The Stone Key

Prologue

Throckmorton Castle

England, 1275

Did the abbess tell you the legend?

Arden of Throckmorton laid a cool gaze on her mother. She shared many stories.

The abbess told her many tales—tales of duty, of a legacy passed from one generation to the next, of magic—and Arden wanted to hear no more. After eight years at Cottingworth Abbey, Arden was finally home, in her own chamber. Her bed, her unfinished needlework, the wooden box that held her childhood treasures—all remained unchanged. Except the colorful tapestry that now decorated the wall. Why had her mother hung it here?

We need to talk about—

I haven’t even disrobed yet. Arden plucked the coarse wool of her convent robe away from her neck. The simple habit hung from her throat to her ankles with an unadorned cord cinching it at the waist. She would never wear such garb again. No more stories, Mother.

Lady Shockley sighed. You’re angry. Your father never forgave me for sending you away either. But now you know the reason—

I know a legend, a myth. I didn’t say I believed it. The lid of a large traveling chest yawned open. Servants had already emptied its contents and whisked the ugly clothes away. Her abbey garb would make welcome gifts for the villagers. They could alter the woolen material into whatever they wished. New gowns awaited her. Bright colors, soft fabric. Eight years, Mother.

Lady Shockley walked up behind her and placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. I did miss you. Then, as if she couldn’t contain herself any longer, her mother embraced her.

For a moment, Arden allowed the welcoming warmth to wash over her. She was home, and she had missed this woman. Then she pushed her mother away. I am no longer a child, Mother. That time passed many years ago.

Lady Shockley released her as if bitten. You are still my daughter. Perhaps you will forgive me after you learn—

I’m home an hour, and this is how you wish to spend our time?

Despite the hurt that sprang into her eyes, Lady Shockley’s gaze never wavered. She fingered the medallion that hung around her neck as she always did when she was troubled. I’ve heard rumors … someone has been asking …

Something was truly wrong. Arden could deal with the resentment she had harbored for years later. She reached for her mother’s hand. Mama?

I’m afraid—

But her mother never finished. Shouts from the great hall interrupted her. Her gaze darted toward the door.

Arden listened. Deep, resonant thuds thumped through the floor. The acrid smell of smoke snaked under the door and fouled the air. The sounds of armor clanking and swords crossing reached her ears.

Arden started for the door. We are under attack.

However, her mother hadn’t moved. The color drained from her face. No. I haven’t told her yet. Her gaze sharpened as she focused on Arden. He followed us. He must have followed us home. We must stay here.

Mother?

Lady Shockley clutched Arden’s shoulders. Listen, Arden, you know the history. It is your duty. Nothing must happen to it—

Is that all you can think about? Surprise mixed with the anger and fear that brewed within her. She flicked her mother’s hands from her. We can help out there. But not if we stay—

The door burst open. His boots slapping against the threshold, a man strode into the room as though he owned the castle. A streak of gray shot through his black hair, and his thin lips curved. My information was right. You know why I am here. Give it me, woman.

The fear of just moments ago evaporated from Lady Shockley’s expression. Never.

His lips curled into a grotesque mockery of a smile. Don’t be foolish. Your cooperation will save you much trouble.

Her mother laughed. I enjoy trouble.

Then you die. He raised his hands and threw a slim object at her mother’s head. Although Lady Shockley dropped and rolled to the side, her head jerked back. When her gaze whipped around, a thin stream of blood dripped down her temple. On the floor against the far wall lay a dart.

Mother! shouted Arden. Her eight years of training fresh in her limbs, she spun into a crouch and swung her leg in a broad circle. She knocked the man’s legs out from under him.

With a bellow of rage, he crashed to the floor, but in the next moment, the man’s hand shot out and grabbed Arden’s ankle. He yanked. Arden lost her balance and toppled to the floor. The wind rushed from her lungs.

