devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (8 page)

The moment Wolsey finished passing sentence the crowd became a baying mob. The lawyers, students and other spectators stood on the benches and howled for the prisoner to be taken outside immediately and dismembered in the Palace Yard, lest he use his powers of witchcraft to turn into a bat-winged angel of Hell and fly from the king’s justice. Fortunately for Thomas, the court officers ignored the crowd’s pleas but they took tight hold of their prisoner’s arms, just in case.

5

THE TOWER OF LONDON

W
ith the sound of the crowd’s blood lust ringing in his ears, Thomas was led from the court but he was not returned to the Fleet Prison. Instead he was loaded with more chains, bundled through a side door and taken to The King’s Stairs, the river jetty that served Westminster Palace. Here a small barge, painted in the green and white livery of the Tudors, waited to convey him to a more secure place of imprisonment - The Tower of London.

As the bargemen rowed the boat out into the Thames, Thomas’ mind began to spin like the eddies formed by their gaily painted oars. If he could reach Southwark perhaps he could disappear into the slums and hovels on the south bank of the Thames like the Nubian he’d met in the Fleet Prison but though the river here was narrower than at Tilbury, his chances of reaching the opposite bank by swimming were just as remote. If he tried to leap over the boat’s side his guards would hack him to pieces before he reached the gunwale and even if he evaded their weapons
the heavy chains that secured his wrists and ankles would send him straight to the bottom of the river.

Yet Thomas could hardly complain that his sentence was unjust or undeserved. The trial may have been a sham, and he sincerely doubted that the girl had really seen what she’d claimed to have seen, but he
was
guilty of casting spells to raise demons in the coppice beyond Aldersgate that night. In fact Thomas had cast great many spells, on a great many occasions, but he’d never burned a holy cross, still less ravished a naked virgin in front of a voyeuristic, goat-headed demon.

His purpose in performing the ritual that had sealed his doom was to try and summon the demon
Astaroth
, the bat-winged, dragon-riding, serpent-bearer who must answer any question asked by a necromancer. Thomas had hoped to force this fiend to explain why the astrological charts he’d prepared with such care had failed to reveal the truth about Queen Catherine’s false pregnancy. Nevertheless, though he’d performed the spell and spoken the incantation exactly as described in his
grimoire
, the only thing that had appeared in the coppice had been a rather nervous badger.

Though angry at the spell’s failure, he’d not been surprised when yet another demon had refused to answer his summons. During his years studying the Dark Arts, both he and Agrippa had performed hundreds of similar rituals without the slightest hint of success but this final fiasco had been the last straw. As he’d stood alone in the coppice, chilled by the cold light of dawn, he’d finally realised that his tutor’s rejection of the occult had been the right choice after all. There and then, he too had resolved to abandon
his studies and devote himself to more earthly, and more profitable, pursuits.

After the debacle of that last spell, Thomas had returned to his apartments in the king’s palace at Greenwich but he’d known he would have to leave London as soon as possible if he keep a whole skin. His only hope of survival was to join the last Yorkist pretender to the English throne who’d established a court of Yorkist exiles in the free Bishopric of Metz but at least Thomas knew this city well. He and Agrippa had spent two years there during their travels, and so he’d decided to travel to Burgundy and offer his services to the ‘White Rose’.

With the king still distracted by the queen’s false pregnancy Thomas reckoned he’d have a few days grace before Henry could be persuaded to sign his former favourite’s death warrant. Thomas vowed to use what time he had to settle his affairs and slip quietly out of London but that very night an anonymous note, warning him that Wolsey’s men were about to arrest
the king’s warlock
had been slipped under his door. Without a second thought, Thomas had snatched up the sword his father had bequeathed him, stuffed his most precious
grimoire
into the lining of his cloak and fled into the labyrinth of tenements to the east of St Paul’s Cathedral.

Besides the warning, the note had urged Thomas to
meet with friends at The Boar’s Head in East Cheap
but fearing a trap he’d preferred to make his own way out of the city. He’d sold his rings and other jewellery to raise the money for his passage but the first captain he’d approached had cheated him of his gold. The few shillings Thomas had managed to keep had soon been spent and
he’d been forced to approach the moneylender Pynch. If only he’d chosen to trust the author of the note he might be on a ship bound for the continent instead of sitting in a barge heading for The Tower.

