- heard nothing. She turned from the dog’s sad stare and scanned trees behind her – still nothing. But she had this subliminal feeling that someone was watching. She stayed quiet, smiled at Bruno and gave him an appreciative nod. She created visions of Gardner Hunter and thought yeah, they’ve transported him to help us, Libra’s come through.
Again, the sensation someone was moving in the thickets. She allowed a minute to pass, placed her hand back around the dog’s mouth and held its collar with the other and asked, “Did you come alone, big boy?”
Bruno panted. “Looks like it’s just you and me, so what do you say, shall we?”
She straightened up, brushed off her hose, and tenuously released hold of the collar. As she did, Bruno appeared to digitize – and in a nanosecond, the dog vanished.
Bell sat dumbfounded. They’ve taken him back, she thought. Maybe they’re checking to see if the system’s working.
Her eyes shifted back to the village, to a stately man stepping from a nearby hut, his head lowered to avoid striking the lintel. He caught her staring eyes and gave a friendly wave, a ‘come here’gesture. She smiled a masculine smile and strode awkwardly toward him – cognizant of her mannish disguise. She kept a low voice, a deep masculine tone. “I’m a visitor and am lost. I’m searching for some friends. We are Irishers. Can you –“
The handsome Frenchman extended a hand and halted her mid-sentence as the sound of thundering hooves approached from the far end of the village. Five riders split the center of the main street causing villagers to scatter.
The handsome Frenchman spoke in a panicked tone, “Les soldats du roi, rapidement nous devons cacher.” His look of fear precluded translation, his actions sufficed. He took Bell’s arm, pulled her into the dwelling. Hoof beats fired down the street as he moved quickly to the small trapdoor beneath a table. Bell turned to him and asked, “What is it? Why are you hiding from your own people?”
The question went unanswered.
They crammed their bodies tightly into the darkness of the hole as horses bolted by causing the ground to shake. When the riders were no longer audible, the Frenchman climbed from the hole, cautiously looked about, extended a helping hand and hauled Bell out. He pushed a mat in place to conceal the opening and paced to a window. He peered in the direction of the five horsemen now thrashing about in foliage at the far end of the village.
Bellinger could hear the commotion and didn’t quite know what to make of it. She was mystified as to why this Frenchman avoided the French riders as though they were the enemy.
He gestured for Bell to sit. “Vous n’êtes pas d’ici. Pas de la France?”
***** Bruno materialized and leaped from his chamber into d’Artagnan’s waiting arms. The dog had been gone for precisely three minutes.
“Your man, he has arrived safely,” d’Artagnan said victoriously.
“And the dog, any issues?”
“No problems, Bruno is magnifique.”
***** Hunter’s hard landing had left him with a slight concussion. He tried to stand but was floundering. He thought safer for me to lay low until I’ve regained balance and strength. He watched Bell as she moved into the village, squinted as the tall man moved from the cottage. He gazed at his Sig, slipped a finger on the safety, could have intervened but his vision was still blurred, his balance
- unsteady. I can be more of a liability than an asset he thought.
He relaxed his grip on the Sig, made a quick summation, one of his so called ‘field decisions.’ He moved clumsily about the perimeter for several minutes, taking rest stops, blacking in and out of consciousness. His need to locate Blake and Dal had precedence over the temptation to call out to Bell. An engagement in this village could complicate his assignment. He thought, gotta assume Bell’s in control of her situation. Then he thought where’s the dog?
**** Patrice Bellinger considered the Frenchman’s next move. She spent a few long moments awaiting comment. None came and she opened with, “I’m an Irisher. My French is not good. Je suis désolé.”
“You’re Irisher?”
He let out a hearty laugh. “This is a good thing, no? Ecossais vous êtes? Ceci est alors une bonne chose.” Bell asked, “What is your name?”
“I am Maurice of Brantôme.”
He made a waving gesture. “This is where I have
lived since a child. This village is Brantôme.”
“Maurice, the soldiers have taken my friend, a
fellow traveler from Ireland. Do you understand me?” The Frenchman nodded.
“Good. It is most important that he is set free. We
have a mission that will save many lives, without him we
cannot save them.” She thought over what she’d said and
felt good about it.
The English had ravished Ulster and the Irish were
continually attacking English strongholds. Consequently
it was quite conceivable that Bell, Dal and Blake could
actually be in France as Irish observers.
“Where is your friend?”
“In Castelnau, if you’re able to help free him you’ll
have served us well in our plight to inflict serious damage
on the tyrant who rules your land.”
“What name do you go by?”
“My name is Bell.”
He glanced at her curiously. “You desire my
help?”
“Yes – can you please help me?”
“We are not fond of John and his murderous scum.
I have many friends in the nearby towns of Mareuil and
Issigeac, some work at the Mill, others at the farms that
supply the soldiers. I have six very trustworthy friends here
in Brantôme who have no love for John and his murderers. They make sport of the soldiers and will welcome helping to free your friend from the clutches of Jean le Maingre’s Castelnau. We have sympathetic ears across the Dordogne in Castelgard. Each and every man, woman and child can be relied upon in times of need. They too make sport of the
crossbowmen of Castelnau.”