Two of you? The man rolled on top of her and pinned her shoulders to the ground. Don’t be a fool, girl. You’re no match for me.

Arden paid him no heed. She planted her feet on the floor and launched her hips up. As her assailant fell forward, she hooked her arm around one of his. With a sudden twist, she flipped the man and rolled away.

Her mother stood with her legs braced and arms lifted in front of her, the battle-ready stance. Lady Shockley faced him down. Don’t touch my daughter.

A malice-filled smile on his face, the intruder jumped to his feet. Your daughter? Are you sure of your abilities, girl? You’d best be.

With a sudden, blurred movement, the rogue pulled a flask from his belt. Strange words twitched his lips, and he uncorked the vessel and flung the contents out in front of him. Reddish powder dusted the floor, and a sickeningly sweet odor assailed her nostrils. In mere seconds, he opened a second flask and sprinkled its liquid over the dust. With a soft hiss, a rank, yellow fog rose from the floor, spreading like bony fingers across the rushes. She wrinkled her nose against the smell of rotting flesh and evil.

Heedless of the fog swirling about her ankles, Lady Shockley sprang toward the sorcerer, her flexed wrist knocking the flask from his hand. The crockery flew across the room and shattered against the wall. She whipped her gaze to Arden. Pay no mind to his tricks.

In that moment of inattention, the sorcerer backhanded Lady Shockley.

Her mother smashed into a chair. The wood cracked, and her mother fell to the floor among the splinters. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.

Mother. Arden shot to her mother’s side.

Lady Shockley wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Don’t worry about me. Remember your training.

Arden whirled to face the villain. Her years at the convent would serve her now. Relying on her hard-earned skills, she judged his height and shifted her weight to one leg. With a perfect timing, she planted a broad kick against the man’s chest.

Uff. His breath hissed from his mouth as he slammed into the wall.

She pivoted to face the enemy, but the assassin had pushed himself from the wall and charged into her. She stumbled backward until her legs hit the traveling chest.

Glee cackled from his throat as he shoved her into the trunk and banged the lid shut.

I’ve caged your whelp. Now I can deal with you.

The fog swirled around her nose at the bottom of the trunk. She gathered her strength and took a deep breath. The air in her lungs burned and her vision blurred. Oily fumes coated the back of her throat. Rasping, Arden threw open the lid of the chest. You haven’t finished with me yet, magician.

The sorcerer roared in frustration. With a feral gleam in his eyes, he raised his fist and struck.

She blocked the blow with her forearm and shot her fist into his face instead. The bones of his nose cracked, and blood gushed from his nostrils.

His hand flew to his face to staunch the flow. Bitch. You’ve broken my nose. His eyes seemed to glow as red as the blood flowing from his nose. You can’t stop me.

But Arden couldn’t focus on the rogue’s next attack. Her eyes seared, and her head pounded. Too late, she realized she’d inhaled the sorcerer’s noxious smoke too deeply.

Her head swam. She gasped for a breath.

Leave her be, you spawn of Satan. Arden’s mother leapt forward, arms raised.

As if suffering from a chokehold, Arden managed a ragged breath.

The magician parried the attack. He propelled Lady Shockley into the wall. With a grunt, her mother fell to the floor, yanking the colorful tapestry with her.

Mother. The poisonous fog gripped her in its magic. Her legs wouldn’t—couldn’t—step from the trunk.

Her mother flailed in the fallen tapestry, but instead of freeing herself from the cloth, she pulled it toward her.

You cannot stop me. The sorcerer grabbed the broken chair’s leg and swung the cudgel at Arden.

The fog had slowed her senses, and Arden couldn’t avoid the blow. Stars swam in front of her eyes as she dropped to her knees. Her head pounded, and the bitter taste of the smoke blanketed her tongue.

Arden grabbed the lid in an effort to climb from the chest. She must fight—her mother needed her. The castle needed her.

