devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (2 page)

“Have a care,” said Thomas brandishing his sword at Pynch. “Don’t you know I’m a powerful necromancer? Loose another bolt at me and I’ll summon a demon who’ll rip off your head and shove it up Cardinal Wolsey’s arse!”

“Save your threats for the simple minded kitchen maids and pot boys who believe them, I have the lawful authority and protection of Cardinal Wolsey, a prince of Holy Mother Church and the king’s Lord Chancellor, so surrender or be damned,” sneered Pynch, bracing the crossbow against his mountainous stomach.

The sweat began to bead on Thomas’ forehead, in another moment he’d feel the searing pain of a crossbow bolt
smashing into body but as his pursuer laboured to pull back his weapon’s bowstring for a third shot, his quarry noticed a low doorway in the shadow of the attic’s eaves. The door had to be there to allow goods to be hauled up from the street and Thomas prayed there would be something to support a block and tackle on the other side.

Before Pynch could reload, Thomas had kicked open the door and found the thick beam set into the wall above the opening. Without pausing for breath he grabbed the wooden spar and swung himself out into the frosty night. For a moment he hung in mid-air, his feet kicking like a hanged man below a gallows, but the sound of Ned breaking down more of the attic’s plaster wall to continue the chase spurred him into action. Ignoring the pain in his muscles, Thomas managed to haul himself onto the top of the beam and clamber up the tenement’s steeply pitched roof before Pynch or Ned appeared.

“Come back her, you foul servant of Satan, and face the justice of good Christians!” Pynch roared.

“You’ll pay for what you did to my brother, I’ll hang you with your own putrid entrails!” Ned added which did little to encourage Thomas to surrender.

“I’ll see you in hell first!” he yelled and the moneylender’s crossbow twanged in angry reply but the bolt was lost in the dark forest of chimneys. The pillars of blackened bricks and clouds of reeking smoke now hid Thomas from view but he wouldn’t be safe for long. Pynch would soon have the building surrounded and he’d be trapped so, with his eyes and throat smarting from the putrid fumes, he began to crawl along the roof. The ridge tiles were damp and slippery with tar but Thomas made steady
progress away from the tavern until the blast of a hunting horn and the sound of shouting from the street stopped him in his tracks.

“Murder… foul murder! Bring torches! Don’t let the villain get away!” There was no mistaking Pynch’s voice and Thomas guessed the moneylender had made his way to the street to summon help from the nightwatch and the residents of East Cheap. Pynch’s pitiful pleas were quickly replaced by the angry cries of rudely awakened citizens and the street began to glow as men gathered and torches were lit.

The pools of light from these flaming brands danced like fireflies as the hue and cry spread through the alleys and Thomas realised the crowd was slowly surrounding the tenement. Cursing his luck, he began to pick his way more urgently through the maze of chimneys but his journey came to an abrupt halt at the end of the building. An alleyway between two tenements had created a chasm ten feet wide but Thomas didn’t hesitate. He took a deep breath, tensed his muscles and leapt into the void. His tattered cloak streamed behind him like the wings of a giant bat and the crowd gasped at the sight of this shadowy figure that flew through the air like a demon released from hell.

“He flies! ‘tis witchcraft and wizardry!” screamed a woman in the crowd as Thomas landed heavily on the opposite roof and sent a shower of broken tiles spinning into the street below.

“No… Look he’s falling!” shouted another.

The spectators gasped as they watched Thomas’ flailing hands and feet try to grip the roof where he’d landed but his leather shoes, worn smooth by poverty, found no purchase on the damp tiles. Slowly, inexorably, the weight of his own body dragged Thomas towards the edge of the roof and oblivion. In a frantic attempt to save himself, he snatched the falchion from his belt and smashed its point into the roof. The tiles splintered as if they’d been hit by a culverin ball but the blade bit into a wooden rafter and his descent stopped. Pausing only to thumb his nose at the crowd, Thomas scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the darkness.

“He’s up, after him!” Pynch cried and to encourage the pursuers to greater efforts he declared that if the king’s disgraced alchemist was caught Cardinal Wolsey would sentence the wretch to be hanged, drawn and quartered in public as a reward. The promise of this grisly spectacle had exactly the effect Pynch desired, the mob roared with delight and the chase began again.