He swallowed hard, took a deep settling breath,
and flicked a thumb toward the window. “These people,
they have no love lost. Le Maingre bleeds them dry of
their produce so he can place fine food on the tables of
Castelnau. Le Maingre’s men pillage our villages, taking
women when they have need of companionship; such are
all of the pigs that serve this king. English or French, they
differ not in their lust and deviances. You understand what
I am saying?”
“Yes, Maurice, I’m sorry.”
“There are many items abandoned by John’s men
when they sought refuge in the cave fortresses. They
abandoned their armor, their shields and their helms in
their effort to blend with surrounding villagers.” He paced
about the room for a minute as Bell awaited his next words.
“We shall dress as French knights and ride into Castelnau
escorting our prisoner.”
“Prisoner?”
“Yes, their eyes will see you dressed as one of
Edward’s men. Your arrival will bring cheers. Their minds
will not question our escorting a prisoner into Castelnau.
They will welcome us. English and Irish prisoners are well
received guests of King John. Once inside we will see
what destiny has in hand. Remain here, rest easy my young
friend. I shall return shortly.”
Twenty minutes passed.
Maurice sauntered back, followed by six young
men, none of shaving age. They exchanged glances as
Maurice explained Bell’s predicament. She was a silent
observer during the discussion, exchanging occasional smiles with the group. Maurice gestured at Bell. “So t
hen, it is agreed, we are yours. We share common dislikes of le Maingre.” He waved a palm across the six friendly faces. “The soldiers have twice taken liberties with his sister,” and he pointed at a blonde haired kid who nodded and lowered
his watery eyes in a saddened way.
The blonde haired kid raised a hand.
“What is it, Andre?”
“I want the pig to myself.”
Maurice turned to Bellinger. “One of le Maingre’s
swine took the sister of Andre. This man is stationed on
the main tower. The sister has never recovered from the
brutalizing. She’s not spoken to this day.”
“What does he want?”
Maurice let the question go unanswered. He placed
a hand on the kid’s knee and nodded. The watery eyes
understood.
“We will go to the cave. Uniforms and weapons
lay there. Come along, when we are wearing le Maingre’s
colors we will ride to Castelnau.”
***** At six o’clock on the evening of September 18th with broadswords bouncing about, their mounts cantered in unison toward the moat forming the perimeter of Castelnau.
Bell expected the entrance to be heavily fortified but this was a festive time and a social flavor surrounded the fort. Villagers gained easy access, coming and going at ease with their carts loaded with produce and rolls of brightly colored cloth.
On occasions when le Maingre was not in residence, a smaller compliment of thirty crossbowmen under the supervision of a corporal saw to the protection of Castelnau. Should a threat arise, the local populace would augment fortification. When it came to the castle proper, the defensive quality of Castelnau was paramount to le Maingre. His moving from place to place with large retinues consumed food supplies at an alarming rate, and such a large entourage required more food than any single village could supply.
On this day, le Maingre was in Castelnau. CHAPTER NINETEEN
Castelnau
September 18, 1356
6 P: M
At six o’clock on the evening of September 18th, Maurice of Brantôme sat astride his Andalusian. He rode ahead of his entourage, each rider resplendent in matching colors of burgundy and gray. Six knights escorted their English prisoner, Bell’s face hidden beneath chain-mail. Maurice could feel the curious stares from le Maingre’s soldiers as he raised a salutation toward the entry. Within minutes the drawbridge lowered and their mounts cantered across the moat and into the courtyard.
The battlement guards turned and cheered as the knights dismounted. Bellinger, playing her part well, displayed defeatist body language whilst remaining mounted. Three guards moved toward Maurice and exchanged greetings. One of the men, a former associate of Maurice, passed him a cautionary look and inconspicuously moved his eyes to a corner of the garrison. Maurice caught the gesture, gave a grateful nod and hoped the man’s friendship was stronger than his allegiance to le Maingre.
Bell strained to follow the discussion but could barely make out the words. Three of Maurice’s men moved to her horse and ordered her to dismount.
Moments later, le Maingre stepped into the courtyard, raised a hand, yawned and called out, “Get him down from that horse, quickly!”
Maurice gave an acquiescing wave and a respectful bow. They removed their gauntlets and helms and three of his men manhandled Bell from her mount. Le Maingre called to those escorting Bell. “Bring the pig; we will lock him with the other.”
They accompanied one of le Maingre’s men as he ushered them toward a hut across the courtyard. Bell stumbled as the blonde kid, Andre, nudged her to move along faster, his foot convincingly pushing into her calf.
She turned and whispered, “Easy, Andre,” and gave him a half-nod.
The kid ignored her. He held a hardened expression and ordered her to move on, yelling as he gave her another sharp prod, “Go, go! Move on!”
Bell glanced toward the hut, saw the fingers wrapped around the window bars, wanted to shout Blake’s name. Maurice caught Bell’s eyes and sensed her excitement. He lowered one hand, made a stop gesture and pulled her back to reality.
