Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (2 page)

“You are English,” the Frenchman replied.

Obviously
.
It occurred to Stephen he was the prisoner of a fool.

“You have a serious injury, monsieur. And, why are you dressed like this? Are you...” the

man paused then added, “a re-enactor?”

Stephen had no idea what a re-enactor was but was now certain he’d been captured by a

fool...a fool who spoke a strange manner of English, even for a Frenchman.

“I am dressed for battle. You are French. I am English. We are at war. My injury is a war

wound.”

“We are not at war. Your head wound has made you delirious I fear. You will be all right.

My wife has called for an ambulance.”

Worse than a fool, this Frenchman talked like a madman. Blind or not, he had to get away

from him. Perhaps, he’d find a merciful death at the hands of a different knight. Stephen rose onto his knees. Light-headedness and nausea washed over him. He forgot what happened when he

blinked and tried to close his eyes against the sensations. Once more, piercing pain raged. He bent and dropped his head, supporting himself on his forearms.

“Stay still. You are in no condition to move.” From the weight, the French madman had

laid a hand on Stephen’s vambrace.

In the distance came a howl like a wolf’s but different. The tone was not like any wolf

he’d ever heard. Nor had he heard any howl so long without breath. What hideous animal had

come to dine on the battlefield dead?

“The ambulance will be here in a moment,” the madman said.

Stephen didn’t know what an ambulance was and didn’t care. The announcement was just

more ramblings. What of the battle? “You won, then?”

“Won? Monsieur, again I tell you, we are not at war.”

“How did I receive this wound if we are not?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“In battle!”

“What battle do you believe you fought in?”

“Poitiers.”

“Poitiers,” the man repeated. “It explains why you are dressed so odd. But the battle you

speak of is many centuries past. Many.”

His injury must’ve affected his hearing. The man might be mad but surely he knew in

which century he lived.

Before he could ask the man what year he believed it was the piercing howl came closer

and closer until it sounded right on top of him. His helm did little to muffle the hellish noise. Horror and panic like none he’d known gripped him.

Then it stopped, and Stephen heard the footfalls of people running toward him. Male

voices speaking in rapid French joined a female voice. The madman’s wife no doubt since she

described to the new men how she and her husband found him in the field. She made it sound like he was alone on the battlefield, which could not be. He had seen dead from both sides as he, and Guy, and Basil, rode to challenge the French cavalry. Guy. Basil.

“My friends...there...” He swung an arm out and gestured to the area he believed he saw

them last. “Are they dead?” The people whispered but did not answer.

The newly arrived men eased him onto his back. One groaned and another sucked in air

through his teeth.

“My friends...
mes amis
...are they dead...
sont-ils morts
?” Stephen repeated.

“We speak English, monsieur,” said a deep-voiced man kneeling by his shoulder. “There is

no one here but you,” the man told him and removed the vambrace from his left arm.

“I don’t believe you.” What was going on? Why were they lying?

The deep-voiced man cut through his mail and wrapped what felt like a wide bandage

around his arm. There was a huffing noise but not human, and the band tightened with each huff.

“What are you doing?” He dug at the armband.

The man on his right grabbed him by the wrist and held his hand down against his chest.

The huffing and tightening stopped.

Above him, the madman and his wife mumbled. “Could the injury have affected his

sanity?” she asked someone. Stephen didn’t know what she meant. What was this sanity she

referred to?

There was the sound of expelled air, a soft hiss, and the band loosened. The man who

strapped it to his arm ripped it off, judging from the tearing noise. As he tore the band away, the man who restrained him placed his fingertips onto Stephen’s wrist. He jerked his hand from the

man’s grip and drove his booted heels into the ground. Pushing off with one hand, he tried to get up. Better they kill him while he attempted escape than be fed to the battlefield beast or worse.

A strong hand pulled him back. Stephen yanked free then rammed his elbow into what he

hoped was the man’s stomach but missed. Two men seized him by the upper arms and wrestled

him to the ground.

“Cease. Be still.” One of them grasped Stephen’s wrist again. A long moment passed and

then he said, “Your heart is racing. Your pulse is dangerously high. What is his blood pressure?”

Before Stephen could ask him what he was talking about, the other man answered. “Low

and dropping.”

Stephen could bear it no longer. “What is going on? Tell me.” He started to rise onto his

elbow but both men pressed him flat.

The second man said, “You’ve sustained what appears to be a serious head injury. We

won’t know how serious until we can get you to the emergency room and your helmet removed.”

Emergency room
? They spoke in riddles. What did they really plan to do to him?

Exhaustion began to take Stephen but he mustered what strength he had left and fought to stay

awake.

“We must stabilize you so as to not risk cervical spine injury. Lay quiet so we can put you

on a backboard,” the second man continued.

“Backboard?”

“Like a plank but not.”

The words made no sense. Did they mean to keep him in a state worth torturing? A jolt of

fear spiked through him.

Stephen was losing the fight with light-headedness, and the voices began to fade.

“He’s losing consciousness. Let’s get him onto the backboard.”

Stephen suffered a minor jostling as his helm banged against the plank. Sharp pain that felt

like spikes pierced its way to the back of his head. The agony of it spread from his temples to his jaw.

Why are they doing this?
Stephen made one last plea. “What sport is it to taunt and torture a wounded man? I ask again for mercy. Please, kill me.”

Shortly after the couple found the Englishman, a fearsome iron-clad cart arrived.

Marchand shrank back, deeper into the woods. The English knight’s mount whinnied and tried to

rear as the huge cart rolled their way. The conveyance produced a deafening roar that drowned

out the horse’s whinny. Conquerant grew increasingly restless as the noise neared. Terrified

himself, Marchand thought to make the Sign of the Cross but held fast to the reins of both

destriers.

