devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (11 page)

“How can anyone walk religiously?” protested Quintana but Bos did not reply. He was too busy looking at a yeoman warder standing in the archway of The Tower’s outer gate. The man was watching the approaching ‘priests’ with deep suspicion.

Whilst Bos, Prometheus and Quintana were searching London for monks’ habits, Sir William Kingston was telling Thomas that he had twenty four hours to make his peace with God before the court’s terrible sentence was carried out. Thomas accepted the news calmly but begged to be allowed to confess to his own priests who were certain to present themselves once they’d heard the date for his execution had been set. As Thomas had been a model prisoner, and his courage had greatly impressed
Sir William, The Constable granted the condemned man his last request.

Thomas maintained his air of fortitude until Sir William had left but as soon as his gaoler had gone he set to work. He retrieved the saltpetre, lard and jar of syrup that Anne had brought then used the pestle and mortar to mash these ingredients into a thick dough. Once this was done, he divided the glutinous lump into three strips and rolled each strip loosely around one of the black matches. Finally he wrapped each of these large, if crude, candles in squares of hessian cut from his bed’s mattress. The task passed several hours but when he’d finished all he could do was sit in his lonely cell to await the arrival of his confessors.

“Halt who goes there?” said the warder guarding The Tower’s outer gate.

“Be at peace my son. We are poor friars come to the hear the confession of the prisoner Thomas Devilstone,” said Bos solemnly. His deep, booming voice sounded sufficiently holy for the warder to fetch his sergeant.

“Why does it need three of you to hear one man’s confession?” said the sergeant.

“Surely you know that this warlock is possessed of powerful magic?” said Bos earnestly. “It will take the combined prayers of no less than three holy clerics to tame the demons that he will surely send against us and even then I am not confident that all of us will survive. We must pray to St Anthony who battled with demons in the desert…”

“Yes, Yes, save your babbling for the pulpit Father but tell me what’s in those bundles?” interrupted the sergeant and he pointed at the three cross shaped parcels, each wrapped in rags and bound with leather thongs, which the friars carried over their shoulders.

“They’re roods, our wooden crosses that will be our only weapon against the armies of Satan for no demon can bear to be in sight of the symbol of Our Lord’s suffering,” said Bos reverently and he unwrapped a corner of one of the parcels so the sergeant could see the end of a crudely sawn piece of wood.

“Ask them how can we be sure they’re really friars,” said the yeoman warder eager to ingratiate himself with his sergeant.

“Imbecile,” replied the sergeant, “Can’t you see these men are wearing the habits of the Franciscans and carrying crosses?”

“Do not be so harsh your subordinate My Son, the simpleton is right to be suspicious but there’s an easy way to be sure, fetch a bible or some other writing and I will read it to you,” Bos suggested.

“He’s got a point there,” said the younger yeoman leaning on his spear, “Only the clergy can read, I mean you’re a sergeant, and you can’t read.”

“I don’t need to ask them to read, you dolt! If you were a sergeant instead of a turd, you’d know that Sir William has already told me to expect three friars to hear the witch’s confession.” snapped the sergeant. He turned to the monks and handed Bos a small wooden board upon which the word
Octavius
had been burned with a hot iron.
He told them that this was the night’s password, and if the friars showed it at each of the gates the sentries would let them through without question, however they had to hurry as the curfew was about to begin.

“You have the thanks of us all, my son,” said Bos trying not to grin.

“God be with you Father and make sure the evil bastard gets what’s coming to him!” said the sergeant as he waved the party through the gate. With a sigh of relief the three men passed through the gates of the Lion and Middle Towers to the causeway that crossed the moat.

At the far end of causeway was the Byward Tower where Bos had to show his pass a third time to gain entry to the outer ward. This was a narrow killing zone between the fortress’ two curtain walls and any attackers that reached this point would find themselves assailed from above by all manner of missiles. Quintana shivered at the thought of being shot through with arrows, crushed by stones or scalded to death by the boiling water defenders could pour down from the tops of both walls but nobody questioned the right of three friars to enter the king’s fortress. At the Wakefield Tower, Bos again showed his token to the warders and they opened a small postern that led to the inner ward.

The sergeant in charge of this gate also detailed one of his men to escort the three priests to The Beauchamp Tower where the condemned man was being held. Thomas’ chamber was guarded a gruff looking veteran who sported a long grey beard and a broad bladed partisan. Prometheus thought the spear was too long to be of much
use in the small rooms and narrow spiral stairways of the Beauchamp Tower, nevertheless he grasped the crucifix he carried a little tighter. If it came to a fight, the symbol of Christ’s victory over the grave might be his only weapon.

The grizzled warder examined Bos’ pass and grudgingly he unlocked the cell. As the door creaked open, Bos and the others were surprised to see a comfortable room with a fire burning in the grate. Thomas was sitting at a table with his back to the doorway, and seemed to be busy feeding titbits to a caged bird. Another warder was in the room, seated on a chair by the fire. A patch covered this man’s eye and his spear rested lazily against his shoulder. The one-eyed warder stood up when the friars entered the cell but the prisoner carried on feeding his pet.

“On your feet witch, these holy men are here to save your soul, not that you deserve it you black hearted bastard.” snapped the grizzled warder. Slowly, Thomas turned to look at his visitors but said nothing. Bos made the sign of the cross and turned to the warders.

