devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (36 page)

“My Lord, don’t believe these tales, they’re mere stories to frighten children, but you must believe me when I say that my death sentence was part of an elaborate ruse to help me deceive the White Rose into revealing his secrets,” said Thomas and he hurriedly explained that his trial had been a sham to convince Richard de la Pole that Henry’s astrologer had fallen from grace and now bore a murderous grudge against the Tudors. However, though this trick had helped Thomas and his three companions infiltrate the Yorkist court, they’d been betrayed, imprisoned and tortured.

“In spite of the injuries we’d suffered, we escaped and vowed to continue with our mission to thwart the pretender’s invasion of England. We disguised ourselves and
followed the White Rose all the way to Pavia where we spent many weeks spying out of the French siege works. Of course, as soon as we heard that the famous Colonel Frundsberg was on the march we hastened to Lodi to tell you what we know,” said Thomas proudly but Russell saw through the outrageous lie immediately.

“I don’t believe a word of it! I have the confidence of both The Lord Chancellor Cardinal Wolsey and King Henry and neither told me anything of such a ridiculous stratagem, if you ask me this man is a double spy sent to lay a false trail,” snorted Russell but Frundsberg wanted to hear more.

“Very well necromancer, I do need news of the French camp but answer me this, can you prove anything you say? Perhaps my Lord Russell is right and you mean to deceive me with lies, so should I have you flogged as deserters, burned as sorcerers or hanged as spies?

“If you know who I am, you’ll know that fate has entrusted to me a copy of
The Munich Handbook
that was once owned by the master Leonardo. I’ll swear on this book what I say is true and may God and The Devil tear my soul in two if I lie,” said Thomas, ignoring his companions’ angry looks.

“I’ve indeed heard of this book, may I see it?” Frundsberg asked. Thomas quickly retrieved the oilcloth wallet from beneath his shirt, unwrapped the book and placed it on the table. Frundsberg stared at the battered volume, which now smelled strongly of smoke, but he didn’t touch it.

“Put it away, I can sense its dark power and I want nothing to do with it,” he said quietly. Thomas obediently
put the book back in his shirt but he was utterly unprepared for what happened next. Without warning Frundsberg roared for his guards and before Thomas knew what was happening he and the others had been pushed to the ground and trussed like chickens.

“For once, just for once I would like to go somewhere where people are glad to see us!” moaned Bos as he squirmed in the mud.

“Silence,
hexen
, I don’t know what enchantments you used to escape Henry Tudor or the White Rose but you’ll not escape me. We Germans know how to treat witches, they die!” Frundsberg cried.

“What madness is this? I’ve come to ensure your victory, Lord Russell, in the king’s name I command you to prevent this,” Thomas shouted as he struggled against his bonds.

“The king’s justice has condemned you for witchcraft and if the good colonel chooses to carry out the sentence I’m powerless to prevent it,” said Russell with a triumphant wave of his hand. Thomas bellowed at Russell he was a worse traitor to God than Pontius Pilate but his curses fell on deaf ears. Frundsberg issued more orders to his
trabant
bodyguards; drums beat, trumpets sounded and the entire body of Frundsberg’s army began to assemble on the parade ground in front of his tent.

Whilst the
landsknechts
formed up in their different companies, the prisoners were manhandled into a cart that was dragged to the inevitable gallows at the centre of the camp’s parade ground. The strengthening morning
sun cast the ominous shadow of the gibbet over the prisoners as they tried to make sense of what was going on.

“By all the unholy turds laid in the great cess pit of Great Tartarus, why didn’t you leave that damned book to burn to ashes?” Prometheus growled and for once Thomas did not know what to say.

“Tell our judges that we had nothing to do with your necromancy or so help me Thomas I’ll crawl from the grave and drag your soul to hell myself!” Bos added but Quintana shook his head.

“He can’t do that, there are no judges, Frundsberg has already found us guilty and this is just how the Germans decide sentence,” he groaned.

