devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band

by richard anderton

  One by one, Thomas retrieved the thin sheets of vellum and placed them in the right order. When the book was reassembled, he found the pages devoted to love charms and began to study the magic symbol required by Anne’s spell. When he was satisfied, he took a blank sheet of paper and a quill, left over from his recent labours, and drew a large shield. Inside this escutcheon, he drew a single vertical band bisected by sixteen horizontal bands. After consulting the handbook again, Thomas wrote one of the spell’s magic words in each alternate horizontal band. These were:

  AYSEL CASTYEL LAMISYEL RABAM ERLAIN OLAM BELAM

  Where the blank horizontal bands crossed the vertical band, he wrote the letters A-B-E-L-A-N, but in the twelfth band he wrote the word LEO, the astrological sign associated with kingship and England. When he’d finished, he unfastened Anne’s jewel from the necklace, wrapped it in the paper and placed it in the mortar. Finally he went to the fireplace, took a burning splint from the grate and touched it to the paper. Anne gasped as it burst into flame but Thomas ignored her and concentrated on reciting the proper incantation:

  I command the spirit BEL,

  Not to rest until he causes the king’s heart to

  burn with desire for his servant ANNE.

  May it be that HENRY cannot sleep, wake or

  do anything until ANNE fulfils his desire.

  As the Lord of Hosts commands Lucifer,

  so I command thee.

  Let it be so.

  As Thomas finished speaking, the flame flickered and died, leaving the golden B surrounded by a pile of smouldering white ash. Thomas quickly retrieved the jewel, placed it carefully in Anne’s hand and closed her fingers around it before using the pestle to grind the ash into a fine powder. He then took the mortar to the window and blew the powdered ash into the night. Only now did he allow Anne to look at the jewel and she saw that, apart from a few flecks of soot, it was undamaged.

  “It’s a miracle!” she whispered.

  “You must wear the jewel on your body and never take it off until the king is yours,” said Thomas as he reattached the jewel to the necklace and as Anne obligingly lifted her hood, he fastened it around her long, slender neck.

  “That’s all, the king is mine?” she whispered, admiring the amulet that now graced her bosom.

  “Not quite, you must take a letter to my apprentices, it contains coded instructions telling them where they must bury the three charms that will seal the king inside the spell’s triangle of power,” said Thomas and he insisted that unless his men inscribed the alchemical symbol for the masculine principle on the very face of England, they could not hope to influence its king. Anne begged him to tell her what these amulets were but Thomas was adamant that such secrets could only be revealed to those who’d been initiated into the higher levels of arcane knowledge or the charms would lose their power. Once again he was speaking the purest moonshine but Anne believed him implicitly.

  “I’ll do as you ask,” she said fingering the jewel around her neck and taking the coded picture that Thomas had placed inside an oilcloth wallet.

  “Good, once the charms are buried the king will lose his heart to you. When this will be I cannot say but Henry won’t be able to escape his destiny,” said Thomas. Anne squeaked with delight, pressed the wallet to her heart and called for the warder to let her out of the cell. As she flounced through the door, Thomas noted that she’d said nothing about when he could expect to be freed but it didn’t matter. If the rest of his plan succeeded, he’d be safe in Flanders long before Anne realised magic spells had about as much effect on a king’s heart as a woman’s tears.

  In Southwark, the three prisoners released from The Fleet could scarcely believe their luck. Without any warning they’d been snatched from their dungeon and placed in a covered cart but instead of being taken to the scaffold at Tyburn or Smithfield, the tumbrel had trundled over London Bridge and deposited them outside The Tabard Inn. Their gaolers only words of explanation had been to tell them that everyone thought they were dead of Aryoti-tus Fever and they should wait at the inn until they heard from the man who’d secured their release. In the meantime their lodgings had been paid for and they should keep out of sight or they really would suffer a cruel and painful death.

