devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (22 page)

“We tie your arms and legs to these ropes, haul you up then lower your naked backside slowly onto this pyramid. ‘Ere, you’re not a sodomite are you? We don’t use this on sodomites ‘cos they like something big and hard shoved up their arses!” cried the bald gaoler and he roared with laughter.

“They call it the Judas Cradle but it should be named Eve’s Punishment ‘cos they scream like a whore giving birth to her first bastard,” added the hairy gaoler. Once again the two men howled with delight but their mirth was interrupted by a voice from outside summoning them to other duties. Reluctantly, the gaolers abandoned their baiting of Thomas and went to do their master’s bidding.

“Think on what awaits you when we return, you English bastard, but don’t worry, we’ll be back soon and we’ll make sure you don’t die too quickly, the bishop likes his fun,” sneered the bald gaoler and the two turnkeys left the dungeon leaving their prisoner alone with the Judas Cradle. Thomas felt the cold sweat of fear run down his back as he wondered how long a man could endure such agony.

The terrifying vision of being slowly spitted like a suckling pig plagued Thomas’ thoughts until the gaolers
returned an hour later and this time they were not alone. The turnkeys escorted a dozen clerics from the Cathedral Chapter into the torture chamber, led by Jean de Lorraine Bishop of Metz and the White Rose Richard de la Pole.

All the inquisitors, including de la Pole, were dressed in simple monks’ habits of black wool, with the hoods pulled over their heads to obscure their faces. Like a snake stalking its prey, the file of holy men slithered into the chamber and coiled itself around the Judas Cradle. As the monks formed their sinister circle, they chanted psalms to protect themselves from evil but once they were in position the singing abruptly ceased. For several minutes the monks stood motionless, letting their silent prayers sow the seeds of fear in their victim’s soul. Eventually, the fattest of the monks, whom Thomas assumed to be the bishop, began to speak.

“In the year of Our Lord 1484, the Holy Father Innocent VIII issued the bull
Summis Desiderantes Affectibus
, which commanded all Christians to root out the foul practice of witchcraft and correct, imprison, punish and chastise such persons,” said the bishop solemnly. Thomas, sitting in his cell, listened to the bishop repeat the papal declaration of war on witches and snorted with contempt.

“You would obey a pope who thought nothing of committing the sin of simony and who fathered a dozen bastard children?” Thomas declared. For a moment the bishop was so angry at his prisoner’s impudence he could only stare at Thomas with cold, merciless eyes but he soon found his tongue and he began to list the charges that had been levied against the English wizard.

“So, Thomas Devilstone, you see fit to add slander and sacrilege to the list of your many and varied sins. Don’t think that we in Metz have forgotten how you and your master Agrippa once bewitched a similar court of enquiry to secure the release of another of your coven yet even this is not the worst of your crimes. Today you must answer the charges that you bewitched a prince of the royal blood and so, by means of necromancy, forced him to construct a diabolical boat to travel under the water. Moreover, once you’d built such a vessel, you cast more spells that forced the royal personage of Richard de la Pole to enter so you could assassinate him by means of gunpowder,” said the bishop.

“And how would blowing myself to smithereens serve Satan?” Thomas said sarcastically.

“The Devil protects his own, however God saw fit to save his servant Richard and deliver his assassin into our hands instead. It’s clear to us you have returned to Metz to conquer this city for Satan but we may yet be merciful. Confess your sins, name the others who conspired with you and you shall all be strangled before your bodies are burned. Yet if you keep silent, you shall suffer all the torments that can be applied to frail human flesh. How do you answer witch?” said the bishop

“I answer by accusing you, John of Lorraine, of being nothing but a debauched French catspaw who’s squandered the wealth of his benefices on whores and high living! Now you must sell your soul to settle your debts but a mere bishop doesn’t frighten me. I’ve been tried by a cardinal and he was twice the whore-mongering poltroon
you are,” said Thomas. Beneath his hood the bishop was speechless with rage so Richard de la Pole took up the cudgel of justice.

“My Lord Bishop, you have my sworn statement that I watched this man force a demon named Abrasax to inhabit the body of a chicken. His guilt is therefore not in doubt and you must proceed to his torture so we may have proof that all Tudor kings have obtained their crowns by witchcraft. This warlock’s confession that he used the Black Arts to maintain Henry on the throne will show all true Englishmen they must acknowledge me as their lawful king! Now you may begin,” said the White Rose and he pointed to the two turnkeys, who knew better than to shirk their duty.