Bright light flashed into every corner of the chamber. Arden turned toward the source somewhere in the direction of her mother. What was it? She had to help … her mother … danger …

Dizziness overpowered her, and the lid wobbled in her hand. She collapsed onto the bottom of the chest again. The lid crashed on top of her.

She heard the sorcerer shout out in alarm. Good. Her mother must have bested him. But then the chest rocked and inched backward.

Arden! Her mother’s voice sounded as if it were coming from a greater distance than just in the room.

Mama? Her voice a whimper. The chest rocked again and slid as if someone had shoved it.

Arden, her mother cried, her voice growing fainter. Arden, the key is in the stone. The key is in the stone …

A whiff of sulfur teased her nose, and then darkness engulfed her.

Chapter One

Throckmorton Castle

England, this past summer

Hooray!

Dr. Hawkins Arlington, professor of Medieval Studies at Oxford, flicked an impatient gaze out the window. The arrow sticking in the center of the target explained the whoop from the crowd who watched. The archer bowed. Again. With the same flourish he’d used in the three previous shows that morning.

Hawk rubbed his forehead and eyed a similar crowd watching a knight don his armor with the aid of his squire. Nearby, a large tent, banners flying, promised more entertainment.

Brilliant. More people. Just what he needed while he tried to work.

On the one hand, Castle Throckmorton was the best-preserved medieval fortress on the entire continent. On the other, because the castle was the best-preserved medieval fortress on the entire continent, the throng of tourists never ceased, drawn by the re-enactors and performances that showed medieval life at its best. More than once this summer, Hawk had had to eject the stray wanderer from his research offices, despite several prominent signs warning visitors not to enter the area. Apparently the general populace had difficulty reading.

My lord?

Hawk glanced up to see a man wearing green hose and a brown tunic in his doorway. He grimaced. Yes?

I bring thee a message from your staff. The large chest is proving cumbersome, my lord. They bring it anon.

Thank you. And don’t call me ‘my lord.’

Yes, my lord. The man bowed and returned to the castle.

Hawk closed his eyes and counted to ten. The actors insisted on calling him ‘my lord,’ a title, which, although technically correct, he never used. From the grin on his assistant’s face, he believed his students reveled in tormenting him with as many re-enactors as possible. Don’t you have something better to do than gape at me like a great idiot?

Not at the moment, Martin Andrews said.

It’s not too late to assign this post to someone more deserving.

Ah, but there is no one more deserving, and you know it. Stop blustering, Hawk. You’re stuck with me.

Hawk arched an eyebrow. I could make you rewrite your thesis.

Martin didn’t look fazed in the least. But you won’t. We both know you’re too honorable to do such a thing.

Damn integrity. Hawk enjoyed the banter with his student. Martin would make an excellent professor. Not as good as himself, of course. The British Museum wouldn’t have invited him if he wasn’t the nation’s foremost medievalist.

In all seriousness, Hawk, thanks for bringing me along. A find like this doesn’t come along often.

"Never is a better word for it."

A room undisturbed since the Middle Ages had been recently discovered when the owners of Throckmorton wanted to put in yet another exhibit—The Private Life of a Castle. An ultrasound revealed the presence of a sealed room in the north tower. Before renovations could begin, the contents had to be researched and catalogued. Removing the stones and mortar had revealed a bedchamber in glorious disarray.

Martin glanced at the door. Where are they? It doesn’t take this long to carry a chest from the tower.

I would suggest patience, but I have little myself. In anticipation of the newest find—a trunk sealed for seven hundred years—Hawk’s imagination played out one glorious scenario after another. Would it hold books, jewels, gold? What treasures would it contain? What new knowledge would it impart?

Ah, but before we open it, you still have time to wager, Martin said. One pound to guess its contents. All of us have put in our guesses.

I don’t think so. Do you have the table prepared?

Yes, professor. Martin saluted.

