Keeper of the Black Stones (42 page)

“You will stay here and allow me to leave,” I muttered, shining the flashlight on one and then the other. “Do not follow me, and I shall allow you to live.”

Both men nodded their assent, their eyes trained on the floor. I paused a moment, wondering if that was really all it was going to take, then turned, retrieved the soldier's dagger, slammed the cell door shut behind me, and darted out the main door, slamming that shut as well.

I found Tatiana and William waiting on the other side of the main door. Tatiana was beaming, and threw her arms around me, planting a kiss right on my cheek.

“That was terrific!” she blurted out, laughing.

William nodded, smiling like a maniac as well. “I do not know what you did, friend, but I am glad to count you as an ally.”

I smiled crookedly, still off-balance from Tatiana's unexpected display of affection. This was new territory for me, and I wasn't sure how to respond, but I shook it off, trying to think ahead to the next step.

“What do we do now?” she asked, with that unsettling ability to guess my thoughts.

“We get out of this damn castle,” I said quietly. “There's a maze of tunnels right under our feet. All we have to do…” I moved my hands over the wall in front of me, looking for the loose rock I knew I'd find there. When I found it I pushed, and the wall in front of us slid away to reveal a dark, enclosed tunnel.

Grinning, I turned back to Tatiana and William. Both wore equally shocked expressions. But neither hesitated when I ushered them into the tunnel. I grabbed a torch from the wall and followed them in, then turned to the left.

Within an hour, I knew, we'd be out of the castle and on our way to finding Doc. I just hoped we had time to get there.

30

T
he Earl of Oxford would have been content to sleep under the stars for several hours, with his pack and blanket, as it would have meant a quicker start in the morning. Perhaps before the sun rose. Henry Tudor and his entourage, however, had other ideas. They'd been marching for two days, and Henry had demanded a reprieve for both men and horses. It was a hard point to argue. If they were going to intercept Dresden at the right time and place, they needed to hurry. But they were two days away from the battle, and it would not do to bring an exhausted and unhappy army to the battlefield. Demoralized soldiers didn't win wars.

The Earl had compromised, and so found himself in his own tent, pacing anxiously at the unavoidable delay.

Suddenly the flaps around the entrance to his tent moved. The Earl jumped for his sword, but relaxed when he saw that it was only Trigva.

“My Lord,” Trigva muttered, stepping into the tent. “A messenger, sent by Lord Bernard of Constantine.”

Another man stepped into the tent, making his way cautiously into the uncomfortably warm confines of the enclosure. The Earl glanced at him, wondering why Bernard of Constantine was overworking his messengers. This one was thin, young, and beyond exhaustion, judging by his gaunt appearance and the deep lines beneath his eyes. He looked as if he'd been riding for days. Whatever the boy had been sent to say, it was important.

“Yes?” he asked quietly, trying not to intimidate the young man.

The messenger gulped and looked up. He nodded once, then settled back into the pose all messengers adopted while relaying their statements. “My Lord Bernard of Constantine wishes for me to relay a story many of his subjects reported witnessing in the village of Blythe yesterday afternoon, my Lord. He thought–that is, my Lord Bernard of Constantine thought–that the information may seem relevant to you. His own men do not know what to make of it.”

The Earl nodded, encouraging the messenger to continue. What he heard shocked him. The man spoke of a strange man who had claimed to work for the church, but had looked nothing like clergy. The man had fought with a group of Danes who had been holding the town of Blythe for days. He'd defeated them, and quickly, using a weapon more devastating than the Devil's Flame.

“He pointed this stick at the Danes and they died immediately,” the messenger said quietly. “It roared with the sound of cannon fire, and shook the walls of the houses.”

The Earl sat back, trying to make sense of the story. Was this one of Dresden's men with a gun, this far afield? Shooting at Danes? With a new sort of weapon? “Did he travel alone? Wear anyone's colors or badges?” he asked intently.

The messenger shook his head. “Not that was reported to me, my Lord. But he did not travel alone. He had two young men with him, as well as two young women.”

The Earl nodded, and the messenger took his leave.

“Does that mean anything to you, my Lord?” Trigva asked after the young man was out of earshot.

