devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (10 page)

“And the B is for my name,” said Anne hopefully.

“No, the B stands for
Bel
, the demon who rules men’s passions, and it’s merely a happy accident that your family name also begins with this letter. Ordinarily, you must inscribe the name of
Bel
, your name and the name of your desired lover on the shoulder blade of a capon and burn it whilst speaking the spell. However, to win a king’s love, I needed an amulet more suited to royalty than chicken bones so I asked for this jewel to be made. Now we need one more thing before we can begin,” said Thomas and he carefully began to open the seams of his old cloak.

His weeks living as an outlaw had robbed Thomas of the jewelled rings on his fingers, the gold chains around his neck and his father’s sword, but his most valuable possession was still safely hidden in his cloak. When he’d fled from the king’s palace weeks ago, he’d been sure to take
his copy of
The Munich Handbook of Demonic Magic
with him and whilst in hiding he’d sewn its pages into his cloak. The fine vellum on which the book had been printed was as soft as Irish linen and the warder who had searched Thomas on his arrival at The Tower hadn’t detected his garment’s hidden riches.

This
grimoire
contained everything a sorcerer needed to know about conjuring spirits, casting spells and fashioning charms but it wasn’t particularly rare. Most serious students of Natural Philosophy had a copy in their libraries but Thomas’ edition was unique because it’d once belonged to Leonardo da Vinci and its margins were full of the artist’s designs for new weapons of war. To protect his inventions, Leonardo had described their construction in an impenetrable code, which Thomas had yet to decipher otherwise he’d have sold the secrets years ago, but for the time being this did not matter. All he needed was the original authors’ advice to the lovelorn.

One by one, Thomas retrieved the thin sheets of vellum and placed them in the right order. When the book was reassembled, he found the pages devoted to love charms and began to study the magic symbol required by Anne’s spell. When he was satisfied, he took a blank sheet of paper and a quill, left over from his recent labours, and drew a large shield. Inside this escutcheon, he drew a single vertical band bisected by sixteen horizontal bands. After consulting the handbook again, Thomas wrote one of the spell’s magic words in each alternate horizontal band. These were:

AYSEL CASTYEL LAMISYEL RABAM ERLAIN OLAM BELAM

Where the blank horizontal bands crossed the vertical band, he wrote the letters A-B-E-L-A-N, but in the twelfth band he wrote the word LEO, the astrological sign associated with kingship and England. When he’d finished, he unfastened Anne’s jewel from the necklace, wrapped it in the paper and placed it in the mortar. Finally he went to the fireplace, took a burning splint from the grate and touched it to the paper. Anne gasped as it burst into flame but Thomas ignored her and concentrated on reciting the proper incantation:

I command the spirit BEL
,

Not to rest until he causes the king’s heart to

burn with desire for his servant ANNE
.

May it be that HENRY cannot sleep, wake or

do anything until ANNE fulfils his desire
.

As the Lord of Hosts commands Lucifer
,

so I command thee
.

Let it be so
.

As Thomas finished speaking, the flame flickered and died, leaving the golden B surrounded by a pile of smouldering white ash. Thomas quickly retrieved the jewel, placed it carefully in Anne’s hand and closed her fingers around it before using the pestle to grind the ash into a fine powder. He then took the mortar to the window and blew the powdered ash into the night. Only now did he
allow Anne to look at the jewel and she saw that, apart from a few flecks of soot, it was undamaged.

“It’s a miracle!” she whispered.

“You must wear the jewel on your body and never take it off until the king is yours,” said Thomas as he reattached the jewel to the necklace and as Anne obligingly lifted her hood, he fastened it around her long, slender neck.

“That’s all, the king is mine?” she whispered, admiring the amulet that now graced her bosom.

“Not quite, you must take a letter to my apprentices, it contains coded instructions telling them where they must bury the three charms that will seal the king inside the spell’s triangle of power,” said Thomas and he insisted that unless his men inscribed the alchemical symbol for the masculine principle on the very face of England, they could not hope to influence its king. Anne begged him to tell her what these amulets were but Thomas was adamant that such secrets could only be revealed to those who’d been initiated into the higher levels of arcane knowledge or the charms would lose their power. Once again he was speaking the purest moonshine but Anne believed him implicitly.

“I’ll do as you ask,” she said fingering the jewel around her neck and taking the coded picture that Thomas had placed inside an oilcloth wallet.

“Good, once the charms are buried the king will lose his heart to you. When this will be I cannot say but Henry won’t be able to escape his destiny,” said Thomas. Anne squeaked with delight, pressed the wallet to her heart and called for the warder to let her out of the cell. As
she flounced through the door, Thomas noted that she’d said nothing about when he could expect to be freed but it didn’t matter. If the rest of his plan succeeded, he’d be safe in Flanders long before Anne realised magic spells had about as much effect on a king’s heart as a woman’s tears.

In Southwark, the three prisoners released from The Fleet could scarcely believe their luck. Without any warning they’d been snatched from their dungeon and placed in a covered cart but instead of being taken to the scaffold at Tyburn or Smithfield, the tumbrel had trundled over London Bridge and deposited them outside The Tabard Inn. Their gaolers only words of explanation had been to tell them that everyone thought they were dead of
Aryoti-tus Fever
and they should wait at the inn until they heard from the man who’d secured their release. In the meantime their lodgings had been paid for and they should keep out of sight or they really would suffer a cruel and painful death.

Once the cart had disappeared Quintana’s first reaction was to take the first ship for France they could find but Prometheus and Bos felt they were honour bound to wait, as instructed, for their mysterious benefactor. In the end Quintana agreed to stay with the others at the inn, at least until after Easter. The men were installed in a room at the top of the inn but they heard nothing more until the Monday after Easter Sunday, when a bellman announcing the day’s news called out the name of Thomas Devilstone.