Some years ago the Portugee had fought in the Conquest of Navarre and he’d seen these pike courts before. The mercenary army divided itself into its three battles, the van, the body and the rear, to discuss the matter and whatever sentence two out of the three battles decided was carried out. There were only three crimes, desertion, treachery or stealing from fellow
landsknechts
, and there was no appeal. Thieves and spies were hanged whilst deserters were made to ‘run the gauntlet’, this involved the prisoner running between two lines of their comrades, who each struck the condemned man in turn.

“What happens if the prisoner survives the gauntlet?” asked Prometheus.

“No one has ever survived,” said Quintana darkly.

“I warned you Thomas, the evil of that book has infected us all and now we’ll spend eternity in Hell suffering
all the dreadful punishments inflicted on godless necromancers!” Bos cried.

“You think on Hell too much Frisian, have you forgotten we are Christians and Jesus died to redeem all our sins? If we truly repent, his blood shed on the cross will secure our passage into heaven,” said Prometheus but for all the Nubian’s optimistic view of the afterlife, it seemed as if Thomas’ revelation that he still owned
The Munich Handbook
had sealed their immediate fate.

Once his men had formed up, Frundsberg told them that the condemned men were powerful sorcerers who’d bewitched two kings of England and he quoted the new teachings of Luther, who at least agreed with the pope on the subject of witches. The former monk had declared that sorcery was a sin against the Second Commandment and all those who practised witchcraft should be burned. Thomas’ possession of
The Munich Handbook
was proof of the prisoners’ guilt and there was only one possible sentence. All that remained was to decide how the prisoners should die.

“This is ridiculous, may we not defend ourselves?” Bos said.

“I told you, this is a court of law not justice, so we’ll be lucky to see nightfall,” said Quintana.

“Sweet Merciful Redeemer, I’m a king of Nubia who’s escaped the murderous plots of a usurper and a pretender, surely I can’t end my days dancing for the entertainment of a bunch of beer swilling, cabbage eating peasants!” Prometheus moaned.

“Well, if you’ve any suggestions now’s the time to speak. Perhaps the Englishman has an idea?” said
Quintana but Thomas remained dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe that Frundsberg or Russell, who were both under orders to defeat England’s enemies in battle, could turn against a man with the vital information they needed to defeat the French. Was the German colonel really so fearful of witches? Was the English ambassador so in thrall to Wolsey? But whatever their motives Thomas couldn’t see a way out of the dreadful punishment that was about to befall him and his comrades.

Once Frundsberg had finished his speech, the drums started beating and his men separated into their companies to debate the merits of various punishments. With a curious air of detachment, Thomas and the others sat in their cart and listened to the snatches of the impassioned arguments that reached them. Most of the
landsknechts
regarded running the gauntlet, though a punishment for cowards, still allowed a soldier to die with honour but sorcerers were beyond such mercy and so should suffer hanging, the shameful death reserved for thieves and spies.

As the day wore on Thomas and the others could only be thankful that the German soldiery never considered the papal or Lutheran instruction to burn witches and the prospect of hanging seemed to offer a blessed relief compared to being slowly starved to death in a cage or roasted quickly over an open fire. Escape was impossible, they were surrounded by thousands of heavily armed mercenaries who’d hack them to pieces if they so much as spat outside their cart, and gradually the prisoners became resigned to their fate. The others even forgave Thomas for rescuing his
book, as they all knew that the Angel of Death had been stalking them ever since they’d escaped from The Fleet.

According to
landsknecht
custom, any sentence of death had to be carried out before sunset. However, until the matter was decided, the soldiers were excused all but essential duties so the debate continued for as long as possible. Hour after hour, the prisoners sat in miserable silence whilst Frundsberg’s men enjoyed their holiday but as the sun touched the horizon, the captains of each battle presented their answers to the camp provost. The decision was unanimous - the sorcerers must hang.

“Fear not, we’ll send your immortal souls to God or The Devil without delay so make your peace with one or both. Do any of you wish for a priest?” said the colonel to the condemned men and at last Thomas found his voice.

“You’re making a grave mistake Frundsberg. If I die, the information I have dies with me and without it your cause will be lost, as God is my judge …”

“God’s not your judge, I am and I say you hang, you bastard son of Satan. Why even your name, Devilstone, mocks good Christians and declares your allegiance to evil!” Frundsberg cried and he gave the order for the executions to proceed immediately.