Le Maingre restrained another yawn as he carved a line between them. He brushed by Bell and she gave him a look of defiance. Sensing her insolence he wheeled about, swiped a heavy hand across her neck and moved nearer to Maurice. He called over his shoulder. “And you – the one groveling in the dirt, are you Englander or are you also an Irisher who speaks in Yola tongue?”
The question surprised Maurice. Bell’s uniform clearly indicated she was English. She caught the look of despair on Maurice’s face as he stood open mouthed and speechless. She dropped her chin to her chest; a position she found caused throat compression and a deeper voice. She replied in a muffled, low tone, “I hail from County Wexford.”
“Oh - praise the Lord, another from Wexford.”
Le Maingre turned, spat at the jail and sneered toward the hands gripping the bars, “We have another Irisher swine!”
Bell: “Yes, I am Irisher.”
Her expression was sober beneath the chainmail hood, and what little of her face could be seen was sufficiently soiled to masquerade her feminine softness. Her scruffy appearance was further complemented by the masterly groan of her deep, young man’s voice.
“Take him,” le Maingre growled with scornful distaste. “Throw him in with the other. I will choose their fate in the morn.”
“Aye, my Lord,” Maurice gestured, pointing a finger toward the garrison and nodding to Andre. “You men, take rest.” He gave a respectful bow to le Maingre. “We thank you, my Lord.”
Le Maingre saw the questioning look in his corporal’s eye. “You wonder why I do not just kill these dogs - why I allow them to live a little longer as my guests rather than make sport of them here where they stand.”
“It is your generous nature, my Lord,” the corporal replied sternly, gazing straight ahead and avoiding le Maingre’s glare.
“Yes, generous nature.” Le Maingre grated bowing slowly from the waist in mock self-adulation. “They serve me best alive. Should the need arise, their barter value will bring far greater satisfaction than momentary bloodsport.”
“You are a clever man, my Lord.”
“And you, corporal - are a cunning liar.”
Three of le Maingre’s men accompanied Bell to the jail hut where the man grasping the bars was listening closely while visualizing the course of events.
The door sprang open with an echoing clang as it bounced off the stone wall. Blake raised a hand above his eyes and squinted at the silhouetted forms of two figures standing atop the stairs. The smaller tumbled down the steps and the door slammed shut. Ten seconds later, Blake tried to focus by rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
“Bell? That you Bell?”
“Drew – you okay?’
“Oh yeah, I’m just peachy!”
“Thank God.”
**** At ten-fifteen on a chilled moonless night, Maurice moved from the main garrison quarters. Castelnau was primarily a battle castle and not designed with guest accommodation. It was a central fortification from where Le Maingre could fly King John’s flag while military forces prepared to meet attacking forces.
The room Bell shared with Blake was a small jail cell, no further than two hundred paces from the gatehouse. The castle consisted of two main towers, a gatehouse, and a hall that housed a kitchen with an eating area and a chapel. Bell couldn’t help notice Castelnau was in disrepair, that rebuilding work was in progress on several sections of the battlement, including construction of a stone curtain wall.
Maurice and his small contingent moved with stealth. As they passed the smaller south-west tower occupied by a single bowman, Maurice raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the steps leading to the top.
The blonde kid - no more than sixteen years of age - flashed a smile and made his way into the shadows of the curtain wall. The bowman was a large red-bearded m
an Maurice recognized as the buffoon who had cheered the loudest when they entered the castle. Sending the boy to slit his throat put a grin on the knight’s finely chiseled features.
Maurice and his band considered ridding the world of these scum as a cleansing of sorts. It was their opportunity to balance the scale for the revulsion Andre had harbored for years - images of his sister’s savage rape. She may never utter another word but he could put a smile on her face after this night. The feeling of revenge was profound and each man could feel his adrenalin rise as Maurice assigned each his task.
He moved to the gatehouse and found it partially blocked by fallen masonry from the old arch above the main gate, the result of years of pounding from military attacks. He made several gestures of go this way and that, silently dispatching the remaining five to each observation point.
French bowmen, heavy with sleep and having little reason for alertness, recklessly observed the distant village houses and campfires that speckled the rolling hills like so many dying embers.
The outer portcullis grooves and the bowmen’s murder holes gave each archer clear view of those approaching, making aggression from within of no concern. Two gate towers were positioned either side of the passage with battlements supported by a corbel table.
Maurice failed to see the bowman perched on the upper floor of the gatehouse, a solitary soldier who was hardly a threat under normal circumstances, but on this night the upper floor gatehouse was the domicile of the Constable of Castelnau, a man whose skill with the crossbow was legend.
**** Andre moved stealthily toward the sentry, placed his blade to the man’s throat and pulled hard across. The man’s world saw a spray of red - then turned black. The kid held him with a caress as he lowered the Frenchman to the ground. He dragged him to the deepest shadow on the battlement, retrieved the crossbow and checked the bolt, then proceeded to the next crossbowman.
Maurice lowered himself to one knee as the light from the tower lantern cast his silhouette on the nearby wall. He steadied himself and took aim, sending the bolt thirty feet to its target - one man less on the battlement.
He watched as his men dispatched another three guards, silently securing the rampart. The Lord of Castelnau would wake to a castle depleted of personnel.
The Lucifer Sanction Page 20