The gaolers lost no time in hauling Thomas from his cell and dragging him to the Judas Cradle where they began to beat him savagely with long wooden staves. The gaoler’s blows continued until their prisoner had been bludgeoned into at least temporary submission and as Thomas lay in the filthy straw, groaning and gasping for breath, they stripped him naked. Finally, whilst the bishop crossed himself and the monks chanted prayers for the salvation of the damned, the metal fetters attached to the ends of the
strappado’s
ropes were fastened around Thomas’ waist, wrists and ankles.

“This is your last chance witch, confess or suffer unimaginable pain,” said the bishop. Thomas couldn’t have spoken even if he’d wanted too and in the next moment he felt the rusty manacles bite into his flesh as his naked body was lifted off the floor. He gritted his teeth as
the waves of pain washed over him but far worse was to come.

“Confess, or feel the embrace of Judas!” repeated the bishop.

“I bet you like to watch your priests plough your choirboys, you sick bastard!” Thomas shouted hoarsely. In reply the bishop crossed himself and gave the order. With a creak of pulleys and a squeal of ropes the gaolers lowered their prisoner towards the blunt spike positioned directly below his backside and Thomas felt the point of pyramid slowly part his buttocks. In the next instant its wooden tip entered his body.

As the weight of his own flesh conspired with the Judas Cradle to tear apart the most intimate parts of his anatomy, Thomas cold do nothing but cry out in pain. He tried to arch his back, clench his muscles and twist his body to alleviate the agony but every movement only increased the pitiless torture. Perspiration poured down his naked skin and screams flew from his mouth in a ceaseless psalm of pain. As the torment continued, his oaths and curses were quickly reduced to bestial shrieks and howls but at last de la Pole called a halt and Thomas felt himself lifted into the air.

“You fool, what’s King Henry to you? The Tudor usurper sentenced you to death so revenge yourself on your betrayer! Name Henry as the as the chief witch of England and you’ll die quickly but keep silent and you’ll drown in a bottomless ocean of pain,” whispered the White Rose. Thomas tried to reply that he thought all kings were the servants of The Devil but before he could speak, the door
of the torture chamber crashed open and the Duke of Albany entered. The Scottish duke was accompanied by four of his liveried attendants and before anyone could protest, he’d tossed a blue leather pouch, decorated with French
fleur de lys
, at de la Pole’s feet.

“As you’re busy I’ll spare you the trouble of reading the French king’s latest letters, suffices to say that Francis has ordered us both to cancel our planned invasion immediately and march south with as many men as we can muster,” said the Scottish duke.

“What!” cried the White Rose.

“You’ve dallied too long, My Lord, and now it’s Francis’ turn to fear for his throne. A week ago the king’s rebel cousin, the Duke of Bourbon, crossed the Italian frontier at the head of an army of Spanish and imperial mercenaries. Bourbon has already proclaimed himself King of France and laid siege to Marseilles but Francis is moving swiftly to crush this rebellion. He’s planning to raise the royal standard at Lyon and his liege lords have been ordered to join him there as soon as possible. Those that delay will be declared traitor and their lands will pass to the crown forthwith,” replied Albany, whose French wife owned vast estates in the Auvergne.

De la Pole could only stare at the leather pouch at his feet. A few hours ago he’d been preparing to lead of one of the most audacious military operations in history but now his dreams of recovering his throne were dead, drowned in the murky waters of the Moselle. The king who’d promised his support had betrayed him and the alchemist in whom he’d placed his trust was now naked and hanging by his
ankles like a plucked chicken in a market. Albany saw the look of rage in de la Pole’s face and though he didn’t show any similar emotion, he was as angry as the White Rose.

“Had we sailed for Dunbar a month ago we’d be beyond the reach of the French king by now, but thanks to your stubbornness we must fight Francis’ war in the south if we are to retain any hope of his favour,” the Scottish duke said bitterly but de la Pole ignored him and turned to Thomas.