  Once the cart had disappeared Quintana’s first reaction was to take the first ship for France they could find but Prometheus and Bos felt they were honour bound to wait, as instructed, for their mysterious benefactor. In the end Quintana agreed to stay with the others at the inn, at least until after Easter. The men were installed in a room at the top of the inn but they heard nothing more until the Monday after Easter Sunday, when a bellman announcing the day’s news called out the name of Thomas Devilstone.

  “Harken, Harken!” cried the bellman, “I have news of the execution of the evil witch and foul traitor Thomas Devilstone!”

  “Devilstone, isn’t that the man who clobbered our gaoler?” said Bos, opening the garret’s single grimy window and peering into the street below.

  “On the morrow, the magus, heretic and traitor Thomas Devilstone will be drawn through the city on a hurdle. He shall be taken from The Tower to Smithfield, and there suffer in life all the torments that await him beyond the grave. The king doth desire that all loyal subjects not engaged in urgent business give their attendance to witness the death of this foul traitor and so be instructed by his fate,” bawled the bellman

  “So another would-be rebel dies a pointless death, what of it?” Quintana replied.

  “Perhaps it was Thomas who secured our release. If it was, it’s our Christian duty to help him or risk eternal damnation,” said Bos.

  “Let him help himself, let him conjure a spirit to smite the headsman as the axe is about to fall and carry him to safety,” countered Quintana.

  “The magi of Nubia are given power to help others, not themselves, is it likely to be any different here? I say the Frisian is right if? Thomas came to our aid only a low born coward and a knave would abandon him,” said Prometheus.

  “A moment, my honourable African elephant, we don’t actually know it was this man who got us out of that hell hole and if it was him why hasn’t he sent us a message? Even if we do owe him our lives, what could we do? It would take an army to storm The Tower,” said Quintana. Prometheus had to agree that the three of them had more chance of getting into heaven than The Tower of London but at that moment there was a knock at their door and a grubby boy entered the room.

  “I’ve a letter for a Nubian,” said the boy holding out an oilcloth wallet.

  “Be off with you,” said Prometheus, for they had no money to pay a messenger.

  “Listen chum, I’ve been given a whole shilling to deliver this and deliver it I shall so take it and go to The Devil.” said the urchin. The boy tossed the wallet onto the Nubian’s bed and ran off. With a shrug Prometheus opened the packet and held up Thomas’ drawing for the others to see.

  “The magi at the crucifixion?” said Bos looking at the strange picture, “Why would anyone send us a picture of the magi at Easter?”

  “Magi… the bellman called Thomas a magus this must be a message from him!” said Prometheus clapping a hand to his forehead.

  “I see nothing, why hasn’t he made his meaning clear?” said Quintana.

  “And have every warder and constable between here and The Tower learn how he means to escape? No, I’m certain there’s hidden meaning in this drawing and it’s meant for us alone.” said Bos but it was Prometheus who spotted the resemblance between the magi‘s faces and their own.

  “By the burning fire of The Great St Anthony, that man looks like me and the others look like you two. Now, look closely at the castle behind the stable there’s a devil seated in a tower of stone, devil … stone … Devilstone! And not a tower but the Tower. Thomas Devilstone is imprisoned in the Tower of London and he will die now Easter has passed,” he cried.

  “But we know all this! What we don’t know is how to get Thomas out before the king�
�s headsman turns his tripes into bratwurst,” said Bos angrily.

  “You’re right Frisian,” said Prometheus sadly. “There must be more meaning in this picture but I confess I’m too blind to see it.”

  “I can,” said Quintana quietly.

  “I see you’re a papist poltroon,” muttered Bos.

  “We’re shown in the picture dressed as monks, that means Thomas wants us to disguise ourselves as friars and come to The Tower to hear his final confession,” Quintana said triumphantly.

  “By the Pyramids of Meroe you’ve solved the riddle Portugee! But we must hurry, if Thomas dies tomorrow we must find monks’ habits and be at The Tower before nightfall,” said Prometheus.

