devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band

by richard anderton

  “Who said anything about an honest living? We intend to deal in whores,” said Thomas but the old woman merely laughed out loud.

  “You fools, you’ll starve in a week! There are already plenty of whores here,” she said.

  Undeterred Quintana returned to the fray and pointed out that common streetwalkers were good enough for common soldiers but the noble lords who’d left high born wives and sweethearts at home wouldn’t be content to plough a furrow that had been worked by a hundred others. However they planned to supply only the finest female flesh and ensure their favours were reserved for men of gentle birth. He also assured Kleber that rich noblemen would pay handsomely for such women and they’d pay her back double what had they’d borrowed within three months. Kleber rubbed her bristled chin and thought for a moment. She agreed it was a generous offer but she insisted on something to guarantee the loan.

  “I’ll lend you the money but in return I want a few hours alone with him,” she said, staring at Thomas with hunger in her eyes.

  “Me!” the object of her lust gasped and he began to feel the bile rise in his throat.

  “Yes you, my old bones haven’t been ridden in years and I want a good long hack. Besides, if you’re going into the whoring business it will be useful experience!” laughed the crone and before Thomas could declare he’d rather return to the cage his companions bundled him to one side.

  “I won’t whore myself like an East Cheap cokenay!” Thomas protested.

  “So you’re quite happy to be a pimp but you refuse to get your hands dirty?” said Bos sternly.

  “It’s not my hands I’m worried about,” snapped Thomas.

  “There’s more cluck in an old hen than a young chicken!” said Prometheus with a broad grin.

  “And you might find you have a taste for well-seasoned fowl,” said Quintana.

  “Foul is the word, she must be a hundred years old! She’ll be as dry as a crypt and you might as well ask me to put my manhood in a cheese-grater!” cried Thomas but the others refused listen to his pleas. Eventually he had no choice but to surrender however he demanded a bottle of aquavit to put the fire of passion in his belly.

  “It’s a bargain Mistress Kleber, our young friend promises to ride you straight to the arms of Venus this very night,” said Quintana happily when they returned to the cauldron.

  “Good, now go and bathe him, I like my men to smell as sweet as a primrose not stink like a Saracen’s arsehole,” said Kleber. Once again, Thomas was marched away and whilst the prospective lover bathed in the river, Nagel used the last of their spare cash to buy a flask of brandy. He returned to see Thomas emerge from the water covered in frothy soapwort and looking like Aphrodite rising from the foam. The Englishman rinsed the suds from his hair, climbed on to the riverbank and without bothering to dress he snatched the flask from Nagel’s hand.

  “You’d better get me drunker than Irish lord at Christmas or the deal’s off,” said Thomas taking a long greedy pull from the flask. The fiery liquid burnt his throat and made his eyes water but he felt a little better. The others urged him to take care but Thomas ignored them and took another swig.

  “Not too much, you don’t want to spoil your magnificent gifts,” said Nagel, eyeing Thomas’ naked form.

  “You needn’t worry, all Englishmen can take their drink, you could drown me in beer and I’ll still be able to tup the old crone till her eyes pop,” said Thomas, but despite his boast it was a decidedly tipsy Englishman that staggered to his place of execution. Night had fallen, which was a blessing, and the old woman had done her best to make herself presentable. She had donned a wig of long golden hair, rouged her lips and cheeks and changed her apron. Unfortunately the flickering candlelight made her look less like a blushing young maid and more like a demon in a passion play.

  “Ah my love,” she cooed as Thomas was brought into her presence. Quintana and the others could barely contain their laughter as the aged cook planted a clumsy wet kiss on Thomas’ lips.

  “I think I am going to be sick,” muttered Thomas drunkenly as he felt the stubble of the old woman’s chin scratch against his cheek.

  “Fear not, I have a physick to cure you,” replied Kleber and she dragged her reluctant lover into the tent. As Thomas disappeared inside the others looked at each other and wondered whether or not to rescue their friend but in the next moment they were all shaking with laughter.

  “She’ll eat him alive!” chuckled Bos.

  “With some of her stew and black bread!” laughed Prometheus.

