by P. T. McHugh
I’ve gone by many names, but it’s always been me.
I met Anne Frank before she wrote her diary. I consulted with Churchill on political doctrine. I crossed the Potomac with Washington. I even polished Napoleon’s shoes in the streets of Charleroi, once, though it’s not a story I like to tell. I’ve been in too many places to name, and done things I never thought I’d do. All in the name of saving history, and saving the world we call home.
I realize that these boasts won’t be taken seriously, but I must remind each of you that at one time the earth was flat, the atom unbreakable. And the thought of reaching the moon was just as ridiculous as the idea of jumping through time.
I know, because I was there.
My name is Jason Evans. I’m ten days shy of my fifteenth birthday, and this is my story…
STONE ENDS, BOOK 1
KEEPER OF THE BLACK STONES
PT MCHUGH
SAN DIEGO, CA
[email protected]
www.glasshousepress.com
This is a work of fiction. Apart from well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
US Copyright ©2013 by Patrick McHugh
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Published in the United States by Glass House Press, LLC, 2013
GLASS HOUSE PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Glass House Press, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McHugh, P T, 1969-
Keeper of the black stones / PT McHugh. -- First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Shy fourteen-year-old Jason must travel through time to the Middle Ages to join Henry VII’s fight against Richard III and stop the man who holds Jason’s physicist grandfather captive.
ISBN 978-0-9816768-0-7 (trade pbk. : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-0-9816768-1-4 (ebook) (print) [1. Time travel--Fiction. 2. Middle Ages--Fiction. 3. Grandfathers--Fiction. 4. Orphans--Fiction. 5. Great Britain--History--Richard III, 1483-1485--Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M478637Ke 2013
[Fic]--dc23
2012031556
ISBN 978-0-9816768-0-7 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-9816768-1-4 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
16 15 14 13 12 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
First Edition
To my wife, Tatiana, for her unwavering belief in me.
To Katherine, whose hugs and smiles cheer me up, even on my worst days.
And to Cristina – your name might not be used for any of the characters, but your personality shines through in all of them, and that matters just as much.
I love you all.
Finally, in loving memory of my oldest and dearest friend, Natalie.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is an adventure unto itself, and getting it published is a whole different story. I’ve been very lucky to have come so far, but none of this would have happened without some very important people. I would like to start off by thanking Cynthia, David, and Maureen for their patience and assistance in editing my first manuscript (which seems as though it happened a lifetime ago).
To the Stilley family, for their overwhelming encouragement and support early–your assistance was crucial in getting this book off the ground!
To my father, who introduced me to his love of history early in life, and my mother, for encouraging me in anything and everything I pursued.
To Barbara, John, and Andrea for putting up with me, my Clancy & Theys family in Raleigh, and my HMH family in Sacramento.
To Glass House Press, for giving me the opportunity to put this book into print and find out what it has to offer. And last–but certainly not least–my special thanks to Carrie White, the best editor in the world. This book is as much yours as mine. You have been a friend, a therapist, and my greatest supporter.
Thank you all!
June 14
The Ribbon Theory … it’s something I’ve been working on for years, and now it looks like we have proof. This both frightens and fascinates me. When something that has always been abstract–a theory–becomes suddenly solid, it is as though the world turns on its side. Exhilarating, and yet terrifying, no matter how ‘right’ it makes you.
What then, is the Ribbon Theory, you may be asking yourself. Well, I shall tell you. It started as a dream … an idea that time was a force of its own. An alternate dimension, if you will. The Ribbon Theory follows this dream, assuming that the fabric of time is imprinted on a dimensional ribbon. Think of music or film, imprinted on tape as it was years ago, before the microchip. Now imagine that the tape actually holds time rather than 007 or The Wizard of Oz. This, then, is the ribbon of time.
If time is a ribbon, folding back on itself again and again, and there are–as we know there to be–black holes that are rips in the fabric of space and time … if these holes exist where the ribbon folds back on itself, and the fabric becomes weak … does that mean that there are worm holes between different parts of the ribbon? That there are, in fact, holes that lead from one time plane to another?
Could there be doorways, so to speak, into our past? Into different parts of our history, depending on where and how and when the rip or tear takes place? Could these doorways be manipulated? Used to transport us anywhere we wished to go? Could these holes take us back in time, if we wished to go there?
You may be asking what the Ribbon Theory has to do with our real lives. You may also be asking what holes in space have to do with our physical world, and what we see around us.
What you should be asking yourself, dear reader, is what the Ribbon Theory–and the idea of time travel–have to do with history itself. What if we did have that power to travel through time? And what if that power, God forbid, fell into the wrong hands?
