devilstone chronicles 01 - devils band (29 page)

Bringing up the rear was the
tross
and the straggling tail of carts and camp followers now included a passable imitation of a Turkish harem. Thomas and his travelling coterie of courtesans rode in two wagons, each pulled by a pair of mules. The first wagon carried their tent, curtains and carpet, the second was filled with their clothes, furniture and food. Progress was slow, less than six miles a day, but whenever the army made camp Quintana bribed the Camp Provost for a pitch near the noblemen’s quarters. It was a wise strategy and just as they’d hoped, the exotic delights offered by their
odalisques
proved to be extremely popular with the army’s wealthy gentlemen of quality.

Prometheus and Bos, dressed as an oriental eunuch and a Circassian slave, turned away anyone who lacked the money or manners to treat the girls with respect and even after they’d repaid their debt to Mistress Kleber, their coffers remained brim full of coins. Their only disappointment was the fact that their customers did not yet include the White Rose.

“Will he ever come?” Thomas grumbled as another day passed without a visit from de la Pole.

“Why should we worry? We’re making a fortune from these French poltroons. I hope this war lasts for ever!” Quintana countered.

“That’s easy for a unrepentant sinner like you to say but my soul is troubled and I wish this business was over,”
said Bos but Prometheus urged the Frisian to forget his worries.

“It’s no sin to slit the throat of a treacherous knave like de la Pole. He didn’t think twice about leaving us to die a slow death in that cage so by all the laws of honour we may avenge such an insult with a clear conscience,” the Nubian declared but Bos remained troubled.

“It’s not killing the White Rose that troubles me, it’s the sin of fornication. In Hell fornicators are strung up by their privy parts, their heads immersed in a river of fire and their bodies tormented by the foulest demons until the end of time,” he said gloomily whereupon Quintana burst out laughing.

“You fat Frisian fool! If you really knew scripture, your conscience would be clear. Did not Our Lord consort with harlots? Did he not forgive the sins of Mary Magdalene? So calm yourself my friend, what’s good enough for Our Saviour is surely good enough for us,” he said.

Curiously this argument seemed to satisfy Bos. His mood lightened and he went about his daily tasks with a much happier heart. However, whilst Thomas and the others were making money from the sin of lust, those who hoped to earn a fortune from the sin of wrath were becoming disappointed. Instead of a protracted war of long, lucrative sieges the French king’s progress through Provence quickly became a triumphal procession. Each rebel held town and city called upon to surrender did so without the army unsheathing a single sword or shooting a single arrow.

Once a city’s gates had been opened, the king rode through the streets at the head of the Black Band, who
looked suitably intimidating in their smoke-blackened armour, to receive the citizens’ oaths of fealty. Everywhere, Francis was cheered as a liberator who’d freed his people from the imperial catspaw Bourbon. By the time the king reached the main square, the ambitious burghers who’d declared for the rebel duke were waiting for their lawful sovereign wearing hair shirts and with nooses around their necks. Their acts of penance did them no good, Francis was happy to indulge his loyal subjects’ demands for swift vengeance and the rebel councillors were summarily hanged, just as Bourbon had executed their predecessors a few weeks earlier.

Richard de la Pole watched each rebel mayor dance beneath the gallows and became convinced that he was being granted a vison of his own victory. He especially appreciated Francis’ ruthlessness at dealing with traitors and promised himself that he too would line the roads of his reconquered kingdom with gibbets. Once every Tudor lick-spittle had had his neck stretched, he’d invite Francis to a great feast and they’d drink each other’s health from the skulls of their defeated enemies. To add to de la Pole’s good humour, Francis had put the Duke of Albany in charge of securing supplies so the Scotsman was busy combing the surrounding countryside for fodder like a lowly ostler.

With no fighting to delay their advance, the French army reached Avignon by mid-September whereupon Bourbon made one last attempt to capture Marseille. The rebel duke desperately needed a port so his imperial allies could resupply his army by sea once the mountain passes
to Italy had been closed by winter snow. However, though his bombards quickly breached the city’s walls, the defenders beat off every assault and the news that Marseille still held out, urged Francis to drive his men forward. If he could trap Bourbon’s demoralised troops against Marseille’s walls the war would be won but, despite marching twenty miles a day, he was too late. When the king finally reached the battered city he found nothing but empty trenches and abandoned earthworks.

