devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (12 page)

“He’s out here, the demon is attacking us!” screamed the warders.

“Don’t let him bite you, if The Great Marquis drinks your blood, you’ll become a slave of Satan for all time. Open the door and let us out, we’ll use the power of Christ to recapture this Prince of Darkness!” Bos said. The friar’s words were exactly what the warders wanted to hear. They knew they could not defeat a fiendish Great Lord of Hell, even one who had taken the form of a bat, so they forgot the priest’s earlier instruction and gratefully unlocked the cell door. Almost before the key had turned, the door burst open and the coughing, spluttering friars burst into the passageway. In the confusion the warders did not notice that four monks, not three, had emerged from the cell.

“Leave us… let us face this peril alone, be gone I say or you’ll be damned for all eternity!” Bos roared. He stood
in the passageway holding his sword in his huge fist and looking like the vengeful St Boniface before the pagan oak. The sight only added to the warders’ panic. Calling loudly to St Michael to save them, the petrified guards threw down their weapons and ran down the spiral stair.

“Come on, we mustn’t let the other guards gather their wits or they’ll discover they’ve been tricked by nothing more than a saltpetre candle and a terrified bat!” said Thomas and he followed the fleeing warders down the stairs shouting strange incantations as he did so. Their luck held until the four friars reached the centre of the darkened inner ward but before the fugitives could reach the gateway to the outer ward, they were confronted by a loose skirmish line of yeomen warders advancing cautiously across the grass towards them.

“By the blood stained bollocks of the Blessed Abelard, we’re trapped!” Bos cried.

“Get back, behind me,” snapped Thomas as he fumbled for the second of his smoke bombs. Once he’d pulled the candle free of his robe he took hold of the match cord, which he’d tied around his waist in imitation of a friar’s cincture, and blew on the end. The cord glowed red, for he’d had the good sense to set it smouldering before leaving the warmth of his cell, and as soon as he touched it to the greasy candle’s black match, the powder-encrusted paper began to fizz.

“May I?” Prometheus asked, holding out his hand.

“With pleasure,” replied Thomas and he handed the spluttering candle to the Nubian who promptly hurled it into the night sky. The bomb spiralled through the
darkness, scattering a trail of sparks like a tiny comet, and landed on the grass behind the warders. A moment later the advancing yeomen were engulfed in more clouds of thick, purple smoke.

“The wizard has opened another portal to The Pit! You men must surround this new gateway and stop Lucifer’s fire-breathing dragons from leaving Hell. You must defy their flesh-ripping claws and sulphurous breath, you must smite the legions of Beelzebub that will surely follow. Have courage or we’re all damned!” Quintana cried at the confused yeomen staggering out of the fog. The yeoman stopped in their tracks. They looked at the crazed hooded monks in front of them, then glanced at the billowing clouds of purple smoke behind.

“We can’t fight Satan’s armies!” One of the yeomen shouted and that was a signal for the rout to begin. The elderly, corpulent warders threw away their weapons and ran for to the safety of the White Tower, the great stone keep at the centre of the fortress, and the sound of their hobnailed boots clattering on the donjon’s wooden stairs was quickly followed by the slam of a heavy door.

The four monks looked at each other in triumph but there was no time to celebrate their victory. Thomas only had one more candle and they still had to reach the outer ward and cross the moat. Bos grinned and told the others to follow him whilst he repeated his performance of a deranged priest exorcising demons. Thomas and the others were only too happy to stay behind the Frisian as the giant, red bearded ex-priest ran towards the postern in the Wakefield Tower. Holding his sword high in one hand and the wooden token
with the password in the other Bos screamed at the bemused warders guarding the gateway to run for their lives.

“In the name of St Michael slayer-of-demons you must flee! The Devil himself has been unleashed and The Constable has given orders all men must retreat into the safety of the White Tower or perish!” Bos yelled. The two warders recognised the priest they’d admitted a few hours earlier and they knew better than to disobey a man of God, or the Constable’s password, so they too gratefully abandoned their post and joined their fellows in the headlong flight into the keep.