Doctor Richard Evans
John de Vere, 13th Earl of Oxford
Keeper of the Black Stones
PROLOGUE
ABERGAVENNY, ENGLAND
AUGUST, 1485 A.D.
The old soldier’s horse thundered across the plain toward the small village of Abergavenny, and death rode with him. The people of the village didn’t deserve to die, but within the next several hours, many of them would. For all the soldier knew, many of them may already be dead; Dresden’s men had arrived hours earlier, and did not have a reputation for mercy. It was very important that he get there as quickly as possible, not only for himself, but for the people of Abergavenny. For the entire country, truth be told, and for the world itself.
The Earl of Oxford pushed his horse forward at the thought, the bulk of Henry Tudor’s army at his back. The road here had been long, difficult, and trying, but they’d landed successfully a week earlier, in the Welsh coastal city of Milford Haven. The army’s goal–and the Earl’s–was simple: overthrow the current king, Richard III, and replace him with Henry Tudor. Now the Earl snorted to himself. Simple. It was an ambitious plan, and it had always been a long shot. If they were successful, they would change the course of the country, uniting the people for the first time in generations. It was an enormous task, and it was the reason the Earl was on his current path.
He glanced at the sky and cursed quietly to himself. Today was not a day for fighting such a battle, and he would have delayed it if he could. The sky was low and dark, with harsh winds to match. Rain had been driving down since early morning, leaving the ground around them a hazardous marsh-land. They had lost several horses in the last hour as a result; animals that had gone down in the treacherous mud and been unable to rise. They’d been forced to leave the wagons behind for their own safety, and his soldiers were traveling light, with few weapons and minimal armor. He could only hope that they would find Dresden’s men unprepared or similarly armed. The fighting would be messy and dangerous, with mud below and armed men above, but he had little choice; the window of opportunity opened today at sundown, and closed a heartbeat later.
The Earl crested the rise above the village and slid to an abrupt halt. The hillside below him had fallen out, a river of mud and water flowing over what should have been his path, and delaying his entry into the village. He grunted in frustration and turned to seek another way down, but found his way blocked by his lieutenant.
Trigva, son of Halvor, was a massive warrior, measuring well over 6 feet in height. He wore a steel helmet, affixed with a brass nose plate and painted with a wolf’s head. The painting was appropriate; the Earl knew the Danish soldier to be both fearless and unendingly loyal. Today, the man wore nothing more than a leather jerkin and a set of chain mail. His left arm bore several silver rings–signs of his wealth, Nordic heritage, and skill on the battlefield. He was an imposing force, and the Earl’s best ally. He was also the only person the Earl truly trusted in this time and place.
He did not look happy, though the Earl had never seen the man actually smile.
“I have just come from the Archbishop’s camp, my Lord,” Trigva said, bowing, and raising his voice over the wind. “He is not pleased with your decision to invade the village.”
“The Archbishop may hang himself, if it please him,” the Earl growled. “This is not his army to order. I have no obligations to him.” He paused. “And I have no choice. I must control that village. And quickly.”
They turned to face the buildings below them, and the Earl sighed. The village contained fewer than thirty structures, housing around fifty families. These were farmers, uninterested in war or politics. They hadn’t earned the battle that came to them, or the soldiers who had already invaded. In the center of the village, a crude stone-and-mortar tower rose roughly two and a half stories from the ground, anchoring the north end of the town’s church. The remaining structures stood in a loose rectangle around the tower, using the church as a connecting point and their walls and roofs as shields. Together, the tower and homes created a small but formidable fortress. They were well defended, the Earl knew, and ready for battle.
“You’re going in?” Trigva asked quietly.
“I must.”
Trigva shook his head. “Why did Lord Dresden send his troops to protect this town? It seems of little consequence.”
The Earl smiled wryly. “They are here to steal the very thing that I need,” he replied. “I must pray that we are in time to save it.”
Instead of replying, Trigva shouted out a warning and vaulted out of his saddle toward the Earl. He hit his commander in the shoulder, knocking him roughly off his horse and to the ground. As they fell, the Earl glanced up to see a volley of arrows cross the space over his saddle and fly into the forest beyond. Arrows that had been meant for him.
“It appears, my Lord, that they know of our arrival,” Trigva said drily. He groaned and pulled himself off the Earl, who grunted in response. He turned to look at the ridge line, and saw that his men were already lined up and prepared to charge.
“Very well. They leave me little choice, then.” He pulled himself back onto his horse and looked to the sky to judge the sun’s location behind its dark bank of clouds. An hour before sunset, he thought; that gave them just enough time. If his calculations were right. “We must finish this quickly, my friend. There is no time to waste.”
