devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band

by richard anderton

  “Surrender you cur!” cried Pynch.

  “Never, if you want me, come and face me like a man, you turd from the arse of a whore!” Thomas yelled back.

  “Is that the language of a high born gentleman?” taunted Pynch as he signalled for Ned to end the game and arrest the fugitive. Behind the chimneystack, Thomas pressed his sweating fingers around the falchion’s hilt and watched Ned, who was now armed with an ancient but serviceable halberd, begin his nervous advance along the slippery rooftop. The moonlight caught the combined axe blade, spear point and billhook of Ned’s lethal weapon and Thomas felt the hot humours of battle course through his veins.

  “You won’t get me with that pig sticker!” Thomas cried but Ned was not to be put off.

  “Come out from behind those pots and you’ll see what I can do, I’ll cut off your pox-ridden cock you pigeon livered, lack gall, northern bastard!” Ned growled.

  For some reason the final taunt was too much, something snapped in Thomas’ brain and he emerged from his hiding place to launch an attack but his first stroke was premature. Ned was still ten feet away and though his wits were as slow as treacle the extra reach of his halberd gave him an advantage. The instant Thomas revealed himself, Ned thrust his poleaxe towards his enemy and had he been an inch closer, the halberd’s spike would have ripped open his opponent’s belly. Even so, the weapon’s point tore through Thomas’ clothes and scraped a shallow gash across his stomach but he ignored the scratch and used the pain to fuel his anger.

  With a great cry of rage Thomas rolled around the opposite face of the chimney to attack Ned from behind and as soon as he could see his target’s unprotected flank, he swung his sword with all his strength. Ned saw the falchion flash through its arc but now the length of his halberd and the chimneystack conspired against him. The brickwork blocked any attempt to parry Thomas’ counterattack and Ned screamed in agony as the heavy sword bit into the bones of his thigh. The brute collapsed like a felled tree and great red rivers of his blood began to stream down the roof.

  “You bastard, my leg!” Ned shrieked as he tried to staunch the gore that was pouring from his partially severed limb but it was too late, in the space of a heartbeat his screams had become a death rattle. Ignored the dying henchman, Thomas turned his attention to Pynch who’d somehow squeezed his bulk through the skylight and was now standing at the end of the roof.

  “Son of a Spanish bitch wolf!” Thomas yelled and he charged towards his remaining tormentor just as Pynch loosed his last shot. Panic had failed to improve the moneylender’s aim and the bolt vanished into the darkness like the others. Pynch was now defenceless but the last of the once noble Devilstone family showed him no mercy.

  With a chilling cry of victory, Thomas plunged his sword into Pynch’s chest and gore spurted in crimson fountains as the moneylender’s last heartbeats pumped blood through severed arteries. In a final act of savagery, Thomas forced the blade upwards and ripped through Pynch’s ribs before withdrawing the blood stained blade. The dead man’s mouth fell open in silent protest as he fell onto his face and lay still. Uttering a curse on the man’s soul Thomas kicked the moneylender’s lifeless body and watched with satisfaction as the mound of blubber slithered slowly off the roof. A moment later a heavy, wet thump indicated Pynch’s mangled corpse had landed in the street below.

  Ned and Pynch were not the first men Thomas had killed. As a boy of twelve he’d ridden with his father’s band of reivers as they’d searched for Scotsmen raiding the Border Marches. They’d caught their enemies driving stolen cattle across the Rede, a small river in the hills that marked the border, and in the melee that followed he’d sliced open his first gizzard. Since that day a dozen years ago, Thomas had drawn his sword in countless Border skirmishes, and had even fought at Flodden Field, but whilst slaughtering Scotsmen in the wilds of Northumberland was one thing, butchering Englishmen in the middle of London was quite another. Killing Wolsey’s hirelings meant he’d be declared outlaw and if any man or woman gave him sanctuary they too would suffer death.

