Keeper of the Black Stones (48 page)

The man named Trigva gave Doc a startled look at his reaction, and strode into the tent.

“I have just arrived, my Lord. The war council is gathering in Henry's tent for the meeting you requested.”

Doc turned to face Reis and straightened his back. “Well, here we go,” he muttered. “You three come with me, and keep your mouths shut. If anyone speaks to you, tell them that you are with me. You are not–under any circumstances–to ask or answer questions. Understood?” He strode toward the opening of the tent, his mouth a grim line, and we scrambled to follow, throwing on the hooded cloaks we'd been given. Suddenly I paused.

“What about Tatiana and Katherine?”

Doc shook his head, throwing a quick glance at the girls. “They may come with us, but they will not be allowed into Henry's tent. They will have to wait for us outside.” He was already striding out of the tent, throwing his own hood up over his head, and we rushed to catch up with him.

“We will not have much time,” he snapped. “But I must warn Tudor of what you've told me. If the Stanleys have changed their allegiance, we must change our own plans to accommodate that.”

“What exactly is the state of affairs here?” Reis asked, loudly enough to be heard over the rain.

Doc nodded at his question, but strode quickly past two knights–seemingly oblivious to the weather–before answering. He looked around to ensure that no one outside our circle was within earshot, then cleared his throat.

“Our scouts, for the most part, agree with the text books in regard to the scale of armies on both sides. Between archers, horsemen, and infantry, Tudor has close to five thousand men. Richard's numbers are greater at over seven thousand.”

I gasped. Those were the numbers I'd learned in my research, but I had
assumed that they were exaggerated. If Richard's army was that much larger than Tudor's
before
Stanley's defection…

“And archers?” Reis asked quickly, his long stride matching Doc's, his head bent in thought. I could almost see the gears turning in his head, trying to find a way out of this particular mess.

Doc grunted. “The one area where we have favorable numbers. We have over fifteen hundred. Richard has about two-thirds that number.”

“What about Stanley?” I countered, hurrying to catch them and join the conversation. “What if he goes to the other side?”

Doc's mouth turned down at the interruption, and he closed his eyes for a moment at the thought. “Stanley has an army equal to our own in foot soldiers and cavalry alone. They lack our number of archers, but not by much. If they have joined Dresden, it will be a very large problem. Which is what we're going to discuss right now.”

“But once William reaches his brother, Lord Stanley won't
have
to fight on Dresden's side,” I huffed, struggling to breathe, walk so quickly, and talk at the same time. “Dresden won't have any leverage against the family. Surely Lord Stanley will turn back and withhold his men. The way he did in the text books.”

“As much as I'd like to believe that,” Doc said, turning toward me, “I'm not going to bet our army–or history itself–on it.”

“You don't believe we've made a difference?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow at this lack of confidence.

“I don't believe you've done anything concrete, no,” he muttered. “William may or may not have made it there. Lord Stanley may or may not realize that his brother is free. And finally, Stanley may change his alliance at any time. No matter what you think you've done. If history holds true, he will keep his army at bay and let the battle play itself out.”

“And if that doesn't happen?” Paul asked.

“That's exactly what I have to talk to Henry and the others about,” Doc
answered grimly, ducking lower to clear a low-hanging branch. “If Stanley enters the fight–on Dresden's side–I do not know if our army will be able to hold them off. And if we don't–if we lose the day–then the line of history changes and…”

Suddenly he stopped, and we found ourselves in front of a tent every bit as large as Doc's. My grandfather drew his shoulders up and pushed them back down, took a deep breath, and strode into the tent.

We scrambled to follow, as usual, and ducked through the opening to start our war council with the future king of England.

36

I
gagged the moment we stepped into the tent.

It was stuffy, smelled terrible, and was much too warm for any reasonable person under the age of eighty. A fire burned in the pit at the center, and several dogs lay around it, smelling distinctly wet. The men stood on one side of the tent, gathered around a large table. They were arguing loudly when we entered, but grew quiet when they saw Doc. My eyes ran around the table, trying to judge the men in front of us, and paused when I came to a familiar face. Henry Tudor. I would recognize the long, gaunt face of the historical leader anywhere. I gulped, wondering what the protocol was in this situation, and then turned to look at the other men. I didn't recognize them, though I would later learn that Lord Taylor, the Duke of Northridge, Philibert de Chandee, the Earl of Eaton, Lord Edmond, and several highranking men of the church were also included, awaiting my grandfather–the physics professor's–arrival.

Everyone, including Henry Tudor, stopped talking and looked up as the man of the hour strode confidently toward the table. I had always been proud of my grandfather, but the pride and awe I felt at that moment, as Doc walked forward to take his place next to those men, went far beyond anything I'd ever felt for him. He was the man they turned to, I realized. The one they trusted. England–and the world itself–was resting on his shoulders, treating him as its savior, and he was moving forward and doing what he could to serve that responsibility.

I began to regret some of my earlier words, then, but shook it off.
Action now, regrets or celebration later, Evans,
I told myself. That had to be the way of it.

