devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band

by richard anderton

  Though the imperial guns’ target was far to the left of the men waiting in the trenches, each raider ducked instinctively as the cannon and culverin balls sped on their way. When the guns drew breath to reload, Bourbon gave the word and the landsknechts scrambled clumsily out of their trenches. The Spanish horsemen galloped away and were quickly lost in the darkness leaving the men on foot to pick their way through the palisades and pits full of sharpened stakes that protected their own camp. Five minutes later, with hearts beating, swords drawn and skin sticky with sweat, the raiders reached the Vernavola river that flowed between the French and imperial lines.

  The diversion had worked better than Bourbon dared hope and whilst the Swiss rushed more men to the Porta Levrieri in expectation of an attack, the raiding party found an undefended bridge over the Vernavola and crossed to the dead ground between the Torretta gate and the Five Abbeys. The guns they had to destroy were in the monasteries of San Giacomo, San Spirito and San Paolo and from here the raiders could attack each abbey’s lightly defended western gateway. Thomas and The Devil’s Band were ordered to capture the abbey of San Paolo but in the gloomy light of a winter’s moon, the darkened abbey looked more like a castle than a House of God.

  San Paolo’s cloisters were surrounded by a high wall of red brick, topped by swallowtail battlements of white limestone, the octagonal turrets at each corner were pierced by loopholes and the entrance was barred by heavy wooden gates protected by a similarly fortified gatehouse. The Devil’s Band had brought ladders but rather than risk scaling the walls Thomas decided on a bold ruse de guerre. He formed his men into a column, marched them openly along the road from Pavia and as they approached the abbey’s gatehouse he shouted to the sentries, in his best French, that he was bringing reinforcements to help repulse an imminent attack.

  The darkness, the continuing imperial barrage and the fact that Thomas’ shouts came from a direction supposedly occupied by friendly forces, duped the Swiss sentries completely. They opened the gates and even urged the new arrivals to hurry and join them on the walls facing the imperial lines. Scarcely able to believe his luck, Thomas waved his falchion and four hundred landsknechts poured into the abbey like molten metal running into a mould. The Swiss defenders suddenly realised their catastrophic mistake and tried to bar the way but it was too late.

  The men of Bos and Prometheus’ rotten cut down the sentries trying close the gates whilst Thomas and Quintana led the rest of the raiders further into the abbey. The Germans had a special loathing for their Swiss counterparts and slaughtered the sleeping reisläufer wherever they found them. Within minutes, the monastery’s cloisters and dormitories became filled with the screams of the wounded and dying but Thomas and Quintana ignored these skirmishes and led a squad of thirty men to the open square in front of the monastery’s chapel.

  A few yards to left of the chapel’s bell tower, the Swiss gunners had demolished three sections of the abbey’s outer wall and built a long platform of wood and tamped earth behind these openings. The platform measured roughly a hundred feet long by twenty wide, with steeply sloping sides rising eight feet high. The flat top of this low, truncated pyramid had been covered with thick planks of oak that supported three heavy nachtigall cannon each weighing sixty hundredweight. The guns’ ornately patterned muzzles projected through embrasures protected by earth-filled, wicker gabions and the iron shot was arranged in neat piles behind each brightly painted carriage. The cannons’ powder however was stored in covered wagons parked some yards away from the platform.

  A dozen Swiss gunners were sheltering behind the powder wagons but Thomas ordered his men to show them no mercy. The landsknechts gleefully charged their foes, who defended themselves gallantly with axes and the short gunners’ pikes called linstocks, but the raiders had surprise and numbers on their side. The Germans swarmed around each wagon and the Swiss gunners died in a chorus of guttural battle cries but in answer to their comrades’ tortured screams, fifty more reisläufer came running out of the abbey’s church.

  As he carried a small keg of powder onto the platform, Thomas saw the danger and shouted to his men to hold off the Swiss counterattack whilst he spiked the guns. His men rushed to obey and the square in front of the chapel’s bell tower rapidly became a vision of Armageddon. Elsewhere, the raiders had set fire to the abbey and the burning buildings illuminated the small knots of men fighting desperately for their lives. Swords splintered skulls, halberds sliced off limbs, pikes pierced bellies and though the men of The Devil’s Band fought like demons, two Swiss halberdiers managed to cut their way through the melee and climb the steps to the gun platform.