Trigva nodded curtly, remounted, and spurred his horse toward the men on the ridge, shouting orders in both Nordic and English. The Earl galloped after him, looking anxiously for a way down the hill below. He would leave the initial charge and fighting to the men, but would have to enter the village himself–soon–to find what he sought. To get there, he would ride directly behind the force, fighting if he must, but keeping out of harm’s reach as well as he could. It was a risky proposition, but was his only chance.
He glanced again at the sky, then back down to his forces. Trigva had reached the small group of soldiers and given them their orders. The men began to move rapidly down the liquid hillside, their horses slipping to their knees when they couldn’t find purchase, but regaining their feet when they could. Turning his horse, the Earl growled deeply in his throat, ducked in time to avoid another arrow, and plunged after them.
The sky opened as the men raced down the hill toward the village, their horses throwing mud and stones up in their wake. The wind was picking up, its velocity g rowing to match the intensity of the rain, until the Earl could hear little more than the storm around him. His men flowed across the ravine that surrounded the village, and thundered to the base of its outer walls. There, the defending force–forty armed men, dressed in leather, mail, and steel plate–launched their first volley of arrows. They pierced the air, their long wooden shafts armed with steel tips meant to tear through leather armor. The wind caught the arrows as they flew toward the invading force, though, sending them wide and long. The Earl, joining the fray from behind, breathed a sigh of relief at the continued safety of his men. He looked to his right for the reinforcements he knew would be coming from that direction. The men in front of him, now erecting their ladders against the wall, were merely the distraction.
On the other side of the village, a modest infantry of twenty men, with eleven more on horseback, emerged from the westward tree line. They raced without fanfare to their own side of the village. There, the wall would be left unguarded, as Dresden’s men had rushed to defend against Trigva’s forces on the eastern side of the wall. There, the wall–and the village beyond–would be easily invaded.
The Earl sprinted toward this second force and rode in behind them; this was where he would enter the village. The new troops threw their own ladders up against the walls of the outer buildings and began to swarm up the rungs. The Earl looked up to the top of the buildings and allowed himself a small smile. The defenders had seen the second force, but were now dividing their own forces between the two groups of invaders, panicking at the double attack. They would never see the Earl’s third attack coming, hard on the heels of the second, along the now fully unattended southern rampart.
A roar went through the Earl’s men as they rallied with the third group to climb the ladders and invade the town. The man in front of the Earl threw himself from his horse and lunged up the closest ladder, his large blade free in his hand. The massive soldier swung the steel sword over the top of the wall and pulled himself past two of the rampart’s defenders before they noticed his presence. He quickly cut both men down, then moved out of sight. Another man followed him, and then another. Looking along the ramparts, the Earl could see that the enemy was failing. Quickly. He jumped from his horse and made his own way up one of the ladders, anxious to fight for himself.
As he stepped forward, though, the defenders unleashed their hidden weapon. Several loud thunderclaps sounded from the village, followed by a cloud of black smoke. No fewer than six of the Earl’s men went down under the barrage of lead bullets, falling from the ramparts to the cold mud below. The other men froze and dropped to their bellies. This wasn’t the first time they’d encountered this weapon. The men of this period called it the Devil’s Flame.
They couldn’t comprehend the mechanics or technology behind it, but they’d seen the results.
The Earl knew it to be nothing more than simple gunfire. He knew also that it should not exist–and had not existed–in this time period. The fact that Richard’s men had this weapon was Dresden’s work. This was part of the Earl’s personal battle against the man, and was a source of some worry. It was not, however, the reason for today’s battle. And it would not stop the Earl of Oxford’s men.
Within seconds his men had recovered their poise, and several new soldiers replaced their fallen comrades. The defenders had only a handful of the modern weapons at their disposal, with only one or two men knowledgeable enough to use them, and the Earl’s men far outnumbered the defending force. No further gunfire erupted, and within twenty minutes the battle was finished.
The Earl strode quickly toward the edge of the wall, anxious to get inside and find the artifact he sought. When he dropped to the ground, he found Trigva waiting for him.
“What’s the butcher’s bill?” he asked his lieutenant quietly.
“Seven dead, five wounded, two seriously, my Lord.”
The Earl closed his eyes briefly in regret. “How badly?” he asked.
“Two will not make it through the night, my Lord.”
The Earl nodded. He had never accepted this particular aspect of his role–the knowledge that his decisions and actions meant both life and death to so many people. His only justification was the mission, which was more important than any single human life. More important even than his own, though his continued survival was necessary, for now. He sighed and stood a bit straighter. This was not the time for fears or regrets. Besides, a show of compassion was too easily seen as weakness in this day and age.
“Has your brother found it yet?” he asked tersely, looking around the village.
Trigva had expected the Earl’s question, and shook his head. “Not yet, my Lord. But I have all of our men searching for it.”