devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (20 page)

“God’s Hooks Albany, you’re as miserable as one of your Scottish summers! When
The Hippocamp
completes her maiden voyage you’ll see for yourself that the success of our mission is no longer in doubt. Be sure to tell the king of France that when you see him,” said de la Pole.

“And when shall you launch your expensive coffin?” Albany replied.

“There’s no time like the present, we shall take to the water at first light tomorrow. I trust that is possible?” said de la Pole to Thomas.

“As you wish My Lord and with God’s will we shall prevail,” Thomas replied but he also offered a silent prayer to Poseidon to bless their endeavour.

The revelry continued until midnight when Richard de la Pole retired to his chamber. One by one, his guests followed their host’s example until only the pot-boys clearing away the wreckage of the feast were left in the stable yard. Thomas also returned to his apartments but he had no intention of sleeping. If he was to give a full demonstration of
The Hippocamp’s
capabilities he needed an ample supply of saltpetre but he also thought it prudent to try and preserve his secret of purifying foul air for as long as possible. He therefore decided to smuggle a keg of ‘Chinese salt’, which he’d acquired from the castle’s gunners a few days earlier, on to the boat under cover of darkness.

By the time de la Pole’s servants had finished their work, the moon had risen but with everyone in the castle now sleeping off the excesses of the last few hours, Thomas decided it was safe enough to proceed. He made his way to the stable yard as quickly as he could and stepped into the silent night air. In the moon’s silvery light,
The Hippocamp
looked like a giant grey seal basking on a rocky beach and its architect couldn’t help admiring his vessel before climbing the ladder and scrambling inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the blackness of the boat’s interior but just enough moonlight entered the open hatch for Thomas to see what he was doing.

He soon found the small triangular cabinet he’d had fitted in the boat’s pointed stern and opened the metal grate that formed the lid. The cupboard was lined with thick sheets of
amiantus
, the alchemist’s cloth that wouldn’t burn. Thomas had heard stories that this material was woven from the fur of the salamander and that Persian emperors had wiped their mouths with
amiantus
napkins that were cleaned by throwing them in a sacred fire. Whatever the truth of these tales, the fabric was costly and difficult to procure but one of Metz’s armourers, who lined breastplates and helmets with this cloth to keep warm skin away from cold metal, supplied him with enough for his needs.

An iron tray, set just below the lid, divided the cupboard into two compartments. Thomas had told the carpenters who’d made this cabinet that it was meant to be filled with red hot stones to keep the crew warm in the icy waters of the German Ocean but its true purpose would only be revealed when the boat was submerged. Once the
air began to turn stale, Thomas would fill the iron tray with saltpetre and the heat from the stones underneath would slowly release the quintessence of air from the white crystals. Satisfied everything had been completed according his instructions, Thomas placed the keg of saltpetre next to the cabinet and returned to the hatch.

He emerged to see a figure standing in the shadow of the vessel’s stern. At first Thomas thought it was a groom sweeping the stable yard but as the man turned, the moonlight flashed on the thin Spanish sword in his hand. Cursing all saboteurs Thomas drew his own sword, dropped to his belly and started to crawl along the deck. As silently as a dying man’s whisper, he wormed his way towards the rear of the boat and when he was directly behind the stranger, he pounced. He landed lightly but as he hit the ground, his foot slipped on a greasy bone abandoned by one of de la Pole’s dogs. Thomas went sprawling over the flagstones, his sword clattered into the shadows and before he could recover his wits the stranger had his rapier’s point pricking the Englishman’s throat.

“What are you doing here necromancer? Speak or I’ll spit you like a spatchcock,” hissed the Duke of Albany. His eyes burned bright with hatred and Thomas had no doubt that the duke would carry out his threat but his Border ancestry would not let him submit to a Scottish nobleman without a fight.