  Quintana pursued the Swiss but, before he could cut them down, the first reisläufer fell on Thomas, who was busy trying to break open his keg of powder. Quintana shouted a warning just in time, the Englishman ducked behind the nearest gun carriage and his attacker’s blade bit into the painted wood instead of his skull. In one swift movement, Thomas had drawn his sword, rolled under the carriage and leapt to his feet before the Swiss halberdier had wrenched his weapon free.

  The Englishman’s vicious backhand cut caught his opponent on the side of the head and the falchion sliced through human bone as easily as a butcher’s cleaver. A bloody chunk of skin and skull went spiralling into the night as the dead man, gore pouring down his lifeless face, slumped over the gun carriage. As soon as he was sure the first reisläufer was dead, Thomas turned to look for his second attacker and saw the man lunge at Quintana just as the Portugee clambered onto the platform.

  With a litheness learned in the backstreets of Lisbon, Quintana parried the blow with his sword but the Swiss was also no beginner and he managed to trap his enemy’s katzbalger in the angle between his halberd’s axe blade and spear point. With a sharp twist, the reisläufer’s wrenched the sword from Portugee’s hand and it clattered to the floor. Quintana, who was now defenceless, took a step backwards but found himself trapped against another of the guns. The Swiss halberdier grinned maliciously as he prepared to spit his opponent like a suckling pig but his cry of victory turned into a choking gurgle of defeat as Thomas’ plunged his falchion between the man’s shoulder blades.

  “I am in your debt Englishman,” said Quintana as the dead reisläufer fell at his feet.

  “And I yours Portugee but we can repay each other by blowing these guns back to Basel,” said Thomas retrieving his sword. He thrust the falchion into his belt before untying the long cloth bags wrapped around his waist and handing them to Quintana. When the Portugee did nothing but stare at the slender sacks in confusion, Thomas told him to fill them with gunpowder from the keg and stuff them into each gun whilst he piled the rest of the powder barrels around the carriages.

  Though there was still fighting in other parts of the abbey, the brief but bloody battle of the bell tower had been won and Thomas found his men searching corpses for gold. Unfortunately, the Swiss must have left their florins inside the chapel they’d been using as a barracks as none of the dead men provided anything in the way of loot. Thomas therefore had no trouble persuading the empty handed landsknechts to give up their search and help him wedge as many powder barrels as they could under each gun.

  Having filled the bags with powder, Quintana rammed them into the guns’ breeches and for good measure, packed each muzzle with mud and stones. After priming the touchholes Thomas laid a thin trail of powder along the top of each guns’ barrels, taking care to make each fuse slightly longer than the last. Snatching up a gunner’s linstock, Thomas ordered his men to take cover and wound the lighted match he carried his hat around the linstock’s metal crosspiece. Finally he said a silent prayer to St Barbara, touched the glowing end of the match to each fuse in turn and ran for his life.

  With his heart thumping in his chest, Thomas joined his men behind a low wall and watched the sparks on top the guns dance towards the breeches. Slowly each flame crept ever closer to its touchhole then, almost together, the sparks disappeared. For a heartbeat Thomas thought
the fuses had been extinguished by the damp night air but in the next instant the coal black sky was shattered by an ear splitting crash and the abbey was lit up by a pillar of boiling fire. In the orange glow, Thomas saw the guns’ silhouettes, their massive muzzle burst asunder, rise from their carriages and tumble backwards as if they were no heavier than apple blossom blown across a farmyard.

  Bos, who was busy fencing with three Swiss swordsmen, heard the roar of the explosion and looked up to see the tower of flame, fifty feet high, rise from the gun platform. For a heartbeat, he thought that God had appeared to lead his chosen people out of bondage and though the distraction lasted less than a second it was enough for one of his attackers to snatch a wheel-lock pistol from his belt and fire. The pistol’s ball struck the Frisian’s leg at point blank range and buried itself deep in the muscles of his thigh.

