by P. T. McHugh
I shrugged, too tired to argue with him. For all I knew, he was right. It made almost as much sense as half of the other stuff we’d talked about tonight.
The shrug evidently wasn’t good enough for him, though, since he continued talking about it while we washed up with our two buckets of hot water and soap made from lard. Doc’s maid–or whatever she was–had also given us fresh pants and shirts. It was the first time I’d felt clean in days, and it was glorious. I sighed happily, and Paul took that as a sign that I’d been listening after all.
“Oh come on,” he said as I dunked my head under water for one last rinse. “You honestly didn’t think about it? Jumping back in time, all that? I’ve been dying to say, ‘Doc, this is heavy,’ since we found him!”
“I’m actually impressed that you suppressed that urge for as long as you did,” Reis replied dryly from his own bed. His eyes were closed, but I suspected that his mind was still moving feverishly, keeping him from sleep.
Paul smiled as though Reis had given him a compliment. “Thanks, Reis.”
“Any time,” he replied.
That brought a much-needed smile to my face, and I chuckled as I jumped into bed. The mattress was lumpy, stuffed with straw and who knew what else, but it was clean and safe. For the moment.
Tomorrow, of course, would be a whole different story. Tomorrow…
I put the thought away as too much. For tonight, I would be content with safe darkness and the comforting sound of my best friend’s snoring. After a moment of listening, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
38
It was warm and humid inside the tent, and stank of unwashed bodies, dirt, and crushed grass. Dresden detested being outdoors, and the state of the tent was making the experience even worse than usual. In addition, he was having to physically restrain himself at the Bishop’s news.
The assassins had failed in their attempt on Richard Evans’ life, and–worse–let him escape with his confederates.
Dresden paced angrily around the tent, listening to the Bishop’s impossible tail of how Evans had been shot by an arrow–at a distance of less than 50 paces–then risen and walked away. According to one of the assassins, who had escaped the scene, Evans’ men had shown up in the nick of time, distracting the mercenaries and essentially saving the old man’s life. The assassin’s description of these men–and their weapons, which emitted loud blasts and bouts of fire–left little doubt about their identities.
“Tatiana, that boy, and their associates,” he growled, his lips turning down in a snarl. Damn them. He’d known when they escaped that they would be trouble, but he’d never considered that they might get to Evans in time to save him. Now they had ruined more than one plan. With Evans dead, his men would have refused to fight for Henry, and Henry would have lost a vital source of intelligence. That, coupled with Stanley’s new alliance, would have guaranteed Richard–and Dresden himself–a victory.
With Evans dead, he would also have had a clear road to the next step in his new plan: recapturing Jason and forcing the boy to either reveal the stone’s secrets or take him through the stones to his next destination.
Now…
With a roar, he turned and threw a chair at the Bishop and his news. “Get out, you useless pile of horse dung!” he shouted, his anger reaching the surface. “I do not need you for my victory!”
The Bishop ducked the chair, terrified, and ran out of the tent. Sloan, who was just entering, stepped to the side and looked curiously after the church man. Dresden growled at his presence. The boy was always showing up at the most inopportune times, and it was starting to annoy him.
“People would serve you more faithfully, Father, if you shouted less and listened more,” the boy observed mildly. “And we now hold fewer chips than we did. You know this. My scouts tell me that Stanley is already restless. The Earl’s army is ready, and far more loyal than ours. Victory is anything but guaranteed.”
“Quiet!” Dresden roared. “Gather the maps, right the chairs, and keep your mouth shut!”
Sloan’s eyes blazed with anger, but he did as he was told. Perhaps the boy was learning his place, Dresden thought. He was right, though; Henry’s army had been here longer, and was better armed than Richard’s. Evans had no doubt been in contact with Stanley, seeking to turn him. The boy must have told his grandfather that William Stanley had escaped, by now. They would think that Stanley was free to make his own decision in regard to the battle.
Dresden had planned for that, though, and had already made his move. Stanley’s army was vital, after all, to his own success.
“Did you find what I sent you for?” he asked suddenly, choosing to ignore his son’s observations.
Sloan took a deep breath and paused for a moment before responding. “Sir Keeler of Spring Meadows has,” he replied.
Dresden nodded his head, pleased at the news. This was what he had hoped for. “Then send for him.”
Sloan left the tent and returned a moment later, followed by an aging knight.
“My Lord,” Keeler said, bowing respectfully.
Dresden waved a hand magnanimously, accepted the man’s bow as his due, and then gestured to the front of the tent. “I assume you brought me what I requested, sir knight,” he said curtly. This was no time for gentle conversation, and he’d never cared for this particular man anyhow.
Sir Keeler paused for a brief moment, as though he disliked the question or answer, but then nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”
“Show me!” Dresden demanded.
Keeler bowed once again before turning his back and whistling loudly. Within seconds, two guards appeared just outside the tent’s entrance, holding a bound and gagged man under the arms. The man sagged in their hands, thin and dirty. They hadn’t been gentle when they took him, Dresden saw, and the man looked worse now than he had several days earlier.
Dresden smiled, nodding, and turned to his son. “Sloan, make certain that Sir Keeler is well taken care of. Guards, leave this man with me, please.”
