knowledge?”
“That is precisely what His Majesty’s court is waiting to decide, now make haste, your judges do not like to be kept waiting,” replied Rich with a menacing smile.
“I am to be tried this day? But this is villainy! I’ve had no time to engage an attorney or prepare my defence!” Thomas protested.
“Fear not, you’ll get a fair trial before they find you guilty,” sneered Rich and he ordered the gaolers to bring the manacled warlock to the tumbrel waiting in the courtyard without delay. The fattest turnkey went to unfasten the prisoner’s chains from the ring in the wall and the stink of the gaoler’s unwashed flesh caught in Thomas’ throat. Whilst he coughed and spluttered, the gaoler hauled Thomas to his feet and began pushing him roughly towards the dungeon’s door.
“Mind your manners you bastard son of gong farmer’s daughter! I’m Sir Thomas Devilstone of Tynedale, I’m a veteran of Flodden under the protection of the Lord Warden of the Marches and I demand to be given the treatment due to my rank!” Thomas cried but the gaoler, thinking he was dealing with a foppish, dissolute courtier, merely replied with a mocking laugh. The smirking man quickly regretted his mistake when his prisoner suddenly turned and smashed his manacled wrists into the gaoler’s face, removing several of his rotting teeth.
Lord Rich cried out in terror, and fled towards the cell door, but the two other gaolers were skilled in the art of disabling a prisoner and before Thomas could attack the lawyer they’d bludgeoned him to the floor. Whilst Thomas gasped for breath, the gaolers dragged him up a long flight of stone stairs to the courtyard. Still groaning Thomas was slung into a cart, guarded by four yeomen officers of the court dressed in a scarlet livery and armed with halberds, as if he were no more than a sack of mildewed flour destined for the pig trough. Rich watched thescene and smiled with satisfaction before climbing into a comfortable litter slung between two sleek black horses.
“Bastard took out four of Perkin’s teeth so watch him,” said the fat gaoler to the sergeant in charge of Lord Rich’s escort.
“He’d better not try any tricks with me,” replied the sergeant and for emphasis he brandished his halberd over Thomas’ recumbent form.
“Hear me well scum, cause me any trouble and you’ll go to The Devil with your cock in your hand!” said the sergeant as he held the razor sharp blade dangerously close to Thomas’ groin. Thomas still had no wind to reply and before he could recover the cart had lumbered out of the prison’s courtyard and into Farringdon Street.
The early spring sunshine was uncharacteristically warm and the little procession soon attracted a large group of spectators. Thomas braced himself for the onslaught of stones, mud and insults that were usually hurled at prisoners being taken for trial but he was surprised by the crowd’s good humour. As they passed The Horn Tavern, merchants eating their breakfasts of ale and cheese raised a toast. As the cart trundled through the filth and mire of Fleet Street, apprentices looked up from their labours and gave a loud huzzah. Along The Strand, cooks and kitchen maids waved and blew kisses in his direction. Thomas was utterly mystified by his celebrity until an old woman scuttled up to the cart.
“Bless you sir,” said the crone.
“For what?” replied Thomas, trying to keep his balance as cart bounced over a particular bone jarring collection of ruts and potholes.
“For killing Pynch, I was there when you sent that thieving swine to hell and all East Cheap thanks you for it,” said the elderly woman, her wizened face beaming with delight.
“Always glad to be of service, but are you quite sure it was me, I thought it was a demon summoned from The Pit who did for Pynch?” said Thomas. He was careful to avoid any admission of guilt, as this hag might be one of Wolsey’s paid stooges.
“A demon that you
“That is precisely what His Majesty’s court is waiting to decide, now make haste, your judges do not like to be kept waiting,” replied Rich with a menacing smile.
“I am to be tried this day? But this is villainy! I’ve had no time to engage an attorney or prepare my defence!” Thomas protested.
“Fear not, you’ll get a fair trial before they find you guilty,” sneered Rich and he ordered the gaolers to bring the manacled warlock to the tumbrel waiting in the courtyard without delay. The fattest turnkey went to unfasten the prisoner’s chains from the ring in the wall and the stink of the gaoler’s unwashed flesh caught in Thomas’ throat. Whilst he coughed and spluttered, the gaoler hauled Thomas to his feet and began pushing him roughly towards the dungeon’s door.
“Mind your manners you bastard son of gong farmer’s daughter! I’m Sir Thomas Devilstone of Tynedale, I’m a veteran of Flodden under the protection of the Lord Warden of the Marches and I demand to be given the treatment due to my rank!” Thomas cried but the gaoler, thinking he was dealing with a foppish, dissolute courtier, merely replied with a mocking laugh. The smirking man quickly regretted his mistake when his prisoner suddenly turned and smashed his manacled wrists into the gaoler’s face, removing several of his rotting teeth.
Lord Rich cried out in terror, and fled towards the cell door, but the two other gaolers were skilled in the art of disabling a prisoner and before Thomas could attack the lawyer they’d bludgeoned him to the floor. Whilst Thomas gasped for breath, the gaolers dragged him up a long flight of stone stairs to the courtyard. Still groaning Thomas was slung into a cart, guarded by four yeomen officers of the court dressed in a scarlet livery and armed with halberds, as if he were no more than a sack of mildewed flour destined for the pig trough. Rich watched thescene and smiled with satisfaction before climbing into a comfortable litter slung between two sleek black horses.
“Bastard took out four of Perkin’s teeth so watch him,” said the fat gaoler to the sergeant in charge of Lord Rich’s escort.
“He’d better not try any tricks with me,” replied the sergeant and for emphasis he brandished his halberd over Thomas’ recumbent form.
“Hear me well scum, cause me any trouble and you’ll go to The Devil with your cock in your hand!” said the sergeant as he held the razor sharp blade dangerously close to Thomas’ groin. Thomas still had no wind to reply and before he could recover the cart had lumbered out of the prison’s courtyard and into Farringdon Street.
The early spring sunshine was uncharacteristically warm and the little procession soon attracted a large group of spectators. Thomas braced himself for the onslaught of stones, mud and insults that were usually hurled at prisoners being taken for trial but he was surprised by the crowd’s good humour. As they passed The Horn Tavern, merchants eating their breakfasts of ale and cheese raised a toast. As the cart trundled through the filth and mire of Fleet Street, apprentices looked up from their labours and gave a loud huzzah. Along The Strand, cooks and kitchen maids waved and blew kisses in his direction. Thomas was utterly mystified by his celebrity until an old woman scuttled up to the cart.
“Bless you sir,” said the crone.
“For what?” replied Thomas, trying to keep his balance as cart bounced over a particular bone jarring collection of ruts and potholes.
“For killing Pynch, I was there when you sent that thieving swine to hell and all East Cheap thanks you for it,” said the elderly woman, her wizened face beaming with delight.
“Always glad to be of service, but are you quite sure it was me, I thought it was a demon summoned from The Pit who did for Pynch?” said Thomas. He was careful to avoid any admission of guilt, as this hag might be one of Wolsey’s paid stooges.
“A demon that you
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