“Harken, Harken!” cried the bellman, “I have news of the execution of the evil witch and foul traitor Thomas Devilstone!”

“Devilstone, isn’t that the man who clobbered our gaoler?” said Bos, opening the garret’s single grimy window and peering into the street below.

“On the morrow, the magus, heretic and traitor Thomas Devilstone will be drawn through the city on a hurdle. He shall be taken from The Tower to Smithfield, and there suffer in life all the torments that await him beyond the grave. The king doth desire that all loyal subjects not engaged in urgent business give their attendance to witness the death of this foul traitor and so be instructed by his fate,” bawled the bellman

“So another would-be rebel dies a pointless death, what of it?” Quintana replied.

“Perhaps it was Thomas who secured our release. If it was, it’s our Christian duty to help him or risk eternal damnation,” said Bos.

“Let him help himself, let him conjure a spirit to smite the headsman as the axe is about to fall and carry him to safety,” countered Quintana.

“The magi of Nubia are given power to help others, not themselves, is it likely to be any different here? I say the Frisian is right if? Thomas came to our aid only a low born coward and a knave would abandon him,” said Prometheus.

“A moment, my honourable African elephant, we don’t actually know it was this man who got us out of that hell hole and if it was him why hasn’t he sent us a message?
Even if we do owe him our lives, what could we do? It would take an army to storm The Tower,” said Quintana. Prometheus had to agree that the three of them had more chance of getting into heaven than The Tower of London but at that moment there was a knock at their door and a grubby boy entered the room.

“I’ve a letter for a Nubian,” said the boy holding out an oilcloth wallet.

“Be off with you,” said Prometheus, for they had no money to pay a messenger.

“Listen chum, I’ve been given a whole shilling to deliver this and deliver it I shall so take it and go to The Devil.” said the urchin. The boy tossed the wallet onto the Nubian’s bed and ran off. With a shrug Prometheus opened the packet and held up Thomas’ drawing for the others to see.

“The magi at the crucifixion?” said Bos looking at the strange picture, “Why would anyone send us a picture of the magi at Easter?”

“Magi… the bellman called Thomas a magus this must be a message from him!” said Prometheus clapping a hand to his forehead.

“I see nothing, why hasn’t he made his meaning clear?” said Quintana.

“And have every warder and constable between here and The Tower learn how he means to escape? No, I’m certain there’s hidden meaning in this drawing and it’s meant for us alone.” said Bos but it was Prometheus who spotted the resemblance between the magi‘s faces and their own.

“By the burning fire of The Great St Anthony, that man looks like me and the others look like you two. Now, look closely at the castle behind the stable there’s a devil seated in a tower of stone, devil … stone … Devilstone! And not
a
tower but
the
Tower. Thomas Devilstone is imprisoned in the Tower of London and he will die now Easter has passed,” he cried.

“But we know all this! What we don’t know is how to get Thomas out before the king’s headsman turns his tripes into bratwurst,” said Bos angrily.

“You’re right Frisian,” said Prometheus sadly. “There must be more meaning in this picture but I confess I’m too blind to see it.”

“I can,” said Quintana quietly.

“I see you’re a papist poltroon,” muttered Bos.

“We’re shown in the picture dressed as monks, that means Thomas wants us to disguise ourselves as friars and come to The Tower to hear his final confession,” Quintana said triumphantly.

“By the Pyramids of Meroe you’ve solved the riddle Portugee! But we must hurry, if Thomas dies tomorrow we must find monks’ habits and be at The Tower before nightfall,” said Prometheus.

“What do you mean we? You go if you like but as I’ve solved the riddle I consider my debt of honour has been paid in full. I’m taking the next ship that sails from this godforsaken, rain-soaked island and King Henry can kiss my good Catholic arse goodbye,” insisted Quintana.

“Have you no Christian decency? Are you the priest on the road to Jericho who refused to help the dying man?” said Bos accusingly.

“Thomas isn’t lying in the road he’s behind high walls and locked doors that are guarded by a hundred armed men,” protested Quintana.

“Nevertheless you’re coming with us whether you like it or not, or so help me I’ll send you to France stuffed in a barrel!” said Bos.

“Besides, you’re already a dead man so what have you got to lose?” said Prometheus. Quintana opened his mouth to protest he had a great deal to lose if they were caught but it was clear the ex-boxer and former priest intended to pummel his body and his conscience until he agreed.

“Oh very well but if this bastard Devilstone is a rich man I want half of any reward he offers. Remember it was me who solved the riddle!” said Quintana.

Though it was early in the morning when the men set out on their quest it took a surprisingly long time to procure monks’ habits, even in a city as vast as England’s capital. Like monks everywhere, those friars who followed their calling in London spun their own wool, weaved their own cloth and sewed it into garments behind the walls of their monasteries, so whilst there were plenty of haberdashers and drapers in the city, not one had a monk’s habit for sale.

The three men wandered through the streets around St Paul’s until Prometheus hit upon a solution to their problem. If they stripped naked and presented themselves at the door of a priory, they could claim to be poor sailors who’d been set upon by thieves and robbed of everything they owned. They could ask the monks for the loan of
habits to hide their shame whilst they returned to their ship and promise to return the clothes once they were aboard. It was a good plan but even so they had to try three different monasteries before they found an abbot innocent enough to take pity on them. By the time they’d dressed in their disguises and arrived at The Tower, the curfew bell was sounding.

“Just twelve hours before Thomas dies,” said Quintana as they approached the bastion that guarded the bridge over The Tower of London’s moat.

“Let me do the talking,” said Bos, “I trained for Holy Orders and I can speak the language of the clergy. You two, just try and walk religiously.”