“You may leave us. A confession, even a witch’s confession, is for the ears of God alone,” he said to them however the half-blind guard made no effort to leave the cell. He merely looked at the Frisian and narrowed his one remaining eye.

“I’m not sure we can do that Father,” he said. “We hang this bastard in the morning and I’m supposed to make sure he don’t cheat the scaffold by hanging his-self.”

“Very well, you may stay if you wish but you do so in peril of your soul. The witch may appear contrite but he’s sure to summon many hideous demons to his aid and
we may have to battle with all the legions of Hell before this night is over,” said Bos. Both warders looked at each other nervously and Prometheus pressed home the friars’ advantage.

“I fear your paltry partisans will be of no use against The Great Marquis Sabnock who commands fifty legions of The Damned. The slightest wound from his sword will fill with devilish maggots that gnaw a man’s flesh from his bones whilst he still lives and it is said that the screams from any mortal man wounded by The Great Marquis Sabnock would chill the heart of Satan himself,” the Nubian added gleefully. At this news, the one-eyed warder ‘s face turned as white as his colleague’s beard and he took a step back towards the cell door.

“As you wish, Father, but I’ll have to lock the door… just in case,” said the one eyed warder, his voice trembling with terror.

“You must do your duty my son, and you can trust us to do ours. May God bless you and keep you for there is bound to be great evil abroad this night,” said Bos kindly. The warders scurried from the cell crossing themselves furiously. As soon as they’d left, the priests threw back their cowls and grinned at Thomas.

“By all the saints you got my message!” said Thomas. He spoke in a whisper but nothing could hide his delight at seeing Bos, Quintana and Prometheus.

“Did you think we weren’t coming?” laughed the Nubian.

“I admit I was beginning to think perhaps my picture had been lost or misunderstood,” said Thomas.

“I swear by the Queen of Spain’s tits you’re no Leonardo but at least I had the wit to work out your meaning, I hope you’ll remember that!” Quintana said proudly.

“So what do we do now?” said Bos.

“For the moment we pray,” said Thomas with a smile and he carefully outlined his plan. When he’d finished, Bos unwrapped his bundle. The woollen wrapping turned out to be a spare disguise for Thomas and as well as concealing its true purpose, the cloth had hidden two swords with a piece of wood tied between their crossguards so the weapons appeared to be a crucifix. Bos untied the wood and handed one sword to Thomas who took it gratefully. The blade was dull and pitted with rust but it felt good to have a weapon in his hand again. Prometheus and Quintana also unwrapped their swords, which had been similarly disguised as crosses, and when all four men were armed Bos began to pray. In a voice loud enough for the warders to hear, the ex-priest spoke the words of the prayer to drive demons from the possessed.

Is it not written, that it is by the finger of God that I drive out demons and the kingdom of God shall come upon you. For you cannot drink from the cup of the Lord and also from the cup of demons. You cannot partake of the table of the Lord and of the table of demons. Yet are we who travel the paths of light not stronger than he who walks in darkness?

The warders outside the cell heard Bos’ Latin and though they did not understand the words, they felt much
better. They felt certain the holy men would weave a web of prayer around the witch that would be far stronger than any iron chains or stone walls. Soon it would be morning, the headsman would dispatch Thomas Devilstone’s corrupt soul to hell and the world would be a safer place for good Christian folk. The warders looked at each other and breathed a sigh of relief.

Bos’ prayers continued until darkness fell whereupon Quintana called through the door’s little window to request a light for the cell’s candles. The grizzled warder duly fetched a rushlight but he was careful to pass it through the tiny window’s bars rather than open the cell door. He may have been old but he was wise to most tricks his prisoners tried to play. As the light flared in the cell, the monks’ prayers began again and the guards settled down for a comfortable night.

The first indication something was wrong was the strange hissing that sounded like bacon frying in a pan. The guards thought perhaps the friars were cooking their supper but then the screaming began.

7

THE KING’S WHARF

“O
h dear God … no … please no!” shrieked a voice from inside Thomas’ cell. To the nervous warders outside, it sounded as if the speaker was suffering all the torments of the Holy Inquisition and as the friars’ cries grew louder the elderly guards grasped their spears more tightly.

“In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ … back … back … you fiend!” wailed another voice from the cell.

“By the power of Christ I compel thee to return to The Pit!” cried a third voice as great clouds of purple smoke began to creep under the cell door. The warders looked at each other, wide eyed with fright, as the foul smelling smoke slowly filled the passageway. The stench was worse than a cartload of rotten eggs cracked all at once and in the next moment the befouled air was riven by the sounds of clashing swords.

“Do not open the door, we’re doing battle with the Great Marquis Sabnock himself, keep the door firmly shut
until he’s defeated!” cried one of the friars from inside the cell. The warders were only too happy to oblige, no power on earth would induce them to open the cell’s door but as a thick billow of smoke wafted through the tiny window, a bat flew through the bars into the stairway. The terrified creature fluttered and swooped between the warders as it tried to find a way out, whilst the equally terrified men screamed and waved their arms to drive the hellish vermin away. In answer to their piteous screams, Bos’ face appeared at the barred window.

“By all the saints he’s cunning, the Great Marquis Sabnock has turned himself into a bat to escape us. Where is he can you see him?” Bos asked urgently.