devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band

by richard anderton

  “Henry who?” said the handgunner looking at his captives in bewilderment. Thomas sighed and patiently explained that king of England was not only the emperor’s ally, he was Charles V’s uncle and it was English gold that paid the imperial army’s wages. They should therefore be welcomed as friends and comrades-in-arms not treated as prisoners.

  The landsknechts looked puzzled. They didn’t know or care who was king of a fog bound rock lying at the edge of the world but they did know that Sir John Russell, the English king’s ambassador to the imperial court, had recently arrived in Lodi with a chest full of gold and a pay parade had been called for the following day. The fact that one of the strangers spoke his German with an English accent was enough to make them hold their fire but it was the bounty of four guilders apiece paid on spies and deserters that persuaded them to take these renegades to their camp.

  “If you’re friends you’ll hand over your swords and come to the camp peaceable,” said the third landsknecht suspiciously. Quintana began to protest that he’d had enough of being treated like a dog that had eaten it’s master’s lunch but Thomas assured him that this was precisely what they’d hoped would happen.

  “We left Pavia seeking the protection of the imperial army, well we seemed to have found it,” he said happily and he handed over his sword.

  The others did likewise and a moment later they all stepped into the empty sunshine of an Italian winter’s day. Once outside, the four men stood blinking in wonderment at the sight before them. Where last night there’d been nothing but muddy fields and herds of mangy goats, a new tented city had sprouted like a forest of giant mushrooms.

  “By the par boiled flesh of Saint Vitus are we following these armies or are these armies following us!” cried Bos.

  The host that had arrived during the night were Frundsberg’s reinforcements for Lannoy’s army but, as Lodi was already full of Spanish and Italian troops, the Germans had been forced to camp outside the city. As was their custom the landsknechts had built a wagon-fort, which was almost identical to that of the Black Band, but Bos and the others had been so exhausted they’d slept through the din of tent pegs being hammered into the ground and the clatter of carts being chained together. Their escort was a foraging party, sent to find any stray rabbits or chickens, and whilst Thomas was happy to be taken inside, the others’ misgivings returned as they reached the wagon-fort.

  “Why are we letting these slow witted sausage chewers do this to us?” Quintana whispered.

  “There’re only three of them, we could take them easily,” added Prometheus.

  “He that hath no sword, let him sell his cloak and buy one,” said Bos feeling his empty sword belt.

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do! We said we’d need an army to get close to the White Rose, well… why not an army of imperial landsknechts?” Thomas said cryptically.

  Bos replied that he thought they’d all agreed to abandon their careers as assassins and make an honourable living slaughtering godless Turks in Hungary but their escort ordered them to keep quiet. Ten minutes later, they were inside the wagon-fort listening to the landsknechts explain to their captain how they’d caught four French hens trying to fly their coop.

  “Search them, they may be spies or assassins,” the captain ordered.

  “Of course we’re spies and assassins, I keep telling you, we’re your spies and assassins, pay no heed to these clothes, I’m an English gentleman in the service of the emperor’s ally King Henry Tudor,” Thomas insisted.

  “Chewed her what?” said the mystified captain. The man’s shameless ignorance was enough to persuade Thomas that he needed a firmer approach and he rounded on the captain angrily.

  “Impudent knave! Insult my king a second time and I’ll have your tongue cut out! Now I will say this only more, I bring vital information about the French army for Colonel Frundsberg and I demand to taken to him immediately,” he snapped.

  “You know Frundsberg?” said the captain whose face had grown visibly paler at the mention of the colonel’s name.

  “Of course I know him, do you think I’m here to plough your pig faced sister? And as Frundsberg pays you with English gold you’d better tell him I’ve arrived and look sharp about it,” said Thomas.

  Despite his confident invocation of the name, Thomas had never heard of Georg von Frundsberg until he’d overheard the colonel mentioned by one of the foraging party who’d taken them prisoner. However, he did know that a threat to their pay was the about only thing that interested a landsknecht and the bluff worked better than he’d hoped. The captain ordered his men to take the English spies, if that’s what they were, to the colonel without further delay.