The other men turned to go, leaving the prisoner in a crumpled heap on the floor, and Dresden stepped forward, a smile curving his lips. He couldn’t help it. An hour earlier, all had seemed lost. Now he had a bargaining chip again, and it was a good one.
“Why Sir William Stanley,” he drawled, reaching out with a toe to roll the man onto his back. “How very kind of you to join me again.”
39
I awoke suddenly, to the sound of booming thunder in the distance. My mind stumbled at the thought, still hazy with sleep, and I frowned. Not thunder, that was wrong. It was something else, if only I could remember…
I shot up to a sitting position. Not thunder. Canon fire. Because we were in Bosworth, on the morning of the battle, going up against one of the most hateful people I’d ever met. Fighting for the fate of the world.
I gulped at the thought and turned, glancing around the tent. Paul and Reis were already awake, as were Tatiana and Katherine, and sun was shining through the entrance of the tent. It was here, then, the dawn. And that meant the moment of truth had finally arrived.
Before I could think any farther, Doc strode quickly into the room, his eyes flying around the small space. He shouted orders over his shoulder for Trigva to station two dozen soldiers around his tent, then pulled the curtains shut with a snap.
“My men have just captured two of Dresden’s spies outside,” he muttered. “Dresden is sending men after you, or me, or both of us.” He moved toward my bed and pulled me out of it, shoving me toward a pile of clothes in the corner. “Get dressed, we must be prepared for anything.”
“What?” I gasped. I had just woken up, and was still trying to fit the current version of reality into my head. This new information was more than I could process at the moment.
“After you? Why?” Paul asked, joining Doc at the table, where he’d set up camp.
“We’re his ticket back,” Doc answered. “Without Jason or me, he can’t get out of this time period.”
“Well…” I cut in, thinking back to what Dresden had told Tatiana and me. “He could. He just wouldn’t know where he was going. Or when the trip was going to take place.”
Doc nodded, his eyes gleaming. “Well he’ll need to go quickly, either way. If he loses the battle–which we hope he will–he’ll need to get out of Dodge before any of Henry’s men kill him. After all, without Richard, he has no political protection here.”
Paul whistled quietly. “That’s heavy, Doc.”
I snorted at his joke, though he looked dead serious, and continued with the train of thought. “Beyond that, if he could wipe Doc out of the picture, Henry would be at a disadvantage, and Richard would win the battle.” I paused, watching Doc closely. “There are a number of reasons for Dresden to be after both of us.”
“So you have to be even more careful, then,” Tatiana concluded, stepping out of nowhere to join the group. She was wearing the same clothes from yesterday, but had taken a bath somewhere and looked better than the last time I’d seen her. I gave her a half-hearted smile of welcome, and turned back to Doc.
“So what do we do? What’s the plan?”
Doc became all business at that, and nodded firmly. He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it, then looked at us. “Well people, within a couple of hours, this place is going to turn into a beehive of activity. This is probably the last time we’ll be able to speak freely until after the battle. Things are going to get … intense.”
We nodded, waiting for him to continue. I just hoped that he’d decide to let me take part–I had more information at my fingertips than he did, and better access to the stones. I didn’t know how they would help me, but I knew that they would. And I didn’t want to have to go behind Doc’s back to do what I needed to do.
“The three of you will be staying with Reis here in the camp. Don’t move. After the battle, I’ll send for you…” Doc paused and shook his head. “If things go wrong and the battle does not go our way, you will have to count on Reis to take you to the stone.”
I frowned at this, and opened my mouth to argue, but stopped at Tatiana’s hand on my arm. Looking up, I caught her eye and saw her shake her head slightly, warning me against speaking. My mouth closed of its own accord and I nodded. Doc wasn’t going to give his permission, no matter how much I argued with him. Better to save my breath and plan around that particular hiccup.
“After the battle, it’ll be chaos,” he was saying now. “It’s always that way. Men will have lost their leaders and their direction, and will run amok. It will be incredibly dangerous. When the battle starts, hang back. Stay here, no matter what you see or hear! When it’s over, I will come for you, if I can. If I cannot, Reis will take you to Abergavenny. You will go with him without argument, and go home. Forget that this ever happened. Understood?”
“But you’ll win. Henry’s army will win the battle, and you’ll be with us. Right?” Paul asked suddenly.
Doc took a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie to you, Paul. With Lord Stanley on Dresden’s side, it will be a toss-up. We may still have the weapons, but Dresden certainly has the men. It will be an even match, at best. I won’t know how it’s going to go until we’re near the end. And by then it will be far too late to change anything.”
He looked at each of us, then firmed his mouth and nodded as though he’d come to a decision. “You must all stay out of harm’s way as much as possible. Reis, I’m counting on you to see them safely through this.”
He turned to Reis, who nodded, and clasped him by the shoulder. Then he turned toward me, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears and words that would remain unsaid. Without speaking, he tipped his head to me, turned, and strode away.
“Well that was interesting,” Paul muttered as we started at the space where Doc had been. I was speechless, my mind still reeling from what Doc had said, and couldn’t quite come up with a response.