The thought of having his privy parts sliced from his half strangled, still living body and thrown onto a bonfire of his own guts drove Thomas on but it had been days since he’d eaten anything more solid than gruel and lack of food was slowly robbing him of his strength. He forced his legs to carry him forward but his growing weariness and difficult path slowed his progress. Meanwhile, the pursuing crowd’s easier route through the streets meant they soon overtook him and as he reached another group of chimneys, Thomas’ instincts told him to hide. He ducked behind a particularly ornate stack of twisted brickwork
just as two figures emerged from a skylight twenty yards ahead.

Even in the darkness he recognised these vengeful furies as Ned, the uninjured twin, whilst the other man’s grotesque profile could only belong to Pynch. For all his fat, the avaricious usurer could run like a greyhound if there was a promise of gold and Cardinal Wolsey always paid handsomely for the head of a rival.

“Surrender you cur!” cried Pynch.

“Never, if you want me, come and face me like a man, you turd from the arse of a whore!” Thomas yelled back.

“Is that the language of a high born gentleman?” taunted Pynch as he signalled for Ned to end the game and arrest the fugitive. Behind the chimneystack, Thomas pressed his sweating fingers around the falchion’s hilt and watched Ned, who was now armed with an ancient but serviceable halberd, begin his nervous advance along the slippery rooftop. The moonlight caught the combined axe blade, spear point and billhook of Ned’s lethal weapon and Thomas felt the hot humours of battle course through his veins.

“You won’t get me with that pig sticker!” Thomas cried but Ned was not to be put off.

“Come out from behind those pots and you’ll see what I can do, I’ll cut off your pox-ridden cock you pigeon livered, lack gall, northern bastard!” Ned growled.

For some reason the final taunt was too much, something snapped in Thomas’ brain and he emerged from his hiding place to launch an attack but his first stroke was premature. Ned was still ten feet away and though his wits
were as slow as treacle the extra reach of his halberd gave him an advantage. The instant Thomas revealed himself, Ned thrust his poleaxe towards his enemy and had he been an inch closer, the halberd’s spike would have ripped open his opponent’s belly. Even so, the weapon’s point tore through Thomas’ clothes and scraped a shallow gash across his stomach but he ignored the scratch and used the pain to fuel his anger.

With a great cry of rage Thomas rolled around the opposite face of the chimney to attack Ned from behind and as soon as he could see his target’s unprotected flank, he swung his sword with all his strength. Ned saw the falchion flash through its arc but now the length of his halberd and the chimneystack conspired against him. The brickwork blocked any attempt to parry Thomas’ counterattack and Ned screamed in agony as the heavy sword bit into the bones of his thigh. The brute collapsed like a felled tree and great red rivers of his blood began to stream down the roof.

“You bastard, my leg!” Ned shrieked as he tried to staunch the gore that was pouring from his partially severed limb but it was too late, in the space of a heartbeat his screams had become a death rattle. Ignored the dying henchman, Thomas turned his attention to Pynch who’d somehow squeezed his bulk through the skylight and was now standing at the end of the roof.

“Son of a Spanish bitch wolf!” Thomas yelled and he charged towards his remaining tormentor just as Pynch loosed his last shot. Panic had failed to improve the moneylender’s aim and the bolt vanished into the darkness like
the others. Pynch was now defenceless but the last of the once noble Devilstone family showed him no mercy.

With a chilling cry of victory, Thomas plunged his sword into Pynch’s chest and gore spurted in crimson fountains as the moneylender’s last heartbeats pumped blood through severed arteries. In a final act of savagery, Thomas forced the blade upwards and ripped through Pynch’s ribs before withdrawing the blood stained blade. The dead man’s mouth fell open in silent protest as he fell onto his face and lay still. Uttering a curse on the man’s soul Thomas kicked the moneylender’s lifeless body and watched with satisfaction as the mound of blubber slithered slowly off the roof. A moment later a heavy, wet thump indicated Pynch’s mangled corpse had landed in the street below.

Ned and Pynch were not the first men Thomas had killed. As a boy of twelve he’d ridden with his father’s band of reivers as they’d searched for Scotsmen raiding the Border Marches. They’d caught their enemies driving stolen cattle across the Rede, a small river in the hills that marked the border, and in the melee that followed he’d sliced open his first gizzard. Since that day a dozen years ago, Thomas had drawn his sword in countless Border skirmishes, and had even fought at Flodden Field, but whilst slaughtering Scotsmen in the wilds of Northumberland was one thing, butchering Englishmen in the middle of London was quite another. Killing Wolsey’s hirelings meant he’d be declared outlaw and if any man or woman gave him sanctuary they too would suffer death.

