The Lucifer Sanction

by Denaro, Jason

  Nicholas observed the guards along the battlement of Castelnau, their eyes focused on those preparing for the tournament. The roasting pigs added a renaissance faire atmosphere to the area outside of Castelnau as jugglers and fire-eaters entertained scores of spectators cheering on knights as they pranced about on magnificent beasts in readiness for the first round of jousts. The raucous cheering was so intense that Bell found herself shouting at Blake in an effort to be heard above the din of the supporters.

  Dal moved in closer and placed his mouth to Bell’s ear. “For Christ’s sake, you gotta stop shouting – when your voice hits that pitch you sound like a fuckin’ woman.”

  She placed a hand over her mouth, widened her eyes and glanced from one side to the other. Her hand remained in that position for several minutes as they moved among the crowd.

  A cluster of performers ambled across the drawbridge and through a now unguarded gateway. Blake raised his eyes to the battlement and counted three crossbowmen, each watching as a knight stormed at full gallop toward a practice ring. With each successful pass, the men on the battlement lowered their crossbows and jubilantly cheered the winning rider.

  Blake turned his back on Castelnau and flipped a thumb over his shoulder. “Watch the guys up there,” he said to Dal. “They’re more interested in the riders than whose coming and going.”

  Bell gave a shudder as she looked up at the huge iron portcullis with spikes menacingly hanging above their heads. With visions of the portcullis descending like a giant mouse trap, she was relieved when they finally passed through.

  Crossbowmen were strategically positioned at small openings known as murder holes, each with a clear view overlapping the next man’s field of vision, consequently eliminating any blind spots. Blake glanced at a group of archers as they compared crossbows. He analyzed the scene, impressed by the marksmanship as one of the soldiers raised his weapon, took careful aim at a target some eighty paces off and shot the bolt into the center of the target. The group broke into a round of cheering for several minutes until Blake nodded for them to move on.

  “Those guys, wha’dya think?” Dal asked tossing Blake a querulous look. “If that’s their full complement we don’t have much to worry about, right?”

  “It looks too easy,” Blake said, squatting on one knee and messing with his shoe. “I don’t like it.” He looked about and directed Dal’s attention to a two story building. It had lighter colored stone walls and appeared to be a recent addition to Castelnau.

  A young girl concentrated intently as she juggled balls in the courtyard. She failed to see the sartorially elegant man moving her way while adjusting his waistband. He stumbled into the diminutive juggler and the girl fell to the ground. She gazed up and forced a yielding grin at the furious man as he dusted off his fine velvet.

  “My Lord,” she whimpered. “I am grieved, please forgive me.”

  The back of the man’s hand struck a blow causing the juggler to moan and roll across the ground.

  Bell instinctively dashed forward unprepared for le Maingre’s reaction. He let loose with a flurry of blows to Bell’s head, annoyed at her intervention on the young juggler’s behalf.

  Blake thought we’re done, we’ve fuckin’ blown it. He made a lunge at le Maingre as Bell rolled into a fetal position. Blake’s move was intercepted by two soldiers as they dashed to le Maingre’s aid.

  The crossbow competitor struck Dal across the temple with the butt of his sword as his comrade bounded atop Blake, his sword pressed firmly into the stunned agent’s chest. Blake glanced to his left and caught a glimpse of Dal as one of le Maingre’s men bound his hands.

  “I beg thee no, please leave him be,” Blake said with humility. “He means no harm, Sire!” He pointed toward Bell. “He is just a boy, the two are brothers.”

  Le Maingre extended a hand toward the soldiers. He stepped into Blake and placed his sword to his throat.

  “Your voice is strange to me,” le Maingre said, one eye cocked at Blake.

  Blake turned away from the Frenchman’s foul breath. His voice was devious, high-pitched. He leaned into Blake’s face and opened the one eye wider, cocked his head even further. His voice hit a higher screeching note. “From where dost thou come?”

  Blake took a moment to recompose. “Sire, my tongue is Yola. I hail from County Wexford.”

  Le Maingre wiped saliva from his chin, tipped his head to one side, glanced at his corporal and with a voice that rose at the end of each sentence probed further. “From Wexford?” and then in an even higher pitch - “You are an Irisher?”

