Keeper of the Black Stones (55 page)

Look behind you
. I felt rather than heard the command inside my head, and turned to look past Reis, down the hill toward King Richard's lines. I caught a glimpse of fair hair, followed by a frightened face, and my momentary sense of relief fled.

“Reis, can I borrow your binoculars?” I asked, honing in on the small party of men gathered just behind Richard's archers.

Reis handed me his field glasses and turned to see what I was looking at. I lifted the binoculars slowly and adjusted the focus, already knowing exactly
what I'd see. My heart rose into my throat to choke me as I found the face I'd come to know so well over the last three days.

“Katherine. Dresden has her,” I whispered, handing the field glasses back to Reis. He glanced at me, then put the glasses quickly to his own eyes, focusing on where I had pointed.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, aghast.

I nodded. “My thoughts exactly. And one guess where he's taking her.”

“Well we already knew we had to stop him, right?” Tatiana muttered suddenly, appearing at my elbow. “This is just one more reason. We've saved the battle. Now let's go save history. And our friend.”

She took off, and we raced after her. I took a deep breath and let the stones' influence take hold of my mind. I would need even more guidance now than I had before. We'd saved the battle, indeed, but our mission wasn't over … not by a long shot.

44

“H
e's dead!” one of Richard's men screamed as he charged toward Dresden. “The Duke of Norfolk is dead!”

Dresden glanced from his position to the battlefield below, and saw that the boy was right. Norfolk's standard had gone down, trampled by the men and horses around him.

“Damn,” he breathed quietly. The man had been their second best chance. Their surprise weapon, so to speak. He'd hoped that in the rush of preparing, Evans and his other commanders would have overlooked him. The last charge had proven him wrong, but he'd still hoped that the man would do
something
helpful. He certainly hadn't expected him to die without accomplishing anything.

Dresden shook his head, frustrated. The guns would have decided the battle, if he'd had time to produce more of them. But Evans had pressed the battle, and Dresden's own men hadn't had as many guns as he'd hoped. They had given Richard's army some advantage, but it had been short lived, and hadn't broken Henry's army the way it should have. Evans had prepared his men, and they'd stood by him. Now he was leading them forward, slowly and decisively breaking through Richard's defenses.

As far he could see, the battle was already over. Stanley's men had not shown, though they'd looked ready enough, and Richard's army had no other forces for the field. The day was nearly finished. And that meant it was time to make his personal exit. As he turned to flee, however, a group of war horses galloped up, skidding to a stop in front of him and blocking his escape.

King Richard's stallion reared up and screamed, kicking mud and dirt over Dresden and his mount. The king was flanked by over a dozen of his prized knights, each armed and ready for battle. They wore full suits of armor and helmets, and each bristled with weapons. The king was equally impressive, his armor and shield bearing the white rose of York. He was as strong and ruthless as the storybooks said, and intent on his rule. Dresden had worked to control and harness that anger for the last two years, to use it for his own purposes. Here on the battlefield, however, his control was beginning to slip. Had slipped, if he was being honest, at the start of the battle, when Richard had sent his men forward rather than waiting. He drew his lips back in an imitation of a respectful smile and bowed slightly, trying to hold his temper for one more conversation.

“Your Grace, you should not be this close to the fighting,” he murmured.

“Lord Dresden,” the king snarled, “I am here to ensure that I keep my crown. It appears that your alliance with Lord Stanley has failed, as have your fiery weapons. Tell me,
Lord,
what exactly have you done for me on this battlefield?” He was angry, and openly blaming Dresden for the turn of the tide, then.

Far past time to leave, Dresden realized, amending the earlier thought. Things were not going according to plan, and this scene was falling apart more quickly than he'd anticipated. He had known that Henry's victory would necessitate escape, but now he began to wonder if Richard was a danger to him as well. He had led the York family through fear and intimidation for over seventeen years, but it seemed Richard had suddenly found his backbone.

He bowed, thankful for his earlier planning. He had an escape route in place, though it galled him to have to use it. Now it looked as though that planning might save his life, and that of his son.

“Your Grace, look,” one of Richard's knights said suddenly, pointing toward the easternmost part of the battlefield. Richard turned his attention from Dresden, releasing the other man to breathe more freely.

“It's Henry Tudor's standard. He and his personal envoy have separated themselves from the Earl of Oxford's main force!” the soldier said excitedly.

Richard nodded once and smiled, then glanced at Dresden. “We finish this battle ourselves, men,” he said, pulling his sword from its scabbard and raising it aloft. “Follow me!” He and his men bounded forward, racing toward Henry Tudor's standard bearer and what they believed would be a victory.