As soon as the guards had disappeared into the night, the fugitives ran to open the gate that led to the Outer Ward. The postern was fastened with locks, and they had no key, but the large main gate was secured with a heavy wooden beam that sat in two iron brackets. The seasoned oak was as strong as steel, and would have withstood any battering from outside, but Prometheus and Bos easily lifted the timber out of its brackets and cast it aside. As they did so, Quintana and Thomas hauled open the gates and they all ran into the outer ward.

“Just the outer wall and the moat to cross,” said Bos and he turned to lead his companions back the way they’d entered but Thomas stopped him.

“That way, we’ll be caught quicker than a drunken bishop catches the pox. Even if the warders at the outer towers have run away, we’ve no keys to open the gates so follow me,” said Thomas urgently and without another word he set off at a sprint in the opposite direction to The Tower’s barbican.

The others couldn’t fault Thomas’ logic so they followed him to the Cradle Tower, a small bastion in the southeastern corner of the outer walls, which guarded a postern that opened onto a narrow bridge over the moat. At the other end of this wooden trestle was the King’s Wharf and beyond that was the River Thames. The Cradle Tower had been built to serve as the king’s private entrance to his royal fortress and it was manned at all times by two of The Tower garrison’s most trustworthy men. The commotion from the inner ward had alerted these two sentries who’d abandoned their supper to investigate and they gruffly challenged the four rapidly approaching monks.

“In the name of the king stand fast and identify yourselves,” shouted the first warder, levelling his halberd at Thomas’ chest.

“We’re poor servants of Christ fighting all the furies of Hell, now stand aside for we must fetch help from the Church of St Catherine!” yelled Thomas and he ran straight at the confused sentry. The yeoman was loath to cut down a friar, even one apparently out of his wits, so he hesitated and as a reward for his piety Thomas knocked the man’s spear aside and smashed the pommel of his sword into his face. The second warder was so astonished at the sight of a priest clubbing his comrade to the ground, he failed to notice Prometheus’ haymaking punch heading towards his chin. The Nubian’s fist landed on the man’s jaw with a smack and the second warder fell to the ground like bag of wet washing. With both sentries silenced, Quintana began to search them for the keys.

“Don’t bother, the keys to all the gates and posterns are handed to the Constable at sunset,” said Thomas calmly but the others looked at him in horror.

“If we can’t get out why in the name of Martin Luther’s whore of a mother did you bring us here? We’d have been better off trying to bluff our way through the main gate!” cried Quintana.

“I hope you know what you’re doing Englishman because we have company,” said Bos, pointing at the lines of flickering torches moving along the inner and outer walls’ walkways.

“Inside!” replied Thomas and he bundled his companions into the Cradle Tower’s guardroom. The small gloomy chamber behind the open door had been furnished with a crude wooden table, several long wooden benches and a ladder that led to a trapdoor in the vaulted roof. After using the table and benches to barricade the door, the four men climbed the ladder, pushed open the trapdoor at the top and scrambled onto the tower’s parapet.

“Now what, it’s too far too jump to the bridge, we’ll have to dive into the moat,” said Bos peering over the battlements.

“I’m not swimming any moat, I’m a king and kings do not flap about in water like common fish. Besides it stinks worse than a diseased whore’s pisspot,” said Prometheus wrinkling his nose in regal disgust at the stench rising from the moat.

“You won’t have to swim,” Thomas promised but for the moment he had no idea of how they were to reach the bridge. He had hoped to pull up the ladder from the
guardroom and use it to climb down to the bridge but the bottom rungs had been chained to an iron ring in the floor and there was no time to wrench it free. The Cradle Tower’s guards, who’d now recovered their wits, were yelling for their colleagues to come to their aid and their cries were answered by more shouts from The Tower’s inner ward.

“It seems as if our beef eating foes have at last realised they’ve been tricked and I reckon we have about three minutes to get off this parapet or we’re all dead,” said Quintana grimly.

“Give me your cinctures,” said Thomas and snatching hold of the cords he quickly knotted them into a rope. He fastened one end to the parapet and tossed the loose end into the darkness.

“After you Englishman, I’d hate to be the one to snap such a slender thread or encounter any guards on the King’s Wharf,” said Prometheus politely. Thomas didn’t hesitate, he climbed over the wall and lowered himself to the bridge below.

