devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (33 page)

A hundred yards beyond the gate was a second ring of carts, identical though much smaller than the first, so the wagon-fort had both an outer ward and a ‘citadel’. The outer ward was filled with the ordinary soldiers’ tents whilst the officer’s luxurious pavilions were pitched inside
the citadel. The entrances to the two wagon-forts were linked by a wide-open space, which served the camp as a parade ground, and in the centre of this square of beaten earth was a gibbet displaying the rotting corpse of a hanged man. Around the dead man’s neck was a placard bearing the single word SPY.

Prometheus and the others led their cart across the parade ground, pausing only to glance at the dead man swinging lazily from the gallows. When they arrived at the entrance to the citadel their way was barred by yet more guards. Prometheus repeated his story that he came bearing gifts fit for a king in exile but, like Laocoon before the gates of Troy, the guard captain was suspicious.

“I was given no instructions to expect any gift,” he said looking closely at the strange party standing before him.

“But that is the nature of a surprise if the recipient is warned of its coming it ceases to be a surprise, now please tell your master his royal gift is waiting and the frost of a November night will not improve its quality.” insisted Prometheus. Reluctantly the guard disappeared inside the citadel. He returned a few minutes later looking chastened.

“It seems you are in luck blackamoor, His Majesty is in the mood to accept the French king’s gift, you’ll find his tent over there,” said the captain and he pointed towards de la Pole’s huge pavilion.

The White Rose’s quarters had been constructed from three large, conical tents made from silk dyed in the Yorkist colours of mulberry and white. The central pavilion
was flanked by two smaller tents and these were connected to each other by short canvas corridors. The poles that held up the entire structure were capped with gilded crowns and on either side of the entrance, banners bearing the rose and sun badges of the House of York hung limply from flagpoles planted in the ground.

The whoremasters halted their cart in front of these standards and were greeted by de la Pole’s personal steward, who was waiting to receive the White Rose’s visitors. Mercifully the man was not the same
major domo
who’d jealously guarded the great hall of Haute Pierre and he didn’t recognise the men who helped Helene and Marie climb down from the wagon. However, the steward did look disapprovingly at Thomas and Quintana as they escorted the girls towards the tent. Thomas recognised the look of hunger in the servant’s eyes and he couldn’t resist taunting the man.

“These houri are extremely skilled in the arts of love, they can take a man inside and make him squeal with pleasure without him moving a muscle,” he whispered in the steward’s ear.

“Well I hope your tarts don’t give my master the pox or all the armies of the sultan won’t be able to save you from the White Rose’s thorns,” he retorted and he followed the whores into the large central tent that served the White Rose as his audience chamber and the captains of the Black Band as their beer hall.

In spite of their veils, the men’s noses detected the odours of roast meat and wet dog mingled with the smells of stale wine and unwashed bodies as they entered but
despite reeking like a tavern the tent had been furnished in the style of Haute Pierre’s great hall. Carpets had been laid over wooden boards that covered the muddy grass and martial banners hung from the canvas roof. Three long trestle tables had been arranged in an open square and behind the high table was an ornate throne. The tent was lit by expensive beeswax candles and heated by braziers full of burning coals.

Just as at Haute Pierre, de la Pole’s steward insisted the men wait whilst he fetched his master and he disappeared into the smaller tent to the right, leaving Thomas and Quintana to adjust their disguises and remind themselves of their plan. It was simple enough, after satisfying two lusty wenches, de la Pole was bound to fall into a deep, untroubled sleep and under the pretence of collecting the girls, the murderers would enter their victim’s sleeping quarters and strike.

After a few minutes’ anxious wait, de la Pole appeared dressed in nothing but a white linen smock embroidered with the golden suns of York. He barely glanced at Thomas and Quintana but he eyed the girls hungrily. With a flourish, Thomas and Quintana removed the girls’ cloaks to reveal their ample charms. Marie and Helene had dressed themselves in their tight Turkish costumes that both displayed their beauty to its best advantage and showed they did not carry hidden daggers or other concealed weapons. De la Pole relaxed, he doubted if Wolsey could have hired new assassins and have them reach Italy so soon after the failure of the sorcerer’s plot to drown him in the Moselle.