  Frundsberg’s bright red tent was smaller than de la Pole’s but it boasted a more impressive array of banners and flags by its entrance. The mercenary colonel’s personal standard, quartered yellow and black with a silver heron in the black squares and stylised mountains in the yellow, was planted next to a white flag emblazoned with the red crossed swords of an imperial marshal. A pair of yellow imperial battle flags, decorated with the Hapsburg’s double-headed eagle, completed the display.

  The middle-aged Frundsberg was sat at a folding table that had been placed outside his tent so he could enjoy the rare winter sunshine. Even seated, it was evident that the Father of Landsknechts was still a powerful, ruthless man and his thick, square cut beard contrasted the thinning hair on his head. As befitting his rank, the colonel wore three quarter armour and a short cape of orange cloth around his shoulders. A silken red sash, another imperial badge of command, was tied across his polished steel breastplate and his distinctive roman-style helmet, decorated with a plume of red feathers, was placed on the table to one side of the papers he was studying.

  Thirty years earlier the colonel had helped the previous Emperor Maximilian create the landsknechts to counter the threat of the Swiss mercenary armies employed by the Hapsburg’s numerous enemies. Under Frundsberg’s command, the emperor’s elite body of pikemen, halberdiers, handgunners and swordsmen had quickly surpassed their hated reisläufer rivals, in both skill and reputation, and when they weren’t in imperial service Frundsberg hired his men to anyone with enough gold to pay them, providing they weren’t French or Swiss. After three decades of almost uninterrupted victories, the landsknechts had become the most sought after mercenaries in Western Christendom and their name had become a byword for the worst excesses of war.

  Having spent more than half of his fifty years in Maximilian’s service, the ageing colonel had tried to retire to his Bavarian estates once the old emperor had died but, like Cincinnatus, his devotion to the Holy Roman Empire had brought him back to the battlefield each time the new emperor Charles V had summoned him. Most recently, Charles had bestowed the title of Highest Field Captain of the Entire German Nation on Frundsberg and charged him with raising the reinforcements for Lannoy’s beleaguered army in Lombardy. Despite the onset of winter, Frundsberg had quickly recruited more than 12,000 veterans to his banner and had crossed the Alps in record time.

  There was another man seated at the table in front of the tent, who might have been Frundsberg’s slightly younger brother. He too had a full white beard and the tired expression of a man who’d served many powerful masters but instead of armour he was dressed in the long black cloak and square cap, which marked him as a man of letters. Around his neck he wore a heavy gold chain, decorated with red enamel badges displaying three golden lions, alternated with the combined red and white rose of the Tudors. Thomas recognised the man at once. It was Sir John Russell, one of king Henry’s most trusted ambassadors and a staunch ally of Cardinal Wolsey.

  In his dirty and dishevelled state, Thomas reckoned there was no chance that the ambassador, who’d spent many years at the imperial courts in Spain and Austria, would recognise him as the lowly astrologer whom Wolsey had condemned to death. Nevertheless, he tried to avoid Russell’s quizzical stare and concentrated his attention on Frundsberg. Unfortunately, he f
ound little comfort in the colonel’s cold expression, there was something of the wolf in Frundsberg’s yellowish eyes and Thomas realised this was a man who’d raised himself high by climbing a tower of dead men’s bones.

  “Who are you and what do you want? Captain Schreiber says you have important news so speak up before I have you flogged,” growled Frundsberg without looking up from his papers. Thomas was about to introduce himself as the man who held the keys to Pavia but Lord Russell spoke first.

  “I know this man, he’s a rogue and a trickster whose name is Sir Thomas Devilstone and though His Majesty bestowed a knighthood on this scoundrel, he’s no gentleman. Why, back in England he’s under sentence of death for witchcraft!” Sir John cried and at last Frundsberg looked at his visitor.

  “You’re Thomas Devilstone? They say Satan himself carried you over the walls of London’s Tower and took you to Metz where you were devoured by your own dragon. Is it really you that stands before me or some infernal doppelgänger sent to haunt me for my many sins?” Frundsberg asked.