Dresden watched the man go, shaking his head. After all his work, after all he'd sacrificed and done for that man, he was going to throw it away. It would play out exactly as it did in the history books. Richard would die in battle, trying to fight Henry in hand-to-hand combat, and Henry would retrieve the crown himself, from the ground where Richard fell.

“Fool,” he muttered angrily.

“We must join him!” Sloan interrupted, his horse dancing under him, his eyes full of glory and battle lust.

“No!” Dresden snarled. He grabbed Sloan's reins and jerked. “You'll stay with me.”

“But we have Tudor, and this battle will soon be over!” Sloan stared at his father, his face a mixture of confusion and disgust.

“This battle is already decided,” Dresden snapped. He spun his horse around, forcing Sloan's to follow.

“What about the Earl of Oxford?” Sloan yelled in desperation.

Dresden looked at the girl, who sat prisoner in front of one of his soldiers. He turned to study the hill where Stanley's pendent flew, and saw Jason and his daughter Tatiana in the distance. They were watching him. He could feel it. After a moment, they broke into a run, heading straight for him.

He looked back at the girl, who sat stiff and terrified in front of the soldier, and then addressed his son. “We do not need to go after him. Jason Evans will do just as well, and he's coming after
us
. For her. Now move!”

The Earl of Oxford, covered in sweat, mud, and blood, accepted a hand from one of his soldiers. He stood, doing his best to dust himself off, and looked around the field. He'd lost two of his finest horses during the course of the battle, but he'd been lucky. The truth was that both horses had lost their lives defending him, and he was still alive because of them.

Suddenly his lieutenant was by his side, shaking him vigorously. “My Lord, they're leaving!” Trigva shouted, pointing up at the hill side to the east.

The Earl straightened his back and forgot the pain in his right leg as he followed Trigva's gesture. The man was right; Stanley's army had not only stopped marching, but was now turning and beginning to make its way back up the hill. Away from the battle. At the same time, Norfolk's third attack faltered, as if the wind had been released from their sails. Looking to that side, the Earl saw that Norfolk's standard had gone down, the men around it retreating hastily. He was dead, then. The Earl looked up, meeting Trigva's eyes, and gave him half a smile. No one said anything, but the experienced men on the field exchanged long, meaningful glances. The battle was all but over.

The Earl looked again to Stanley's army, thanking heaven that the man had turned back. As his eyes ran over his color guard and through his knights, he spotted a figure he recognized. Gasping, he looked again. It was definitely Jason–he'd recognize the boy anywhere. And he looked to have his friends–and that body guard–with him. What on earth was the boy doing?

Suddenly Jason and his friends broke into a gallop, racing straight for the battlefield.

45

W
e thundered toward the other side of the valley, where I'd last seen Dresden, Sloan, and Katherine. I'd taken my own horse back from Paul when we dropped William off with his brother, and rode on my own now, ducking down over her neck and urging her ahead of the others. The battle was still trickling along in the valley below, but I thought I knew how it would end. Doc's forces had been gaining ground throughout the morning, Stanley was out of it, and there was only one reason for Dresden to be hightailing it out of there–he knew that Richard was going to lose.

As far as I was concerned, though, the battle was just starting. Tatiana was right–it all started and ended with Dresden. I'd stood there and listened to his plans for our world, and I wasn't about to let him get away. No matter what Doc said about it. That man had to be stopped. I just had to find a way to do it.

We pushed our horses harder, anxious to get across the valley before anyone stopped us. It almost worked.

We were halfway across the high plain when a tremendous roar went up from the men on the battlefield. I risked a quick glance downward to see Henry's standard held aloft, the men around it cheering. Richard's standard was nowhere to be seen. Henry had won, then, and history held. For now. I started a small prayer of thanks, but the words died on my lips when I noticed a group of men racing toward us. My grandfather rode in the lead.

“Damn,” I muttered. I wasn't sure what I had hoped for, but avoiding this fight had certainly been on the list.

Reis, Paul, Tatiana, and I pulled to a stop as Doc and his men approached,
and I stared at my grandfather with a mixture of shock and awe. Patches of dried blood covered the right side of his face and his pants were torn in several places, revealing several large wounds and a gash that looked quite serious. Blood dripped from his boots, and his sword was covered in red. Trigva rode beside him, covered in gore and looking slightly more cheerful than usual.

My grandfather–seemingly oblivious to all of these factors–wasted no time with polite conversation. “I see you chose to join the battle after all,” he snapped, looking me up and down. “Though you seem to have won out with Lord Stanley, and at least your were not hurt. Come! We are running out of daylight.” He ended this somewhat odd speech abruptly, pulling his horse's head to the side and peeling away. Expecting to be followed without question.

But he was going the wrong way, headed toward Abergavenny, rather than Dresden. So here was the confrontation I'd hoped to somehow avoid. And it was going to have to be quick. The stone was telling me that we didn't have much time.