  “Aye sire, we are all from Ireland. We fight a common foe.”

  Le Maingre placed a foot on Blake’s throat and shouted an order at the nearest bowman, “Search him. See what this Irisher has in his possession!”

  The man lowered his weapon. Several long seconds later he handed a small green metallic coin-like disc to le Maingre.

  “Well, well, what have we here, coin from the land of the green?”

  Blake tried lifting his head from the muddy ground but Le Maingre increased his foot pressure and shouted as spittle sprayed on Blake’s face, “Do not raise your eyes to mine! Speak to me only with thy lips, Irisher. Your eyes I need not see!” He took a breath, exhaled slowly as his face resumed its paler color. “Answer me this - be this a coin of your realm? I have not seen such as this.”

  “Yes, my Lord - a coin it is, Sire,” Blake replied in a forced raspy voice, his larynx near crushed under foot.

  Le Maingre again, each word chewed as he spat them in singular fashion. “You speak a lie you swine!” He settled, took a moment to recompose. “You are an Irisher who knows only how to lie like a dog. You are a cunning man, Irisher.”

  He lifted his foot from Blake’s throat and in one quick move pulled his dagger from its sheath and spun about, dropped to one knee and thrust the blade against Bell’s throat. She pulled away, quickly extending a palm toward the Frenchman. Before she could utter a word Blake reached across and pressed a finger to her lips. Infuriated by Blake’s intervention, le Maingre brought the butt of his broadsword down hard on Blake’s temple. “Take this swine to the cell,” le Maingre ordered. “He will rot there for eternity!”

  Blake went limp as two soldiers dragged him toward a stone hut in the far section of the courtyard. Dal felt helpless. His hands were bound and more than thirty soldiers stood by prepared to obey le Maingre’s every command.

  Blake tried to stand but fell to his knees as soldiers continued dragging him to the hut. Within minutes he found himself tumbling down steps, finally coming to rest on a damp rancid cell floor as rats scurried in all directions.

  Bell leaned to Dal and touched his temple. “Are you okay? Your head – you were hit pretty hard – could need stitches.”

  “Hurts like a motherfucker,” Dal said. “But not as bad as Drew’s hurting. We gotta figure a way to...”

  Jean Le Maingre flipped the shiny disc into the air and noticed how it immediately attracted both Dal’s and Bell’s attention. Bell lurched forward in an intuitive attempt to catch the converter disc. Le Maingre kicked out and his boot connected with Bell’s chest.

  “Relinquish each of these dogs of their possessions. Let us see if they too carry their...” He paused, wiped his chin and sniggered in conclusion, “Relinquish them of their coins of realm.”

  The corporal emptied the contents of Bell’s and Dal’s belt purses, bowed his head, and extended a palm containing the four replacement discs. “They each carry two coins, Sire.”

  “Interesting. Does your fellow Irisher have knowledge of your wealth, be it that he had a single coin? But...” He paused and bit hard into one of the discs. “But is this as pure a coin as that of our good King John? I think not.”

  He took a shield from the nearest soldier, placed it inverted on the ground and threw the discs onto the metal shield. He raised his sword, hesitated, grinned and summarily pounded each disc until it resembled a beaten aluminum bottle cap.r />
  “Do you mock me that you dare pass such foolishness as coin? These are mere trinkets.”

  Le Maingre flung the remnants across the courtyard, a slow motion-like descent as the shattered ‘tickets home’ came to rest in a large mud puddle.

  “We’re dead,” Bell winced. “We’re very, very dead.” She flung her head back in anger and shouted at the clouds, “Shit, shit, shit!”

  Her shouts ended abruptly. A hail of arrows pelted across the wall, spattering the courtyard. Soldiers shouted, scrambled, grabbed for shields and held them above their heads. They formed a turtle-like protective shell over le Maingre and escorted him in a crab-like huddle to the safety of the main garrison.

  Entertainers and merchants stumbled over bodies that lay pin cushioned by three foot long shafts. More than a dozen of the green and black clad soldiers lay scattered about the courtyard, their bodies spiked with arrows. Jugglers and spectators were not spared the assault and several lay among the dead and screaming as hell rained down indiscriminately.