  “What do you mean we? You go if you like but as I’ve solved the riddle I consider my debt of honour has been paid in full. I’m taking the next ship that sails from this godforsaken, rain-soaked island and King Henry can kiss my good Catholic arse goodbye,” insisted Quintana.

  “Have you no Christian decency? Are you the priest on the road to Jericho who refused to help the dying man?” said Bos accusingly.

  “Thomas isn’t lying in the road he’s behind high walls and locked doors that are guarded by a hundred armed men,” protested Quintana.

  “Nevertheless you’re coming with us whether you like it or not, or so help me I’ll send you to France stuffed in a barrel!” said Bos.

  “Besides, you’re already a dead man so what have you got to lose?” said Prometheus. Quintana opened his mouth to protest he had a great deal to lose if they were caught but it was clear the ex-boxer and former priest intended to pummel his body and his conscience until he agreed.

  “Oh very well but if this bastard Devilstone is a rich man I want half of any reward he offers. Remember it was me who solved the riddle!” said Quintana.

  Though it was early in the morning when the men set out on their quest it took a surprisingly long time to procure monks’ habits, even in a city as vast as England’s capital. Like monks everywhere, those friars who followed their calling in London spun their own wool, weaved their own cloth and sewed it into garments behind the walls of their monasteries, so whilst there were plenty of haberdashers and drapers in the city, not one had a monk’s habit for sale.

  The three men wandered through the streets around St Paul’s until Prometheus hit upon a solution to their problem. If they stripped naked and presented themselves at the door of a priory, they could claim to be poor sailors who’d been set upon by thieves and robbed of everything they owned. They could ask the monks for the loan of habits to hide their shame whilst they returned to their ship and promise to return the clothes once they were aboard. It was a good plan but even so they had to try three different monasteries before they found an abbot innocent enough to take pity on them. By the time they’d dressed in their disguises and arrived at The Tower, the curfew bell was sounding.

  “Just twelve hours before Thomas dies,” said Quintana as they approached the bastion that guarded the bridge over The Tower of London’s moat.

  “Let me do the talking,” said Bos, “I trained for Holy Orders and I can speak the language of the clergy. You two, just try and walk religiously.”

  “How can anyone walk religiously?” protested Quintana but Bos did not reply. He was too busy looking at a yeoman warder standing in the archway of The Tower’s outer gate. The man was watching the approaching ‘priests’ with deep suspicion.

  Whilst Bos, Prometheus and Quintana were searching London for monks’ habits, Sir William Kingston was telling Thomas that he had twenty four hours to make his peace with God before the court’s terrible sentence was carried out. Thomas accepted the news calmly but begged to be allowed to confess to his own priests who were certain to present themselves once they’d heard the date for his execution had been set. As Thomas had been a model prisoner, and his courage had greatly impressed Sir William, The Constable granted the condemned man his last request.

  Thomas maintained his air of fortitude until Sir William had left but as soon as his gaoler had gone he set to work. He retrieved the saltpetre, lard and jar of syrup that Anne had brought then used the pestle and mortar to mash these ingredients into a thick dough. Once this was done, he divided the glutinous lump into three strips and rolled each strip loosely around one of the black matches. Finally he wrapped each of these large, if crude, candles in squares of hessian cut from his bed’s mattress. The task passed several hours but when he’d finished all he could do was sit in his lonely cell to await the arrival of his confessors.

  “Halt who goes there?” said the warder guarding The Tower’s outer gate.

  “Be at peace my son. We are poor friars come to the hear the confession of the prisoner Thomas Devilstone,” said Bos solemnly. His deep, booming voice sounded sufficiently holy for the warder to fetch his sergeant.

  “Why does it need three of you to hear one man’s confession?” said the sergeant.

