The Lucifer Sanction

by Denaro, Jason

  Blake sensed uneasiness – as though something wasn’t the way it should be. He heard a distant shout, not a pleading voice, more one of fear, of pain. After a halfminute it ceased.

  Dal raised a hand and pointed toward the forest. “I don’t believe it - this is it then - this is 1356. Are you guys okay?”

  “Yeah - you okay?” Blake asked. “How about you, Bell – you okay?”

  “I’ve had better days,” she groaned as she stretched each arm. “But that has to be the wildest trip ever.” “Nah,” Blake said. “I thought our jump from that plane over Burma topped this one.”

  “You think?” Dal chuckled. “Yeah well – then this has to be a close second. I’m gonna find that Campion motherfucker and kick his ass. If he’d gone back as planned we wouldn’t be in this field in the middle of fuckin’ France.”

  Bell gave Dal a look of surprise. “That’s it?” she said. “That’s first and foremost on your mind – revenge? Like, it’s not sweet Jesus, what am I doing in the 14th century? All you can come up with is you want to kick his ass?”

  “Yeah that’s it – that’s the first and foremost fuckin’ thing.”

  “Okay, okay - that’s enough you guys,” Blake said. “Knock it off.” He nudged Dal with an elbow and whispered, “Dal - help Bell - she doesn’t look too good.”

  Again the shouting drifted toward them as Bell brushed Dal’s hand aside. “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Save your energy for all the ass-kicking you’re planning on doing.”

  “Come on,” Blake said impatiently.

  “Which way are we heading?” Dal asked, ignoring Bell’s comment as Blake pointed east toward a grove of towering greenery.

  “Based on everything I see so far, this place is exactly what we saw in Bosch’s preview. I heard shouting so we better move to safer ground. The last readout Beckman had on Moreau placed him near Poitiers, so if we’re gonna find this guy - that’s where we start looking.”

  Despite their unfamiliar surroundings, Blake found comfort in the fact that the grassy field resembled the landscape they’d seen on the screen at Libra, with its protective forest no more than three hundred yards off.

  “We’ve got to get to those trees,” Blake said. “According to Bosch, Poitiers is less than an hour’s walk in an easterly direction. It’s around eleven o’clock – the sun’s almost directly overhead.”

  The dense forest towered even higher than they’d first thought. Massive trunks surrounded them as the field disappeared from view.

  Blake raised a hand. “You hear that?”

  “I’m only hearing birds,” Bell said, whispering as she made a full turn. “Just the birds. No planes, no cars, and no machinery. Mowers and leaf blowers are missing too.”

  The shouting grew louder causing all three to drop and peek over long reeds at three scruffy bandits beating angrily on a well-dressed nobleman. The larger of the assailants tugged at the bridle of a gargantuan horse as the smallest of the group thrust his blade deep into the man’s throat. Bell stood and instinctively shouted, “Stop!” The three attackers began running toward the new arrivals and within seconds two of the villains dived onto Blake.

  As Dal stepped in front of the larger man, Bell dropped back, drew her foil, and in one quick move punctured the nearest man’s abdomen, sending him writhing to the ground. Dal froze in disbelief as the man slumped to a kneeling position, blood bubbling from his mouth and both hands clutching at his stomach. Bell lowered herself and stared as the blood flow intensified, coloring the man’s tunic a deep rich burgundy. Dal rallied to Blake’s assistance as Bell launched herself into a full aerobatic somersault, gaining momentum and lunging into the second assailant. She found a low entry point under the man’s rib cage and thrust the foil full length through the Frenchman’s torso.

  The surviving man sprung onto the horse and fled the scene.

  Blake shouted, “Motherfucker!”

  The shout was added to his short-list of ‘lifetime mistakes.’ No sooner had he shouted than the rider pulled the horse to a halt, dismounted and collected a weapon from the grassy field. He was now armed with an enormous lance.

  “Aw Christ,” Dal groaned, “Now you’ve really pissed him off,” as Blake backed away and pulled his broadsword. Dal groaned, “Where did he get that lance?”

  “Must have belonged to the horse’s owner,” Bell said. “Maybe the he was a knight. They must have mugged him and...”

  Dal stumbled backward and shouted, “Sweet Jesus he’s coming at us fast!”