“Cheer up,” said one of the yeoman, noticing the strange look on Thomas’ face. “Tomorrow’s Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, so they won’t chop off your head for at least another forty days.”

“Even when we do cut off his head why should he worry?” said another guard mischievously. “He’s a powerful wizard so all he has to do is pick up his head and sew it back on!”

“That’s as maybe,” said a third guard joining in the fun, “but he’s also sentenced to be quartered so if we’ve cut off his arms, how can he pick up his head!”

The boatmen burst into laughter but Thomas ignored them, he was too busy trying to think of a way out of his predicament. Slowly the boat drew nearer to the grey walled fortress he’d struggled so hard to avoid and after a few more minutes they reached The Tower’s Water Gate, the entrance reserved for traitors under sentence of death. There was an agonising screech of wood scraping against ancient stone as the gate’s portcullis was raised.

The barge passed under the quay called the King’s Wharf and entered the moat that surrounded The Tower’s outer ward, here a second portcullis guarded the entrance to the inner ward. This too was raised and the barge passed into a stone chamber beneath the massive bastion of the aptly named St Thomas’ Tower. The lapping of the oily water and the hollow splashes of the oars echoed eerily around the weed choked vault, making Thomas feel he
was being rowed across the Styx to suffer all the torments of Tartarus.

As he climbed out of the boat, Thomas wondered what it would be like to feel the hangman’s rope slowly choking the life from his body, or the cold steel of the executioner’s knife slicing through his genitals. Yet for all his fears, his arrival was a curiously pleasant experience. He was greeted by no less a person than Sir William Kingston, the Constable of The Tower, whom Thomas had glimpsed on the battlefield of Flodden. Though Sir William didn’t recognised his new prisoner, he did treat Thomas as if he were his honoured guest.

Sir William ordered Thomas’ chains to be removed, he was allowed to wash and given his pick of clothing from a large wooden chest. Thomas picked out a white linen shirt, smart green doublet, matching breeches and bright red hose but he insisted on keeping his old cloak. Sir William had no objection though he ordered the garment to be searched. Thomas held his breath as a warder ran his fingers along the hem and seams but he need not have worried. The gaoler found no hidden dagger or other weapon so he handed the garment back to Thomas.

If he was surprised at being given such a warm welcome, he was even more astonished by his lodgings. Instead of being cast into a stygian cell, Thomas was taken to a light and airy chamber high in the Beauchamp Tower. The room measured a dozen paces across and boasted three tall, loophole windows in vaulted bays. The windows were unglazed but shuttered and a fire burned in the grate so the room felt warm and dry. The furniture consisted of a
bed, table and chair, and though rushlights rather than candles burned in the sconces the room was luxurious compared to The Fleet’s pestilential dungeon. Thomas asked his gaolers if all prisoners were so fortunate but the warder would only mumble that the proper fees had been paid then withdrew, locking the door behind him.

Once Thomas was alone he strolled to the nearest window and peered out. The Beauchamp Tower was located on the western side of the fortress and formed part of the wall that surrounded the inner ward. From this vantage point he could see across the narrow outer ward to a second wall and beyond that there was the moat. He was just a two hundred feet from freedom but to escape he would have to widen the windows, climb down fifty feet of ice smooth wall, scale the outer ward’s equally un-climbable parapets and swim across the foetid waters of the moat. Moreover he would have to accomplish all these tasks unseen by The Tower’s ever-watchful yeomen warders.

Cursing his luck, Thomas turned away from the window and stretched out on the bed to think. For a few hours he amused himself by incinerating lice in the rushlight by his bed and as each verminous insect popped in the flame, a new plan of escape flashed into his mind. There were as many ways to leave a prison as to enter it but the greatest obstacle to his freedom was the fact he was alone. Without allies he couldn’t bribe guards, smuggle disguises into his cell or steal keys and he began to wish that Bos, Prometheus and Quintana were with him. Together, the four of them might fight their way to freedom but as far
as he knew his former cellmates were still rotting in The Fleet’s dungeons.