The reaction was clear in my mind, though–we couldn’t sit around and watch Doc ride off into battle, casually waiting for it to be over. We had to do something.
Reis must have thought the same thing, because he barked with laughter and stepped quickly toward the tent’s entrance. “Care to see the battle that will shape Western Europe for the next five hundred years or so?” he asked, parting the curtains. “Let’s see if we can’t find something to do while we … wait.” He shot a grin in my direction and I grinned back, immensely glad to have him on my team.
The four of us pushed past him and gathered just outside the tent, gazing at the war camp beyond us. It had been busy before, but was now humming with activity. Doc–or his men–had left five large, beautiful horses standing with two squires just outside the tent, and we strapped our bags to them and mounted up. The squires disappeared immediately, leaving us conveniently to our own devices, and we turned back to the camp.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t plan to stick around here and miss out on all the fun,” Reis muttered. “Let’s go.” He charged forward, the four of us hot on his heels, galloping past knights on horseback, women carrying loaves of bread and buckets of water, and dozens of children running in and out of an endless crowd of soldiers and civilians alike. Everyone was making their way into the heart of Tudor’s camp, for their own reasons. We rode quickly through and around them, doing our best to go unnoticed, and keeping a sharp eye out for Doc and his men at arms, who would certainly turn us around and send us back if they saw us.
Once we cleared the last of the tents, the mass of people began to lighten, and a view of the battlefield opened up in the valley below. The battle lines had already been drawn, with men on horseback traveling quickly to and from their respective encampments, in preparation of the coming battle. Groups of them stopped to talk to each other every so often, gesturing wildly in all directions and then splitting up and galloping away. I could only imagine the conversations going on–the stress of the coming battle, the question of what the enemy would do. The ever-present idea that many of these men wouldn’t survive the day. The entire valley was in motion, the air around the men thick with anticipation.
The storm, which had brought down a torrent of rain the night before, had ventured eastward now, leaving only mud and low-lying clouds in its wake. It was cool, but not cold, and I wondered if there was such a thing as a perfect day for fighting. If there was, I supposed these conditions were as good as any.
From our vantage point, we could see Doc–as the Earl of Oxford–in the valley below, surrounded by the thousands of men and horses that made up the bulk of Tudor’s army. To our left, well over a hundred banners decorated the slope leading into the valley itself, flowing into the basin in a virtual rainbow of colors. Each banner represented a different lord, I knew, and each would have with him his full array of knights, archers, and foot soldiers. There were hundreds of knights alone, already mounted up, the early morning light shooting sparks off their armor. Behind them stood their squires, ready to assist their masters with weapons and horses as necessary. And there must have been thousands of foot soldiers. These men, lacking the money for expensive armament, were dressed in leather for the most part, though some wore nothing more than heavily padded coats. They carried swords, axes, maces, lances, and heavy wooden stakes. The poorest soldiers carried nothing more than shovels and wooden clubs. A disadvantage, I thought, though getting hit in the head with a shovel would probably knock you out of the game just as much as getting hit in the face with a pole. My grandfather had gathered over fifteen hundred archers as well, and they stood behind everyone else, armed with 5-foot-tall bows and hundreds of arrows each.
All of these men stood, now, awaiting the order to march forward and place their lives on the line. To live or die, be captured or maimed, all to kill the enemies of their lords.
Across the field, a smaller group of men stood apart from this mob of soldiers. Only one banner flew there–a white standard, with a deep red rose embroidered in the center. There, then, was Henry Tudor. The man for w
hom this battle was fought. The man who must win it at all costs for the world to continue as we knew it.
I turned my eyes away from him and back to the scene before us. In an odd way, it was breathtakingly beautiful. The colors and the movement of horses and people, along with the suppressed excitement that filled the air, made me breathless with anticipation. I couldn’t describe it, but my body was responding to the situation; something in the pit of my stomach knew that something big was about to happen. My instincts were screaming with readiness. I didn’t know what I was going to do yet, but I was sure that I had to do something. There were too many lives riding on his battle for me to just sit back and watch.
The soldiers, knights, and archers were all beginning to line up now, getting ready for the first charge, and the valley echoed with the calls of both horses and men. Commanders barked orders from one end of the battlefield to the other, screaming at their men about positions, strategies, and targets. Calling out last-minute encouragements, shouting to their friends for what might be the last time. The cacophony was deafening, the voices of the men intense and battle ready.
Then a dead silence fell over the valley. My gut clenched tightly at the sudden lack of sound, and what little breath I had fled, leaving me silent as well.
Across from our elevated position, Richard’s army began to gather atop the hill. They controlled the high ground then, giving them a clear advantage. I wondered fleetingly why Doc and Henry had relinquished this position. It would be a huge disadvantage during the battle, and could be the difference between victory and defeat. My stomach dropped into my feet. Surely Doc had known about the position beforehand. Why hadn’t he accounted for this?
“Who’s that?” Paul asked suddenly, pointing. I jumped, already tensed for the battle, and turned to see a large group of at least one hundred men on horseback standing on the hill to our right. My mind ran back to my notes, seeking the positions of the different groups, and I gulped.