Doc had already reached the table, and was now gazing down on the maps and figures there. I knew what the map held: the terrain of tomorrow's the battlefield. The positioning of the archers, the placement of the infantry, and the timing of the cavalry's charge. Doc would know all of that from his research–the best times and places to deploy men, the areas where they should attack, what Dresden and Richard's army would do…

Assuming, of course, that the historians had it right. And that Stanley's men stayed out of it.

“Therein lies the rub,” I whispered, thinking suddenly of Shakespeare. Two rather large problems, and no simple answers.

“Dresden's household guards have positioned themselves atop Ambion Hill, just as you said they would,” one of the lords said, pointing to a red figurine in the shape of a wooden square that sat in the center of the map.

Doc nodded vaguely, as though the man was telling him old news, but didn't answer. Instead, he continued to study the map, reaching out to adjust a figure now and then.

“What's going on?” Paul whispered suddenly in my ear. I jumped, surprised, and shot him a glare.

“Those men are waiting for Doc to tell them what to do, and he's trying to decide what to say,” I whispered back. “They think they know what's going to happen, but Doc knows something they don't.”

“What's that?”

“Lord Stanley,” I returned, watching my grandfather intently. “That man holds the balance of power in his hands. History says that he watched the battle but didn't take part. If his brother finds him in time, he should still do that.”

“And if he doesn't?” Paul asked.

I turned to face Paul, the question hanging in the air between us. “Then we're all in serious trouble.”

At that moment, Doc brought his hands slowly down on the table in
front of him and looked at the men around him, his eyes bleak. “My scouts tell me that the Stanley has altered his allegiance,” he said clearly. “It would appear that his army is here, and prepared to go to battle for Richard.” He paused, allowing the shocked silence around us to stretch on, then cleared his throat and got down to business. “It appears, therefore, that we must reassess our plans and change them where necessary, if we expect to gain a victory tomorrow.”

When we returned, we gathered around the table in Doc's tent, made sure that we were alone, and did our own planning. The battle session hadn't gone well. Henry and his advisors had pressed Doc to give them more details than he could about Stanley, and had finally declared that they didn't believe him. He was still leading the army, of course, and would make the decisions in regard to the army's movement, but I got the distinct impression that it would have been easier with support.

He was now worried about Stanley's army as well as his own. Overall, the mood was grim.

There were many things that hadn't been said at Henry's battle council, though–things that
couldn't
be said–and now was the time to deal with them. We sent Katherine, who was exhausted, to her bed at the back of the tent, and then Reis, Paul, Tatiana, and I crouched in the near-darkness around the table, with a scant three candles for light, and listened as Doc started with what he knew.

“Let's begin with the girl,” he said, looking daggers at me. “Why have you brought her?”

I sighed. We were supposed to be planning a battle, not talking about Katherine. And this wasn't exactly a question I wanted to answer again. Still…

“I saw her on the trip here,” I answered bluntly. “When we found her, I recognized her, and I felt…” I shrugged helplessly, trying to find the right words. “I felt like we had to bring her. Like we'd found her for a reason, and
that the stones had led us to her. I can't explain it, but I couldn't leave her.” I met Doc's eyes and lifted my chin, wondering if he was going to question me on this too.

To my surprise, though, he nodded once in agreement. “If you saw her on your trip, then you were right to bring her. The stones may have been trying to tell you that she's important to history in some way.”

“Oookay,” Paul muttered, raising his eyebrows in doubt. “So what are we supposed to do with her, since you're being so clear with the details and all?”

Doc shook his head. “For now, we keep her close to us. Let me worry about her future.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice, bringing the meeting to order. “We have far more important things to discuss right now.”

Reis leaned forward as well, grinning. “Now you're speaking my language. What exactly are we dealing with here?”

“Let's start with the stones,” Doc murmured. “I'm not sure whether we can use them to win this battle, and I'd be lying if I said I knew how they worked. Simply put, though, I believe that they're portals, or gates if you will, that either create or mark rips in time. Those rips allow individuals to journey back and forth within the parameters of the fourth dimension. To travel through time. The stones somehow facilitate that journey.”

He looked around at our darkened faces and saw our confusion, but shook his head. “I don't have time to explain in further detail, I'm afraid. You will just have to take my word for it. The stones create–for whatever reason–tunnels through time.”

“Wormholes,” I breathed in awe. Amazing, and it made perfect sense. Areas where time grew thin. Where the boundaries between the dimensions ceased to exist. I paused for a moment, then continued that thought. “But we can move the stones. What are they, portable black holes? They
create
holes in time?”

Doc nodded, smiling faintly at this exhibition of creative thinking. “They must, for they work even when they move,” he answered. “I believe that they
attract
the holes.”

“And this has what, exactly, to do with my father?” Tatiana interrupted impatiently.

Doc grunted in response, calling the meeting abruptly back to order. “Right you are, my girl.” He turned and walked through the darkness to the bed to grab a piece of rope, which he laid on the table in a back-and-forth pattern so that it looked like a hard ribbon Christmas candy.