devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (6 page)

Prometheus also insisted that he was no rebel and argued that his war against the Funj had been a holy war to liberate his people from foreign infidels and invaders. Even Quintana, who had plenty of reason to hate the Tudors, scoffed at the idea of a risking his neck in a foolhardy rebellion but Thomas was not to be put off.

“Henry Octavius is not my lawful king, he’s a usurper and the crown of England rightfully belongs to Richard
de la Pole exiled Duke of Suffolk. This prince of the Royal House of York is now in Burgundy, waiting for a chance to free his people from the Tudor tyranny, and once I’m at liberty I’ll seek him out. With my knowledge of the secret arts to help him, Richard will soon drive Henry back behind the Welsh mountains where he belongs and so gentlemen, may I propose a bargain? If you aid me in this great endeavour, I’ll make you all rich once the White Rose is crowned Richard IV,” he cried.

If Thomas had hoped his rousing declaration of loyalty to the last Yorkist pretender to the English throne, and his offer of generous rewards, would change the other prisoner’s minds he was again mistaken. Bos, Prometheus and Quintana simply looked at him as if he were a raving madman, then they roared with laughter and rattled their fetters to remind him that stone walls and iron bars made a very effective prison, even for witches and rebels.

“It’s a good jest Master Thomas but you can’t raise a rebellion stuck in here!” Quintana laughed.

“Can you lead an army of rats and lice against Henry,” scoffed Bos.

“Or maybe turn yourself into a bat and fly to Richard de la Pole through the bars of our dungeon’s window!” Prometheus said, his great shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Perhaps I will, for I am Merlin reborn and I will place a new Arthur on the throne of England,” said Thomas indignantly but the others continued to howl with laughter, tears rolling down their filthy cheeks, until each man remembered the hopelessness of his own situation.

4

WESTMINSTER HALL

T
he prisoners’ sullen silence persisted for hours so, with nothing else to occupy his mind, Thomas began to think about the girl who’d aided him the previous night. The little trollop had claimed her sister had shared the king’s bed and the more he considered Quintana’s story the more he became convinced that he’d almost bedded Anne Boleyn, the younger sister of the king’s mistress Mary Boleyn, but his thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the cell’s heavy wooden door. Three brutish men entered the dungeon and without warning began to beat the prisoners, delivering bone-cracking blows with their stout wooden clubs.

“Back you turds from the arses of diseased dogs, make way for the King’s Officer!” spluttered the fatter of the gaolers. Once the prisoners had been cowed, a man wearing an expensive fur trimmed cloak stepped cautiously into the dungeon. He held a pomander under his nose and placed his feet carefully to avoid the reeking pools of urine and piles of excrement that littered the stone floor.

“Which one of you abominable creatures is the warlock? I’m commanded by the Lord Chancellor to take the man named Thomas Devilstone to the Court of King’s Bench at Westminster where he must answer for his crimes,” said the visitor.

At the sound of his name Thomas looked up and he recognised the man at once. It was Richard Rich, one of the pack of unscrupulous lawyers Cardinal Wolsey used to hunt down his enemies and tear them to pieces, sometimes literally. Thomas knew Lord Rich often applied the instruments of torture with his own hand and had a particular fondness for the rack.

“I’m Thomas Devilstone and I demand to know why I’m being held in this noxious midden?” Thomas replied angrily. The gaolers raised their clubs to deliver the painful retribution such impudence deserved but Rich shook his head.

“You’re here because the king desires it, so what price your witchcraft now?” said the lawyer, with barely concealed glee.

“I’m no witch,” Thomas repeated. “All I seek is the wisdom of the ancient philosophers, is it a crime to seek such knowledge?”

“That is precisely what His Majesty’s court is waiting to decide, now make haste, your judges do not like to be kept waiting,” replied Rich with a menacing smile.

“I am to be tried this day? But this is villainy! I’ve had no time to engage an attorney or prepare my defence!” Thomas protested.

“Fear not, you’ll get a fair trial before they find you guilty,” sneered Rich and he ordered the gaolers to bring the manacled warlock to the tumbrel waiting in the courtyard without delay. The fattest turnkey went to unfasten the prisoner’s chains from the ring in the wall and the stink of the gaoler’s unwashed flesh caught in Thomas’ throat. Whilst he coughed and spluttered, the gaoler hauled Thomas to his feet and began pushing him roughly towards the dungeon’s door.