  Dal jumped to his feet as Bell pulled a dagger from a Frenchman who lay with an arrow embedded in his eye socket. She slashed Dal’s binding and freed his hands.

  “We’re out of here,” Dal said. “Quickly, we’ve gotta reach that side entrance.”

  She tugged at his arm. “No! We have to get Drew.”

  “There’s no way. We’re gonna have to come back. It’s gonna take more than just the two of us. We’ve gotta get help.”

  They reached the cover of the main wall as another burst of arrows rained down. French retaliation fired a volley of bolts across the battlement, passing the incoming English arrows mid-air. Dal felt a sharp pain and the sound of whop, whop, whop, as arrows impacted the ground around him. As he peered through the small grated opening he felt the impact. His body was riding on such an adrenalin-rush that the arrow had become a part of him, bundled in with a general all over hurt. It was Bell’s gasp that alerted him.

  “Jesus Dal! You’ve been hit. I’ve gotta get you out of here.” She placed a hand on the bolt and sensed its depth. “Feels like it’s in deep - will I pull it?”

  “Leave it. We’ll take care of it later. Can you just snap it off?”

  She answered with a groan, gripped it in both hands. It was slippery with blood and the shaft was too hard. She passed him an apologetic frown and reached for her dagger. “Bite hard,” she groaned, “I’m gonna try cutting it. Maybe then...”

  She began a sawing action on the shaft, slipped her knife back into her belt and tried to snap the arrow. “It’s too hard,” she sighed apologetically, “I can’t break it.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Dal moaned as he squinted ahead. “That’s Nicholas out there with his guys. These bowmen have everyone scattering in panic.” He pointed at a large tent off to their right. “The party’s over, I can see his guys shooting from behind that tent. We’ve a clear dash ahead. Come on, we can make a run for it - go, go, go!” And as the small gate opened, he collapsed to one knee.

  Nicholas shouted at his bowmen and waved furiously, “Hold, hold, hold!” He sprinted toward Dal, clambering over villagers who’d been caught in the crossfire. The hand of a French crossbowman clutched at his ankle and their eyes met. The eye contact ended as Nicholas thrust the point of his sword into the man’s throat. A minute later he’d reached Dal. He saw the blood running from Dal’s right side, placed an arm around him and touched the bolt.

  Bell asked, “Should we pull it?”

  Nicholas made an incision on the shaft a hand-span short of its entry point, snapped it and passed the fletching to Bell. “I fear the tip is in need of better than I can give. We must get away from here, ‘tis only then that this wound shall be set right.” He shouted to his nearest men, “The horses . . . rein in two mounts!”

  They huddled to avoid the continual exchange of arrows, gave it a half-minute then clambered over riddled bodies until they’d reached the protection of the English long-bowmen. Screams from the wounded and disorientated villagers created a deafening cacophony.

  Nicholas roared, “Where is your friend?”

  “They have him!” Bell shouted. “Le Maingre has him!”

  Nicholas scowled. “Le Maingre, that son of a French pig.” He gestured to his men who were unceasingly firing arrow after arrow over the battlement of Castelnau, their bows discharging at the rate of one flight every five seconds. “Enough!” Nicholas shouted. “To your horses, we will be in need of more than this paltry arsenal to lay siege to Castelnau.” He turned to Bell, shrugged and groaned, “We have failed in our plan to quietly remove le Maingre.”

  ***** “My friend,” Nicholas said with concern as he rode alongside Dal, “We will need to rest and tend your wound. The blood is a deep color and this is of great concern to me.”

  The attackers were upon them with stunning swiftness, riders wearing le Maingre’s colors led by le Maingre himself.

  “You, Dumaurier,” Nicholas shouted to one of his lieutenants. “Take these two and ride to Brantôme!” He pointed to Dal. “See to his injury!”

  The destriers veered about on the grassy field and charged toward the French, thundering hooves shaking the ground as the two forces met, horses rearing, swords slashing, blades cutting into flesh - removing hands that still clutched swords.