In the end, Bourbon had lost his nerve and had begun a rapid retreat towards the safety of Hapsburg held Lombardy. Once his last desperate gamble had failed to win Marseille, the rebel duke had become so fearful of being trapped on the French side of the Alps he’d ordered his men to abandon their cumbersome artillery so they could withdraw more quickly. Much to his delight Francis captured a great many
culverins
,
bombards
and other pieces of heavy metal but his men were beginning to grumble. They’d not been allowed to sack a single town or city during their victorious march through Provence and their purses were becoming as empty as their recent victories.

Francis sensed this growing disquiet and promised his men that wealth and glory lay to the east of the Alps, where the fabulous riches of Lombardy could be harvested as easily as ripe quinces. The prospect of spending a comfortable winter enjoying the wine and women of Northern Italy was enough to quell any potential mutiny but to cross the Alps in October was no easy task even for battle hardened veterans. There’d be little fodder for horses or
food for his men so the French king divided his army into three columns.

One column, under the Duc de Montmorency, would head south and pursue Bourbon as he followed the coast road through Nice and Savona. Francis himself would lead a second column north to Turin where he’d collect more mercenaries recruited from the Swiss Cantons and renew his alliance with his uncle the Duke of Savoy. Meanwhile, the ageing Marshal Chabannes would take main body of the French army, and the baggage train, into Italy through the
Col de l’Argentière
. Though this was the lowest of the western passes, and the heavy snows of winter had yet to fall, the surrounding mountains rose to heights of more than ten thousand feet and great curtains of rain were blown through the pass by squally winds as cold and as bitter as a wronged wife.

The Col’s frequent downpours turned the unpaved mountain road into a morass that clung to boots, wheels and hooves but it was the artillerymen, struggling to haul their heavy cannon through the cloying mud, who had the worst time. Eventually Chabannes, exasperated by his column’s lack of progress, ordered everyone in the baggage train to help the gunners heave their pieces over the pass. Thomas and his companions were assigned to a particularly troublesome
saker
whose twelve hundredweight of bronze seemed determined to remain on French soil. For two days they manhandled the gun’s black painted carriage along the deeply rutted road but as they neared the summit of the pass, one of the
saker’s
wheels became firmly wedged between two rocks.

“By the great grey beards of The Patriarchs, The Israelites in Egyptian bondage did not toil as hard as we do,” grumbled Bos as he strained to move the gun’s huge wooden wheel.

“The Sons of Jacob had the warm African sun to cheer them but here it’s a wonder there’s a drop of water left in those damned clouds,” grumbled Prometheus glancing at the cold, grey skies overhead.

“Surely if Hannibal could cross these cursed mountains then so can we,” insisted Thomas.

“Hannibal didn’t have to carry his blessed elephants!” countered Nagel who was sweating from his exertions like a man on the way to the scaffold. An ogre of a master gunner roared at the trumpet player to stop gossiping like a fishwife and fetch handspikes from one of the wagons waiting down the track and though Nagel fetched the heavy crowbars as quickly as he could, another gun captain was losing patience. He threatened to blast the stranded
saker
out of the way with powder.

“Lay a hand on my gun and I’ll send you to hell where your mother spreads her legs for the devil’s stinking cock!” bawled the master gunner.

“Wished you’d stayed at home Englishman?” Bos grinned as he took a handspike from Nagel and forced it between the rock and the wheel.

“Why can’t you conjure a spell to level these mountains, or summon great eagles to carry us to our destination, or at least make the sun come out!” Nagel moaned.

“I wish I had a spell to keep you silent but I told you, the
grimoire
is lost and even if I had it I could no more
summon a demon than you could summon a kind word for that gunner,” snapped Thomas.

“After three… one, two, three … heave,” bellowed the master gunner. Thomas and Bos put all their weight on their levers as Nagel and the rest of the men hauled on the ropes. The gun seemed to tremble in its cradle as the ropes tightened and it moved a fraction of an inch. A loose pebble skittered down the rain-drenched slope and the gun lurched free.

