devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band

by richard anderton

  “God’s not your judge, I am and I say you hang, you bastard son of Satan. Why even your name, Devilstone, mocks good Christians and declares your allegiance to evil!” Frundsberg cried and he gave the order for the executions to proceed immediately.

  To prolong the grisly entertainment, the colonel instructed his hangmen to string the witches up one at a time and that Thomas, as the chief of the coven, should die before the others in case he used his diabolical powers to free his familiars. Frundsberg also told his executioners to bind only the prisoners’ arms, so their legs kicking away their last seconds of life would further amuse his men.

  “Pray to the Lord Jesus and this day you shall be with him in paradise,” said Prometheus as Thomas was dragged from the cart and manhandled to the gallows. As his hands were tied behind his back Thomas looked up at the gibbet, it was a simple affair, two upright posts supported a crossbeam with an iron ring fixed to the centre. A rope had been threaded through the ring with one end fastened to the packsaddle of a mule and the other tied off in noose.

  “We will rejoice when we’re seated at God’s right hand, watching our enemies cast into the abyss!” Bos called as the hangman tied the battered copy of The Munich Handbook to a leather thong and hung the fateful book around Thomas’ neck.

  “Die well!” Quintana shouted as the hangman placed the noose over Thomas’ head.

  “No true Englishman is afraid to die but I call upon all those present to bear witness that I’m innocent and God has always protected me from the false charges of my enemies …”

  The hangman tightened the noose with a sharp tug that ended Thomas’ last words in mid-sentence and from somewhere a priest began to read the words of the Twenty Third Psalm. Before the friar had finished, there was a sharp cry like the crack of a whip and the sound of a hand slapping against the mule’s rump. Thomas felt the noose tighten and he was lifted off his feet. Immediately the coarse fibres of the rope began to tear at Thomas’ throat and his head began to pound as the flow of blood to his brain was cut off.

  The crowd gave a loud, mocking cheer and Thomas tried to reply with a stream of curses that would damn the men who’d unjustly murdered him but the noose choked his words into a meaningless gurgle. In desperation Thomas tried to tense the muscles in his neck to keep his windpipe open but the rope and his own weight had formed an unholy alliance that was slowly throttling him to death.

  Though he’d been determined to die with dignity, the last spark of life forced Thomas to struggle against the bonds holding his wrists and kick his legs but this dance of death was so comical, the crowd burst out laughing at the dying man’s futile attempts to relieve the pressure on his throat.

  The last thing Thomas saw was the smiling face of Sir John Russell standing at the front of the crowd of whooping, jeering landsknechts. The last thing he heard was a sharp snap as something broke.

  20

  LODI

  Thomas kept his eyes closed, fearing that if he opened them he’d see an army of devils waiting to cast his soul into a pit of burning brimstone, but as his senses returned he realised he could hear birdsong rather than the wailing of the damned. For a brief moment he believed his innumerable sins had been forgiven and he was in paradise but if this was heaven, it hurt like hell. There were shooting pains in his arms and legs, a dull ache around his throat and his head felt as if he’d been hit in the face with a shovel, yet through the waves of pain came a voice he recognised.

  “Thomas, can you hear me, are you alive?” said Prometheus.

  “I don’t know, if I can hear you perhaps you’re also dead,” Thomas croaked and he opened his eyes to see his Bos, Prometheus and Quintana looking back at him. He tried to sit up, but his hands were still tied behind his back and he could feel the noose about his neck. At least his head was still attached to his shoulders and as he looked beyond Bos and the others, he saw a solid wall of men, all staring at him in wonder.

  “By the Divine Mercy of Lord Jesus he lives!” Prometheus cried and a cheer went up from the crowd.

  “It’s a miracle, truly you’re righteous in the sight of God,” added Bos.

  “It wasn’t your neck that snapped it was the rope,” explained Quintana as he cut Thomas’ remaining bonds and removed the noose. With a groan, Thomas sat up and touched the angry red mark around his throat. The skin was raw and painful but he was alive. Now Frundsberg and Sir John Russell came to see the miracle for themselves. The colonel stood at Thomas’ feet like the Colossus of Rhodes, extended his hand and offered to help Thomas to his feet.