  “My Lord, don’t believe these tales, they’re mere stories to frighten children, but you must believe me when I say that my death sentence was part of an elaborate ruse to help me deceive the White Rose into revealing his secrets,” said Thomas and he hurriedly explained that his trial had been a sham to convince Richard de la Pole that Henry’s astrologer had fallen from grace and now bore a murderous grudge against the Tudors. However, though this trick had helped Thomas and his three companions infiltrate the Yorkist court, they’d been betrayed, imprisoned and tortured.

  “In spite of the injuries we’d suffered, we escaped and vowed to continue with our mission to thwart the pretender’s invasion of England. We disguised ourselves and followed the White Rose all the way to Pavia where we spent many weeks spying out of the French siege works. Of course, as soon as we heard that the famous Colonel Frundsberg was on the march we hastened to Lodi to tell you what we know,” said Thomas proudly but Russell saw through the outrageous lie immediately.

  “I don’t believe a word of it! I have the confidence of both The Lord Chancellor Cardinal Wolsey and King Henry and neither told me anything of such a ridiculous stratagem, if you ask me this man is a double spy sent to lay a false trail,” snorted Russell but Frundsberg wanted to hear more.

  “Very well necromancer, I do need news of the French camp but answer me this, can you prove anything you say? Perhaps my Lord Russell is right and you mean to deceive me with lies, so should I have you flogged as deserters, burned as sorcerers or hanged as spies?

  “If you know who I am, you’ll know that fate has entrusted to me a copy of The Munich Handbook that was once owned by the master Leonardo. I’ll swear on this book what I say is true and may God and The Devil tear my soul in two if I lie,” said Thomas, ignoring his companions’ angry looks.

  “I’ve indeed heard of this book, may I see it?” Frundsberg asked. Thomas quickly retrieved the oilcloth wallet from beneath his shirt, unwrapped the book and placed it on the table. Frundsberg stared at the battered volume, which now smelled strongly of smoke, but he didn’t touch it.

  “Put it away, I can sense its dark power and I want nothing to do with it,” he said quietly. Thomas obediently put the book back in his shirt but he was utterly unprepared for what happened next. Without warning Frundsberg roared for his guards and before Thomas knew what was happening he and the others had been pushed to the ground and trussed like chickens.

  “For once, just for once I would like to go somewhere where people are glad to see us!” moaned Bos as he squirmed in the mud.

  “Silence, hexen, I don’t know what enchantments you used to escape Henry Tudor or the White Rose but you’ll not escape me. We Germans know how to treat witches, they die!” Frundsberg cried.

  “What madness is this? I’ve come to ensure your victory, Lord Russell, in the king’s name I command you to prevent this,” Thomas shouted as he struggled against his bonds.

  “The king’s justice has condemned you for witchcraft and if the good colonel chooses to carry out the sentence I’m powerless to prevent it,” said Russell with a triumphant wave of his hand. Thomas bellowed at Russell he was a worse traitor to God than Pontius Pilate but his curses fell on deaf ears. Frundsberg issued more orders to his trabant bodyguards; drums beat, trumpets sounded and the entire body of Frundsberg’s army began to assemble on the parade ground in front of his tent.

  Whilst the landsknechts formed up in their different companies, the prisoners were manhandled into a cart that was dragged to the inevitable gallows at the centre of the camp’s parade ground. The strengthening morning sun cast the ominous shadow of the gibbet over the prisoners as they tried to make sense of what was going on.

  “By all the unholy turds laid in the great cess pit of Great Tartarus, why didn’t you leave that damned book to burn to ashes?” Prometheus growled and for once Thomas did not know what to say.

  “Tell our judges that we had nothing to do with your necromancy or so help me Thomas I’ll crawl from the grave and drag your soul to hell myself!” Bos added but Quintana shook his head.

  “He can’t do that, there are no judges, Frundsberg has already found us guilty and this is just how the Germans decide sentence,” he groaned.

