devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band

by richard anderton

  “I speak the gospel truth, I heard it from Stinking Jack who was there! He said the demon waved a fiery sword above its head as it flew over the rooftops looking for more victims and the whole city was only saved by the prayers of the Lord Cardinal Wolsey,” insisted the fisherman and he made the sign of the cross with his stubby fingers.

  “Stinking Jack is either a liar, an idiot or a drunkard,” sniffed Thomas, wondering how a man with such an unpleasant name could inspire such trust.

  “Jack may not be in his right mind most days but demons flying over Cheapside is a sure sign that the End of Days is nigh and soon we’ll all face the Last Judgement,” said the fisherman sternly and he pulled out a small amulet that was hanging on a leather thong around his neck. The old man kissed the yellowing piece of bone, which had been crudely carved into the shape of a mermaid with two tails, and began to mutter a complicated incantation that he hoped would save his soul from damnation. Thomas looked at him and pitied his credulity. He knew that those who trusted in magic never had their faith rewarded, in spite of the outrageous promises made by the wise women and self-proclaimed sorcerers who made a good living from selling these worthless trinkets.

  Thomas knew this better than anyone because he’d once filled his own purse by dealing in magical charms, however his customers hadn’t been superstitious fishermen. Thomas’ amulets had been bought by the highest in the land but though his jewels had been made from gold, set with precious stones and inscribed with powerful spells taken from rare grimoires, they’d been no more effective than the tawdry slivers of wood and bone sold in the markets of Cheapside. Indeed Thomas’ own personal talisman, which he’d fashioned with the help of the great German alchemist and necromancer Cornelius Agrippa, had spectacularly failed to save him from his recent ill fortune.

  With nothing more to say to each other, neither man spoke until the boat had rounded the last bend in the river before Tilbury and as their destination came into view, the fisherman told his rower to pull for the long wooden jetty that stood at right angles to two enormous hulks. These apparently derelict warships had been beached, broadside to the river, on the grey mudflats beyond the harbour and though they lacked masts, the two ships still dwarfed the kogges, wherries and other boats that crowded Tilbury’s waterfront.

  “What are those?” Thomas asked, wondering what manner of storm could wreck such mighty arks. Their blackened hulls were covered in weed and slime, which made the ships appear abandoned, but the royal standard still flew from their sterns, their gun ports were open and Thomas could see the muzzles of bronze cannon pointing out over the river. Wisps of smoke from cooking fires on the ship’s decks and lines of washing hung over the rails indicated the vessels were still manned, at least by gunners and washerwomen.

  “Those rotting piles of worm eaten wood are all that’s left of the Great Harry and Mary Rose. Since the King of Frogs gave our Sovereign Lord his latest bloody nose, Henry’s had no money to pay for a proper army or navy so he uses his great carracks as floating forts to guard the approaches to London,” the fisherman said grimly.

  “So if King Francis tries to sail up the Thames he can at least be sure of a proper salute,” Thomas joked but it was a hollow jest. No one in England could forget Henry’s humiliation the year before when the king’s attempt to seize Paris had ended in utter failure. A century before, in the time of Henry V, Englishmen had found honour and glory in the mud of northern France but Henry VIII had been born under a different star. Instead of winning great victories at Harfleur and Agincourt, the Tudor king’s men had deserted in their hundreds and Henry had been forced to abandon his campaign when he was just fifty miles from Paris. The last remnants of the English army had slunk back to Calais where the men had been ignominiously discharged and sent home in disgrace.

  The fisherman began to mutter something about there being more people than usual waiting for him on the fish quay but Thomas, who was having to row hard to counter the tide, couldn’t turn his head to see what the man was talking about. Grunting with the effort of wrestling Old Father Thames, Thomas continued to pull on the oars until the boat clunked against the jetty’s mussel encrusted timbers.

  “You there, what boat is this?” Cried a burly town constable who was standing at the edge of the jetty. The man was dressed in a green and white striped tunic, the livery of the Tudor kings, and Thomas’ joy at being free of the city drained out of the holes in his battered shoes.