“You say these lovely
houri
are a gift from King Francis?” he said appreciatively.

“The king’s own chamberlain visited our humble tent this very afternoon and made the bargain, so these delightful ladies are your companions for the evening. All we ask is that when you’ve taken your pleasure, you permit them to return to us.” said Quintana, trying to sound like a Turkish slave merchant.

“Tell the king I’m delighted with His Majesty’s thoughtful gift now leave us,” said de la Pole with a wave of his hand. Quintana and Thomas bowed low and shuffled backwards out of the tent. As the steward escorted them through the entrance, Thomas raised his eyes and saw the White Rose, his arms around the girls’ waists, disappear into his quarters accompanied by a chorus of girlish giggles.

They emerged into the night air to find Bos, Prometheus and Nagel standing by their cart, feeding handfuls of soggy hay to the mules. Quintana asked the stewards if there was somewhere where they too could refresh themselves, whilst awaiting the girls’ return, and the steward pointed to a sutler’s tent by the entrance to the inner wagon-fort. The ‘Turks’ offered their obsequious thanks, strolled over to the tent and sat down at one of the crude wooden tables. A surly serving wench appeared and Bos ordered mugs of strong beer for them all.

“How long do you think he’ll take?” said Bos taking a great swig of beer from an earthenware pot.

“Not long, Marie and Helene could exhaust a rhinoceros within the hour and the White Rose is not in the first bloom of youth,” replied Quintana.

“But he’s an Englishman and any Englishman can make a wench howl like a banshee all night long,”
protested Thomas, somehow feeling the need to defend his countryman.

“They’re more likely to laugh all night long after being tickled by your tiny English carrots but in Portugal we know a trick or two to make our women folk cry for their mothers,” said Quintana.

“You mean you don’t pay them? Now Frisian women are true ladies. They don’t scream like a heretic being persecuted by The Inquisition, they moan softly like the wind whispering through the dunes of the Waddenzee Islands.” said Bos as he called for more ale.

“Desert women know it pleases a man to hear their cries of pleasure,” said Prometheus wistfully and he poured a great draught of beer down his throat, spilling most of it over his Turkish robes.

Nagel was strangely silent on the subject of pleasing women but the others carried on their discussion, and drank more ale, until the sutler informed his patrons he was closing for the night. As the men left the tent they had to agree that Thomas was right in his assessment of English prowess as de la Pole had still not sent word he’d finished with the girls.

There was nothing to do but stand around the dying fire in front of the sutler’s tent and try to keep warm whilst continuing their wait. Slowly the sounds of the camp died away as the men of the Black Band settled down to sleep. Eventually, the only noises that could be heard were the snuffling of the horses in the corrals and the cries of sentries announcing that all was well. As the hours passed the assassins grew impatient and were on the point of putting their
plan into action regardless of the situation inside de la Pole’s tent when they saw the steward walking towards them.

“My master now wishes to sleep and you may escort the girls away. Please follow me,” said the steward and, the Turks obediently followed the servant back to the White Rose’s tent.

As they crossed the parade ground each man felt for the dagger hidden in the sashes around their waists and rehearsed the murder in their minds. Whilst Nagel guarded their cart, Prometheus and Bos would silence any servants inside the tent, Quintana would bundle the girls to safety and Thomas would end the aspirations of the House of York forever. With luck, the White Rose would die in silence and his murderers could slip unnoticed out of the camp but if the alarm should be raised, they would strip off their robes and mingle with the hue and cry searching for the assassins.

With their hearts pounding in their chests, the men were ushered inside de la Pole’s pavilion but instead of seeing Marie and Helene waiting patiently for them, they were met by a dozen swordsmen and standing at their head was the White Rose. He stood at the front of his men with a great longsword in his hand and a look of triumph on his face.

“You will now do me the honour of ending this charade and remove your turbans so I may see the faces of my assassins,” said de la Pole, pointing his sword at the astonished Turks.

“We’re betrayed!” roared Bos. He pulled the dagger out of his sash to strike down his enemy but in an instant
one of de la Pole’s men had a sword point pressed into the neckcloth wound around the Frisian’s throat. Bos dropped his blade and raised his hands, the other assassins did likewise whilst de la Pole’s men ripped the veils from their faces.