  The cries of horror from the crowd that had gathered around Pynch’s broken body roused Thomas from his thoughts and he realised his last opportunity to escape was slipping away. Once again he ignored the ache of his tired muscles and for the next hour he weaved a tortuous path across the rooftops of East Cheap. When his pursuers began to tighten their net, he hid amongst the chimney pots and when the furore passed, he doubled back. After a while the glimmer of torches had moved further towards the great cathedral of St Paul whilst he’d moved in the opposite direction, towards the grim fortress of The Tower of London.

  Despite travelling towards England’s most feared prison, with each passing minute of freedom Thomas’ belief that he might escape his enemies grew stronger and when he could no longer hear the shouts of the hue and cry he decided it was time to make for the river. His plan was simple. There were many Englishmen living in exile with as much reason to fear the wrath of King Henry and his cardinal as Thomas. These exiles waited patiently for the Tudors to be deposed and they’d pay handsomely for the knowledge and secrets he possessed … if only he could reach them.

  2

  TOWER HILL

  From his crow’s nest in the rooftops, Thomas could see the masts of a hundred kogges and carracks moored against London’s numerous wharfs. The ships that could carry him to the safety of Bruges or Dunkirk were tantalisingly close but Thomas reckoned that large vessels bound for France or Flanders would be the first place the cardinal’s men would look. He therefore decided to make his way to the mouth of the Thames in one of the small wherries that plied the river trade and look for a bigger ship in the harbours of Tilbury or Gravesend.

  As yet, Thomas’ had no money to pay for his passage but that could be remedied with a little judicious burglary. His roof top journey had taken him to Tower Hill, where the grand houses of London’s richest merchants and noblemen lay in the shadow of King Henry’s largest, and strongest, castle. To avoid The Tower of London’s disease ridden dungeons and blood stained scaffold, all he had to do was climb down to one of the luxurious bedchambers beneath his feet and find some items of silver plate or jewellery he could use to bribe a ship’s captain.

  He would have to be quick as the first light of dawn was in the sky, and the household below would soon be waking, but the roof on which he stood had no skylight or trapdoor. With a growing sense of urgency Thomas searched for a way down and it was with a huge sense of relief that he found tendrils of ivy clawing their way over the eaves at the back of the house. If these shoots were the crown of a sturdy plant, he could use them to clamber down to a window so he crawled to the edge of the roof and tugged on the nearest shoot. The ivy was wet with morning dew but it seemed to have a firm hold of the wall so he lowered himself into the foliage.

  The ivy’s musty smell filled his nostrils, and made him feel slightly nauseous, but ten feet below the roof he found what he was looking for; an arm’s length to the right of his herbaceous ladder was a window with its casement slightly open. The great oak beams supporting the house’s upper storey had been carved into decorative moulding that stood a few inches proud of the white plastered wall so grasping the ivy with one hand, and the window frame with the other, he eased himself along this convenient ledge until he could peer through the leaded glass. When he was sure all was quiet, he eased the window open and clambered over the sill.

  As silently as a jealous thought, Thomas dropped onto the soft rug that covered the polished wooden floor and peered around the richly furnished room. There were tapestries on the wall and an ornate four-poster bed stood in the centre of the room. The bed’s curtains were closed against drafts and the delicate scent of rosewater filled the air. The gentle fragrance was so different from the filthy stench of East Cheap’s alleys, Thomas immediately felt as intoxicated as Odysseus in the Isle of the Lotus Eaters but he knew he couldn’t stay for more than a few seconds. He forced himself to ignore the heady aroma and glanced around t
he room for something he could steal.

  The room’s occupant was clearly rich enough to be careless of her jewellery as several thin gold chains had been left on a small table at the side of her bed, where even a blind jackdaw could find them. Smiling at his good fortune, Thomas tiptoed across the room, scooped up the necklaces and put them in the battered leather purse that hung from his belt. All that remained was to leave the house as quickly and as quietly as he could but as he turned to go back to the window, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside the chamber. A moment later a sharp rap on the room’s door and the shrill voice of a servant woman, turned Thomas’ muscles to stone.

  “My Lady, the sun is up, do you wish your fire to be lit? It’s mightily cold this morning,” called the servant and there was a soft murmur from the bed as the sleeper began to wake.

  “No, leave me a while longer,” replied the occupant of the bed sleepily.