  In spite of the shock and pain Bos remained on his feet but the pistoleer’s companions saw their opportunity and moved in to finish off the Frisian. Even badly wounded, Bos managed to parry his opponents’ cuts and lunges but he was bleeding like headless hen and his strength was ebbing fast. In another minute, Bos would have been swept away by the blizzard of Swiss steel but Prometheus ran to his aid. The Nubian cut down two of the Swiss as if they more nothing more than stalks of wheat then thrust his sword into the pistoleer who was frantically trying to reload his weapon.

  “So the ox has had his horns trimmed,” said Prometheus as he knelt down to examine the ragged hole in Bos’ leg.

  “A child’s mistake,” groaned the Frisian weakly, he tried to stay standing but the pain was too great and with a roar as loud as that of the Minotaur in the Labyrinth he collapsed. Immediately, Prometheus started to tear strips of cloth from the dead reisläufers’ tunics.

  “Don’t move or you’ll bleed to death and I’m sure St Peter isn’t ready to receive Lutheran heretics just yet,” he said as he tied the makeshift bandages around Bos’ wound and used his dagger as a tourniquet. He twisted the cloths tighter until Bos yelped with pain but the flow of blood ceased.

  “Does that feel better?” said the Nubian but Bos didn’t reply, he’d passed out. Prometheus cursed the gods of war for their fickleness but imperial casualties had been mercifully few. For the loss of just twenty of their comrades the raiders had slaughtered every defender in the garrison and as a reward for their total victory, Thomas told his men to strip the abbey of everything of value then destroy what they couldn’t carry. The chance to plunder was what every man in The Devil’s Band had been waiting for and the loudest of the approving cheers came from Quintana.

  “C’mon lads, the chapel is sure to be stuffed full of money for the relief of the poor and none are poorer than us, so fetch a barrow and follow me!” he cried. His men quickly found a handcart and eagerly followed their sergeant into the abbey’s chapel. The barrow’s wooden wheels clattering up the stone steps made a noise loud enough to wake the dead entombed in the chapel’s crypt but Quintana emerged a few minutes later with nothing but an angry face and an empty handcart.

  “Those thieving, cow-buggering Swiss bastards, they’ve picked the place clean!” Quintana cried and he kicked a dead Swiss halberdier in disgust just as Prometheus emerged from the darkness.

  “I thought I’d find you here, now if you’ve no use for that cart follow me. That damn fool Frisian has taken a pistol ball in the leg and he lies as senseless as a millstone by the gate,” he said urgently. Grumbling at the injustice of being left a pauper, Quintana ordered his men to lend a hand but they wouldn’t attend to any of the wounded until they’d finished searching every corpse they could find for rings, coins and anything else of value. The pickings were slim and the dead bodies in the abbey’s cloisters and dormitories seemed to be as impoverished as their late comrades by the gun platform.

  There could be no doubt that the abbey’s gold and silver had been looted by the Swiss months ago, and immediately spent buying whores and wine from the sutlers camped in the French baggage park at Mirabello. Though this knowledge did little to alleviate Quintana’s anger, he had the wit to realise that the reisläufers’ empty purses could only mean that the entire French army hadn’t been paid in weeks. Frundsberg was bound to be interested in the news that his enemy was running short of cash so, leaving his men to help Prometheus heave Bos onto their barrow, he went to find Thomas.

  Having completed his mission, the captain of The Devil’s Band was busy supervising the evacuation of the abbey and he agreed with Quintana that Frundsberg must be told of the Swiss mercenaries’ poverty as soon as possible. There was no sign of Bos or Prometheus by the gate so Thomas and Quintana joined their men picking their way over the boggy ground between the French and imperial lines. As they reached the bridge over the Vernavola, a series of explosions from the abbeys of San Spirito and San Giacomo indicated the other companies had also accomplished their tasks.

  It was as they crossed the bridge that Thomas and Quintana caught up with Prometheus who was dragging the cart carrying Bos and three other wounded by himself. Forgetting their rank, the two men immediately took hold of the shafts and helped the Nubian haul the barrow across the ditches and craters in front of the imperial lines. On their return, Thomas was summoned to a meeting of captains so it was left to Prometheus and Quintana to carry Bos to his tent. There were plenty of doctors, of varying degrees of skill, in the camp but Prometheus had become an accomplished physician during his long war with the Funj and he knew how clean and close a gunshot wound.