To prolong the grisly entertainment, the colonel instructed his hangmen to string the witches up one at a time and that Thomas, as the chief of the coven, should die before the others in case he used his diabolical powers to free his familiars. Frundsberg also told his executioners to bind only the prisoners’ arms, so their legs kicking away their last seconds of life would further amuse his men.

“Pray to the Lord Jesus and this day you shall be with him in paradise,” said Prometheus as Thomas was dragged from the cart and manhandled to the gallows. As his hands were tied behind his back Thomas looked up at the gibbet, it was a simple affair, two upright posts supported a crossbeam with an iron ring fixed to the centre. A rope had been threaded through the ring with one end fastened to the packsaddle of a mule and the other tied off in noose.

“We will rejoice when we’re seated at God’s right hand, watching our enemies cast into the abyss!” Bos called as the hangman tied the battered copy of
The Munich Handbook
to a leather thong and hung the fateful book around Thomas’ neck.

“Die well!” Quintana shouted as the hangman placed the noose over Thomas’ head.

“No true Englishman is afraid to die but I call upon all those present to bear witness that I’m innocent and God has always protected me from the false charges of my enemies …”

The hangman tightened the noose with a sharp tug that ended Thomas’ last words in mid-sentence and from somewhere a priest began to read the words of the Twenty Third Psalm. Before the friar had finished, there was a sharp cry like the crack of a whip and the sound of a hand slapping against the mule’s rump. Thomas felt the noose tighten and he was lifted off his feet. Immediately the coarse fibres of the rope began to tear at Thomas’ throat and his head began to pound as the flow of blood to his brain was cut off.

The crowd gave a loud, mocking cheer and Thomas tried to reply with a stream of curses that would damn the men who’d unjustly murdered him but the noose choked his words into a meaningless gurgle. In desperation Thomas tried to tense the muscles in his neck to keep his windpipe open but the rope and his own weight had formed an unholy alliance that was slowly throttling him to death.

Though he’d been determined to die with dignity, the last spark of life forced Thomas to struggle against the bonds holding his wrists and kick his legs but this dance of death was so comical, the crowd burst out laughing at the dying man’s futile attempts to relieve the pressure on his throat.

The last thing Thomas saw was the smiling face of Sir John Russell standing at the front of the crowd of whooping, jeering
landsknechts
. The last thing he heard was a sharp snap as something broke.

20

LODI

T
homas kept his eyes closed, fearing that if he opened them he’d see an army of devils waiting to cast his soul into a pit of burning brimstone, but as his senses returned he realised he could hear birdsong rather than the wailing of the damned. For a brief moment he believed his innumerable sins had been forgiven and he was in paradise but if this was heaven, it hurt like hell. There were shooting pains in his arms and legs, a dull ache around his throat and his head felt as if he’d been hit in the face with a shovel, yet through the waves of pain came a voice he recognised.

“Thomas, can you hear me, are you alive?” said Prometheus.

“I don’t know, if I can hear you perhaps you’re also dead,” Thomas croaked and he opened his eyes to see his Bos, Prometheus and Quintana looking back at him. He tried to sit up, but his hands were still tied behind his back and he could feel the noose about his neck. At least his
head was still attached to his shoulders and as he looked beyond Bos and the others, he saw a solid wall of men, all staring at him in wonder.

“By the Divine Mercy of Lord Jesus he lives!” Prometheus cried and a cheer went up from the crowd.

“It’s a miracle, truly you’re righteous in the sight of God,” added Bos.

“It wasn’t your neck that snapped it was the rope,” explained Quintana as he cut Thomas’ remaining bonds and removed the noose. With a groan, Thomas sat up and touched the angry red mark around his throat. The skin was raw and painful but he was alive. Now Frundsberg and Sir John Russell came to see the miracle for themselves. The colonel stood at Thomas’ feet like the Colossus of Rhodes, extended his hand and offered to help Thomas to his feet.

“So Englishman you’ve survived your own hanging, by all the laws of God and Man you and your companions must be acquitted of all charges. Do you agree My Lord Russell?” he said.