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was directed more toward himself than to her, but she
answered it anyway.
    “I have told you, we found you in the forest
and brought you here to my father’s tent.”
    “That’s not what I meant. Something is
dreadfully wrong. I know it. I’m in the wrong place. I should be –
be – somewhere else.”
    “Where?” she asked.
    “I don’t know, damn it! I don’t know!” He
added more calmly, “I shouldn’t yell at you. It’s not your fault.
Tell me, is it permitted to get myself up?” He was still uncertain
about some of the words he needed and the exact sentence
construction of the Frankish language, but Danise could understand
what he wanted.
    “If you feel well enough, you may rise. But
before you go outside the tent, I would advise you to dress.
Guntram has located a tunic and breeches for you, and shoes that
ought to fit.”
    “Don’t I have clothing of my own? Did I come
here naked?”
    “Your own garments are so unusual that we
feared they would cause much comment, and thus we assumed you would
prefer to wear Frankish garb. But your clothes are here, in my
father’s clothes chest. Clothilde washed them for you.” She opened
the lid of the wooden chest to show him. “Here are some coins
Clothilde found in your breeches. She put them into this little
pouch so they would not be lost. My father says this object must be
your purse. Perhaps there is something in it to answer your
questions.”
    He took the folded brown leather wallet and
flipped it open to rifle through the contents. Danise gave a cry of
surprise when he held up a stiff card.
    “It is your image, as you must appear without
these unattractive bruises. How clever the artists of your land
are, to capture your likeness so closely. Is that writing on it? I
cannot make out the unfamiliar letters.”
    “If this is my face,” he said, “then this
must be my name, too. ‘Bailey, Bradford Michael. Expiration date,
3/31/95. I have no idea what those numbers mean. Nor these words.
‘Connecticut Motor Vehicle Operator’s License.’” He turned the card
over, squinting at the tiny blue letters on the other side, shaking
his head because they meant nothing to him.
    “How well you read,” Danise said. “Could you
be a scholar?”
    “I don’t know.” He sank back onto the cot,
staring at the card in his hand.
    “Bail – ley,” she said. “Bailey.”
    “No,” he corrected, still looking at the
photograph of himself. “That’s not right. It doesn’t feel right.”
    “What shall I call you, then? Perhaps
‘Bailey’ is your title. Is your name Bradford?” she asked. “Or is
it Michel , like the archangel?”
    “ Michel ,” he repeated. “Yes, that’s
better. Not exactly right, but better than Bailey or Bradford.”
    “Now you have your name.” She smiled at him.
“Michel. Michel . I like it. It suits you.”
    “How can you possibly know such a thing?” he
demanded. “I may have a label, but we still don’t know who I am, or
why I am here.” He watched her mouth the word label and
think about it.
    “I believe I understand,” she said. “In your
language, the word for name is label .” When he did not
answer, she put her hand over his, enclosing both his fingers and
the driver’s license. “Michel, I think you must learn to be more
patient. Your memory will return to you in time. The king’s own
physician has said so, and my father and Guntram, also.”
    They remained thus for a while, Michel seated
on the bed, Danise crouched before him with her hand over his, each
looking deep into the other’s eyes, Danise longing to unlock the
secrets of his mysterious mind, aching to help him and knowing only
time could cure his affliction. Then, at a sound by the tent
entrance, they pulled apart, not with a guilty start but with a
slow and reluctant motion.
    “Danise,” said Sister Gertrude, “you should
not be alone with a man.”
    “My father knows I am here,” Danise said.
    “Whether Savarec knows where you are or