The Lucifer Sanction

by Denaro, Jason

  Meanwhile in le Maingre’s jail, Bell brought Blake up to date on her liaison with Maurice.

  “And is Dal okay?”

  “He’s with one of Nicholas’s men, his name’s Dumaurier. We were separated, two of le Maingre’s men followed Dal and Dumaurier. The others came after me.”

  “Le Maingre - I owe that motherfucker. My head’s pounding.”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” Bell said with her eyes lowered. The discs – le Maingre destroyed them.”

  “Aw fuck!”

  “Drew, there’s so much stuff I can’t explain.”

  “Like what?”

  “When I came out of the woods - this dog - it just appeared from nowhere. As it got closer I saw the collar.”

  “Collar?”

  “Drew, the dog was wearing tags – a vinyl collar with tags.”

  He moved closer to her and raised a gentle hand, moved the chain-mail hood from her head and touched her hair, looked closely at her scalp. “Aw, poor baby - did you take a hit – where’s it hurting?”

  She flinched away, annoyed at Blake’s commiserative stroking. “Give me a break, I tell you the dog had an ID tag.”

  He smiled.

  “There aren’t any rewards for coolness, kiddo.”

  There had always been a certain calming effect in his delivery, more so when he addressed her as kiddo. She moved nearer and laid her head on his chest.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, okay - so tell me about the dog.”

  She lifted her eyes and gave him her best forlorn little girl look.

  Blake thought if Libra were able to send a dog, they’d just as easily have sent someone to help. Then he thought how easy it would be for the guys in Zurich to contact Sam and maybe, just maybe - have Hunter join them. Perhaps bring along a few more Interpol guys, even a few SEALs. Maybe even Seal Team Six.

  Tough guys. Like that.

  “If you thought the dog was sent back,” he said in an encouraging tone, “I assume the idea crossed your mind that maybe – just maybe – Hunter...”

  Bell’s eyes widened. “Hunter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course the thought crossed my mind.” She sat more erect, a spark of hope. “Why can’t they send him? Hunter could have been sent. I thought I heard, or sensed someone back there.”

  She nodded her head to one side a few times. “I was at a stream – by a village. I stopped for a few minutes. That’s when the...”

  “So where’s this dog with the collar now?”

  “It, it, it just vanished. I don’t know. I guess they’ve some way of transporting it back. Of recalling it.”

  She stopped abruptly, pent up emotion bursting through the floodgate and tears flowed. Blake’s eyes flickered to one side, his attention distracted by approaching footsteps. Bell held her breath as Blake’s head turned away. She wiped her eyes. Looked up. Followed his gaze.

  Maurice kicked at the door and took the four steps in one stride. He squinted in the cell’s darkness, smiled at Blake and extended a warm hand, then retracted the hand and smiled apologetically. “My apology for the blood on my hand,” he said with a mischievous grin, “our work here tonight . . . it is done,”

  Bell held back. Her natural instinct was to throw her arms around Maurice and hug the tall Frenchman.

  Bell: “We have to get out of here now!”

  Maurice paused for a moment, pointed to the courtyard. He asked Blake, “Would you like the head of le Maingre as a gift?”

  Blake shuddered, shook his head, “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but uh, no thanks.” He glanced at Bell with a questioning eye as though le Maingre’s fate lay in his hands. The Lord of Castelnau’s final words were emblazoned in Blake’s mind. ‘Take this swine to the cell and drop the key into the well. He will rot there for eternity.’

  They stood for ten long seconds – no motion – just Blake and mellifluous thoughts of le Maingre pleading as this Frenchman prepared to remove his head. Blake had his confused expression working overtime. He began to sweat. The French knight pressed, repeated the request.

  Bell said, “He still wants to know if you want le Maingre’s head.”

  Blake considered the offer, gave Bell a wry smile mixed with a look of indecision. She felt the sweat on her brow and realized her voice had slipped into feminine mode. She cleared her throat, dropped a few octaves. “Wha’dya want from me, Drew . . . validation?”

  Blake smirked at her deeper tone. He gently padded his aching temple and groaned, “Fuck validation.” He further contemplated the offer. Remove his head, hmm?

  “No, no, no,” Bell snapped angrily. “Le Maingre’s not our problem. Remember - we can’t interfere in the course of events by ordering a death sentence. Nicholas and his men are standing by outside the walls, we need to move ahead.”

  In her exuberance, she again allowed her disguise to slip, her voice reaching a high pitch.

  Maurice was confused by her reaction. “Que vous fait questionne. Vous l’aurez que j’épargne cet home?”

  Bell grunted, “He’s asking what you’d like him to do about beheading le Maingre. He’s waiting for your approval.”

  Blake swallowed hard, took a few moments, then turned to Maurice . . . and smiled.

  **** Sir Nicholas and a small group of bowmen sat huddled about the dying embers of one of the many campfires. The snap of a twig alerted them to the approaching runners. Bell was first to spot Nicholas. She ran forward, eager to reach the comfort of his strong, friendly arms. Nicholas extended a warm greeting to each of the three and Bell acquainted the knight from Brantôme with the knight from Mansfield.