  “These swords are useless,” Blake said. “Take cover, quickly, back, back!”

  They scurried back toward the safety of the trees as the destrier drew nearer, steam shooting from the frantic animal’s nostrils. Then for no apparent reason the charge began to slow and the rider brought his mount to a stop and sat frozen.

  Blake and Dal apprehensively stepped forward. Then in a show of bravado each of the three waved their swords over their heads, unaware of the mount thundering from behind them. Blake spun about as a heavily armored rider galloped on by. He perpetuated all Blake had come to imagine as the quintessential Knight of The Round Table. His helm displayed three large feathers, two red and one blue, his armor was a silvery black with red plumes and he carried a blue shield decorated with a golden eagle.

  All three stood in awe of the spectacle, of the black destrier gleaming with sweat, its mouth foaming as the rider held his lance fully extended toward the ruffian. Blake and Dal winced at the clash of metal on metal as the dashing knight impaled the brigand with a proficiency that made Raoul’s light footed leaps appear constipated.

  Bell kept her eyes on the entire spectacle like a child at a renaissance fair enjoying the show. Blake stared at the forest for a moment, shook his head in disbelief and then turned back to Dal as the knight slowed his mount to a canter and came to a halt at Blake’s feet.

  He dismounted, inspected the three and extended a gloved hand. “It is good fortune that brings me your way, for death most certainly would have befallen you if my travels were not this route.”

  Blake nodded. “Thank you for your intervention.”

  “There are many dangers in this land,” the knight replied. “Though death has gone, the corpses are not too long beneath the soil and vermin still harbor their plague for which you must heed care.”

  Blake, a little on edge, asked, “Who were those men, were they French?”

  “Aye, they were John’s brigands from the camp beyond the mount. It was destiny that brought me your way. Had the rains not made my passage more dangerous, indeed I would have traveled the shorter route.”

  Dal tested his rib cage and winced, “Destiny? Tell him again how we’re not gonna die here, tell him how we’re just passing through this fuckin’ century.”

  The knight gestured toward the trees. “These forests are fraught with French villains. They roam the region with mournful cries on their lips, not only for their loved ones lost to our forces but to the demon plague. You must have faith in preordained destiny. Your very existence depends on it. We must be on our way, dear friends. There’s much danger ahead, certainly nothing pleasing to the flesh. This sickness, this plague, it threatens us on one hand and King John on the other. Betwixt them lay nothing but bloodied rotting corpses, gallows, scaffolds, stakes and countless horrible instruments of death and torture, loved ones dying slowly by ways unimaginable. ‘Tis a countenance in sorrow more than anger.”

  Dal slid a glance to Blake and whined, “Oh joy.”

  Blake tilted his head to one side, fascinated at the knight’s words. “Honorable knight - by what name go thee?”

  Dal saw humor in Blake’s attempt at old English. Bell quickly jabbed him and cut his mirth short.

  The knight let out a rollicking laugh, “Honorable knight indeed. I am Sir Nicholas Mansfield but you have named me well. I am a sinner more than a knight of honor. If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending of all living souls, for I covet more than any man
in England. Pray thee I will not lose so great an honor.” The laugh intensified. “Better that we reduce their numbers. That will be a favor to France, the fewer men the greater their share of French honor. Prosperity eludes them and Bourgeoisie bones shall be their greatest wealth.”

  Dal moved closer to Blake. “You get the feeling this guy dislikes the French?”

  “It’s a long queue,” Blake chuckled, “a really long, long fuckin’ queue.” He turned to Nicholas and bowed. “I’ve heard of you, Sir Nicholas. I’ve heard the spirit of the gods lay within you.”

  Mansfield patted his mount, walked around the massive beast and ran an eye over its legs, inspecting its fetlocks. He spoke to Blake without moving his eyes from the horse. “Your praise lays countenance to your wisdom,” he said, “but the words are spoken with a strange tongue. Are you not English?” He gestured with a gloved hand down the full length of Blake’s attire. “Though ‘tis clear your dress is of English origin.”

  Blake hesitated for a few long moments. “Yes, we’re from the north lands. Our tongue is cursed with a wee Scottish influence.”