  “Very good My Lady,” the servant answered and Thomas heard her faint footsteps pad away down the corridor. He began to sigh with relief but before he could make his escape the bed’s silk curtains were thrown open to reveal an astonished young girl.

  She was aged about twenty and should have been married but no husband seemed to share her bed. Her heart shaped face was framed by long auburn hair and she had a thin yet sensual mouth. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, but her dark eyes were almost coal black. By themselves none of her features were beautiful yet together her eyes, lips and hair wove a spell strong enough to ensnare any man. In spite of his peril, Thomas was seized with lust, it had been many months since he had lain with a woman and he wanted her. He wanted her so badly it hurt just to look at her but it was the girl who opened her mouth to scream.

  Without thinking Thomas sprang onto the bed, knocking the girl backwards into the pillows, and before she could utter a sound, he’d seized her wrists and clamped his mouth over hers. The girl writhed beneath him but the weight of his body pinned her to the bed and the passion of his kiss robbed her of any will to resist. Slowly the girl surrendered and as a sign of her submission she began to explore Thomas’ mouth with her tongue. No innocent virgin kissed like this so Thomas relaxed and let the girl caress his bristled chin with her eager lips.

  “Are you a thief come to rob me of my maidenhood?” she whispered and when Thomas said he was the little trollop gave a sigh of delight.

  “Where did you learn to kiss like that?” Thomas asked, his curiosity as aroused as his manhood and he let his hand stray to the girl’s firm, rounded breast. He felt her nipple harden against the palm of his hand as the girl admitted that she’d spent time at the French court but her words became short, rapid gasps as Thomas began to explore the rest of her body.

  “My Lord such haste, I beg you, cool your ardour, for if you don’t I shall surely scream with passion and my maid will hasten to my rescue,” the girl croaked but Thomas ignored her pleas and moved his hand to the soft smooth skin of her thigh. The girl swooned with delight as Thomas eased the hem of her linen shift up to her waist but as he prepared for the final conquest of her body the girl suddenly twisted free of his embrace.

  “Are you a high born? You speak like a gentleman but you look and smell like the man who takes away the night soil,” said the girl pointing accusingly at Thomas’ rags. With his mind in a turmoil of frustrated lust he could do nothing but tell the truth.

  “I’m of noble birth and I was a great favourite of the king until my enemies turned him against me. I’ve been forced to live as an outlaw these past four months but I have vowed to clear my name and slay those who’ve conspired against me,” Thomas said angrily. The girl’s eyes opened wide with excitement as she realised she was in the presence of a dangerous fugitive and she sighed with longing as she stroked his sweat-streaked face. Her touch felt strange and for the first time Thomas realised the girl was wearing long silk gloves that reached above her elbow but before he could ask why she went to bed with her hands covered, the girl kissed him gently on the cheek.

  “I can see you’re a man who’s been greatly wronged but I can’t lie with you for it’s my destiny to be King Henry’s queen so I must save myself for the royal bed,” she whispered in apology. Now it was Thomas’ turn to be surprised.

  “A queen!” he said.

  “Yes, a wise woman told me I shall wear the crown of England and bear Henry a strong and healthy heir,” the girl said proudly.

  “But Henry’s already married,” spluttered Thomas.

  “Spanish Catherine is old and will soon die, besides, if my sister can be King Henry’s whore why can’t I be his queen?” said the girl and she spoke with all the malevolence of a greedy child.

  “I hate to disappoint you but your wise woman was mistaken. I was the king’s astrologer and I saw nothing in the charts that foretold of the queen’s death or the king’s remarriage,” said Thomas but before the girl could reply, there was another knock at the door.

  “My Lady, your father is asking for you,” said the servant but the girl called out that she was passing water and ordered the woman to wait outside the door.

  “You must go, if my father finds you here he’ll have you flayed alive,” the girl whispered to Thomas and she told him that there was a servants’ stairway at the far end of the passage outside her chamber which led to a walled courtyard.