  “Come on, let’s listen to Cupid’s chorus,” said Quintana and he led the others around the back of the tent. The canvas was no barrier to any sound and they could hear every word being said.

  “Oh you are such a pretty boy and I know what boys like to play with, undo my bodice,” said the voice of Mistress Kleber. There was a disgusted grunt from Thomas.

  “Do you like my poonts, pretty boy?” said Mistress Kleber eagerly.

  “Oh yes, very nice,” said Thomas without enthusiasm.

  “Hold them, oh but your hands are cold, I know where I can warm them…”

  “Jesus and all the saints, slow down mistress, I beg you!” said Thomas.

  “Feel me there, just there …”

  “Ugh!” said Thomas in a voice that sounded like the mewling of a strangled cat.

  “Now take me … ride me … plough me deep!”

  Outside the tent, the audience could bear no more. Stuffing their fists in their mouths they ran from the scene and when they were at a safe distance they collapsed into paroxysms of mirth. It took several minutes for their laughter to subside but once they’d recovered their composure the four men retreated to Mistress Kleber’s cauldron to warm themselves and wait for Leander to return to Abydos. It was long after midnight when the bedraggled lover appeared at the fireside and though he was desperate to forget the last few hours, the others tormented Thomas with questions until he begged for mercy.

  “By the blood stained hands of St Dominic you’re worse than Torquemada! Very well, if you must know, her skin was like leather, her tits like empty wine skins and her coney would make Lucifer himself vomit up his own intestines. That’s my last word, except to say that whatever debt I may have owed you all for getting you into this mess is now paid,” Thomas told his inquisitors.

  “Do you think you may have left her with child?” giggled Nagel but Thomas ignored him, wrapped himself in a borrowed blanket and refused to say another word.

  When they woke the next morning, Mistress Kleber was as good as her word and fetched the fifty livres Thomas had asked for from a large iron bound chest. The Englishman had evidently done his work well as she radiated good humour and chattered like a novice nun as the men picked out new clothes from her extensive stock of second hand breeches, doublets and hose. The men had already decided that a recreation of an Ottoman Sultan’s seraglio would attract wealthy customers such as Richard de la Pole and so they chose to dress as Phanariots.

  In contrast to the flamboyant German landsknechts, these Greek merchants wore drab, ankle length tunics gathered at the waist by a simple sash. Plain white shirts, knee length breeches and woollen stockings were worn beneath these tunics whilst a long, loose fitting coat was worn over the top. A broad brimmed beret completed the costume and though Greek Christians were forbidden to carry weapons in their native Constantinople, Thomas and his companions equipped themselves with the new rapier swords that were much favoured by Spanish merchants. Where Mistress Kleber had acquired such items was a mystery but their new clothes disguised the men’s identities perfectly and their patron eyed her clients with satisfaction. She even shed a tear when she saw Thomas.

  After saying their farewells, the four ‘Greeks’ strode off to spend more of their borrowed gold and their first purchases were the wagon and tents they’d need for themselves and their girls. Being late arrivals these necessities were in short supply but Quintana beat down the extortionate prices by threatening t
o have Bos and Prometheus beat up the different vendors. When it came to furnishing their travelling temple to Aphrodite, they bought damask silks, oriental carpets, Turkish divans and a pair of ‘marble’ pillars made from wood and plaster. These would form the centrepiece of an erotic masque their harlots would perform to help their customers make their selection.

  After a few days hard bargaining, the new bawds had everything they needed except their trollops but they didn’t have to look too far to find them. An outbreak of the Neapolitan pox had forced the burghers of Lyon to close the city’s brothels and whilst dozens of homeless harlots had migrated to the French army’s camp, many pimps had forbidden their girls to consort with soldiers. Despite the rich profits to be made, these whoremasters feared that their strumpets would escape their clutches by marrying some amorous arquebusier or priapic pikeman. Though battle usually cut short such unions, the wayward girls’ freedom endured long after their husband’s death.