  “Christopher Martin’s wherry newly returned from the city after unloading a cargo of sprats and herring,” shouted the fisherman.

  “I know you Master Martin but I don’t know your passenger, where’s your lad?” said the constable suspiciously.

  “Young Simon took sick the day before last so this gentleman’s been giving me a hand with the oars all the way from Billingsgate,” said the fisherman.

  “And who are you?” asked the constable turning to the wherry’s oarsman. Thomas’ mind whirled like a windmill’s sails in gale. He could try and escape by plunging into the river and swimming for the far shore but the constable would quickly commandeer a boat and he’d be caught before he was a hundred yards from the dock. Even if he escaped, the river at Tilbury was far too wide for anything but a seal to cross by swimming so Thomas decided to try and bluff his way to freedom.

  “I’m Robert of Durham looking for passage home to the north,” he said and he immediately cursed himself for choosing an alias that still contained too much information.

  “From the North are ye? Well come up here and let’s be looking at you,” growled the constable. Thomas obediently climbed the wooden ladder tied to one of the jetty’s pillars and as soon as he’d reached the top, he was surrounded by a dozen guardians of King Henry’s peace. They were all dressed in the same grubby green and white smocks and armed with a variety of staves and halberds.

  “You say you’re returning home but can you pay your passage? By your garb I should take you for a vagabond and throw you in the stocks for a week,” said the constable looking at Thomas’ filthy clothes with disdain.

  “I’m gentle born and I’ve never begged in my life! London’s footpads emptied my purse and stole my clothes but I was given these rags by a kindly abbot and I fully intend to work my passage home. Now let me pass before I lose my temper and curse you for a knave,” Thomas snapped.

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head,” replied the constable. “We’re looking for a murderer or haven’t you heard?”

  “The fisherman told me two men in East Cheap had been killed by a demon but surely you can see I’m flesh and blood,” Thomas announced to the crowd that was gathering to watch the commotion.

  “Demon be damned! The villain we seek is of this earth, though his soul is most surely destined for hell. One of his victims still lives and he told us the murder is Thomas Devilstone of The North. Wait a minute, isn’t Durham in the north and what’s that at your side?” cried the constable. With uncharacteristic speed, the slow-witted dogberry drew his sword and pointed it at the falchion hanging from Thomas’ belt. Everyone in the crowd could see the stranger’s unsheathed sword and its blade stained with dried blood was as good as a confession.

  “God’s Wounds, take him men!” cried the constable and before Thomas could make a fight of it the other men-at-arms had their weapons pressed against his chest.

  “Raise your arms you murderous dog!” cried the constable. Outnumbered and exhausted from his flight over the rooftops, Thomas had no choice but to lift his hands high above his head. As he did so the constable stepped forward and deftly cut Thomas’ belt with the point of his sword so that the falchion fell onto the jetty’s wooden planks with a dull thud.

  “I acted in defence of my life,” Thomas shouted before a cudgel smashed the wind from his body and he doubled up in pain. Whilst his lungs fought for breath, another guardian of the king’s peace struck the back of Thomas’ head and the last thing he heard before his world went black was the constable’s triumphant voic
e.

  “Careful with him lads, the Lord Cardinal wants this evil bastard alive!”

  3

  THE FLEET PRISON

  Thomas woke and soon wished he hadn’t. His head felt like Beelzebub was hammering nails into his skull whilst his arms and legs seemed unusually heavy. It took a few moments before he realised that the extra weight of his limbs was due to the fetters that had been fastened around his wrists and ankles. Painfully, he hauled himself into a sitting position and peered into the gloom. A tiny, barred window, set high in one wall, let in just enough light for Thomas to see he was in a large, dungeon, about thirty feet square, and the only entrance was an iron bound, wooden door.

