Ready for battle, Medieval English knight, Stephen Palmer,
charges into the French enemy’s cavalry line. Heeding a warning given months
before, he hesitates as he comes face-to-face with the knight in the warning.
Struck down in the year 1356, he finds himself landing in the year 2013.
Grievously wounded, he’s taken to a nearby hospital. Confused by the new world
surrounding him, he attempts to convince the staff he’s from another time, only
to find they think him mad.
Rescued by friends, who, to his surprise, have also come
through time, he must find a way to function in this odd modern England. He is
quickly enchanted by the kind Esme Crippen, the young woman hired to tutor him.
She too is enchanted by him. Tempted to deepen the relationship, she hesitates
thinking him adorable, but mad. He must discover the means for getting her to
believe the truth, all the while, unknown to him, he didn’t come forward in
time alone. The enemy knight has also traveled to 2013.
French noble, Roger Marchand, doesn’t question why the
English knight who charged him hesitated. That fraction of a pause gave him the
advantage needed and he brought his sword down upon the Englishman’s helmet
hard, unhorsing the knight. He moved to finish the Englishman off when the
world changed in a rush of sensations as he is ripped through time.
Seeking a reason for the terrible event, he enters a nearby
chapel. There, thinking God has chosen him for a quest to turn French defeat
that day in 1356 to victory, he sets out to find the English knight. The man he
is convinced holds the key to time. If he returns to the day of the battle, he
can warn his king of mistakes that snatched victory from them.
Teaser Time!!
She knocked and a short, compact
man with grey, thinning hair, cloudy blue eyes, and the reddest lips she’d ever
seen on a man answered. In a way, he reminded her of Rupert Bear. He wore a red
sweater vest over an open-collared white shirt, unfashionable brown plaid
cuffed trousers that looked a size too big, and well-worn brown, wing-tipped
shoes.
“You must be Esme Crippen.” He
gestured for her and Electra to come inside. He closed the door and extended
his hand. “Will Davison.”
“I’m Esme,” she said, shaking his
hand. “This is my sister, Electra.”
“Electra, a fine literary name,”
Davison said as they shook hands.
Esme took a quick scan of the
cluttered office, surprised a curator, even of a small museum, hadn’t a
secretary.
“You said you’re looking for a
drawing lent to us by the National Gallery in 1960. The Black Prince at Crecy,
you said.”
“Yes. Does it sound familiar?”
“I was an apprentice here then. I
believe I know the work you’re speaking of, an impressively detailed rendering
considering the environment. It was done on vellum, we believe for the king, as
colored inks were used, including gold, although no gold leaf was applied. We
think the work was probably done by one of his priests. Unfortunately it was
placed into storage back in the seventies and the facility burned to the ground
in 1979.”
The news sucked every ounce of
energy from her. She had so much hope. Why didn’t Davison tell her over the
phone and save her the trip? The bloody drive took three hours. Bad enough to
waste those hours not to mention they’d hit the London rush hour on the return.
She’d like to wrap her hands around his scrawny neck and shake the fillings
from his teeth.
“Fortunately,” he continued, “We
had a copy made prior to the drawing going into storage. “The original was
fragile, obviously. The curator and I worried it might deteriorate more if it
stayed on display. As the Black Prince was the subject, and is such a big part
of Canterbury’s history, we did want to keep a representation exhibited. We had
it copied in oil. It hangs in the main room of the museum. Come, I’ll show
you.”
He led them to a side door of his
office that also served as a door to the rear of the museum proper. This
section of the museum displayed artifacts and pictures from the Victorian
period up to and including the hard fought air war, the Battle of Britain.
Through another archway to the next
room, Davison led them to a painting. The gilded-framed oil was about a meter
wide and a half meter high and hung in the center of one wall.
“Remarkable isn’t it?” he said. “It
depicts the aftermath of the battle. This is where the young prince raised up
so many young men who fought alongside him to knighthood.”
“Oh my God,” Esme whispered.
Shocked, she stared unable to take her eyes from the painting. How could this
be? Identical down to the wound on the chin. She’d seen the scar on Stephen’s
chin up close.