“Mind your manners you bastard son of gong farmer’s daughter! I’m Sir Thomas Devilstone of Tynedale, I’m a veteran of Flodden under the protection of the Lord Warden of the Marches and I demand to be given the treatment due to my rank!” Thomas cried but the gaoler, thinking he was dealing with a foppish, dissolute courtier, merely replied with a mocking laugh. The smirking man quickly regretted his mistake when his prisoner suddenly turned and smashed his manacled wrists into the gaoler’s face, removing several of his rotting teeth.

Lord Rich cried out in terror, and fled towards the cell door, but the two other gaolers were skilled in the art of disabling a prisoner and before Thomas could attack the lawyer they’d bludgeoned him to the floor. Whilst Thomas gasped for breath, the gaolers dragged him up a long flight of stone stairs to the courtyard. Still groaning Thomas was slung into a cart, guarded by four yeomen officers of the court dressed in a scarlet livery and armed with halberds, as if he were no more than a sack of mildewed flour destined for the pig trough. Rich watched the
scene and smiled with satisfaction before climbing into a comfortable litter slung between two sleek black horses.

“Bastard took out four of Perkin’s teeth so watch him,” said the fat gaoler to the sergeant in charge of Lord Rich’s escort.

“He’d better not try any tricks with me,” replied the sergeant and for emphasis he brandished his halberd over Thomas’ recumbent form.

“Hear me well scum, cause me any trouble and you’ll go to The Devil with your cock in your hand!” said the sergeant as he held the razor sharp blade dangerously close to Thomas’ groin. Thomas still had no wind to reply and before he could recover the cart had lumbered out of the prison’s courtyard and into Farringdon Street.

The early spring sunshine was uncharacteristically warm and the little procession soon attracted a large group of spectators. Thomas braced himself for the onslaught of stones, mud and insults that were usually hurled at prisoners being taken for trial but he was surprised by the crowd’s good humour. As they passed The Horn Tavern, merchants eating their breakfasts of ale and cheese raised a toast. As the cart trundled through the filth and mire of Fleet Street, apprentices looked up from their labours and gave a loud huzzah. Along The Strand, cooks and kitchen maids waved and blew kisses in his direction. Thomas was utterly mystified by his celebrity until an old woman scuttled up to the cart.

“Bless you sir,” said the crone.

“For what?” replied Thomas, trying to keep his balance as cart bounced over a particular bone jarring collection of ruts and potholes.

“For killing Pynch, I was there when you sent that thieving swine to hell and all East Cheap thanks you for it,” said the elderly woman, her wizened face beaming with delight.

“Always glad to be of service, but are you quite sure it was me, I thought it was a demon summoned from The Pit who did for Pynch?” said Thomas. He was careful to avoid any admission of guilt, as this hag might be one of Wolsey’s paid stooges.

“A demon that you summoned,” the woman cackled and she tossed a dried white rose into the straw at the bottom of Thomas’ cart.

“None of that mother, we can’t have you passing flowers to prisoners, especially ones accused of treachery and witchcraft. Now be off with you or you’ll find yourself dangling from the gallows alongside your lover boy,” said the court yeoman and he threw the flower into the mud. The crone questioned the sergeant’s parentage but she wisely withdrew into the safety of the crowd leaving Thomas to wonder if their meeting had been coincidence or something more meaningful.

The guards may have chased off the crone but they couldn’t prevent the huge crowd from following the cart all the way to Westminster. At intervals Lord Rich would poke his head from between his litter’s silk curtains to threaten the mob with all manner of painful punishment but Thomas’ growing band of supporters steadfastly refused to disperse. Instead they started to sing scurrilous songs accusing Cardinal Wolsey and his servants of all manner of unnatural practices.

Thomas happily led the crowd in their singing and gave a speech urging his followers to resist the tyranny of corrupt clergymen, though he was careful not to say anything that might be considered treason against the king. By the time the cart reached the gateway to the Palace of Westminster, the procession looked like a Bartholomew’s Day Fair. Street vendors sold ale to the crowd, acrobats performed tricks and cutpurses silently relieved the richer spectators of their cash. The sentries that guarded the entrance to the palace stared incredulously at the throng that approached them until an exasperated Lord Rich bawled at the captain of the guard.

“Captain, disperse these riotous peasants immediately!” cried the red faced Rich, “The king’s justice must not be mocked in this way!”