  “Surely you know that this warlock is possessed of powerful magic?” said Bos earnestly. “It will take the combined prayers of no less than three holy clerics to tame the demons that he will surely send against us and even then I am not confident that all of us will survive. We must pray to St Anthony who battled with demons in the desert…”

  “Yes, Yes, save your babbling for the pulpit Father but tell me what’s in those bundles?” interrupted the sergeant and he pointed at the three cross shaped parcels, each wrapped in rags and bound with leather thongs, which the friars carried over their shoulders.

  “They’re roods, our wooden crosses that will be our only weapon against the armies of Satan for no demon can bear to be in sight of the symbol of Our Lord’s suffering,” said Bos reverently and he unwrapped a corner of one of the parcels so the sergeant could see the end of a crudely sawn piece of wood.

  “Ask them how can we be sure they’re really friars,” said the yeoman warder eager to ingratiate himself with his sergeant.

  “Imbecile,” replied the sergeant, “Can’t you see these men are wearing the habits of the Franciscans and carrying crosses?”

  “Do not be so harsh your subordinate My Son, the simpleton is right to be suspicious but there’s an easy way to be sure, fetch a bible or some other writing and I will read it to you,” Bos suggested.

  “He’s got a point there,” said the younger yeoman leaning on his spear, “Only the clergy can read, I mean you’re a sergeant, and you can’t read.”

  “I don’t need to ask them to read, you dolt! If you were a sergeant instead of a turd, you’d know that Sir William has already told me to expect three friars to hear the witch’s confession.” snapped the sergeant. He turned to the monks and handed Bos a small wooden board upon which the word Octavius had been burned with a hot iron. He told them that this was the night’s password, and if the friars showed it at each of the gates the sentries would let them through without question, however they had to hurry as the curfew was about to begin.

  “You have the thanks of us all, my son,” said Bos trying not to grin.

  “God be with you Father and make sure the evil bastard gets what’s coming to him!” said the sergeant as he waved the party through the gate. With a sigh of relief the three men passed through the gates of the Lion and Middle Towers to the causeway that crossed the moat.

  At the far end of causeway was the Byward Tower where Bos had to show his pass a third time to gain entry to the outer ward. This was a narrow killing zone between the fortress’ two curtain walls and any attackers that reached this point would find themselves assailed from above by all manner of missiles. Quintana shivered at the thought of being shot through with arrows, crushed by stones or scalded to death by the boiling water defenders could pour down from the tops of both walls but nobody questioned the right of three friars to enter the king’s fortress. At the Wakefield Tower, Bos again showed his token to the warders and they opened a small postern that led to the inner ward.

  The sergeant in charge of this gate also detailed one
of his men to escort the three priests to The Beauchamp Tower where the condemned man was being held. Thomas’ chamber was guarded a gruff looking veteran who sported a long grey beard and a broad bladed partisan. Prometheus thought the spear was too long to be of much use in the small rooms and narrow spiral stairways of the Beauchamp Tower, nevertheless he grasped the crucifix he carried a little tighter. If it came to a fight, the symbol of Christ’s victory over the grave might be his only weapon.

  The grizzled warder examined Bos’ pass and grudgingly he unlocked the cell. As the door creaked open, Bos and the others were surprised to see a comfortable room with a fire burning in the grate. Thomas was sitting at a table with his back to the doorway, and seemed to be busy feeding titbits to a caged bird. Another warder was in the room, seated on a chair by the fire. A patch covered this man’s eye and his spear rested lazily against his shoulder. The one-eyed warder stood up when the friars entered the cell but the prisoner carried on feeding his pet.

  “On your feet witch, these holy men are here to save your soul, not that you deserve it you black hearted bastard.” snapped the grizzled warder. Slowly, Thomas turned to look at his visitors but said nothing. Bos made the sign of the cross and turned to the warders.

  “You may leave us. A confession, even a witch’s confession, is for the ears of God alone,” he said to them however the half-blind guard made no effort to leave the cell. He merely looked at the Frisian and narrowed his one remaining eye.

  “I’m not sure we can do that Father,” he said. “We hang this bastard in the morning and I’m supposed to make sure he don’t cheat the scaffold by hanging his-self.”