  The dungeon was so large its vaulted roof had to be supported by a central pillar and its corners were hidden by shadows. There was no furniture and the only comfort was a thin layer of grimy rushes that covered the damp stone floor. In desperation, Thomas tested the strength of his shackles but the iron links were sound and the ends of his chains were fastened to a ring that had been firmly cemented into the wall. A fog of pain and desperation clouded his mind but he had enough wits to bawl a stream of violent threats and blasphemous curses at his unseen gaolers.

  “Hear me you mother buggering servants of the tyrant Wolsey, I’m a friend of the king and I swear by God’s bastard Son, if you don’t free me from this stinking dungeon within the next five minutes, you’ll be sorry. The Crucifixion will feel like the gentle tickle of a whore’s merkin compared to what I’ll do to you!” Thomas cried but his torrent of oaths was interrupted by a voice from the darkness.

  “You dare mock Christ’s Passion? If I weren’t chained like St Peter in the Mamertine, I would teach you a lesson in scripture!” bellowed a man with a deep, guttural accent.

  “Be silent preacher, some of us are trying to sleep,” said another foreign voice from the shadows.

  “Is it not enough I’m imprisoned in this filthy pit? Must I also be tormented by your childish squabbling?” said a third man, who spoke in strangely regal tones.

  Astonished that he was not alone in the dungeon Thomas fell silent and as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could see there were three other men chained to the cell’s mouldering walls. All three of his fellow prisoners were just a few years older than himself and though, judging by their filthy rags and matted hair they’d been incarcerated for several months, the light of rebellion still burned bright in their eyes.

  The largest of the prisoners was a muscular, pale-skinned giant whose saturnine, beetle-browed face was covered by a tangle of filthy red hair and a great bush of a beard. Two intense green eyes stared out of this forest, like those of a tiger gazing out of a bamboo jungle, but the man’s shoulders were as broad as a bull’s and when he talked he bellowed like an enormous brown bear. Thomas thought that the powerful build and ruddy face of this beast of a man suggested he was German or perhaps his ancestor had been a Viking berserker left behind by the Danes who’d once pillaged London.

  By contrast the second man was of more normal height and build. He had soft brown eyes, set deep in a handsome face that was almost totally obscured by his jet-black hair and what had once been a neatly clipped beard. A lifetime spent disobeying orders and biting his thumb at those who imagined they could command him, had etched a look of defiance into his high cheekbones and thin mouth. It was a look that women loved, but men feared, and from his olive skin Thomas thought he might be a Spanish sailor who’d deserted his ship and committed some dreadful crime whilst drunk on strong English ale.

  The third prisoner was the most exotic of the three, he was an African with skin as dark as ancient bronze. Knots of thick black hair tumbled from his head like the coiled leaves of a fern, yet his tightly curled beard was thin and covered his chin in little clumps like thorn bushes in a desert. As with the other prisoners, his marble-white eyes burned with hatred for those who sought to rule him yet there was something regal about his fine features and noble bearing. He exuded this effortless aura of superiority even though he was chained to a wall and Thomas was acutely aware he’d only ever seen such pride in the faces of the foreign princes who swaggered about King Henry’s court.

  Like the red bearded giant, the African was tall and well muscled. Even seated the two titans dwarfed the Spaniard but whereas the German appeared to have the brute strength of a crusader’s longsword, the African had the subtle power of a Saracen’s scimitar. The reason why the three men should be rotting in a London dungeon Thomas could only guess, however they all seemed to have stayed strong and healthy despite their incarceration.

  “So what brings you to Hell’s ante-chamber?” said the African. He spoke English with a soft, musical accent yet his words sounded like a royal command rather than a question.

  “Don’t you recognise him? It’s King Henry’s alchemist and necromancer, the man whom Cardinal Wolsey ordered arrested for witchcraft,” replied the swarthy man gleefully. He too spoke good English and Thomas reckoned he was no stranger to London.

  “Are you a witch? By the flaming sword of Saint Michael, if you’ve made a compact with The Devil I’ll snap these chains and choke the life from your worthless carcase with my bare hands, for God commands good Christians not to suffer a witch to live,” growled the red bearded giant. He too spoke in thickly accented English and Thomas was about to remark that God also commanded good Christians not to murder each other when the African interrupted him.