  “So Englishman you’ve survived your own hanging, by all the laws of God and Man you and your companions must be acquitted of all charges. Do you agree My Lord Russell?” he said.

  “Wholeheartedly, this man has been judged by God and found innocent. When I return to England the king shall hear of this and I’ve no doubt he’ll restore you to his highest favour,” said Sir John. The English ambassador beamed at Thomas, like an indulgent father forgiving a spoilt child, and in honour of Thomas’ deliverance he offered to pay, on King Henry’s behalf, for a thanksgiving mass to be sung in Lodi cathedral that very day. Unfortunately for Sir John, Thomas was not impressed by this vicarious royal munificence.

  “By the great red tits on the whore of Babylon, do you think the screeching of a few ageing eunuchs will excuse your foolishness ? If only you’d listened to me, instead of hanging me up like a string of onions, you’d have learned a great many things that are vital to your cause but now I’ve a good mind to leave you to wallow in your own ignorance!” Thomas said bitterly but already he was feeling his anger being replaced by sheer relief at having cheated the grave.

  “Have a care Englishman, I still command here and I don’t offer my friendship lightly,” said Frundsberg but he again stretched out his hand. This time Thomas took it and with a roar of approval, the crowd surged forward. Before their colonel could prevent it Thomas, Bos, Prometheus and Quintana had been lifted up and were being carried shoulder high to the nearest sutler’s tent.

  Inside the canvas tavern, tankards of ale were thrust into the freed prisoners’ hands and, despite the bruising around his neck, Thomas greedily poured the beer down his throat as if he was quenching a fire deep in his belly. When the mug was drained he slammed it on the table and called for another… and another. Soon the whole camp was celebrating the Miracle of Lodi with an ocean of beer and it was some time before Thomas and his companions were allowed to rest. Eventually the men whom Frundsberg couldn’t hang were given a tent to themselves and left to sleep, but though the hour was late, none of them dared close their eyes.

  “What spells and incantations did you use to outwit the grim reaper? I put little trust in spells or prayers but you must’ve done something to win God’s favour,” said Quintana as he stared at the canvas roof of their tent and thanked Heaven it was not the wooden lid of a coffin.

  “I did nothing, it was pure luck that the rope snapped,” said Thomas truthfully but the others insisted he must have called upon some divine or demonic power to save them all from the gallows. In exasperation Thomas repeated that, whilst there were many necromancers who claimed to be able to cheat death, he’d never seen any of them successfully return from the grave or bring a corpse back to life. He also revealed that the authors of the expensive grimoires used by such death defying sorcerers deliberately wrote long and complicated spells so they could blame their magic’s inevitable failure on the mistakes made by those foolish enough to try and follow their directions.

  “Any occult ritual, especially one to open the gates of The Underworld, takes months to prepare but even then it’s all a charade,” Thomas added bitterly. “All spellbooks warn that if the sorcerer lights a candle on the wrong day, pronounces the words of an incantation at the wrong hour or makes even the smallest error in the position of the stars when he begins his work, then a spell is bound to fail. Thus the fault will be his, not that of the magic, but all spells are impossible to perform exactly
as instructed. I know this, because I’ve tried to harness the hidden forces of nature many times and despite following every instruction to the letter, I’ve never yet cast a spell that worked as it should.”

  “That’s because you chose to follow Simon the Magus not Simon-Peter the Apostle, yet even in your error God has forgiven you and spared you for some important task. So, Englishman, whatever dark path you may have trodden in the past if you continue to walk in the light my sword will be yours to command,” said Bos earnestly.

  “The Frisian is right, just as the angel freed St Peter from Herod’s dungeon to preach to the gentiles, so God has delivered you from your enemies in order to do great deeds. I may have lost my crown but I’ve not lost my faith in the Lord Jesus so I too give you my oath, as a prince of the royal blood, that I will follow you faithfully wherever you may lead,” added Prometheus.

  “For me the only truth is in gold but I’d be a greater fool than these two pious idiots to ignore what I’ve just seen with my own eyes. After surviving your own hanging your reputation alone will bring you more wealth and honours than any magic spell so, if you’ll allow me to gather up the crumbs from under your table, I too will offer you my sword,” said Quintana.