Cotton gloves, tweezers of varying lengths, scissors, clamps, and other instruments made up an array worthy of a surgeon. A computer blinked to the right of the work area. A pad of paper and a pen also lay by the keyboard. As much as he needed the speed and organization of the computer, he sometimes liked the scratch of a nib on paper.

The distinctive sound of shuffling feet and the grunts of men carrying an awkward load came from the hallway. Martin pulled on a pair of the gloves. Last chance to place that bet. It’ll be too late once we open it.

No, thanks. We professors must maintain our dignity.

Martin snorted. Yeah, right. That’s why you got so pissed at my engagement party.

Hawk had to laugh, but it was cut short as two of his students staggered in with the trunk. They placed it on a clean tarp on the floor next to the worktable.

Carlos wiped his brow. Professor, something shifted inside that trunk, and I think I heard a couple of weird sounds.

Bernard peeled off his protective gloves. I know we need to wear these, but my hands started to slip. The weight was completely unbalanced.

How is the room looking? Hawk asked.

Cynthia won’t let us touch anything. It isn’t as if we don’t have the same training she does. Hell, I’m ahead of her in my studies, Carlos said with a grimace, and then pitched his voice to a falsetto. Has it been catalogued and photographed? Did you enter the description into the log? Do you have your gloves on?

That’s why I put her in charge, Hawk said with a smile.

Bernie gave a slight sneer. She’s a real bug—

Watch it, Bernie, Martin said.

Bernie reddened. She’s a good sort, but she can turn into a real shrew.

‘Shrew.’ Now there’s a good modern word. That’ll impress the birds at the pub. No wonder we can’t get girls. We don’t speak English. Carlos shook his head, and then turned to Hawk. Sure you don’t want any help, Professor?

No, Carlos. There’s plenty to keep you occupied in the room.

Too true. Carlos nudged his friend. Come on, Bernie. The ‘shrew’ awaits.

The two men left the room. As Hawk circled the trunk, his blood raced. It was beautiful. Larger than most medieval chests, the wood had taken on a dark patina until it looked almost black. The leather straps looked untouched. He ran his finger along the ancient leather. It was as stiff as steel. No cracks marred its surface. That would change as soon as he opened the lid.

Your gloves, Hawk, Martin said.

Shrew. But he reached for the gloves on the table. He shook them, then slipped his hands into the protective covering. Ready?

Hawk’s casual question hid his true feelings. His heart thumped in his chest, and adrenaline coursed through his veins. He hadn’t felt such excitement since the Christmas morning he had received his first suit of armor, appropriate for play.

Martin worked at one strap, and he at the other. The leather began to crack despite the softener they rubbed into the rigid material. They could do little else. Crouching until the latch was eye level, Hawk examined the fastener.

What are you waiting for, Professor? Martin stood back and glared at him.

Eager to lose your money, are you? But he understood the younger man’s keenness.

Hardly. I just want to know what’s inside.

Hawk scrutinized his assistant with mock seriousness. You realize we are the first to open this in seven hundred years.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. Martin puffed out a blast of air.

Then let’s get to it, shall we? Drawing in a deep breath, Hawk lifted the lid.

Whatever he might have expected, he wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted his gaze. A whirlwind of black leapt from the bottom of the trunk, her arms braced in front of her as if fending off a blow. Blue eyes glared at him from an oval face. A dark braid draped over her shoulder and hung down past her ribs. Her garment exposed only her head and hands, but nothing could hide her height or the slenderness of her wrists. Her cheeks were flushed as if she had just stepped in from the gym. Coughing, she faced him, arms bent in front of her, looking for all the world as if she stood ready to attack him.

"What hastow with min moder y-wrought?"

Bloody hell, Martin said.

Bloody re-enactors. They’ve gone too far this time. Hawk yanked off the gloves and slapped them onto the table. He was going to kill Bernard or Carlos. Or maybe Cynthia was behind this stunt.

The woman cast her gaze around the room. Wher am I?