  “The Frisian is lucky, the ball didn’t sever an artery so if I can remove it and stitch the wound he’ll live,” said Prometheus and he asked Quintana to buy a bottle of aquavit, a needle, physician’s pincers and a catgut crossbow string from the nearest sutler’s tent whilst he removed the blood soaked bandages. Without a word Quintana disappeared from the tent and returned some minutes later carrying everything the Nubian needed. With the bandages removed, Prometheus used the aquavit to clean the bloodied flesh but the stinging spirit roused Bos from his slumbers.

  “Dear sweet Jesus Christ! What in the name of Pope Julius’ puke-stained beard have you done to me?” Bos cried as his senses, and the pain, revived but in the next moment he slumped back on his cot and his whole body began to shake as if possessed by demons.

  “Quickly, the angel of death is trying to tear the Frisian’s soul from his body, unless we hold him still the ball may move and sever an artery after all!” snapped Prometheus. There was no time to find a length of rope to bind Bos to the cot and the only way to stop him convulsing was for Quintana to sit on his chest. Through the waves of pain Bos could see the Portugee sitting astride him like a catamite trying to satisfy a lazy bishop, which did nothing to put the Frisian at ease.

  “What are you doing you foul sodomite,” he roared but his curses became nothing more than strangled screams as Prometheus thrust the pincers deep into the wound.

  “Is this vengeance for having your liver torn from your body by the eagles’ talons,” Bos moaned. In his agony the Frisian imagined his physician had been transformed into the Titan of Greek myth but Prometheus ignored him and continued to probe Bos’ punctured muscles for the pistol ball. After what seemed like an eternity of torture, the Nubian gave a cry of triumph and pulled the misshapen bullet from the hole in Bos’ leg yet, even now, there was no respite for the tormented patient.

  “I still have to remove the patches of cloth torn from your breeches and hose, if they stay in the wound your blood will be poisoned and you will die of fever,” said Prometheus and he plunged the pincers back into Bos’ mangled flesh. As he searched for the grubby bits of cloth, the Frisian howled, screamed and cursed but Quintana’s weight and strength held him still. The Nubian kept to his task and eventually pulled out two scraps of bloody fabric, each only slightly larger than a thumbnail.

  “Almost finished,” he said with satisfaction.

  “Who taught you healing, Torquemada the Inquisitor?” Bos cried but there was still more pain t
o come. The Nubian poured some aquavit into the wound and Bos yelped like a whipped hound.

  “The caraway in the spirit will kill any poisons,” the Nubian explained but the wound had begun to bleed profusely and had to be closed at once. Ignoring the Frisian’s threats to take terrible revenge if he bled to death, Prometheus deftly threaded the needle with a thin length of catgut taken from the unwound bowstring and sewed the wound shut as expertly as a tailor mending a torn coat. When he was done, Bos lay panting and sweating on the cot whilst Quintana dabbed away the gore and bound the stitches with clean bandages.

  “Is that supposed to cure me?” Bos said through the mist of sweat and pain that shrouded his body.

  “The mother who bore you suffered much more than that little tickle. Besides, your pain will ease in a few days whereas she suffered for years!” replied Quintana. The Frisian said nothing in reply, instead he snatched up the flask of aquavit, took a long draught and let his tortured body relax. In the next moment he was fast asleep.

  Whilst Bos was suffering at the hands of his doctor, Thomas and the other captains who’d led the raid were making their report to the imperial commander-in-chief. The Count of Lannoy listened carefully to what his men had to say, especially about the lack of plunder, before awarding them each a bounty of five guilders for a good night’s work and dismissing them from his tent.

  Lannoy was pleased with the success of the raid, apart from destroying the siege guns threatening his camp, the dashing Spanish horsemen had delivered his letters to the besieged garrison’s commander Don Antonio de Leyva and returned with vital information. However, as his captains left to claim their reward, Lannoy could only ponder on the irony that although he served the richest monarch in Christendom, his financial situation was as parlous as that of the French king.