  Though Thomas was surprised at his comrades’ declarations, he gratefully accepted their pledges and with that, the others finally fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. It was ironic, Thomas thought as he lay listening to his comrade’s peaceful snores, that he’d wasted so much time and effort trying to summon demons to do his bidding when it was actually far easier to recruit ordinary men.

  Having fought numerous battles against papal armies and committed countless acts of sacrilege, Frundsberg’s bloodthirsty mercenaries’ had been placed beyond God’s Grace by a succession of popes, yet their frequent excommunications had done little to curb the landsknechts capacity for murder, rape and pillage. However, in spite of their contempt for priests and the Ten Commandments, the men camped outside Lodi were all deeply superstitious and they shared Quintana’s belief that the Englishman had been spared for some higher purpose.

  As proof of their devotion, Frundsberg’s men kept a constant vigil outside Thomas’ tent throughout the bitterly cold night and at dawn the next day, when their new messiah rose to answer the call of nature, they greeted him like the multitude that welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem. Surprised and deafened by so many men shouting his name, Thomas begged to be left alone so he could recover from the previous evening’s excesses but the crowd ignored his pleas and demanded more miracles. Thomas was only rescued when the captain of Frundsberg’s personal guard appeared and presented an invitation for Thomas and his men to join the colonel for breakfast.

  A short while later, the half-strangled former sorcerer and his three erstwhile apprentices found themselves breaking bread with the inquisitor who’d sentenced them all to death barely twelve hours ago. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Frundsberg made no mention of the failed execution but he did apologise for the absence of Lord Russell, who’d been called away to a meeting with the Duke of Bourbon. After his steward had placed bread, sausage and ale on the table, the colonel asked Thomas if he was still prepared to reveal what he knew about the French siege works at Pavia.

  “Indeed yes My Lord, I bring both news from the besieged city and a request from Cardinal Wolsey,” said Thomas trying to lie as convincingly as a genuine ambassador from the Court of St James, but Frundsberg insisted on hearing the French order of battle before granting any favours. Thomas agreed and called for pen and paper so he could draw a map.

  At the bottom of his sketch Thomas drew the river Ticino, flowing from left to right, with Pavia on its northern bank. To the north of the city, he drew the misshapen diamond of the deer park and the six gates in the fifteen foot high wall built by the old Visconti dukes. At the apex of the diamond he marked the Porta Pescarina and the road linking this entrance with the Torretta gate at the diamond’s base. Thomas also marked the Porta Repentina and Porta Riazzo that allowed entry to the park from the west, as well as the Porta Duo and Porta Levrieri which gave access from the east.

  Within this outline, Thomas showed the position of the three largest French camps inside the deer park. First was King Francis’ camp, shared by Richard de la Pole and his Black Band, which lay close to the Porta Repentina. Second, in the centre of the diamond, was the main French baggage park and noblemen’s billets at the Castel Mirabello. Third, between the Porta Levrieri and Torretta gates, was the camp of Francis’ Swiss mercenaries led by the French adventurer the Seigneur de la Flourance.

  “Is that it?” Frundsberg asked when he saw that all his old adversaries had taken the field against the emperor but Thomas shook his head.

  “Those are the French camps to the north of Pavia but King Francis has also fortified two villages that cover the main western and eastern roads into the city,” said Thomas and he marked the positions of San Lanfranco and the Five Abbeys, from where the French king had launched his abortive assault several weeks ago. He also told Frundsberg that San Lanfranco was garrisoned by a rearguard made up of unseasoned Gascon levies led by the king’s brother-in-law the Duc d’Alençon, however the siege works protecting the Five Abbeys and the road to Lodi were guarded by more reliable Swiss reisläufer whose commander was the king’s boyhood companion the Duc de Montmorency.

  “Now I’ve told you what I know, in return His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey begs that you help me kill the White Rose and end the Yorkist plots against England’s rightful king forever,” said Thomas, trying to maintain the fiction that he had the cardinal’s warrant for assassinating the White Rose, but even though Russell wasn’t there to challenge his lie, Frundsberg waved his hand dismissively.

