Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (7 page)

hire you after your internship,” Miranda replied.

“I did too. It really knocked me for six when they didn’t.”

“Please sit.” Miranda indicated a spot next to her friend on the sofa. “You remember

Shakira? She joined me for lunch several times while you were working at the station.”

“Yes.” Esme extended her hand. “It’s nice seeing you again.”

Shakira shook her hand and said, “Same here. Speaking of lunch, have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Coffee then?”

“No thanks. Your call intrigued me. Not just because you’re offering me a job but your

description of the man I’m tutoring. He has
special issues
. Like what?” She looked to Miranda then Shakira and back for an answer as she sat.

“Glass of wine, perhaps?” Shakira asked and stood.

Esme’s mind raced with the possible
issues
the man might have that required wine to

soften the telling. An odd duck in one of her university classes referred to himself in the third person all the time. No problem. She could handle that sort of weirdness. Nor is it wine-worthy.

The issue had to be something else. Maybe he suffered from an off-the-wall phobia, like fear of clouds. It’d be a pain dealing with something like that but she’d make it work. That wasn’t wine-worthy either. A horrible scenario occurred to her. What if he was into mimes or clowns? What if he got done up like that a lot. Ugh. Clowns and mimes creeped her out and Miranda knew it. That was wine worthy. “A Medoc sounds good, if you have it.”

While Shakira was in the kitchen pouring the wine, Esme prodded Miranda. “Truthfully,

how weird is this guy?”

“I don’t know him. Shakira does. To be accurate, she knows him from before his trouble

started. She speaks highly of him. Alex and Ian know him well, especially Alex.”

The vague answer didn’t relieve Esme’s worries an iota. In fact, it stirred up new ones.

What trouble? What issues? Whatever they were, did she dare turn down a job, especially one

that paid as well as the Lancasters generous offer?

Shakira returned with three glasses of wine.

“To answer your question, he isn’t weird in a dangerous way. We wouldn’t put you in that

situation,” Shakira said.

“I didn’t think that, but before we go any further, I need his issues defined, no glossing,”

Esme said and took a sip of the fine Medoc.

“He’s suffered a head injury and...” Shakira hesitated, “And had a psychotic break—”

Esme choked as wine went down the wrong way. After a short coughing fit she set her

glass on the table and managed, “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Haven’t either of you seen that American

TV show,
Criminal Minds
? Every one of those crazy serial killers has had some kind of

psychotic break.”

“That probably wasn’t the best term to use,” Miranda added quickly. “It’s the term the

French hospital he’s a patient at used. He’s delusional but not violent.”

Shakira jumped in. “No. He’s a sweetheart.”

She and Miranda were waving their hands in a
no-no you’ve got it wrong
gesture.

Esme thoughts were on the paycheck she might be waving goodbye to. “Sweetheart, meat

heart, delusional how?”

“He believes he’s a medieval knight...as in Age of Chivalry. He’s honorable, courteous

and charming with ladies,” Miranda said.

“You said you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t. I was just, you know, bundling all the stuff we think of when we talk about

chivalry.”

“I can attest to what Miranda said.” Shakira went on, “Women adore him. Alex can tell

you about his unquestionable loyalty as a friend.”

More at ease after hearing the medieval knight part, Esme calmed down. “Why a knight?

Why not a gladiator, or a Viking? Do you know?” She looked from Shakira to Miranda and back.

And they exchanged a look between them like each hoped the other could explain.

Miranda answered, “He was a history buff and medieval period fascinated him. Our best

guess is he’s chosen an era that’s comfortable for him, a timeframe he identifies with on some

level.”

“What do you want me to do with him as a tutor? He needs a therapist to help him return

to reality.”

“We’re only going to deal with his current reality, which is he’s a knight living in our world.

You’re to teach him the important events that occurred since the late thirteen hundreds,” Miranda said.

“Why?” The word barely left Esme’s lips when the possibility she was talking herself out

of a job popped into her head. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not questioning your decision for me to work with him. I trying to understand the goal,” she rushed to add.