  “Scottish ye say, hmm.” And he let it hang there. “Let us move on,” Sir Nicholas said with a smile that showed teeth surprisingly white for the period. “The good Lord shall guide us and light the way so we may not only begin well, but finish well, for I have word Poitiers shall be the demise of the French forces.”

  They followed Nicholas, hanging on his every word, hoping to familiarize themselves with his dialect. They reached a small stream where the knight chose to rest. He slowly removed the bulk of his silver armor and then attended his sweating mount.

  Blake stroked the horse and asked, “Do you have knowledge of two strangers to this area?”

  “Strangers?”

  “Yes, one has red hair and goes by the name Denis Campion?”

  “Campion? The name is French,” the knight groaned, his eyes remaining on the stallion. “Who is this traitorous swine, is he one of whom I must be guarded or is he a friend?”

  “Friend,” Blake quickly replied. “He is a friend. He is the one we seek.”

  “Seek him among the dead rather than the living,” the knight replied. “There lay bodies burned, beheaded, drowned or otherwise murdered by the French swine. Whichever path we travel we must tread through the midst of dead men’s bones and try not to slip on their entrails as their crimson blood flows in rivulets. French crows give praise to our English God for the abundance of French flesh we provide along our passage; ‘tis indeed the French entrance to heaven, to their infinite garden of paradise.”

  “Maybe their names will mean something,” Bell groaned, “Campion and Moreau?”

  Nicholas turned to Bell and roared, “By my Lord Savior, yet another French devil. Campion, and now this, this Moreau?”

  “Yes, Moreau,” Bell affirmed.

  Blake cut in with, “We were told we could find him in the Dordogne region. Near Poitiers.”

  “Poitiers? It is the direction in which I ride – I travel there to join Edward’s army.”

  “You’re joining Edward?” Blake asked. “You’re fighting alongside the Prince of Wales?”

  Bell whispered to Dal, “The Black Prince?”

  “Aye, Edward,” Nicholas continued. “A mere twenty-six year stripling set forth by his father to lead our army to north-central France where we will meet up with two more of our forces by the town of Poitiers.”

  “What of his father?” Dal asked. “Why’s he not by his son’s side?”

  “His Majesty remains in England. He came by an adviser, a soothsayer of sorts who conferred upon my Lord such strategy and guidance that gave up many victories.”

  Blake’s ears pricked up and Dal flashed a look his way.

  “A soothsayer?” Blake queried acting surprised. “Does this advisory speak with a strange tongue such as mine?”

  Nicholas reflected on the question. After a few seconds of procrastination he began slowly nodding his head. “Aye, now that I recall his words, aye - he does speak in your tongue - with your Scottish tinge, and that harbors danger for ‘tis also with the Scottish that we wage war. These men of whom you ask, best they have their route well in hand. Uncertainty of their route is secondary only to nurturing fear of the journey itself. As for thy Scottish tinge, best ye make it the tinge of an Irisher. French ears will bestow less observance on those from Ireland, but a Scot – if you are Scottish, you shall surely be dead should you fall into the hands of the English.”

  *****

  September 17, 1356 2.15 P: M Soldiers cheered as Sir Nicholas entered the English camp accompanied by the three strangers. Blake appeared gallant as he walked wearily behind the knight, his chainmail glimmering, his brilliant silver helmet in one hand and shield in the other. His body ached with a desire to drag heavy legs, yet he moved with an upright posture, stretching to his full height, moving along with an air of authority. Dal and Bell followed three paces behind - two knaves, each as tired as their master.

  “Nicholas, I see you have gathered a few straggly followers,” Sir Gawain said, and he pointed at the three figures trailing behind the knight. “Pray I ask thee, who might these three tired souls be? If their swagger be truth, they have indeed fought well or so it seems, or are they weary from hastening a quick retreat from the French swine?”

  Nicholas raised a hand and placed a finger across his lips, signaling the three remain abreast and stay silent.

  “Aye, brave fighters they be, Gawain. They have journeyed far and their soles are surely pained. It would please me greatly if you could provide three mounts – a destrier for the knight and two rounceys for the squires.” He nodded back at the three standing in tight formation a few yards back. “Tell me, ‘tis many months since we crossed paths, how be thee, my friend?”

