Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (4 page)

The ministrations of all the nuns and priests in England hadn’t stopped the plague. Besides, he was not sick but wounded. He knew of few folks, priestly or otherwise, who willingly treated enemy

soldiers.

“Do you want to know about your injury?” Monette asked.

Stephen nodded.

“Whatever struck your helm crushed the visor and drove it into your face and eyes. The

depth of your injuries are not life threatening, nor is there intracranial injury...brain damage. That is the good news. The high impact of the blow did shatter the anterior table of the frontal sinuses.”

Intracranial
and
sinus
, what manner of babble was this?
He’d make the fellow explain...if he could. “Tell me what you mean by frontal sinuses.”

“They’re airway passages.” Monette took Stephen’s hand and drew his fingers along his

cheek from the bridge of his nose out. “Your sinuses are here.”

Odd as the word was, perhaps there was some useful information involved. Out in the

field, he’d suspected his nose was broken. “Is that why I can’t draw breath through my nose?”

“Yes. The injuries together will block the air passage. The worst damage is to your eyes.

Bone fragments penetrated the orbit, the eye socket. Splinters of metal from your smashed visor also pierced your eyeball and ruptured the globe. The splinters of both were removed in surgery.”

Stephen pushed himself up and sat straight. “The damage...I am not blind, am I.” The bird

to his left chirped faster. “It will heal, won’t it?”

“Dr. Berger is the ophthalmologist. He can explain better.”

“I am Dr. Berger.”

Stephen felt the presence of the doctor as he stepped near the bed. While the man

remained standing, the stench of onion breath traveled down to Stephen.

“Any delay in follow up treatment and surgery may result in permanent loss of sight. You

need another surgery. Tomorrow we will remove the bandage from your eyes and treat the

puncture wounds.”

“So, I will know tomorrow?”

“No, the day after. By then you will have healed enough for us to test the degree of sight

that was salvageable, if any.”

Degree that was salvageable, if any
.

“You sound as though my cause is hopeless.”

“Your prognosis is not good.”

He didn’t understand what prognosis meant, but he understood not good.

The horror of permanent blindness took hold. If this French hospital was a place where a

prisoner such as himself was not to be tortured and killed, then they must plan on releasing him.

That was as big a horror as the possibility of torture. All knew how the blind suffered. His life as a knight was finished. With no trade or skill he could learn or still perform, he had no means of earning money to provide for himself. The life of a beggar was all that remained.

Berger was wrong.

Yes, the enemy’s sword struck his face and he was injured, perhaps terribly, but not blind.

He threw the blanket off and swung his legs to the floor. He wanted out. They were lying to him and he knew it. He didn’t believe for a moment that he was permanently blind. This was some

new form of cruel trickery devised to beat his spirit down before they killed him. Hadn’t they lied about him being alone on the field, when he knew there were many dead and injured?

He wobbled as he stood. Dizzy, he staggered and started to fall. A pole that had been next

to his bed came down on him. Something inserted in the back of his hand tore free. A malleable bag hit him on the side of the face. He cried out, flailing at the pole and bag and stumbled, his ribs striking a metal chest as he fell. He landed hard, knees first, then onto his side. The pole crashed to the floor. The bird-like chirping increased to a galloping pace. Excited voices combined with the other noise into a garbled jumble of sound.

Ignoring the bruising pain, Stephen rolled back onto knees. The chaotic clamor didn’t

matter to him, only his sight. He just wanted to see. He grabbed the top of the thick cloth they’d placed over his eyes and tried to pull their blinding device off.

“No monsieur!” one of the doctors ordered, while the woman and one of the men seized

his wrists and forced his hands from his face.

Stephen yanked free of the woman’s grip. The man held fast to the other wrist. Stephen

lashed out. He punched where he’d expected the man’s face to be and found only air. The men

exchanged more strange French words he didn’t know. He continued to fight one-armed, finding

only air. The second man managed to grasp his free arm. The man pressed it tight to Stephen’s

side. Then, something sharp stabbed him in the arm.