“I might ask you the same thing, I was checking the boat was ready for launching but you’ve no business here,” he said angrily. Albany’s reply was equally irate and he reminded Thomas that the king of France had entrusted
him with ensuring victory in their joint war against the Tudors.

“No business have I? That jackanapes de la Pole has not the wit to set a guard and I saw you carry a barrel of gunpowder inside your infernal craft. So tell me, witch, do you mean to destroy your own diabolical contraption? Are you still loyal to your old Tudor masters or do you now take your orders from Satan alone?” snapped Albany and he pressed the point of his sword into the skin of his captive’s throat. Thomas felt a trickle of warm blood run down his neck and in his rage at being trapped by a Scot, the Englishman’s wounded pride overcame his prudence.

“You witless popinjay, it wasn’t gunpowder, it was Chinese salt! I’ve uncovered the secret of using saltpetre to purify the air inside the boat whilst it travels underwater and without my discovery de la Pole and his entire invasion are doomed,” Thomas boasted. At first Albany refused to believe him and he accused the English wizard of casting more spells to deceive the credulous Yorkist prince. It was only when Thomas pointed out that he’d also be aboard
The Hippocamp
during its maiden voyage, and he’d no intention of committing suicide, that Albany relented.

“Very well sorcerer, but I’ll keep my eye on you and at the first signs of treachery I’ll have you sent to the scaffold. Just to make sure I’ll set my own men to keep watch,” he said as he sheathed his sword. Without another word the Scottish duke walked away to fetch his sentries, leaving Thomas to nurse the cut on his neck and wonder why
Albany needed to place a guard on
The Hippocamp
when it had been built inside a castle garrisoned by the most feared mercenary army in Christendom.

True to his word Albany placed a dozen of his men around
The Hippocamp
. They remained at their posts until cockcrow but as soon as the sun was up Thomas was back in the stable yard supervising the loading of red hot stones into the special cabinet. By now the shipwrights knew better than to ask the mad English alchemist to explain his hare-brained instructions. Nevertheless, Thomas insisted on maintaining the fiction that some form of heating was absolutely necessary, or the crew would die of cold when they descended into the freezing depths of the river, and an open fire was out of the question.

Once the stones had been loaded, waggoners hitched teams of oxen to the wheeled trestle carrying
The Hippocamp
and slowly the sullen beasts dragged the underwater boat over the castle’s drawbridge towards the river. De la Pole, Albany and Thomas led the procession on horseback whilst Bos, Prometheus, Quintana, a company of the Black Band and Albany’s sleepy entourage followed behind on foot. Prometheus imagined he was watching the sarcophagus of an ancient pharaoh being dragged to a pyramid whilst Quintana and Bos had the uneasy feeling they were seeing their own coffin being hauled to a watery sepulchre.

The hundred yards of ground between Haute Pierre and the Moselle were marshy so wooden planks had to be
laid under the cart’s wheels to form a trackway. Inch by inch, the oxen dragged the boat to a shallow sloping spot by the water’s edge where, using a rich blend of curses and whips, the drovers goaded their animals into the water. When
The Hippocamp’s
prow was in the river, the beasts were finally relieved of their burden and led away. Now shipwrights armed with axes clambered over the cart and hacked through the ropes that tied the boat to the trestles. The whole structure shuddered as
The Hippocamp
slid gracefully into the Moselle and just as Thomas had calculated, the boat settled with its waterline just above the taps in the sides of the flotation tanks.

The river here was broad, deep and slow so
The Hippocamp
could be held in the slack water by a simple mud-weight until the shipwrights had transformed the wheeled trestle into a jetty. Whilst de la Pole, Thomas and Albany ate a hearty breakfast brought from the castle’s kitchens in wicker baskets, the workmen pushed the oversized cart further into the river, fastened it to wooden posts driven into the mud and nailed planks across the trestles so
The Hippocamp’s
admiral could walk to his flagship with dry feet. However, Richard de la Pole was somewhat reluctant to be the first aboard such a strange vessel, so the honour was offered to its inventor.

