The Lucifer Sanction (11 page)

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.”

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.

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.
“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.”