  “I’ve never yet seen a witch that could produce anything but lies and tricks,” he said bitterly. “When I was born my mother’s astrologers cast my horoscope. They predicted heaven would grant me a long life, the love of my people and many victories on the battlefield, yet I find myself far from home in this stinking dungeon awaiting a peasant’s death on the gallows.”

  “You don’t believe in man’s power to bind and loose Dark Forces?” said Thomas earnestly and as his question hung in the air awaiting an answer, the swarthy looking prisoner burst out laughing.

  “Are you hoping to call on the powers of Hell to free you? If so the legions of the damned have been little help to you up till now. Where were your demons when Wolsey’s men knocked you senseless and brought you here to The Fleet?” he taunted.

  “The Fleet?” said Thomas in surprise. “God’s teeth! You mean I’m back in London not Tilbury?”

  “This is indeed The Fleet Prison, where those summoned before the corrupt and wicked judges of The King’s Bench are incarcerated to await their trial or their death sentence,” said the swarthy man.

  “Yet a prison is also a place of repentance, so witch, be truly sorry for your sins, put your faith in God and He may yet be merciful,” added the red bearded prisoner.

  “I’m no witch and though I did study the Natural Sciences with the great magus Cornelius Agrippa all I’ve ever sought is knowledge and truth. Yet for this, my enemies have conspired to destroy me,” Thomas declared.

  “If you seek knowledge only for its own sake then you are a fool, what use is knowledge unless it brings you wealth and power?” said the swarthy man.

  “If my mother was still alive she’d probably agree with you,” said Thomas ruefully and with nothing else to pass the time, he found himself telling his fellow prisoners of how he’d come to follow the tortuous path that had raised him so high and brought him so low. It had been a long journey and he’d taken the first steps almost ten years ago.

  A year after the English had won a crushing victory over the Scots at Flodden Field, Thomas’ father, an impoverished knight in the service of the Warden of the Marches, had been killed in a minor raid on the Scottish town of Hawick. The fifteen year old Thomas, who’d seen his father die, had sworn revenge but his widowed mother had been determined to stop her only son from being killed in some futile Border feud. His mother had used the last of the once sizeable Devilstone fortune to send her son to the great school of medicine in Padua however Thomas had found more to interest him in the city’s taverns and brothels and it was here
he’d met the lawyer, physician and necromancer Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettlesheim.

  A German of noble birth, Cornelius Agrippa had spent his youth in the service of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian of Hapsburg who was fighting a long and bloody war with the king of France for control of Burgundy, Flanders and Italy. Whilst campaigning with Maximilian’s murderous landsknecht mercenaries, Agrippa had proved himself to be a loyal and courageous soldier but after being knighted by the emperor on the field of battle, he’d abandoned the martial life to resume his education. First he’d studied law and then medicine before succumbing to the lure of the occult.

  Over several large flagons of wine in a Paduan tavern, Thomas had begged to become the great magician’s apprentice. Eventually Agrippa had agreed and had taught the youthful Englishman the secrets of astrology, alchemy and divination. Thomas had also learned the essential skills of an imperial courtier, which included swordsmanship and dancing as well as the darker arts of using codes and poisons. Together, master and pupil had travelled across Europe in pursuit of more secret knowledge but, after being driven out of Geneva by jealous rivals, they’d quarrelled.

  For reasons Thomas was only now beginning to understand, his master suddenly seemed to lose all faith in magic and the occult. One evening, without any warning, Agrippa had declared he was renouncing the truth of all he’d previously believed and was abandoning magic to renew his studies in medicine. Thomas, in his youthful ignorance, had been appalled at his master’s apostasy and after a bitter row he’d left Agrippa to continue his own journey along the sacred river of hidden truth. Thomas had become convinced he could use his knowledge of the arcane to restore his family’s lost lands and titles so, after a year in France hiding from his creditors, he’d returned to England.