“How did you know?” said Thomas as de la Pole’s guards searched each of their prisoners and found the daggers hidden their Turkish sashes. The captain of the guard tossed each dagger on to the nearest table as proof of the captives’ guilt.

“Your efforts at disguise have been woefully inadequate. Harem eunuchs in a sutler’s tent quaffing ale like Vikings? Don’t you know the Turkish religion forbids The Faithful to drink beer or wine?” sneered de la Pole. Thomas rolled his eyes to heaven and cursed himself for making such a simple error. The White Rose saw his would-be murderers’ confusion and roared with laughter.

“God’s Hooks, you still think you escaped from Metz by your own efforts but it was I who arranged everything!” he cried and he began to boast of the cleverness of his plan to free his own murderers.

De la Pole claimed that, despite the men’s crimes, he’d never desired their deaths only their confession that they’d helped the House of Tudor make a pact with The Devil. In fact, the prisoners were far more use to him alive because if Wolsey learned that his assassins were dead or imprisoned he’d be forced to send new murderers whose identities would not be known. It therefore made sense to free Thomas and the others so they could continue with their mission but he couldn’t do so openly, as that too
would alert Wolsey. He’d therefore sent his most trusted agent to win the prisoners’ confidence, help them escape and follow them. Thomas tried to say that though they shared the cardinal’s ambition they were not Wolsey’s men but de la Pole was in no mood to listen.

“Don’t deny it, you were Henry’s astrologer and you’re still loyal to the usurper so there can be no other explanation for your desire to kill me. However a snake is no danger if you know where it is and happily you made things very easy for my spy. He tells me that an English mountebank, a Nubian savage, a Frisian heretic and an avaricious Portugee have been easier to track than a herd of camelopards walking down The Strand,” said de la Pole gleefully.

“A spy following us? We saw no one,” growled Prometheus balling his fists in answer to the insults but before he could lash out, Nagel lowered his hands and stepped towards de la Pole.

“I’m almost sorry gentlemen but I told you at the beginning I was loyal to the White Rose,” said the trumpet player and he calmly told them how he’d duped them all, including the senile Father Sebastian, into aiding their sworn enemy.

“By the lying eyes of Ephialtes, so it was you who destroyed
The Hippocamp
, you added sulphur and charcoal to transform my elixir of saltpetre into gunpowder!” Thomas cried angrily but Nagel was equally vehement in his denial.

“I most certainly didn’t, it was you devils who exploded your own infernal device to send my master to a watery
grave, just as your corrupt cardinal ordered,” said Nagel indignantly.

“We keep telling you, we’re not Wolsey’s men,” insisted Bos.

“And why would we want to blow ourselves up,” protested Quintana.

“Your incompetence is merely proof that Henry can only recruit knaves and village idiots to his cause. No doubt the usurper hoped you’d all drown and take his shameful secrets to the bottom of the river with you,” said de la Pole.

“You’ve made a grave mistake in making enemies of us, we’ve no love for Henry or Wolsey. They didn’t pay us to kill you and we didn’t sink our own ship, so if wasn’t your pet rat who planted the gunpowder, it was someone else who also wants to kill you or your invasion plans,” said Thomas.

“We offered you our swords in good faith for we believed you to be the rightful king of England and we’d have sailed in your infernal boat all the way to London had you so ordered,” added Bos.

“It’s not us who betrayed you, it was you who betrayed us and traitors must die,” spat Prometheus.

“You’ve turned your loyal servants into the very assassins you’ve always feared and now you’ll have to kill us to stop us,” said Quintana.

“Which is exactly what I had in mind, Wolf take these dogs outside and stretch their necks at once!” said de la Pole to his captain and his guards immediately seized hold of the four prisoners. Thomas and the others struggled in
a vain attempt to prevent their arms from being pinioned behind their backs but their efforts to delay the inevitable were suddenly interrupted by two high-pitched screams. A moment later, Marie and Helene came running out of de la Pole’s private quarters.

“A rat, there’s a rat in the tent!” they squealed in unison. The shriek of her shrill female voice distracted the men of the Black Band for the briefest of moments but that was all Thomas and his companions needed.