didn’t allow it and laid his

arm across his waist.

“The surgeon and ophthalmologist are here to discuss your injury and answer your

questions.” She rose from the bed.

Ophthalmologist—another nonsense word
.
“Where am I?” He croaked out. He longed for

a cup of cool water to ease his dry throat.

“I am your surgeon, Dr. Monette,” a man’s voice said. “You are in CHU de Poitiers.”

“Under whose control is this prison? What noble holds me?”

“This is not a prison, monsieur,” Monette continued. “This is University Hospital Center de

Poitiers.”

He’d heard the term hospital used in reference to St. Giles in Norwich. A priestly place

that treated the sick, or so they said, although he didn’t put much store in the healing one received.