  “As well as one can be in these times of trouble,” Gawain replied. “I have lost many friends. The plague was fair indeed. It drew no line between rich and poor, ‘tween Christian and heathen, French scum and English stock. ‘Tis good you escaped the sickle of death.”

  Nicholas dismounted and gestured toward the tents. “And I for thee, Gawain. Our Lord has been merciful.” He waved at hundreds of campfires where soldiers had gathered. “I see great numbers. The taking of Poitiers lay at hand.”

  “At hand indeed, but betwixt myself and thee, Nicholas, I fear the French have forewarning of our numbers for they have gathered a force far superior. My ears hear murmurs of some thirty-five thousand, although an army numbering as great as sixty-five thousand has been suggested by my observers. The French are bolstered by the pigs of Scotland led by their William Douglas. They will fight alongside the devil himself, these Scots who despise our England so.”

  Gawain frowned. “Sooth, ‘tis true. Be it not for the plague the Scots for certain would be under our good King Edward as surely as we speak. The dreaded plague did swathe through their Scotland, but it spared more of their bastard souls than had our forces not been cut in such great numbers by that scourge of which you speak.”

  Nicholas kicked at the ground and cursed the Black Death. “Aye ‘tis true. The flag of our Edward for certain would fly over Scotland this very day. May God damn those Genovese for setting that blight loose on our souls.”

  “Come my friends, join us,” Gawain said waving a hand. “Tonight we feast our victory. John’s army shall be put to rest at Poitiers. I foresee a great victory for our forces. The French are well schooled in the ways of defeat and Poitiers shall serve them yet another.”

  Nicholas turned to Blake and spoke in a low voice. “At first light, the Lord of Castelnau, the swine le Maingre hosts the festival of fruit; he rewards those living about him for the food they give up each day so that he can feed his garrison. You will ride therewith for ‘tis ritual that le Maingre holds a joust for all who wish to partake. You three shall mingle and find entry to Castelnau. If our Savior is with us, we shall return with the French dog as our hostage. King John will barter well for release
of his beloved le Maingre.”

  Dal made a face and flashed a quick glance at Blake. Bell simultaneously gave a stern look to Nicholas.

  “Excuse me,” Blake said. “How can we hope to umm - mingle with these people? Would it not be better if you accompanied us to Castelnau?”

  Nicholas wagged a finger. “I cannot, for le Maingre knows my face too well. We shall pray the garrison is lightly manned as is often the case when guards give more heed to jousts than those entering.”

  “You’re joking?” Bell said in a deep manly tone accompanied by a screwed up expression.

  “Joking?” Nicholas repeated, questioning the knave’s word.

  “Uh, what he means to say, Sir Knight, is...” and Blake searched for an explanation. “He means to say you jest.”

  Nicholas felt the blood rush to his face and he took a quick step toward Bell. Blake immediately moved between the pair as Nicholas growled harshly, “Best ye know from where I speak, young sir. I make not light of such things as French swine. Le Maingre will be our guest or his blood will color the soil on which Castelnau stands. Hear me well, you three shall enter Castelnau and open the gate that lay to the east of the main tower. I will lay in wait with a handful of my bowmen. We will mingle among the celebrating villagers and await your call from the gate. We will depart as one with the dog le Maingre.”

  Dal leaned into Blake and whispered, “This has a really bad ring to it. I see dead people here and I don’t wanna be dead.”

  “Well,” Blake said in a dubious tone, “like Bosch said, we all get home safely. Remember his words, ‘because you’re here now.’ You remember that, right?”

  Dal tilted his head. “Yeah . . . but dead? Dead’s a fuckin’ long time.”

  *****

  September 18 9.06 A: M Sir Nicholas strolled among the celebrants and casually admired the pennants and flags that decorated brightly adorned tents, each symbolizing support for various competitors. Squires stood by to render assistance in every way short of joining the tournament. Knights mounted and set their spears in rest rings attached to saddle-bows, waiting for the herald’s signal to canter to the separating barrier as the crowd roared encouragement to the combatants. Riders thundered toward each other with lances extended. Spectators filled the air with cheers while others savored the tangy, mouth-watering blend of hogs roasted on spits mixed with the aroma of leather and the stinging smell of manure.