Keeper of the Black Stones (11 page)

Doc groaned, as though he'd repeated this conversation more times than he could count. I wondered at the argument, and at Doc's frustration. If this man was one of his best friends, why were they fighting this way? Why was this Mr. Fleming causing so much tension, making himself intentionally so difficult?

“You're not hearing me, John. That is not our decision to make. We don't have the right, and we don't know what will happen if we attempt to exert such influence. Nicholas is taking us down a path that will destroy us all. Henry VII and his line led England out of the Dark Ages. When he took power, England found peace under one monarch for the first time in nearly eighty years. Henry's line, and the various wives involved, made great strides in art, music, literature, and science. Much of the country's Enlightenment occurred as a direct result of this war's outcome. I'd hate to think what would have happened if things turned out differently.” By the end of this speech, Doc's voice was ragged, hoarse with strongly felt emotion and belief.

“Beyond that, what are the repercussions on the world, on time itself?” he continued. “If history suddenly changes course, our entire reality will change in the beat of a heart. Will the world survive this sudden change in direction? Will we?”

Fleming had gone quiet. He evidently didn't have an argument for that bit of logic. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, although possibilities were flooding through my brain. My grandfather and one of his close friends were sitting in our kitchen discussing how to manipulate Henry VII's future. As easy as discussing the weather. I was historian enough to know the
man's importance to history, and the possible repercussions of his death. His line led directly down to Queen Elizabeth, and from there to almost every good thing in that country. Not to mention the future of our own. This meant … I released a quiet breath. Either the journal was telling the truth and our entire world was in danger, or both of these men were destined for the loony bin. Part of me was starting to believe that the journal was real. All of it. But I wasn't quite ready to admit it yet. Not without proof.

Finally Fleming spoke. “What else is it, Richard? I know you well enough to know that something else has you worried,” he said.

“He's a well-educated man, John.” My grandfather paused to take a deep breath. “And he went back prepared. I've heard rumors that he's already introducing Richard and his troops to advanced techniques in metallurgy.”

“Metallurgy? You mean guns? He wants to make guns?” Fleming asked. This must have been news to him. His voice was now quite serious.

I heard someone reach into what I assumed was a paper bag, and something heavy clanked onto the table. For a moment, no one spoke. I held my breath, locked into a conversation I could only hear. What was on the table? I drew closer to the register and stared at it, as though I'd be able to see through to the table above me.

“We found these on several of the defenders in Abergavenny,” my grandfather finally said. His voice was low, and unutterably sad.

Fleming grunted. “Fifteenth-century soldiers had crude forms of firearms,” he said. “Perhaps this is one of their own making.”

A gun, then. My grandfather had found a gun in fifteenth-century England. Fleming was right – they had existed, in limited forms, but…

“True, but cartridges didn't,” Doc said. I heard something hollow drop onto the table, as though Doc had scattered several nuts across the surface. A long pause followed his words.

“But why?” Fleming asked quietly.

I didn't have to see my grandfather to know that he answered with a slight shrug. He used it anytime he ran across a problem to which he didn't have
the answer.

“He's sick, John. He's trying to change the path of history. If given time and allowed to succeed, he'll push the technology of warfare forward, to a society that's not ready for it, and the results will be catastrophic.”

The two remained silent for a moment and I sat, stunned. I had tried to convince myself that I was misunderstanding, at first, but the more I listened, the clearer it became. At this point, all signs pointed to these being real events, rather than some elegant farce. I couldn't image two grown men discussing something so seriously if it wasn't important. And I definitely couldn't imagine Doc going into such detail over something that was a figment of his imagination. He spoke with the emotion and knowledge of a man who was intimately involved. But how did it actually happen, this jumping through time?

And when would it happen again?

Doc interrupted my thoughts. “There's something else I need to tell you, John. It won't be easy to hear.”

“How much worse could it get?” Fleming asked quietly.

I moved closer to the register, intent on the lowered voices and what they were saying, and leaned in. I had to be careful not to brush against any boxes in the basement; this was my chance to hear the truth about what was going on, and I wasn't going to waste it. I was moving carefully for a second reason, too – for all I knew, sound traveled up to the kitchen just as easily as it traveled down. Any noise might signal to Doc and Fleming that they had an audience, and end the conversation. This worried me enough that I'd been holding my breath throughout, hardly daring to exhale.

I was settling into a more comfortable position next to the register when something suddenly grabbed me from behind. I felt claws dig into my back and pull at my shirt, and sat up too quickly, scared out of my wits. The box underneath me gave way and I fell to the floor, grunting, then rolled to my stomach. My eyes flew around the room, searching desperately for my attacker. Who was down here? Were they going to give me away, or was it one of the men who had broken into our house? As I thrashed on the floor, our cat Milo walked self-importantly from behind the box and gave me a
wide feline stare. I released my breath in a soft laugh, both at myself and at the situation.

The cat. Of course, it was just the cat.

“Damn it Milo, you scared the hell out of me,” I whispered. I turned back to the register, wondering how loud we'd been. If Doc or Fleming had heard that ruckus…

“Nicholas has a son named Sloan. He's about the same age as my grandson,” Doc was saying.

I sighed in relief. They hadn't heard me, then.

“So I'm grandfather to a child that's roughly five hundred years my senior. Fascinating,” Fleming said sarcastically.

Doc grunted.

“And your plan, how is that progressing?” Fleming asked.

“The gold you gave me has equipped me with an army equal to the task of stopping Richard's.”

I grunted. This, I had read about in Doc's journal. He had gone back looking for a way to stop this Nicholas character, and fallen into the perfect situation: a title without an owner, easy for the taking. Along with a small fortune, a couple of castles, and a large army. The Earl of Oxford had died in his twenties, without an heir, and his estate had fallen into chaos. Doc had purchased the title and
become
the Earl of Oxford, according to his account. Now he was using his position as the Earl of Oxford to support Henry Tudor's bid for the throne. Against Richard III and this Dresden character. Standard fare for England in the 1400's, I supposed.