“So your dastardly scheme becomes clear. Henry paid you to delay my invasion, knowing full well that Bourbon’s rebellion would force the French king to abandon me. Now tell this Scotch viper that it was your witchcraft that caused my plan to fail or suffer more of this,” said de la Pole and he signalled to the gaolers to lower their prisoner onto the Judas Cradle once more. Seconds later a shaft of unbelievable pain shot through Thomas’ insides and his screams of agony became louder as the wooden pyramid penetrated his body again, but still he wouldn’t submit. Albany began to protest that there was no time for de la Pole to continue enjoying himself and insisted that they prepared to march at once. Reluctantly de la Pole told the gaolers to raise Thomas into the air.

“I offered to serve you and your cursed House of York in good faith but now, I swear by the broken bones of St Barnabas, I’ll not rest until I’ve trampled every white rose into the dust!” he said in a voice cracking with pain.

“Shall we continue the torture, My Lord?” said the bald gaoler eagerly but de la Pole shook his head.

“No, though I’m loathe to admit it, My Lord Albany’s right and we must pursue this matter on my return. Place
the witch and his familiars in the cage, make sure they suffer but keep them alive,” growled de la Pole. Without another word, the White Rose, Albany and the clerics left the dungeon but Thomas’ torturers did not free their prisoner from the
strappado
immediately. Instead they left him suspended above the Judas Cradle whilst they opened the grating in the torture chamber’s floor and climbed into the crane’s enormous drum.

The drum was actually a treadwheel and slowly it began to turn but whatever it was on the other end of the chain that passed through the floor’s opening had to be heavy as it took the combined weight and strength of both turnkeys to lift it. Sweating and panting with the effort, the gaolers laboured until the topmost bars of an iron cage, about six feet square, appeared. When the cage’s roof was level with the chamber’s floor, the gaolers secured the treadwheel, released Thomas from the
strappado
and dragged him to his new prison. After unlocking a door in the cage’s roof, the gaolers tipped Thomas inside as if he were the contents of a chamber pot being poured into a gutter.

Battered and bruised, Thomas lay on the cage’s iron barred floor moaning whilst the hairy turnkey refastened the cage’s locks and the bald gaoler returned to the treadwheel. With the cage secured, the hairy gaoler shouted something through the trapdoor before joining his colleague in the drum. A moment later the cage, with Thomas inside, descended into a second torch lit vault immediately below the torture chamber. Here men in the black and white livery of Metz’s city guard opened an identical iron grating so the cage could continue its journey. The
tiny metal cell finally emerged into daylight whereupon it stopped, leaving Thomas suspended beneath an arch of the
pont des Morts
.

The walls of Metz encompassed several islands in the Moselle and the fortified ‘Bridge of the Dead’ joined the large Island of Chambière to the river’s northern bank. The sinister name was derived from the practice of drowning criminals beneath the
pont des Morts
’ and the torture chamber was part of the barbican built over the bridge’s central span. Mercifully, the gaolers had obeyed de la Pole’s instructions and left the cage suspended twenty feet above the water but for several hours Thomas could do nothing but nurse his injuries. He was covered in cuts and bruises, and his backside ached liked he’d been ravished by a dozen lecherous abbots, but at least no bones had been broken.

For several hours the worst he had to suffer were the curious stares of the pedestrians and boatmen passing over, or under, the
pont des Morts
but the curfew bells ringing across the city brought him fresh suffering. Shortly after the barbican’s gates had been closed for the night the iron grate above the cage was opened and Thomas saw the familiar faces of his gaolers looking down at him.

“Good evening, my little spatchcock,” cooed the bald gaoler. “How’s your arse?”

“If only you had a prick you could go and plough your mother!” spat Thomas.

“But if I had no prick I couldn’t do this,” said the bald gaoler who promptly dropped his filthy breeches and released a shower of steaming piss into the cage.

“You foul, stinking bastard!” screamed Thomas.

“Such ingratitude, you must’ve been parched sitting out in the sun all day so I merely gave you something to drink but you must be hungry as well as thirsty. Are you hungry?” asked the bald gaoler whereupon the two turnkeys picked up a large wooden vat they’d brought with them and tipped its contents through the hole in the bridge’s roadway. A deluge of rotting entrails and putrid kitchen waste cascaded over Thomas whilst the gaolers roared with laughter.