His rage grew. I’ve had enough of this, Miss . . . What is your name?

She stared at him without answering.

Christ, look at her clothes, Martin said.

He was about to ignore Martin’s strange request until he noticed her dress. It was more a shapeless robe tied at the waist with a rough cord. The grey wool looked thick and coarse. Probably itched like hell. He leaned closer. Hand woven. The last time he had seen a garment like this was at some Renaissance Faire. Or in a museum.

Get thee to a nunnery, Martin muttered.

Her gaze whipped to the younger man.

Martin jumped back and held his hands up in front of him. Easy, I’m not going to hurt you. But I don’t think I can say the same for you.

Her gaze returned to Hawk. Her blue eyes blazed with fear and anger. What place is this?

He struggled to restrain his anger. "Your costume doesn’t impress me. Obviously you’ve done some research on the attire of nuns, but you look more like a reject from The Sound of Music."

The woman swung her head around again. Her long braid slipped over her shoulder and fell to the center of her back. She drew in a shuddering breath and coughed again.

And what nun would forget her wimple?

I ne understonde nought thee.

Look, your Middle English is good, but I’m not taking any new students. Before I call security, who helped you pull this stunt?

What arn these word straunge thow spekest?

Bong, bong, bong. The alarm on the computer went off. Hawk let out a soft curse. With all the delays, he had forgotten his meeting with his mother. He crossed to his machine and clicked on the mouse.

Dere God in hevene, what is that?

He turned to see the girl staring at the computer. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, and her hands covered her mouth.

My computer?

"Com-put-er. The devel werke is this." She tried to take a step back, but stumbled against the back of the trunk.

Here now, get out of that thing before you damage it. Although it’s probably too late for that. Hawk reached a hand out to help her.

She shrunk back from him and yelped. She pointed at the monitor in horror. The portreiture. It habbes y-chaunged.

His screen saver had flicked on. A row of monks from Monty Python and the Holy Grail marched across the monitor. At least he had muted their chant. You’re not that good an actress. Save the histrionics for someone else and get out of that trunk.

Uh, Hawk, I don’t think she’s acting, said Martin.

What are you talking about?

Look at her. Martin pointed to the woman.

She had climbed from the trunk and was edging away from the computer. Her gaze darted from the ceiling to the floor, from the tops of the tables to them. Her mouth parted, and she let out a small whimper. The ancient phone on his desk rang, and she screamed. Again. And it was becoming annoying.

He snatched up the receiver. Yes?

That’s no way to answer the phone. I thought I had raised you better.

Hello, Mother.

That thing is his moder? The woman looked in alarm at the black receiver.

I’m waiting for you downstairs, his mother said.

Something’s come up. I’ll be down as soon as I can. Hawk dropped the phone into its cradle.

This nought nis, the woman whispered. If anything, she lost even more color.

Hawk, I think she’s ill, Martin said.

Hauke? A byrd art thou now? Panic filled her voice.

You’re just digging yourself in deeper. You should stop now.

What amounteth this? Wher is min moder?

Drop the act and tell me who you are! At her look of utter bewilderment, he gritted out in Middle English, Your mother isn’t here. What is your name?

Understanding dawned on her faced, and she responded in kind. Arden of Throckmorton, but more you shall not learn. I shall defeat you, sorcerer, should it be my last act upon this earth. She bumped against a desk. His smart phone fell over, and the voice of Bono rang out from the speakers. She clapped her hands over her ears.

Hawk grabbed the offending appliance and shut it off. Arden stared at him.

A sharp rap drew his attention, and Hawk groaned in exasperation as his mother came in. She carried her Yorkshire terrier under one arm and her oversized purse on the other. She wore trousers and a silk blouse, and a silk shawl flounced about her shoulders. The little dog barked at Arden.

Arden knocked into the desk again. Her face, which had been growing ever more pale, was now entirely white. Her lips had blanched into an unhealthy pink, and