  Some years ago the Portugee had fought in the Conquest of Navarre and he’d seen these pike courts before. The mercenary army divided itself into its three battles, the van, the body and the rear, to discuss the matter and whatever sentence two out of the three battles decided was carried out. There were only three crimes, desertion, treachery or stealing from fellow landsknechts, and there was no appeal. Thieves and spies were hanged whilst deserters were made to ‘run the gauntlet’, this involved the prisoner running between two lines of their comrades, who each struck the condemned man in turn.

  “What happens if the prisoner survives the gauntlet?” asked Prometheus.

  “No one has ever survived,” said Quintana darkly.

  “I warned you Thomas, the evil of that book has infected us all and now we’ll spend eternity in Hell suffering all the dreadful punishments inflicted on godless necromancers!” Bos cried.

  “You think on Hell too much Frisian, have you forgotten we are Christians and Jesus died to redeem all our sins? If we truly repent, his blood shed on the cross will secure our passage into heaven,” said Prometheus but for all the Nubian’s optimistic view of the afterlife, it seemed as if Thomas’ revelation that he still owned The Munich Handbook had sealed their immediate fate.

  Once his men had formed up, Frundsberg told them that the condemned men were powerful sorcerers who’d bewitched two kings of England and he quoted the new teachings of Luther, who at least agreed with the pope on the subject of witches. The former monk had declared that sorcery was a sin against the Second Commandment and all those who practised witchcraft should be burned. Thomas’ possession of The Munich Handbook was proof of the prisoners’ guilt and there was only one possible sentence. All that remained was to decide how the prisoners should die.

  “This is ridiculous, may we not defend ourselves?” Bos said.

  “I told you, this is a court of law not justice, so we’ll be lucky to see nightfall,” said Quintana.

  “Sweet Merciful Redeemer, I’m a king of Nubia who’s escaped the murderous plots of a usurper and a pretender, surely I can’t end my days dancing for the entertainment of a bunch of beer swilling, cabbage eating peasants!” Prometheus moaned.

  “Well, if you’ve any suggestions now’s the time to speak. Perhaps the Englishman has an idea?” said Quintana but Thomas remained dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe that Frundsberg or Russell, who were both under orders to defeat England’s enemies in battle, could turn against a man with the vital information they needed to defeat the French. Was the German colonel really so fearful of witches? Was the English ambassador so in thrall to Wolsey? But whatever their motives Thomas couldn’t see a way out of the dreadful punishment that was about to befall him a
nd his comrades.

  Once Frundsberg had finished his speech, the drums started beating and his men separated into their companies to debate the merits of various punishments. With a curious air of detachment, Thomas and the others sat in their cart and listened to the snatches of the impassioned arguments that reached them. Most of the landsknechts regarded running the gauntlet, though a punishment for cowards, still allowed a soldier to die with honour but sorcerers were beyond such mercy and so should suffer hanging, the shameful death reserved for thieves and spies.

  As the day wore on Thomas and the others could only be thankful that the German soldiery never considered the papal or Lutheran instruction to burn witches and the prospect of hanging seemed to offer a blessed relief compared to being slowly starved to death in a cage or roasted quickly over an open fire. Escape was impossible, they were surrounded by thousands of heavily armed mercenaries who’d hack them to pieces if they so much as spat outside their cart, and gradually the prisoners became resigned to their fate. The others even forgave Thomas for rescuing his book, as they all knew that the Angel of Death had been stalking them ever since they’d escaped from The Fleet.

  According to landsknecht custom, any sentence of death had to be carried out before sunset. However, until the matter was decided, the soldiers were excused all but essential duties so the debate continued for as long as possible. Hour after hour, the prisoners sat in miserable silence whilst Frundsberg’s men enjoyed their holiday but as the sun touched the horizon, the captains of each battle presented their answers to the camp provost. The decision was unanimous - the sorcerers must hang.

  “Fear not, we’ll send your immortal souls to God or The Devil without delay so make your peace with one or both. Do any of you wish for a priest?” said the colonel to the condemned men and at last Thomas found his voice.

  “You’re making a grave mistake Frundsberg. If I die, the information I have dies with me and without it your cause will be lost, as God is my judge …”