  “Why should I help you do that? The White Rose is a danger only in Henry’s mind and Wolsey fights battles that were won long ago,” he snapped but Thomas replied by telling the colonel what he knew about Henry’s need to divorce his barren Spanish queen, the emperor’s aunt, so he could sire a male heir with a new wife. Frundsberg listened to the story of Henry’s dynastic woes with barely concealed boredom but he became more interested when Thomas explained how Henry’s codpiece could upset the delicate balance of power between France, England and The Holy Roman Empire.

  Repeating what he’d been told by Nagel, Thomas argued that Cardinal Wolsey’s constant snubs to papal authority had deeply angered the Vatican and Pope Clement would never grant an annulment of Henry’s marriage so long as Wolsey remained in power. As a result of the pope’s visceral hatred of Wolsey, Henry had to sacrifice his chief minister in order to win Clement’s blessing but a divorce would be a disaster for Frundsberg’s paymaster, the Emperor Charles V.

  “If Wolsey falls, Catherine of Aragon will be cast aside and England will join France in an alliance against The Holy Roman Empire,” said Thomas triumphantly but Frundsberg remained unimpressed.

  “In the name of St Boniface’s beer-stained beard why would Henry do that? Surely he hates Francis and wants the French throne for himself,” said Frundsberg but Thomas had his answer prepared.

  He reasoned that if Catherine of Aragon was shamed by a scandalous divorce, the Emperor Charles would have to defend his aunt’s honour and declare war on England. As Henry couldn’t withstand the combined might of Spain, Italy and The Holy Roman Empire, he’d be forced to seek French help. On the other hand, if de la Pole died at Pavia, Wolsey could take credit for exterminating the House of York and his position at court would become unassailable. If Henry couldn’t dismiss the man who’d saved his throne, he couldn’t obtain his divorce and Catherine of Aragon would stay queen.

  “So, My Lord, as long as Wolsey stays in office, England will remain an imperial ally to confuse and confound our common enemy, the French,” he added confidently.

  Though it was strange for Thomas to pretend he was trying to save the career of the venal cardinal who’d caused his disgrace and exile, all he needed was for Frundsberg to believe enough of the lie to help him kill de la Pole
. Once the White Rose was dead, Thomas could return to England in triumph and reclaim his position at court; then he’d settle with Wolsey. As he imagined the cardinal rotting in a dungeon, Frundsberg considered Thomas’ request but though the threat of an Anglo-French alliance was real enough, the colonel was a soldier who had no time for spies and assassins.

  “And for slitting a rebel’s throat, Henry will reward you with a dukedom, is that at the bottom of all this? Dear God, why is it that the English, can only be trusted to do three things, piss themselves when drunk, catch the pox from diseased whores and plot to kill each other,” groaned Frundsberg. Thomas was about to challenge the insult but before he could continue Bos came to his aid.

  Between mouthfuls of black bread and spiced sausage, The Frisian reminded the colonel that de la Pole now led the Black Band, who were the landsknechts’ sworn enemies, so whatever the English king and his cardinal were up to, this was Frundsberg’s best chance to punish those treacherous Germans who’d betrayed their oath and abandoned their emperor. Prometheus also added fuel to the fire by remarking that these renegades were the best troops in the French army but, the lion couldn’t fight without a head, so if their captain was killed his men would scatter.

  Frundsberg frowned. He couldn’t fault either the Frisian or the Nubian’s logic but it was Quintana who finally persuaded the colonel that the four assassins eating his food and drinking his ale were worthy of his blessing.

  “What my friends are saying, My Lord, is that if the Black Band is destroyed, the French will have to raise the siege and acknowledge the emperor as master of Italy. If you give Charles this victory you’ll be able to name your own reward and I trust you’ll remember those who helped you,” said the Portugee and at this Frundsberg threw back his head and laughed like a mule.

  “By the poor burned arse of St Lawrence here’s one man who speaks words I understand. The Englishman may have more twists than a pig’s tail but there’s always honesty in a man who fights for gold,” he guffawed. Though Frundsberg still refused to condone assassination, he declared he would offer his assistance provided the Englishman pursued his vendetta honourably, on the battlefield, and raised a company to fight at Pavia. Thomas was a little taken aback and pointed out that few Englishmen had ever served as landsknechts, and none had led his own fähnlein, but Frundsberg assured him that after yesterday’s miracle he’d have no trouble attracting recruits.