Unlike the larger, more famous
sister institutions, the simpler Museum of Canterbury didn’t employ infrared
protective alarms that go off when a visitor gets too close to an exhibit.
Davison’s hand on her arm stopped
Esme as she stepped forward, fingers inches from the canvas. “No touching
allowed, Ms. Crippen,” he warned and removed his hand.
“Sorry,” she said, moving back to
drop onto the bench in front of the painting.
“What is it?” Electra asked.
“Are you ill, my dear?” Davison
asked.
She shook her head, too numb to
speak.
Electra joined her on the bench.
“You look like you’re going to faint. You’re white as a ghost.”
“Would you like some water, Miss
Crippen?”
Finally, she found her voice. “No.
Thank you but I’m fine,” she told Electra and Davison.
Esme turned from the painting to
ask, “Is this an exact copy of the original?”
“Yes. The curator at the time was
meticulous man and would not approve even the slightest deviation.”
“You’re positive?”
He nodded. “Very.”
“Esme—”
She held up her hand to stop
Electra’s question. “Thank you, Mr. Davison. This is more than I expected when
I asked about the drawing. If it’s all right, I’d like a few minutes more to
appreciate the excellent artistry.”
“No worries, Miss Crippen. If you
require no more of me, I’m going to return to my office. Take as much time as
you like. The museum is open until five.” Davison gave each a polite tip of his
head and left.
As soon as he was out of the room,
Electra said, “Esme talk to me. There’s something up with you and this
painting. I want to know what.”
“The young man kneeling, two over
from the prince’s left, the one holding a bloody gauntleted hand under his
chin.”
“What about him?”
“He looks just like Stephen.”
From Electra’s sour expression, she
found the explanation anticlimactic. “That’s all? Jeez, I thought it was something
really big.”
“You don’t understand. He could be
Stephen’s double. That’s not all. The man standing behind him I’d swear is Alex
Lancaster. A younger version but hand to heart, I think it’s him.”
“I’ve only seen pictures of Alex
Lancaster when he’s been in the press. I agree. It does look like him. But it
isn’t either Stephen or Alex since those men,” she tipped her chin toward the
painting, “lived close to seven hundred years ago. Why are you weirding out?”
Esme ignored the question. Too many
of her own occupied her thoughts. How had his face wound up on this medieval
man: the narrow too long nose, the strong jaw, the broad forehead, even the
shape of his eyes...his injury didn’t change the slight downward tip to the
outside corners?
“Hello,” Electra waved her hand in
front of Esme’s face.
“Stop it.” She dug her cell phone
out. Conscious of how light and shadow might affect the shots, she took
pictures of the painting from different angles.
Electra tugged on her arm, pulling the camera away from her
face. “He’s not Stephen. Maybe he’s his ancestor, five-hundred times removed,
but he’s not Stephen.” She let out a heavy sigh.
Available On Amazon:
I was born and raised in Chicago. My father was a history professor and my mother was, and is, a voracious reader. I grew up with a love of history and books.
My parents also love traveling, a passion they passed onto
me. I wanted to see the places I read about, see the land and monuments from
the time periods that fascinated me. I’ve had the good fortune to travel
extensively throughout Europe, the Near East, and North Africa.
I am a retired police detective. I spent twenty-five years
in law enforcement with two different agencies. My desire to write came in my
early teens. After I retired, I decided to pursue that dream. I write two
different series. My paranormal romance series is called, Knights in Time. My
romantic thriller series is, Dangerous Waters.
I currently live in the Pacific Northwest with my husband,
four rescue dogs and a rescue horse.
Stalker Links:
Author links: http://www.chriskarlsen.com/
Good Morning,
ReplyDeleteI want to thank Crystal and Out There for showcasing Knight Blindness. I look forward to talking with her followers. I'd also like to let everyone know that Knight Blindness is a free download today for Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Knight-Blindness-Knights-Time-ebook/dp/B00E2QS488/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1375539463&sr=1-1&keywords=knight+blindness
Chris Karlsen