I realized suddenly that Doc and Fleming were still talking, and leaned toward the register, unwilling to miss any of the conversation.

“But I have researched this man,” Fleming was saying, bewildered. “By all accounts, he lived into his seventies. One of the oldest noblemen in the Lancaster bloodline.”

Doc laughed. “I've read the history books, John. The old versions and the newer versions. I did my research before I went back.”

“So you're telling me that if you didn't go back in time, John De Vere, the Earl of Oxford, would not have existed?” Fleming said incredulously.

“He would have existed. But not as we know him today,” Doc replied.

“So if you or my son had not gone back in time…”

“The Earl of Oxford may not have registered in the history books. At least not in the way he now does. He would not have thrown his lot in with Henry Tudor. But, as the history books now read, the Earl is the only reason that Henry Tudor defeats Richard III to become King of England.”

My head spun. I was familiar with the story, of course. We'd read about it the month before in History. Henry had been a bastard claimant to the throne of England, and had traveled over from France, gathered an army, and taken the throne for himself. The Earl of Oxford had supplied the bulk of that army, if my memory was right. That was the history I had read, and I knew to be true. Was my grandfather actually claiming to be that earl? Claiming that he had helped – or would help – Henry Tudor become King of England … hundreds of years ago?

Fleming was having as much trouble as I was, from the sound of it. “Does that mean that we already know how the Battle of Bosworth turns out?” he asked. “Do we know that you – and Henry Tudor – will defeat Richard and Nicholas? That's how history now stands, isn't it?”

“Unfortunately, no. The conclusive battle between the York and Lancaster clan is set to be re-fought, based on the changes Nicholas and I have made to history already. Its outcome isn't … set.” Doc paused for a moment. “The ribbon of history is still moving forward. There's a good possibility that the history books may be rewritten. Again.”

“Simply unbelievable,” Fleming said in little more than a whisper.

I gulped in agreement. The two grew quiet and I took the opportunity to stand up and walk around for a moment. But my knees buckled before I went far, and not because I was tired. I was overwhelmed with
excitement, fear, and disbelief, and still couldn't wrap my head around the idea. If Doc was telling the truth, which I now believed he was, that meant that a mad man living in the 1400's was about to destroy the world. I wasn't sure whether that was better or worse than the reality of Doc losing his mind. I did think that it was infinitely more dangerous. If, of course, I truly believed it.

“Richard, this entire situation concerns me. Yesterday's break-in confirms that our secret is getting out. You must realize that whoever broke in was after the stone, or you.” Fleming cleared his throat. “That said, you are my oldest friend, and I worry for you. I've taken the liberty of hiring someone to help you. You're doing so much, and I hope that you'll allow me this one small token of … help.”

I heard the sound of paper changing hands, and silence reigned for a full minute. I assumed that Doc was reading whatever it was Fleming had handed him.

“Why? I don't require a body guard. I get along quite well by myself, and I'm better at self-defense now than I ever was before. I don't need protection,” my grandfather finally replied.

“I would note that yesterday's events say otherwise,” Fleming answered quietly. “And think beyond yourself for a moment. You have family again, and you're sitting on the historical equivalent of a nuclear bomb buried under Fort Knox. People, corporations, historians … entire governments would do anything to get their hands on that stone. And on you as well. I know people like this, Richard, and they wouldn't think twice about hurting your grandson to get what they want.”

My fingers clenched on my jeans at that, and my whole body grew tense. Governments … wanting to get to Doc? To me? Wanting to get a hold of what Doc had? This stone … the break-in. Pieces of the puzzle were crashing together so quickly that I almost missed Doc's response.

“Jason. You believe that he's in danger?”

“Look around you,” Fleming replied. “Think, man. Use your brain.”

“I don't know, John.”

“I hope I'm wrong, Richard, but can you live with yourself if I'm right?”

Doc let out a long breath. “A body guard, then. For Jason. Agreed. When will I meet him?” Doc asked.

“You've taken on boarders in the past. It's the perfect cover for having a strongman in the house. He'll drop by tomorrow, and stay. He'll remain as close as possible to you and your grandson. He already has his orders.”

“Does he know about the…”

“I haven't told him anything about that, and I would suggest that you keep quiet about it as well. It appears that too many people know already.”

Doc grunted in agreement. “You're right, I don't want anyone else involved. And that includes my grandson. What do you suggest I tell him? You seem to have planned everything else for me.”

“Just looking out for my dearest friend. You spend too much time with your head in the clouds, and forget to take care of reality. Rather, you spend too much time in the past, and forget to watch the present. I'm simply taking care of it for you. Tell Jason the truth – you've taken on a boarder. A nice guy who needs a place to stay. You've got the room, and you can always use the money.”

There was a long pause, and then the scratch of chairs against the floor. Someone stood up.

“I'm glad we can at least agree about that, Richard. Now, I believe I've had as much as I can handle for one night. Your new roommate will be along tomorrow. I spared no expense; the man is the best at what he does, I assure you.” Fleming cleared his throat, then continued. “Richard, if there's anything else I can do … I realize that we disagree on some points of this plan, but if I can help at all…”

Doc laughed, though he didn't sound happy. “You've done enough as it is. You've spent a fortune.”

Fleming let out a rough laugh of his own. “I've unleashed my son on the world and turned your life upside down in the process. Put you in jeopardy, and your grandson as well. I am no hero.” He paused. “When are you going
back again?”

“The next window opens on Monday morning. I'll go then. I hope that this will be my last time,” my grandfather answered.