  “There’s a gate to the street, it’s unlocked at daybreak but watch for the kitchen boys bringing water from the well. If they ask, say you have come to ask my father a favour and they won’t trouble you. Now wait here while I deal with Bessie,” the girl added and before Thomas could stop her, she’d climbed off the bed and closed the curtains.

  Thomas groaned and fell back onto the feather mattress. His loins ached with unfulfilled lust and he prayed to Ishtar, Aphrodite and Venus not to deny him the greatest prize but all three goddesses were deaf to his pleas. From behind the bed curtains, he heard the door open and the girl tell her maid to fetch a pair of clean stockings from the press outside her mother’s chamber. A moment later the curtains opened to reveal the girl’s concerned face.

  “Bessie will only be gone for a minute so you must go now,” she said urgently.

  “But at least tell me your name before I take my leave,” Thomas begged.

  “You’ll know my name when you are worthy to hear it, besides, if you truly have the gift of foresight you’ll be able to find me quite easily. Now go, before Bessie comes back,” she insisted. Reluctantly Thomas climbed off the bed and slipped out of the room, leaving the girl staring into a looking glass and brushing her hair. Cursing the goddesses for their cruelty, Thomas found the stairs that led to the courtyard and, just as girl had promised, the door to the street was unlocked. As he stepped into the cold, spring sunshine, a boy carrying a wooden bucket eyed him suspiciously but said nothing.

  A minute later Thomas was in the street, gazing at The Tower of London. The sight drove all thoughts of the girl out of his head and reminded him that unless he could escape from the city he would suffer far worse pain than thwarted passion. Turning away from The Tower’s broad moat and high walls, he started to push his way through the crowds of merchants and apprentices on their way to London’s markets. Fearful of being recognised, he took a crumpled black bonnet from beneath his doublet, crammed it on his head and pulled the brim over his eyes but he needn’t have worried. Most of London knew nothing of court intrigue and had yet to hear about the previous night’s gruesome killings so Thomas excited no more interest than a dead cat in a gutter.

  Nevertheless, as soon as the taverns opened, the news of the two debt collectors’ deaths would be the talk of the city and Thomas knew he must be on a ship bound for the continent before Cardinal Wolsey’s men thought of searching the river for the assassin. He therefore hurried to Billingsgate wharf in the hope that one of the fishermen arriving on the morning tide would take him to Tilbury in exchange for a few hours’ work. He was in luck. An old man with a face the colour of a walnut, and a son confin
ed to bed with ague, agreed to take him down river if he helped unload his catch and took a turn at the oars. Thomas dutifully hauled barrels of sprats onto the quay until the tide turned then he joined the fisherman in the wherry and helped him push the boat away from the wharf.

  Though Thomas had never rowed before, he’d seen enough bargemen at work to understand the principles and he found the practice easy enough once he had the rhythm. The fisherman was too busy steering the little boat through the dense river traffic to be concerned by his new crewman’s lack of skill and the ebb tide helped sweep them downstream. The wherry soon passed King Henry’s new Palace of Placentia and beyond Greenwich the river’s muddy banks became lined with willows and alders instead of warehouses and wharfs. With the sun on his back and a fresh breeze in his face, Thomas began to feel happy until his gnarled travelling companion broke the spell.

  “Did ye hear about the murders last night?” said the fisherman darkly.

  “Something about them yes,” mumbled Thomas as he dug the oars into the swirling brown water.

  “Two of the cardinal’s men done to death and a third likely to lose his hand,” said the fisherman.

  “Have they caught anyone?” Thomas asked casually.

  “No one to catch,” said the fisherman. “The murderer was a demon that flew through the air like an Irish banshee. They found one of its victims in the street with his chest ripped open by the fiend’s huge claws whilst the other man had his leg bitten almost clean off and bled to death.”

  “I don’t believe in spooks and phantoms,” Thomas said firmly and there was more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. Though he’d spent the last seven years studying the secret arts of necromancy and theurgy he’d never been able to conjure a single supernatural spirit or successfully perform any act of magic. His complete and continued failure had left him with the firm belief that if angels and demons did exist, they were absolutely indifferent to the affairs of men but the fisherman was utterly convinced that London was under siege from the powers of darkness.