  Le Maingre caught sight of the three fleeing riders. He reeled his horse about, pointed and shouted. “Those three, pursue them, they for sure are the Irishers!”

  Dumaurier was aware of the chase; he signaled to Bell and pointed frantically away from Brantôme. “Squire, you must ride toward the Lascaux caves. They must follow you, and I will take your friend to the village. Hold back, let me distance myself from le Maingre’s riders; ‘tis certain they will follow the slower rider.”

  Bell slowed her mount to a canter as Dumaurier and Dal galloped off at speed. She gave them ten seconds then booted the destrier. The warhorse picked up speed and headed away as the French pursuers split into two groups, two riders staying with Bell, the others pursuing Dal and Dumaurier.

  Dumaurier’s words ran through her mind, y ou must ride toward the Lascaux caves. She could feel her body trembling, could feel the sweat as it squeezed its way between her tightly bound breasts, icy cold air ripping into her face, her eyes tearing, the air growing colder by the minute as her mount careened into the early night. With no more than two hundred yards between herself and the shouting Frenchmen, Bell tried to block the fact she’d absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of the Lascaux Caves.

  Thirty minutes after the chase had begun the riders following Dumaurier and Dal were gaining ground. Dal gave an occasional glance at his wound and thought it has to be congealing; the flow of blood’s slowing.

  Dumaurier pointed at the final slither of crescent sun. “We will stop soon,” he shouted aloud. “You cannot keep up this pace!”

  Dal gave an infrequent smile, his eyes heavy, his posture showing need for rest as the cool air whipped at his face. He tugged the chain-mail hood up around his chin in a feeble attempt to block cold fingers of wind that too easily found gaps around his armor.

  Dumaurier drew alongside Dal’s mount, grabbed hold of his reins as Dal slumped forward with each of his arms wrapped around the horse’s neck. He guided both horses behind a deep grove, carefully lowered Dal to the ground and removed the blood stained chain-mail. Five inches of shaft protruded from his left forearm, a few inches farther left and it could have proven fatal.

  Dumaurier raised his eyes to the stars, his mind weighing the options as Dal slipped in and out of consciousness. “We could push forward” he whispered to himself. “But reaching Brantôme requires an hour of hard riding.” He paused and wiped a cloth across Dal’s forehead. “Your breathing has grown shallow. We can stay through the night but that would surely risk your bleeding to death. But then, if we ride the fifty minutes or so to the village, I will likely arrive in Brantôme with a dead man.” He removed his surcoat, rolled it into a ball and placed Dal’s head
on the makeshift pillow. “Rest comfortably, my friend,” he said. “I shall return shortly.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Dumaurier arrived at the cottage of Henri De Gaulle. His family had farmed the small outlying valley for generations and both he and Maurice were known to Henri’s wife. He felt certain De Gaulle would assist his wounded companion. With eyes stinging from the fast ride and cold night air, Dumaurier pounded a hard fist on the door of the old farmhouse. As he slipped to his knees his face scraped the rough timber of the door jam, snagging his chain-mail as he collapsed to the ground.

  De Gaulle’s voice was a frosty shout. “Who is there, what is it you want at this hour?”

  Dumaurier called aloud, “Henri, open the door, it is Andre – Andre Dumaurier from Brantôme. I am a friend of Maurice. Please, open the door.”

  A six inch opening allowed sufficient light to filter onto the intruder’s face. Dumaurier let out a grateful sigh as he propped himself against the door-jam. The farmer recognized him and carefully assisted him into the cabin. Once inside, Andre Dumaurier went about explaining his situation.

  Henri De Gaulle said, “I wish to take my family to Lille, I have relatives there, we must move the children to safer grounds. The English with their Edward, and even our own Frenchmen under the rules of the day – it is all far too dangerous here.”

  De Gaul’s wife poured wine into a goblet. “Andre,” she said, “I recall when you were a mere child. I was close to your family, to your sister, Jeanne. I know what the soldiers did to her.” She gave a consolatory nod. “I have five little ones to care for. I fear for them. The soldiers are such animals.”

  She appeared on the verge of tears as her husband put out a hand and nodded, “Shh, my dear – you will alarm the little ones.”