Having exhausted the supply of lice large enough to catch, Thomas tried to sleep but he’d barely closed his eyes when he heard the sound of a key turning in the cell door’s lock. He was about to tell his visitor to go to hell but before he could speak a warder ushered an attractive young woman through the door. The girl wore an expensive gown of dark red velvet over a kirtle of crimson silk and her black woollen cloak was trimmed with white fox fur. Delicate gold chains hung about her slender neck and her embroidered French hood was studded with pearls. Thomas recognised her at once, it was the girl who’d sheltered him, albeit briefly, during his rooftop flight across Cheapside. As the girl dismissed the warder from the cell, Thomas rose from his bed and made a polite bow.

“Mistress Anne Boleyn, you do me great honour by your presence,” he said and the girl blushed.

“So you’ve discovered my name and I’ve discovered yours, indeed I knew it the moment I laid eyes on you in my chamber, you’re the notorious wizard Thomas Devilstone,” she said.

“I’m flattered you know me Mistress Anne but to what do I the owe the pleasure of this visit?” Thomas asked. He wasn’t surprised the girl had recognised him as he’d been well-known at court but he did wonder if she’d come to enquire about her missing necklaces. If she wanted them back, she would have to ask the light-fingered constables of Tilbury.

“I must beg your pardon but I have a request which, if you see fit to grant, would earn my eternal gratitude,” she said hopefully.

“Forgive me Mistress but how would your gratitude profit me? Can your thanks free me from this cell before I am butchered?” Thomas replied.

“Maybe it can, as you know my father is not without some influence at court and at the very least he can make your stay here more comfortable. It was Lord Boleyn who paid to have your fetters removed and to be lodged here, rather than in a dungeon. Even if he fails to secure your release, my father can have your executioners bribed so your death will be quick and painless,” Anne boasted.

“That’s hardly a great comfort and does Lord Boleyn know I was in your bedchamber the other night?” said Thomas.

“No but it wouldn’t matter if he did. He hates Wolsey and he’ll aid any enemy of the cardinal, even one condemned for sorcery, so your life need not end on the scaffold. My father and I have need of your special talents and if you can cast a certain spell for us we will secure your release and pardon,” she said. Thomas was about to point out if he possessed any magical powers he would have used them weeks ago to aid his escape but he needed friends and if there was the slightest chance the scheming Lord Boleyn could help him, he had to listen to what his youngest daughter had to say.

Much to Thomas’ surprise, Anne confirmed Quintana’s story. She admitted that her older sister now carried the king’s bastard but far from securing the ambitious
Lord Boleyn’s position at court Mary’s pregnancy had ruined her father’s plans. Lord Boleyn had intended that his eldest daughter should supplant Catherine of Aragon in both Henry’s bed and on the throne but the king had been happy to keep Mary as his mistress and had steadfastly refused to put aside his Spanish wife. Though Mary’s pregnancy now made it impossible for her to remain at court, Lord Boleyn had a second daughter and he was determined that she should succeed where her sister had failed.

“I’ve already told you, it’s been foretold that I’m to be Henry’s queen and mother of his heir but my father fears that spells have been cast that blind Henry to the will of God. Why else would he remain wedded to a barren Spanish sow? But, if you could break these spells and help me fulfil my destiny, my father’s gratitude would know no bounds. I know it will be difficult to cast such a spell in this dreadful place, but you can teach me the secret knowledge so I may break the curses myself,” said Anne and as she finished speaking Thomas felt the green shoots of his hope wither and die.

The girl was clearly deranged and Thomas tried to tell her that it took years of painstaking study to learn the dark arts of necromancy but Anne held up her hand for silence. She was wearing the same white gloves she’d worn when they’d first met but now she slowly removed them. For a moment Thomas failed to understand the significance of her gesture but his mouth fell open in surprise when he realised that Mistress Anne Boleyn had six fingers on her left hand.

“You have the mark of a witch,” Thomas gasped and he couldn’t help but stare at the extra digit that protruded from the lowest joint of Anne’s little finger. It was short and stubby but it had a fingernail and a knuckle.