The cries of horror from the crowd that had gathered around Pynch’s broken body roused Thomas from his thoughts and he realised his last opportunity to escape was slipping away. Once again he ignored the ache of his tired muscles and for the next hour he weaved a tortuous path across the rooftops of East Cheap. When his pursuers began to tighten their net, he hid amongst the chimney pots and when the furore passed, he doubled back. After a while the glimmer of torches had moved further towards the great cathedral of St Paul whilst he’d moved in the opposite direction, towards the grim fortress of The Tower of London.

Despite travelling towards England’s most feared prison, with each passing minute of freedom Thomas’ belief that he might escape his enemies grew stronger and when he could no longer hear the shouts of the hue and cry he decided it was time to make for the river. His plan was simple. There were many Englishmen living in exile with as much reason to fear the wrath of King Henry and his cardinal as Thomas. These exiles waited patiently for the Tudors to be deposed and they’d pay handsomely for the knowledge and secrets he possessed … if only he could reach them.

2

TOWER HILL

F
rom his crow’s nest in the rooftops, Thomas could see the masts of a hundred kogges and carracks moored against London’s numerous wharfs. The ships that could carry him to the safety of Bruges or Dunkirk were tantalisingly close but Thomas reckoned that large vessels bound for France or Flanders would be the first place the cardinal’s men would look. He therefore decided to make his way to the mouth of the Thames in one of the small wherries that plied the river trade and look for a bigger ship in the harbours of Tilbury or Gravesend.

As yet, Thomas’ had no money to pay for his passage but that could be remedied with a little judicious burglary. His roof top journey had taken him to Tower Hill, where the grand houses of London’s richest merchants and noblemen lay in the shadow of King Henry’s largest, and strongest, castle. To avoid The Tower of London’s disease ridden dungeons and blood stained scaffold, all he had to do was climb down to one of the luxurious bedchambers
beneath his feet and find some items of silver plate or jewellery he could use to bribe a ship’s captain.

He would have to be quick as the first light of dawn was in the sky, and the household below would soon be waking, but the roof on which he stood had no skylight or trapdoor. With a growing sense of urgency Thomas searched for a way down and it was with a huge sense of relief that he found tendrils of ivy clawing their way over the eaves at the back of the house. If these shoots were the crown of a sturdy plant, he could use them to clamber down to a window so he crawled to the edge of the roof and tugged on the nearest shoot. The ivy was wet with morning dew but it seemed to have a firm hold of the wall so he lowered himself into the foliage.

The ivy’s musty smell filled his nostrils, and made him feel slightly nauseous, but ten feet below the roof he found what he was looking for; an arm’s length to the right of his herbaceous ladder was a window with its casement slightly open. The great oak beams supporting the house’s upper storey had been carved into decorative moulding that stood a few inches proud of the white plastered wall so grasping the ivy with one hand, and the window frame with the other, he eased himself along this convenient ledge until he could peer through the leaded glass. When he was sure all was quiet, he eased the window open and clambered over the sill.

As silently as a jealous thought, Thomas dropped onto the soft rug that covered the polished wooden floor and peered around the richly furnished room. There were tapestries on the wall and an ornate four-poster bed stood
in the centre of the room. The bed’s curtains were closed against drafts and the delicate scent of rosewater filled the air. The gentle fragrance was so different from the filthy stench of East Cheap’s alleys, Thomas immediately felt as intoxicated as Odysseus in the Isle of the Lotus Eaters but he knew he couldn’t stay for more than a few seconds. He forced himself to ignore the heady aroma and glanced around the room for something he could steal.

The room’s occupant was clearly rich enough to be careless of her jewellery as several thin gold chains had been left on a small table at the side of her bed, where even a blind jackdaw could find them. Smiling at his good fortune, Thomas tiptoed across the room, scooped up the necklaces and put them in the battered leather purse that hung from his belt. All that remained was to leave the house as quickly and as quietly as he could but as he turned to go back to the window, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside the chamber. A moment later a sharp rap on the room’s door and the shrill voice of a servant woman, turned Thomas’ muscles to stone.