He sagged. He couldn’t stop himself from dropping into the first man’s embrace. “Sleep,

monsieur,” the man said, and Stephen felt light, light enough for angels to carry him.

Chapter Five

Stephen woke from the dreamless sleep groggy. Since the Frenchmen took him from the

field, he’d lost all sense of time. Bits and pieces of events faded in and out of memory. He

recalled at one point he’d tried to fight and they’d stuck him with a small spiked weapon. It hadn’t hurt, no more than a prick from a lady’s sewing needle. Then, he was floating and had the sense of angels lifting him.

Not angels but his captors.

The delicious scent brought him awake. He might’ve slept hours or days, he didn’t know.

All he knew was the food smelled like fine fare and his stomach felt stuck to his backbone, he

was so hungry. Those last weeks before the battle the army had run short of provisions. The

knights had foraged for food along with their horses. The night before the battle he’d dined on overripe berries and dandelion soup. Soup indeed
.
Nothing but a handful of dandelion greens thrown into a kettle of boiling water.

“Is the food for me?” he’d asked, stomach rumbling.

A new man, one whose voice he’d never heard answered, “Yes.”

He attempted to rise but tethers kept him prone. His wrists and ankles were tied to the bed

with padded cuffs instead of chains. A small but curious kindness.

“How am I to eat it tethered as I am? Smell alone will not get it to my stomach.”

“I’ll release you, but first you must promise not to fight or to touch your eye wrap.”

“Yes, yes, I promise.” He’d agree to most anything for a full belly.

Stephen sat up as soon as he was free.

The man put the tray of food on his lap and set cloth wrapped utensils into his palm.

“What is this?” Stephen poked the tined edge of a four-pronged eating tool to his fingertip.

“What is it? It’s a fork. You know—for sticking your food with and bringing pieces to your

mouth.”

Seems silly. Why bother with cutting then sticking your food with the fork before bringing

it to your mouth, an eating dagger is faster, more sensible? Stab and eat.

The aroma of meat and bread filled his nose and he put the fork aside. His head low to the

tray, he shoveled the vegetables into his mouth with the spoon. A juicy, plump chicken breast

nestled next to the vegetables. He tore the meat from the bone with his fingers, licking the buttery drippings from the tips as he devoured it. He last ate chicken in July and then it wasn’t a fat hen but a wiry, tough rooster. When the spoon no longer scooped vegetables, he used his bread to

wipe up any remaining morsels on the plate. The captors brought two more plates and he finished those before he was finally full.

Stephen sensed someone enter the room as the man left with the last tray.

“Who is there?”

“I’m here to give you a sponge bath, if you like,” a female, young by the sound of her said.

“You wish to bathe me?”

The pass of his hand over his hair told him somebody had washed it. No dried blood was

caked anywhere. He sniffed his forearms. They smelled of soap and had also been cleaned. He

had no need of a bath. The woman offered something other than a wash.

He smiled with knowledge. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the services of a

bawd. Tempting as the harlot’s offer was, he suspected enemy devilry and declined.

“Would you like to listen to music?” she asked.

The bawd traveled with minstrels. He wasn’t in the mood for her other services, but he’d

welcome a cheerful tune. “I would.”

“What station do you wish,” she asked.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll turn it to a classical one.”

A tune different from any he ever heard came from across the room. “I’ll come back

tomorrow,” the bawd said. Her light footfalls told him she left.

Classical station
?
Lovelier than any minstrel’s music, he dozed off still baffled by weird words and goings on of his captors. They’d woken him an unknown amount of time later and said

it was the day and hour for his eye surgery. A man told him to make a fist. He said perfect when he found a vein and then stuck a needle into the crook of Stephen’s elbow. That was the last he remembered.

“Monsieur, monsieur,” a female voice said, patting his hand. “Wake up.”

Stephen yawned and propped himself up on an elbow. “Ugh.” His mouth tasted like sour

milk and his tongue felt like it was wrapped in a mitten. “I’d like some water.”