Despite the darkness, Thomas could see the King’s Wharf at the far end of the bridge. He knew this broad, cobbled quay was cut off from the rest of London’s waterfront by high wooden palisades and blockhouses at each end so, gripping his sword tightly, he walked cautiously along the bridge. When no challenge came, Thomas guessed the watchmen who were supposed to patrol the docks and warehouses were lying drunk in their blockhouse so he signalled to the others that it was safe to descend. A minute later, the four men had joined him by
one of the derricks that leaned into the dark like a giant heron hunting for lampreys.

“So where’s the boat?” said Thomas expectantly.

“What boat?” queried Bos.

“Your drawing didn’t show any boat,” added Prometheus.

“I’m Portuguese, saltwater runs in my veins and I can sail anything that floats but you never said anything about a boat,” countered Quintana.

“But how, in the name of Beelzebub’s great hairy arse, are we supposed to get to France or Flanders without a boat?” Thomas cried in exasperation. Without some sort of vessel the four men were trapped on the waterfront and the shouts from The Tower were getting louder. In another minute the keys to the postern would have been fetched from The Constable’s office and the quayside would be swarming with heavily armed men.

“Perhaps I can help, Master Thomas,” said a soft voice with a heavy German accent.

The four fugitives spun on their heels and saw a small man emerge from the shadows. He was aged about forty but stood no higher than Thomas’ shoulder. His cleanshaven face was full and round but his build was slim and he had the graceful walk of a dancing master. The man was clearly not from The Tower’s guardroom or the city’s nightwatch because he wore a long black merchant’s cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders and a plain black bonnet was crammed on his head.

“Who calls my name?” said Thomas pointing his sword at the man.

“I’m Hans Nagel, the trumpet player,” said the man, spreading his arms wide in friendship, but before he could say another word Thomas leapt at him, his sword flashing in the moonlight. Taken by surprise, Nagel stepped back in terror and slipped on a pile of dung. The slip saved his life, the sword sliced only air but as Nagel sprawled across the damp cobbles his opponent quickly recovered his balance. In the blink of an eye Thomas was standing astride Nagel’s chest with his sword’s point pressed against the helpless man’s throat.

“I know your name Nagel, you were one of Wolsey’s spies and you’re supposed to be dead!” Thomas bellowed and he lifted his sword to strike the cowering Nagel’s head from his shoulders.

“In the name of God’s Mercy wait, you know only half the story, Wolsey’s not my true master, I now serve the exiled Yorkist prince Richard de la Pole, he heard of your plight and sent me to bring you to the safety of Metz. I sent the note warning of your arrest and I paid the crone who gave you the white rose, What’s more I have a Hansa ship waiting at The Steelyard,” Nagel pleaded.

“I’m very grateful to be sure but, if you have a boat, why in the name of the king’s piss-stained codpiece didn’t you bring it here?” said Thomas angrily but he lowered his sword.

“A boat would be of no use now because the tide is almost at full ebb. Look, see for yourself,” said Nagel nervously struggling to his feet. The trumpet player ushered the men to a flight of stone steps that should have led to the river’s edge but the waters had receded so far all the
men could see was a wide ribbon of stinking ooze disappearing into the darkness. Before anyone could stop him, Nagel had skipped down the stairs and leapt onto the reeking mud.

“I can show you the way across the mudflats but we must go now,” Nagel cried.

Realising they had no choice Thomas and the others followed the little trumpet player down the steps but the moment they stepped onto the mud, they sank up to their ankles in loathsome, cloying filth. Walking over the tidal river bed was impossible so, like giant eels, they slid and slithered across the slime. Nagel led them to another flight of steps, two hundred yards up river of the King’s Wharf, where the escapees hauled themselves out of the quagmire and onto another quayside.

The five men lay on the cobbles panting for breath and staring at The Tower of London’s western ramparts. They’d succeeded in escaping from the fortress but they were still inside London’s city walls and a long way from safety. Indeed, the men had barely recovered their wind before an elderly watchman, who’d seen the mudlarks crawl from the river like Grendel’s Mother, began ringing a large brass bell. The fugitives groaned. The alarm would bring both the pursuing warders and the city’s nightwatch to this part of the waterfront in a matter of minutes.

“We’ll be safe once we reach The Steelyard, follow me!” Nagel cried and he took to his heels. Once again Thomas and the others had little choice but to obey so, with their sodden monks’ robes flapping around their ankles, they ran after the trumpet player.