devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (3 page)

“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 confined 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.

“I speak the gospel truth, I heard it from Stinking Jack who was there! He said the demon waved a fiery sword above its head as it flew over the rooftops looking for more victims and the whole city was only saved by the prayers of the Lord Cardinal Wolsey,” insisted the fisherman and he made the sign of the cross with his stubby fingers.

“Stinking Jack is either a liar, an idiot or a drunkard,” sniffed Thomas, wondering how a man with such an unpleasant name could inspire such trust.

“Jack may not be in his right mind most days but demons flying over Cheapside is a sure sign that the End of Days is nigh and soon we’ll all face the Last Judgement,” said the fisherman sternly and he pulled out a small amulet that was hanging on a leather thong around his neck. The old man kissed the yellowing piece of bone, which had been crudely carved into the shape of a mermaid with two tails, and began to mutter a complicated incantation that he hoped would save his soul from damnation. Thomas looked at him and pitied his credulity. He knew that those who trusted in magic never had their faith rewarded, in spite of the outrageous promises made by the wise women and self-proclaimed sorcerers who made a good living from selling these worthless trinkets.

Thomas knew this better than anyone because he’d once filled his own purse by dealing in magical charms, however his customers hadn’t been superstitious fishermen. Thomas’ amulets had been bought by the highest in the land but though his jewels had been made from gold, set with precious stones and inscribed with powerful spells taken from rare
grimoires
, they’d been no more effective than the tawdry slivers of wood and bone sold in the
markets of Cheapside. Indeed Thomas’ own personal talisman, which he’d fashioned with the help of the great German alchemist and necromancer Cornelius Agrippa, had spectacularly failed to save him from his recent ill fortune.

With nothing more to say to each other, neither man spoke until the boat had rounded the last bend in the river before Tilbury and as their destination came into view, the fisherman told his rower to pull for the long wooden jetty that stood at right angles to two enormous hulks. These apparently derelict warships had been beached, broadside to the river, on the grey mudflats beyond the harbour and though they lacked masts, the two ships still dwarfed the kogges, wherries and other boats that crowded Tilbury’s waterfront.

“What are those?” Thomas asked, wondering what manner of storm could wreck such mighty arks. Their blackened hulls were covered in weed and slime, which made the ships appear abandoned, but the royal standard still flew from their sterns, their gun ports were open and Thomas could see the muzzles of bronze cannon pointing out over the river. Wisps of smoke from cooking fires on the ship’s decks and lines of washing hung over the rails indicated the vessels were still manned, at least by gunners and washerwomen.

“Those rotting piles of worm eaten wood are all that’s left of the
Great Harry
and
Mary Rose
. Since the King of Frogs gave our Sovereign Lord his latest bloody nose, Henry’s had no money to pay for a proper army or navy so he uses his great carracks as floating forts to guard the approaches to London,” the fisherman said grimly.

“So if King Francis tries to sail up the Thames he can at least be sure of a proper salute,” Thomas joked but it was a hollow jest. No one in England could forget Henry’s humiliation the year before when the king’s attempt to seize Paris had ended in utter failure. A century before, in the time of Henry V, Englishmen had found honour and glory in the mud of northern France but Henry VIII had been born under a different star. Instead of winning great victories at Harfleur and Agincourt, the Tudor king’s men had deserted in their hundreds and Henry had been forced to abandon his campaign when he was just fifty miles from Paris. The last remnants of the English army had slunk back to Calais where the men had been ignominiously discharged and sent home in disgrace.

The fisherman began to mutter something about there being more people than usual waiting for him on the fish quay but Thomas, who was having to row hard to counter the tide, couldn’t turn his head to see what the man was talking about. Grunting with the effort of wrestling Old Father Thames, Thomas continued to pull on the oars until the boat clunked against the jetty’s mussel encrusted timbers.

“You there, what boat is this?” Cried a burly town constable who was standing at the edge of the jetty. The man was dressed in a green and white striped tunic, the livery of the Tudor kings, and Thomas’ joy at being free of the city drained out of the holes in his battered shoes.