“Here.” The woman slid a flexible spout between his lips. “Suck.”

He didn’t know what the spout was made of, nor did he care. The water tasted sweet to

his parched mouth and he sucked the cup dry. “More.” When he’d sucked another cup dry, he

asked. “What day is this?”

“September 22,” the woman said, taking the empty cup.

Three days had passed since the battle. Why had they let him live? There could be no

good reason for it.

“I’m Dr. Berger. Do you remember me speaking to you two days ago about your eye

surgery?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Monette is here too. We want to talk to you about the day they found you. The more

we know about you, the more we can help.”

“Who is the woman?” She didn’t sound like the first woman, the one who smelled like a

garden. This one carried no scent of any flower. Nor did she sound young as the bawd. What was

this one’s purpose? The first, he suspected, had created the potion that put him to sleep.

“She is Nurse Cloutier.”

Probably Witch Cloutier. “Ask what you will.”

“What is your name?”

“Stephen Palmer.”

“What’s the last thing you remember before receiving your injury?”

“I am a knight in service to the Baron Guiscard. He rode to the aid of his friend. I saw

your men surround the baron. They were trying to pull him from his mount. I was about to ride to his aid when one of your knights, his heraldic symbol was of a panther on a field of orange,

challenged me.” Stephen thought again how Guy’s warning had made him falter. “I...I hesitated

and your man struck with his sword.”

“Monsieur Palmer, your eye injury is serious. If this answer is an attempt at humor, then it

is a poor time to engage in such a jest.”

“You asked what I remembered. I told you. I’m not in the habit of making jests with my

enemies.”

“Monsieur Palmer, we are not your enemy. We are not at war.” A long moment passed

and then Berger asked, “What year do you believe it to be?”

“The year of our Lord, 1356.”

“Mon Dieu,” Cloutier said in the background.

“From what the paramedics told us you said when they arrived, and your answer today, I

am convinced that you do believe this is 1356. Monsieur Palmer,” Berger covered Stephen’s hand

with his own. “The year is 2013.”

Stephen checked his growing anger with their denials of the battle and war. He jerked his

hand from under Berger’s.

“What is the point of these lies of yours? I am neither a fool nor mad. Why do you

persist?”

“I am not a psychiatrist, but it is clear you’ve suffered some type of psychotic break.”

“Psychotic break...what is this?”

“Your reality is a delusion. Let me take the bandage from your eyes. Hopefully, the

surgery was a success. If so, perhaps seeing the truth of the world around you will help your

mental state.”

Berger stood and stepped next to Stephen’s shoulder. “Nurse, assist me please. Sit up

Monsieur Palmer.”

Stephen pushed the blanket that covered him down to the top of his thighs and then

scooted up straight.

Cloutier’s body heat warmed his other shoulder. Scissors clicked near his ear. It seemed

to take forever for her to cut through the material. Stephen willed her to work faster. He’d see who imprisoned him and hear their explanation for all the lies. The year of our Lord 2013—bah.

Cloutier moved away and Berger began to remove the bandage section by section. The

skin around his eyes tingled, followed by a sudden coolness as the last of the bandage was lifted.

All was black. Black as a starless sky on a moonless night. No! He was not blind. He.

Was. Not. Blind. He touched his fingers to the corners of his eyes. Maybe they’d put something

on his eyes while he slept. A device to make him believe he was blind. He couldn’t feel his

fingertips on the flesh around his eyes but felt his lashes on the pads.

“Careful monsieur.”

Stephen sensed the doctor’s hand come close. He twisted away and the doctor’s fingers

brushed his cheek.

Then, damp warmth from his eyeball touched his fingertips. A shiver chased down his

spine at the thought he’d put a finger in his eye and not known it.

“Monsieur—” Berger grabbed his hand and pulled it from his face. “You may touch your

face but not your eyeball.”

“What have you done to me? I cannot feel my fingers on my face or eyes.”

Monette answered. “The numbness is to be expected, as is the swelling. Your skin may