  Thomas and the others decided to ‘rescue’ some of these fallen angels by offering them better terms than their current employers. As Bos and Prometheus looked too fearsome, and Nagel looked too puny, it fell to Thomas and Quintana to venture into the city and find suitable candidates. At dusk, dressed in black cloaks and feeling like Romans setting out to abduct Sabine women, the Englishman and the Portugee crossed the bridge over the Saone and entered the old city. As the moon rose, the two men found themselves in a promising alley behind the Basilica of St Martin so they hid in a doorway to await the arrival of Lyon’s nightingales. They didn’t have to wait long. After half an hour four women entered the alley and began to walk aimlessly up and down the cobbles.

  Curiously, the women advertised their trade by wearing the most modest Italian attire. Their heads were covered by waist length shawls of virginal white and their voluminous skirts of yellow linen hid any clue to the tempting curves beneath. Had it not been for the bright colours of their costumes, a passer-by could easily have mistaken these acolytes of Venus for Christian nuns. Having satisfied himself they’d be open to offers, Thomas was about to approach the women when a man entered the alley. At first he thought the stranger might be a customer but there was something about the man’s demeanour that suggested otherwise. He had all the grace and refinement of an ox and when the harlots started opening their purses, Thomas guessed he must be their pimp.

  The smallest girl, whose name seemed to be Ulla, failed to hand over any cash. She tried to explain she’d been too sick to work but the bovine pimp was in no mood for excuses. He promised to thrash the girl within an inch of her life unless she paid her dues in full and he raised a fist the size and shape of a hambone to add weight to his threat. The girl cowered in fear but the oldest of the harlots came to her rescue.

  “God’s Wounds Bruno, how can she earn if you leave her looking like a whipped dog? Ulla’s been ill with fever but she’ll have your money by the end of the week, I swear,” snapped the older harlot, pushing the terrified younger girl behind her.

  “Sick? She’s a lying bitch, only yesterday I saw her making cow eyes at a saddler’s apprentice!” roared the pimp. Thomas, watching from the shadows, decided these girls would not hesitate to leave this brute but they’d be no use if they had black eyes and broken teeth. So, before Quintana could stop him, the Englishman stepped into the moonlight.

  “Leave off there!” Thomas shouted from across the alley.

  “The nightwatch!” cried one of the whores but the pimp ignored her. He paid his bribes regularly so he’d no need to fear Lyon’s constables. Instead he turned to face Thomas.

  “Who in a pig’s arse are you?” said the pimp.

  “The man who is going to take away your whores and give them a better life,” Thomas replied.

  “Is that so and how’s a long streak of piss like you going to take my girls?” snorted the pimp.

  “In one of two ways, I’ll pay you a florin apiece, for fair exchange is no robbery, and take them peaceably or I’ll kill you and take them for nothing. Make your choice,” said Thomas nonchalantly.

  “Then you’ll have to kill me ‘cos I make no bargains with fancy talking bastards!” sneered the pimp.

  “Excellent! I heartily agree with your decision, for I hate parting with money,” said Thomas and the pimp suddenly realised the stranger was deadly serious. His dullard’s face contorted into a brutish mask and he retrieved the heavy cudgel he always carried beneath his filthy cloak.

  “I’ll smash you,” he said and started to swing the club menacingly. His opponent merely smiled and flicked back his own cloak as if he were about to do nothing more dangerous than relieve himself. The whores gasped as Thomas revealed his own weapon, the long, thin rapier he’d purchased from Mistress Kleber earlier that day. It was almost too easy, yet Thomas delighted in putting on a show of his swordsmanship to impress the girls. The pimp, bellowing like an ogre, hurled himself at Thomas who stepped to one side and slashed at the man’s rump. With a gentle whisper, the whip-like Toledo steel sliced through the pimp’s beeches and cut a deep gash in his flabby buttocks.

  “My final offer is half a florin for each girl or you die,” said Thomas.

  “Bastard!” screamed the pimp as the pain from his lacerated backside finally penetrated his thick skull. He charged again, holding his cudgel high above his head as if he were about to drive a fence post into the earth. In reply, Thomas casually aimed his rapier at his opponent’s throat and lunged. Blinded by pain, rage and the darkness, the pimp ran onto the sword’s point and the combined the impetus of his charge and Thomas’ thrust pushed the rapier clean through the man’s neck. The dying pimp fell to his knees and clawed weakly at the three feet of steel sticking out of his throat. Thomas spat in the man’s face, placed a foot on his chest and heaved the weapon free. The death rattle sounded in the pimp’s throat and he fell, face-first, into the alleyway’s stinking mud.