Thomas didn’t need to be asked twice, eager to explore his boat, he ran along the improvised jetty and clambered inside. The interior smelled pleasantly of new leather and freshly sawed pinewood. There was also an eerie silence as the water that surrounded three quarters of the hull dampened any noise from outside. Once he was used to
the sensation he found the quietness created a strange air of calm and he wondered if this was how unborn babies felt in the womb. More importantly, the silence meant he could listen for leaks. He held his breath and listened hard but there was no telltale sound of dripping water.

To make sure the boat was watertight, Thomas carefully ran his fingers along each seam of the planking and around the sleeve of each oar. Despite the heat radiating from the cabinet, the wood and leather felt reassuringly cold and dry to the touch. He waited a few more minutes and checked again but the boatbuilders had done their work well and
The Hippocamp
was as dry as a Lutheran sermon. Scarcely able to contain his excitement, Thomas pushed his head and shoulders through the hatchway and called to Richard de la Pole and the Duke of Albany who were who were waiting patiently at the far end of the jetty.

“It’s quite safe, she’s watertight and floats well, would you care to join me My Lords?” Thomas shouted happily. De la Pole looked at the Scottish duke but Albany shook his head. Nothing on the face of the earth would force him to step inside the Englishman’s aquatic mausoleum.

“I can watch you drown from here My Lord, but please do not let my good sense keep you from your watery grave,” said Albany dryly.

“I see you’re a man destined to follow, never lead, but the future belongs to men who know no fear!” cried de la Pole with ill-disguised disgust and he ordered Bos, Quintana and Prometheus to follow him aboard. His newly promoted captains hesitated but after each man had crossed himself and said a silent prayer, they all clambered
inside the boat. One by one they struggled through the open hatch and joined Thomas who was lighting a beeswax candle in a lantern placed in the bow. The single wick provided just enough illumination for the men to see what they were doing and the flickering light cast eerie shadows on
The Hippocamp’s
wooden walls.

“So this is how Jonah must have felt inside the body of the whale,” mused Bos as he squeezed his enormous bulk onto one of the rowing benches. Though the interior was intended to carry thirty fully armed men, she felt cramped with just five people aboard.

“Are we really below the surface, can we go deeper?” asked de la Pole, as he examined the fine craftsmanship of Metz’s boatbuilders. Despite the lack of space she seemed solid and stable.

“The water level is just above our heads and if we sink to the bottom there should be ten or twelve feet of river above us. All that needs to be done is flood the tanks,” said Thomas confidently.

“Are you sure we can rise again?” said de la Pole, and when
The Hippocamp’s
architect confirmed that they could, he rashly insisted that the craft was fully submerged without delay. Bos, Prometheus and Quintana looked at each other anxiously but Thomas assured them they were in no danger and climbed out of the boat to open the taps.

Once back on deck Thomas could see the spigots just below the waterline and the river felt bitterly cold as reached down to open them. Just as he predicted, the air inside the tanks prevented them from filling until he’d also
opened the tap on the top. As soon as he’d done this, he heard a rush of air being expelled through the upper taps and he scrambled back inside as quickly as he could. As he shut the hatch and sealed it tight, the boat quivered as if it was unsure as to what to do.

“It will take a few practice voyages to calculate the weight needed to make the vessel sink to the required depth so for now I merely propose to make a simple descent and return to the surface,” said Thomas but no one replied, the others were all too busy holding their breath.

There was a creak and a groan as the weight of water began to press against the new planking then the men inside felt a sudden sensation of falling. After a few seconds,
The Hippocamp
settled in the mud at the bottom of the Moselle and Thomas invited the White Rose to look through the boat’s periscope. All that de la Pole could see was brown murky water and strands of weed waving gently in the sluggish current but there was no denying that they were truly below the river’s surface. The men looked at each other with a mix of terror and elation. Until now, no man had ever enslaved a god but they had triumphed over Poseidon.