In this way, Chabannes’ column continued its slow progress through the Alps but as the days went by, the army’s ranks thinned. Some men, chilled to the marrow by waterlogged shoes and sodden cloaks, finally succumbed to the bitter cold. Others, once they’d realised a soldier’s life was not full of the riches and adventure they ‘d been promised simply deserted. A few of these absconders made it back to their farms and workshops but most were quickly recaptured by the provosts and hanged. Their bodies were left dangling by the roadside as food for crows and as a warning to others.

Three weeks after the French army had left Marseille the road finally freed itself from the mountains and entered the broad valley of the River Po. It was as if a sluice gate had opened and Frenchmen poured into Northern Italy like the melt waters of an Alpine river but if Francis’ troops expected Italy to be a land of warm sun and gentle breezes they were disappointed. By now it was late October and a Lombard winter could be as cold and miserable as an English summer. The sky remained grey, the wind was full of frost and the leaden clouds poured more rain on the miserable soldiers.

Yet despite the filthy weather there was good news awaiting Francis’ army. There was no sign of Bourbon or his imperial allies, so the road to Milan lay open, and by a propitious coincidence King Francis and his army arrived before the gates of the city on the feast day of Saint Francis. It was a good omen and just as at Marseille the French won a bloodless victory. As soon as Francis’ pickets had appeared on the horizon the imperial army had fled to Lodi, three day’s march to the east, but it wasn’t the arrival of the French that had forced Bourbon’s second ignominious retreat, it was the arrival of plague.

With the city full of pestilence, Francis had wisely declined to claim his prize in person. Instead, he’d insisted that Milan’s city fathers come to him to surrender. The French army had made camp on the eastern bank of the Lambro, a small and sluggish river a healthy two miles from the centre of the plague ravaged city. In the king’s sumptuous pavilion of blue silk decorated with golden
fleur-de-lys
the Milanese burghers had fallen to their knees, spat on the portraits of the Sforza dukes and sworn eternal loyalty to their French overlord. In return Francis had graciously accepted their declarations of fealty and promised to spare the city the customary three days’ sack.

The kings’ clemency may have won him many friends amongst the Milanese but once again his army was denied the chance to plunder. To avert munity Francis had to bribe his men with an extra month’s wages and grant them a week’s furlough in which to spend their windfall. Thomas and his companions were delighted with the news, a break in the campaign meant there might be a
chance that Richard de la Pole would be tempted to sample the delights of their harem. Yet once again, despite of a steady stream of noble customers, there was no sign of the White Rose.

“By the missing nutmegs of The Ethiopian Eunuch, I swear he must prefer the company of men,” muttered Prometheus.

“Perhaps he’s found God and now spends his time in prayer,” suggested Bos.

“More likely he’s sick with the Neapolitan pox,” snapped Quintana.

“Someone must know something, perhaps our girls can ask among the customers,” said Thomas.

For once, the conspirators were in luck and that afternoon the Seigneur de Foix-Lescun and the Duc de Montmorency sent word that they wished to spend an evening in the company of Venus. Both men enjoyed high favour with the king and commanded two of the three battles that made up the left wing of the French army. The third battle was Richard de la Pole’s Black Band so if anyone knew what kept the White Rose from indulging his passions it would be these noble Marshals of France.

The girls were excited by the prospect of entertaining such distinguished gentlemen, especially as Lescun and Montmorency were young and handsome with reputations for being athletic lovers. In honour of the occasion, Quintana proposed that they perform the erotic masque called the
Dance of the Seven Gates
and the girls were delighted with his suggestion. The hours passed quickly and the two aristocrats arrived shortly after sunset. Bos and
Prometheus, who were standing guard at the entrance, watched the two marshals meander towards the tents and guessed they’d already spent most of the day drinking.

“Good evening keepers of Cupid’s flame, it’s my birthday and I want to make merry with your finest harlots,” slurred Lescun as he staggered up to the tent.

“Good evening and welcome noble lords, we are indeed most honoured to welcome two Marshals of France to our humble Temple to Venus,” said Prometheus bowing low. Montmorency grinned foolishly, handed over a purse of money and the Nubian ushered the men inside.