“At once My Lord,” said the captain who lost no time in summoning the rest of his company from the guardroom. The captain’s men formed a hedge of steel halberds in front of the palace’s gatehouse. This manoeuvre was greeted by howls of protest from the crowd and for a moment, Thomas thought the mob might snatch him from the cart and carry him away to safety. Then someone took a step back and one by one Thomas’s supporters drifted away, like pieces of chaff carried off by the wind. As soon as his fickle followers had abandoned their hero, the cart was allowed into the oldest and most derelict of King Henry’s palaces.

A few years ago a fire had burned the royal apartments to the ground so the king now preferred to live in his new palace at Greenwich, but the clerics and clerks that
carried on the business of government were still lodged at Westminster. The teeth-numbing squeaks of the cart’s wooden wheels rattling over the courtyard’s cobblestones, only served to remind Thomas that once he’d been welcomed into all Henry’s palace by lutes and minstrels. Yet even though he’d returned to Westminster as prisoner he refused to be disheartened by the reversal of his fortunes. He damned Wolsey for a knave and resolved to face his accusers with the defiance and dignity that marked a true Englishman.

The cart stopped outside Westminster Hall, which stood between Edward the Confessor’s great abbey church and the river Thames. The medieval hall was home to the highest law courts in England and the steps in front of the entrance were filled with petitioners and pettifoggers busily preparing their cases. Despite the previous crowd’s interest in Thomas’ procession through the streets, this gaggle of lawyers and their clients were too concerned with their own affairs to pay him any notice.

“Bring the prisoner inside at once, His Eminence does not like to sit in judgement beyond eleven of the clock and it is already past nine,” Rich barked to the escort.

“I would hate to inconvenience My Lord Wolsey so I’ll gladly take my leave and call another day, now if you would just free me from these chains. I’ll be off,” said Thomas, holding up his manacled wrists, but the guards failed to see the joke. One of yeomen, standing behind the tumbrel, rammed the butt end of his halberd into the prisoner’s back pushing him off balance. Thomas toppled out of the cart and landed face down in a pile of steaming manure.

“You should be thankful, that shit is fresh from the arse of the cardinal’s own mule so it’s truly blessed,” laughed the guard but this time it was Rich who failed to see the joke.

“Enough! Clean that filth from the prisoner’s visage at once and be quick about it, the court is waiting,” barked the lawyer and he disappeared inside the hall.

Five minutes later Thomas, still dripping from the buckets of water tipped over his head was led into the largest, and busiest, room he’d ever seen. Not even the great banqueting hall at Alnwick Castle could compare with the majesty of Westminster, where every stone declared that this was the seat of Henry’s power. The roof, supported by mighty hammer beams, soared above Thomas’ head like the vault of heaven whilst the brightly coloured flags decorating the walls seemed to glow like the banners of the angelic host.

The hall itself was divided into different courts by a number of moveable wooden partitions that could be rearranged to create larger or smaller spaces as necessary. Between these makeshift courts, lawyers scurried about consulting papers, searching for witnesses and cursing the inefficiency of their clerks. The passages were crowded but, like the throng on the steps outside the hall, those inside seemed oblivious to the dead man walking amongst them.

The escorts led Thomas to the court of the King’s Bench at far end of the hall. The judges’ seating, which gave this court its name, was placed on a dais below an enormous arched window. This seat was separated from the rest of the court by the King’s Table, which was
covered in a cloth of green and white silk. Flanking the dais were large wooden stands containing several tiers of seats. The first tier on the left was reserved for the jury, but the rest of the seating was open to the public. The escorts manhandled their prisoner towards a second smaller dais in front of the King’s Table. This platform was surrounded on three sides by a simple wooden bar. Thomas stood behind this crude balustrade and waited calmly for the proceedings to begin.

News that a trial for something more interesting than debt or detinue was about to start soon reached the ears of others in the hall. Law students, lawyers and even witnesses in other cases began scrambling for a seat in the Court of the King’s Bench and the ushers had to use their staffs to stop latecomers from forcing their way in. Once filled with spectators, the court took on the air of an unruly schoolroom. Some of the audience pointed at Thomas and laughed whilst others poured ink down the collars of their unsuspecting colleagues or tried to snatch the square scholars’ caps from one another’s heads. Not even the arrival of the twelve jurors and the nine solemn faced judges could quell the crowd’s excited chatter.