The Earl said nothing for a moment. Someone was traveling in this time period, and drawing attention to themselves with their recklessness. They had modernized weapons, or something like them. His mind raced to his grandson, unbidden, and the look in Jason's eyes the last time he'd seen him. Surely it couldn't be … surely Jason wouldn't have traveled back, or put his friends in danger by bringing them along.

His instincts, though, told him that the boy may have done just that.

The Earl shook his head and sent Trigva from the tent. If his instincts were right, and these strangers were Jason and Reis, it was going to make the situation–and the coming battle–far more dangerous.

31

D
resden stared at the men in the cell, horrified.

When his soldier hadn't returned immediately with Jason, he'd suspected that something was amiss, and sent Sloan down into the tunnels under the castle to track them. He'd been reluctant to leave it to the boy, though, and had rushed after him, cloth pressed against his nose to protect himself from the stench of the underground maze and dungeon.

Now he breathed heavily through the thin cloth, trying to understand what exactly he was looking at.

“Thank God you've come for us, my Lord,” the jailer said, pushing his hand suddenly through the iron bars. “We've been down here in the dark for hours.”

Sloan brought the torch up to eye level and leaned hesitantly toward the cell. The enormous man–and the soldier they'd sent down earlier–pressed against the door, their faces filthy and desperate.

Dresden grabbed the torch from his son's hand and pushed the flame through the bars of the door, causing the jailer and soldier to jerk back in surprise.

“Where is the boy? Where is William Stanley?” he snapped, his eyes rushing around the confines of the cell. They weren't here, that much was obvious. His erstwhile daughter was gone as well, the devil take her.

He looked back to the soldier, his eyes spitting fire, and waited impatiently for an answer.

“Gone, your Grace, through magic and trickery,” the soldier mumbled.

“Gone?” Dresden screeched, shoving the flame farther into the cell. What on earth are you talking about?”

“What did you see?” Sloan asked, his voice stiff with tension.

“He placed the girl in a box in his hand, your Grace, and cast a beam of light into the darkness, using only his palm,” the jailer said, his voice trembling. “He threatened to trap–”

“You allowed William Stanley and the boy to escape, because of a few simple parlor tricks?” Dresden gasped.

Suddenly he roared in anger, turning sharply from the men in the cell and striding back out into the tunnel. This was inconceivable. Those two fools had allowed his most important prisoners to escape, and in doing so had endangered all of his plans. He had lived with the people of this time for long enough to know that their incompetence knew no limits. The next steps were glaringly clear. He was counting on Lord Stanley to join Richard in the coming battle, and capture and kill Richard Evans, all because Dresden himself held the younger Stanley hostage. Now that the younger Stanley had escaped, he would go straight to his brother. If he found him quickly, neither of these important things would happen. Even if they
did
go as planned, Richard Evans would be dead, and the boy–Dresden's only other hope at controlling the stones–would be … well, wherever he would be, it wouldn't be safely and securely in Dresden's prison.

Unless…

“Father, could it be true? Could he be a sorcerer?” Sloan asked, appearing suddenly at Dresden's elbow.

Dresden drew to a stop just outside the gate and stared at the wall in front of him, a slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“How they did it is of little importance, boy. The fact is that it's done, and now we must undo it. Summon Lord Bryer's son and his men, and send them to me here. Then gather my personal guard and ready the large wagon. You and I ride for Bosworth today.”

“But Father–”

“Now!” Dresden thundered. He watched the boy skitter away, then turned back to the wall in front of him, where a gaping hold stood, dark and grim. They had discovered the tunnels, then, and sought to escape that way. But they had neglected to close the door behind them, and would have made other mistakes as well.

Bryer was the best tracker he had in his service. Lord William, that boy, and his impetuous, sharp-tongued daughter would be captured and back in his dungeon by nightfall. And then they would pay for having escaped the first time.

Katherine hunkered down on the bench, willing her body to stay awake. They'd been driving for what felt like hours, and she was still reeling from the destruction of the bridge. And the soldiers, before that. And the escape on horseback, before that.

All in all, the last twenty-four hours had given her more action than she'd ever seen in her life. An adventure, indeed. Perhaps in the future she should be more careful what she wished for.

Now they were tearing along the road to Bosworth, seeking a man named Doc, and leaving Jason and the girl Tatiana to their fates. The thought did not sit well with Katherine, but Reis had assured her that Jason could fend for himself. She may have believed him if she hadn't seen the doubt behind his own eyes.