Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time Read Online Free

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