Atop the cart’s iron coat, a light as bright as a thousand candles flickered and spun in a

rapid circular path. The light hurt his eyes. He turned, fearful such candle strength might damage his sight.

Men in more odd clothing leapt from the strange cart. One carried a bag. The tools of a

torturer? They did things to the Englishman. He fought the men but they overpowered him.

Enemy though he was, Marchand respected him for his attempt to battle on. “I do not

blame you, chevalier.”

The men lifted the knight onto a plank where they strapped him down, and then they

loaded him into the rear of the iron cart. The hideous wail roared again. The thousand-candle-light flashed and the cart fled down the road at a speed Marchand never imagined possible. He shook

off the shiver that began at his neck and traveled down his spine. Where did they take the knight, and what waited for the Englishman once there?

Perhaps this world was the hell priests rail about. He looked over to the Abbey. Only its

roof was visible.

“How could such a place be in hell?” he whispered aloud. How could he be there when

his heart still beat? If not hell, then what place was this?

Chapter Three

Once the iron-clad cart left, the couple and their dog returned home. The few other people

who’d come out to see the excitement went home too, including a woman who had stopped

hanging laundry on a garden line to watch. Marchand noted most of the men wore leg coverings

like the blue ones on the clothesline. He eyed them. Might fit. Might not. To learn exactly what this place was, he needed to interact with the people.

Hot and sweaty under his helm, Marchand flipped his visor up and then cantered into the

woods with the English knight’s horse in tow. The cool air blew over him as he rode, a refreshing rush on his sticky hair and head.

He rode to the Clain River, dismounted, and let the horses drink their fill. Kneeling next to

the horses, he removed his helm then drank and drank. His mouth tasted dry as the sand around

his Normandy holding. Marchand paused, palms cupped and poised to scoop up more water. His

holding. Did his cliff side chateau exist anymore? He shook off his concern, filled his hands with water and swallowed it all in two gulps. He couldn’t concern himself over the holding now. One

worry at a time, more pressing matters were at hand.

After he drank what seemed like a bucket, he dipped his head into the river. The cold

shock of water helped to clear his mind. He smoothed his hair, squeezed the excess water out and stood. The horses nibbled on the grass growing along the bank. Battle is as hard on animals as

men. Before long they’d be hungry for more than the meager offering of river grass. Where could he graze them unseen, or at least find more fodder to feed both? Just finding food for Conquerant might prove difficult enough. He’d have to sell the English horse soon. But where to sell him——

another troubling question.

First he’d steal other clothes. His protective armor clanked when he moved away from the

river. He paused. With all that happened, awareness of the lack of noise suddenly touched him.

For months, the constant clamor of armor, horses, the jingle of tack, the hammering of farriers, the din of hundreds of men talking and shouting, the banging of cook pots and myriad of other noises filled the days and nights. Here the air was filled with soft woodland sounds. He gave himself to the peaceful moment, closed his eyes and listened. All around, birds sang. Some trilled sweet and cheery. Not all pleased the ear. The songs of some were closer to a harsh squawk, but they

weren’t the background to war. Nearby leaves rustled with the passage of small creatures. He

opened his eyes and got back to the business at hand.

Marchand chose to carry only his eating dagger as a weapon and slid it into his short boot.

He stripped off his armor and stacked it into a pile with the exception of his arming sword. Then, he placed armfuls of branches and limbs on top to hide the pieces. With no way to know how well traveled the woods were, he couldn’t chance losing the valuable armor. The cuirass cost him a

fortune to have made to fit his broad back and chest. Off came his surcoat with the Marchand

heraldic symbol embroidered on the front. The plain linen shirt he wore beneath it would draw no one’s eye.

The horses were next. He stuck his folded surcoat into his kit, removed the saddles,

bridles, Arthur’s chanfron and Conquerant’s caparison. Marchand concealed the horse trappings

as best he could behind another tree.

There was nowhere to hide the horses. For now, they were at peace and he decided to

leave them to eat and rest untethered. Conquerant he trusted not to wander far or bolt. As long as they’re not being shot with arrows, or being ripped from their known world and tossed into a

strange new one, a knight’s warhorse is trained not to spook. The English horse was undoubtedly trained in the same fashion. Absent the need to compete for a mare, neither stallion challenged the other. By nature a herd animal, the English horse would likely stay near a companion horse.

He needed another, better hiding place for his sword. If someone stumbled onto this dark-

wooded spot and stole the horses and armor, it would be a terrible loss. His sword though, was a special gift from his father, who’d been given it by the king. Trained in its use since his youth, Marchand was among the finest swordsmen in the province. The sword was as much a part of

him as his right arm. A search of the immediate area turned up a wild oleander covered in blooms.

Fallen blossoms covered the ground around it. Marchand shoved the sword as far as he could

reach under the dark umbrella of the bush and then shook the branches hard to thicken the blanket of petals.

He walked a different path back to the battlefield. When he reached the edge of the

woods, he stopped and watched. No one came or went from the houses. Nor did anyone travel

the road. Good. He spent a few minutes focused on the house where the laundry hung, looking for the woman. Twice she passed by an upstairs window. The bedchamber he assumed. If so, where

was the husband? From the sun’s position, it was mid-afternoon. The husband probably still toiled at his trade. All the men he knew worked from sunrise to sunset.

Marchand checked in both directions one more time and then casually walked across the

road. By the rear corner of the house, he stopped again and poked his head around the wall. No

sign of a dog. He dropped and crawled on his hands and knees to the clothesline, where he hid

between two rows of bed linens. All was quiet. No yelling, no door opening, he guessed it safe and crawled to the row with clothing. He ripped the blue chausses and two shirts from their fasteners, then quickly snatched a bed linen. As calmly as he crossed the road from the woods, he returned the same way.