  “Is he dead?” said one of the girls hopefully.

  “As dead as a nun’s dreams of marriage,” said Thomas wiping his sword on the dead man’s cloak. As soon as he’d said the words the whores surrounded the corpse and started to rain spittle, kicks and curses onto Bruno’s lifeless head.

  “Bastard… cuckold… sodomite… Spaniard!” They chorused. Thomas let the women vent their fury on the dead pimp and called to Quintana who’d remained in the doorway watching the spectacle.

  “You didn’t think to assist me?” he said as the Portugee joined him.

  “My crippled grandmother could beat that clumsy oaf, besides I thought you needed the practice,” replied Quintana watching the whores desecrate their late pimp’s cadaver and feeling a chill of fear run down his spine at their viciousness. It was fully five minutes before the harlot’s mouths were dry, and their lexicon of curses exhausted, and only then did they turn their attention to their rescuers.

  “So who in the name of St Nicholas are you two?” said the oldest of the whores to Quintana, who was looking at her in the same way a man looks at a horse he’s about to buy. The woman was in her late twenties but she still had her looks and Quintana reckoned she had perhaps three or four good years left before her customers went in search of firmer flesh. The three other girls also looked handsome enough to secure a loyal band of high paying regulars and the Portugee began to think they might even make a profit from their venture.

  “I am Luis Quintana, a gentleman of Lisbon, and this is Thomas Devilstone, a gentleman of England. There are two more in our company, a Frisian and a Nubian, who are also good Christian men as vigorous and as honourable as us, your humble servants,” said the Portugee with a polite bow.

  “We’re here to make you an offer, my friends and I plan to assemble a caravan of the best courtesans and earn a fine fortune following Francis’ army,” added Thomas.

  “You mean you’ll get rich whilst we endure the attention of drunken bakers with tiny cocks and blacksmiths with bad breath?” said the older whore suspiciously.

  “By no means, you shall ente
rtain only young and wealthy gentlemen of quality and we propose to divide all profits equally. In return for our shares, my friends and I offer you both our protection and our promise you shall be well treated,” replied Thomas.

  “What if we refuse?” said the chief whore.

  “Then we’ll have to tell the nightwatch we saw you kill your pimp. I’ve no doubt the wretch deserved to die, nevertheless murder is a crime and you’ll all be swinging from a gibbet by next eventide,” said Quintana sternly. The whores gasped in horror and clutched their dainty throats.

  “You bastards! What if we say different? It’ll be our word against yours!” said the older whore.

  “Who’d believe a harlot, even four harlots, against the testimony of two gentleman such as we?” said Thomas, “But ladies, we don’t wish our bargain to be sealed by threats. We offer you the best of futures, a life in the fresh, free air of the countryside away from the foul stench of the city. Come now, would you rather live as creatures of the night, until your looks desert you or the pox sends you to an early grave? Or would you rather join us and make your fortunes entertaining wealthy, well born warriors just as Briseis entertained Achilles?”

  “Remember how we all wanted to go to the camp but Bruno wouldn’t let us,” whispered Ulla.

  “I don’t care who rides me are so long as they pay well, said the third trollop.

  “But no cripples, I can’t abide cripples,” said the fourth. Thomas and Quintana repeated their promise that the girls’ customers would all be strong, young noblemen, all as skilled in the arts of love as the arts of war, but the older whore insisted on one last condition.

  “We’ll join you but you must agree that any of us may leave your service whenever we wish. We may be whores but we’ll not be slaves,” she said.

  “We agree gladly, now ladies may we be permitted to know your names?” said Thomas sweeping the hat of his head and bowing low like an Italian courtier. The younger whores giggled as the oldest of them introduced herself as Magda and her companions as Ulla, Maria and Helene. With their bargain sealed, Thomas and Quintana dumped Bruno’s corpse in a dark corner of the alley and covered it with refuse. The girls had been living in a shack nearby so they returned to their hovel to retrieve their few possessions and wait for the city’s gates to be opened at dawn.