“Ah...” Miranda shot Shakira a questioning look.

“Think of this as more of a re-education rather than a traditional tutoring job. We hope as

you bring him closer and closer to the modern world, the familiarity will help with the psychotic break,” Shakira said.

The challenge involved interested Esme. She sipped her wine and considered how she’d

go about teaching someone so many things. Her marks at university were superior. She was

perfectly capable of teaching him what he needed to know, as long as the sciences were kept to

the basics.

“Is he going to dress in medieval clothing? Because, if he is, then he’ll expect me too, and

I don’t have those kinds of costumes.”

“No, he’ll dress normally. There is one other thing you should know.”

“Yes...” Esme drew out the word suspicious of what tidbit Shakira would drop on her

now.

“He’s blind from the injury as well. He’ll be struggling to adjust. If you feel it’s too much

to cope with, we understand.”

Heartfelt sympathy for the poor man filled her. The unfortunate man awoke from his

injury to a black, unfamiliar world. “No worries. How traumatic for him. Will he be learning

Braille?”

“Yes, and if you’re amenable, would you arrange for a Braille instructor?” Miranda asked.

“Consider it done. I’d like to study it along with him. I think learning together is good. It’s good for his pride. Hopefully, as a result, my position as tutor is less awkward.”

“I agree. I like your attitude,” Shakira said with a smile.

“All this talk about the man and I still don’t know his name.”

“It’s Stephen Palmer. If you’re available tonight, we’d like you to meet him over dinner,”

Miranda said, “rather than starting off tomorrow as strangers.”

A man who believes he’s a medieval knight. Even if she had plans, she’d cancel them.

Curiosity wouldn’t let her put off meeting him. “Tell me where and when and I’ll be there,” Esme said.

Chapter Eight

Poitiers, France

Alex and Ian waited in the doctor’s lounge while Monette finished with the last of the

emergency room patients. As Alex had predicted, Monette and the hospital administrator were

relieved they’d come for Stephen. The promise of a substantial donation to the favorite charity of Minister Tomlinson, Alex’s local MP, helped grease the way for them. Harrow called Deputy

Favreau, his equal in the French Parliament. Favreau contacted the hospital administration and

requested they co-operate and not worry about English paperwork.

“Thank you for your patience,” Monette said and sat on the sofa across from them. He

rifled through the discharge paperwork, signed the last page, and handed the forms to Alex. Then he removed a small envelope from Stephen’s file. “This is a receipt from the Musee de l’Armee

representative for Mr. Palmer’s armor.” The doctor leaned forward. “I wish you luck with him,

gentlemen. He’s an annoyingly arrogant man with sneaky rat eyes.”

“Good to know. Can we see Mr. Palmer now?” Alex asked.

“In a moment, but first I want to make certain you understand his mental state. We’ve

tested him. There’s no brain damage. We don’t know who inflicted the injury to him. He claims it was a French knight. Clearly, the attack has triggered a psychotic break, from which he may

never recover.”

“We understand.” Alex folded the paperwork and tucked it into his inside coat pocket.

“I have a question,” Ian said.

Monette gestured for him to continue.

“Where exactly in that field did they find him, if you know?”

“I was not there, but I am told he was lying in the grass a few meters behind the sign

commemorating the battle. Shall we?”

The doctor led them to a room past ICU and near the nurse’s station. He stopped in the

corridor just outside the closed door.

“I’m afraid the musee representative took all of the garments Mr. Palmer wore when

found. The expert seemed as interested in the cloth pieces as the armor. My staff went through a stack of clothing left behind by previous patients so he’d have something other than the hospital gown and robe to wear. Nothing fits properly, but it is the best they could do.”

“Thank you, I’m sure he appreciates the effort,” Alex said.

“Good day and good luck,” Monette said and walked away.

Ian looked at Alex. “I won’t sound like the man he remembers. I think it’s best if I stay

quiet until we get him out of here and the way home.”

“I sound different too. I don’t know how or where to start to explain what’s happened.”

Alex took a deep breath and blew it out, then opened the door.

Stephen sat in front of the window, enjoying the sun on his face and the classic music

Cloutier made happen from the mysterious station. He turned at the sound of the door opening.

“Who is it?” That morning the bawd who offered to bathe him two days earlier brought

him a tasty cake, flaky and filled with crème. A pastry she called it. He hoped it was her again with another cake.

“Hello, Stephen. It’s Guy and Basil.”

He straightened. What new trick of his captors was this? Had his blindness not pleased

them enough? “You’re not Guy. I know his voice as well as my own.” He’d test the impostors

and show them he wasn’t the dolt they thought him. “If you are who you say you are, then you

will know the answers. What is the name of your favorite destrier?”

“Thor,” the one calling himself Guy said.

He expected that one question to foil their plan. The odds of the man guessing the right

name were beyond measure. “When did we last see one another?”

“We fought together at Poitiers. You were a knight in my service.”

Information Monette might’ve told the man. Stephen considered his next question and

couldn’t imagine the French had any knowledge of Guy’s family. He needed to ask more personal

questions. “Tell me of your family?”

“At the time of the battle, my father was dead. My mother lived with the holy sisters at

Hailes Abbey. I had a sister Madeline and a nephew, Geoffrey.”

How could the man know such details? If Stephen hadn’t heard the difference in this

man’s voice, he’d surely believe him to be the true Guy. But the true Guy lay in the ground for hundreds of years now.

Stephen posed the toughest test question. None other than he and Guy, the real Guy, knew

the answer. “You gave me a warning before we sailed. What was it?”

“Beware the black panther in a sea of orange,” the man said, then added, “You were

flirting with a servant girl on the stairs at Elysian Fields.”

“God’s blood, it is you.” Excited, he said, “You say Basil is with you.”

“I’m here.”

Wariness tempered Stephen’s excitement hearing the other man’s voice...a voice that

bore little bearing to Basil’s with his Midland rhythm. He’d test this man as well. He turned his head slightly toward the place this Basil spoke from. “What of your family?”

“My father and mother were dead when we went to France. I had a younger brother,

Grevill.”

“What was your Coat of Arms?”

“A leopard
rampant
on a bronze field.”

“What was your destrier’s name?”

“Saladin.”

“Whose column did you ride in?”

“Same as yours and Guy’s, Edward of Woodstock’s, the Black Prince.”

Relief filled Stephen. Guy and Basil were here. That made the year 1356. He’d been right

not to trust his captors. They’d claimed almost seven hundred years had passed. The liars told him the year was 2013. He knew not to believe such absurdity. Taking him for a fool, they’d filled his room with oddities to convince him.

Cane in hand, he stood, put a hand out, found Guy’s chest and embraced him. “I thought

you dead. I saw their men-at-arms drag you from your horse. And Basil...” He gave him a quick

embrace. “I cannot believe you survived. I saw you trapped under your mount at the mercy of an

enemy knight. How is it you live?”

“It’s a most unusual story. We’ll explain everything on the way home,” Alex told him.

“Home?” The possibility of returning to England never occurred to Stephen. He expected

if his captors ever set him free, he’d live a beggar’s life in the enemy countryside. Guy must’ve paid a huge ransom for the French to release him as well as himself.

“I thought never to see home again.” He gave a grunt of bitter humor at his sadly correct

choice of words. He might stand on English soil, but he’d never
see
home again.

“What is this place where they’ve kept us imprisoned?” he asked, hoping Guy or Basil

could offer some explanation for the strange things he’d experienced since he became a prisoner.

“You’re not a captive of the French. This is a hospital. You were brought here to treat

your wounds. Nothing more.”

“They told me when I woke from a dreamless sleep that this was a hospital. I thought of

St. Giles, but this is nothing like what I heard about St. Giles.”

“It is a hospital, totally different but a good place.”