  Under the glowing light of the embers, Bell took a mental snapshot of the two standing in a handshake position; one French – the other English. She pondered the stupidity of this war, of the one hundred years of bitter conflict between each knight’s home-land. She thought of her own times, of Afghanistan, of Israel, we’ve made no progress, she thought, some things never change.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Leap of Faith

  September 19, 1356

  On September 19, 1356, English forces under the command of Edward Prince of Wales were about to deliver the second of three devastating defeats on the French.

  It began decades earlier when England and France fought for control of ancestral held English fiefs in Normandy and Guyenne. The struggle evolved into a war over territory and the rule of France, a struggle that spanned over one hundred years.

  Edward’s forces enjoyed success in land and sea battles, and in 1346 dealt a crippling blow to the French at the Battle of Crécy. A peace treaty and the first major outbreak of the pandemic slowed the war to a crawl following Crécy, and in 1355 King Edward III resumed England’s campaign against the French.

  Edward divided his armies, hoping to keep the French off guard, to keep them from massing their forces in one location. As Henry, Duke of Lancaster, engaged the French in Normandy, Edward laid siege to Calais.

  Later to be known as the Black Prince, Edward was to set out with his Anglo-Gascon army on a chevauchée, a favored English tactic of the day, a strategy wreaking havoc on French populace. A chevauchée consisted of advancing English forces burning towns and crops and looting anything of value, leaving French farmers without crops and subsequently with no produce to sell, no way to pay their taxes, and no taxes of course - meant no war funding. It was a catch twenty-two for John, the French king.

  Raids by the English led French peasants to question the authority of their government - question its ability to protect them, especially as there had been very little opposition mounted by French forces to the English looting and pillaging.

  Outside the quite town of Poitiers the armies gathered to do battle on September 19, 1356. Three of Edward’s divisions dismounted in readiness, the forward two under the command of the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick. The backup reserve division was under Edward’s command, while Jean de Grailly led a highly skilled group of han
dpicked English cavalry.

  The formation was typical of the battle plan employed by the English in previous encounters. Their infantry was so well equipped with longbows and was far superior to the cumbersome French knights. The French, unable to withstand a shower of rapidly fired English arrows made easy targets, and this tactic set the scene for the majority of English victories of the 14th century.

  ***** Blake’s eyes darted about, scanning the mass of warriors, looking about as men scurried to take up positions. The scene was terrifying as thousands of arrows rained down on horsemen, soldiers falling, horses agonizing, pin cushions with little to protect them from vertically descending missiles.

  “We’ve gotta figure out how . . .” No sooner had Blake uttered the words than another onslaught of arrows thumped into the ground around them

  Dal shouted, “They’re coming from our rear! We’re wide open!” Nicholas leaped from his mount and shoved Blake to the ground, quickly huddled over him with his shield forming a shelter. Arrows bounced off as Dal quickly took up a position alongside the pair. Blake shouted to Bell as she chose took cover tightly pressed against a fallen charger, its legs quivering as remnants of life messed with its nervous system.

  Nicholas gestured behind them. “We have the woods to protect our backs,” he yelled. “The French can only advance on us from . . .” and he pointed ahead then off to his right.

  Bell turned to Dal. “I wish I’d gone to Brantôme with Maurice, it’s such a peaceful place.”

  Dal thought about it for a minute. “I’d like to see that.” He let the image go and gazed at reality. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

  It was their last peaceful exchange. The two forward divisions of English formed wide columns of foot soldiers, flanked by bowmen and archers filling the skies with English arrows that pelted down on screaming French forces, striking them from both front and sides - forcing the charging French into a funnel formation.

  They crowded onto each other in panic, sheltering from the aerial onslaught. Crammed as they were, shoulder to shoulder, they had no room to swing their weapons and absolutely no room to raise their crossbows.

  Numbering in excess of twenty thousand, the French moved forward like ants streaming endlessly toward Edwards archers who stood up to the onslaught. They responded to the French attack by firing an arrow every eight seconds.

  Blake pointed at the charging forces and called to Sir Nicholas, “We haven’t a chance – they outnumber us three to one.”

  The leading French division under the command of Clermont and Audrehem was made up of two small groups, each consisting of two hundred and fifty riders. The remainder dismounted and fought on foot. This was not their forte and the tactic would prove fateful.

  The Duke of Normandy meanwhile led the second, third, and fourth divisions, along with the Duke of Orleans and the French King respectively. The Black Prince made a bold and unexpected decision as the French trudged across the field toward the English ranks. He ordered his army out from behind the hedge, raised his sword, and made a howling shout. “No Prisoners!”

  Blake and Dal stood, and each gave a bewildered look to Nicholas. There was a long pause and Bell moved quickly to the knight’s side. “Why are we leaving this area?” Bell asked. “We’re safe here, the hedge is protecting us.”

  Dal added, “We’ve gotta stay back, we sure as hell don’t need to be involved in this.”

  Bell nodded as all four dropped low and flurries of arrows flew by, zapping over their heads and into the trees to their rear.

  A French rider shot by, precariously hanging in the saddle, and Blake watched as Nicholas leaped to his feet and made a thrust at the man, sending him tumbling into a pile of fallen bowmen. He watched the horse bolt down the field, hurdling the fallen until it too fell prey to a thunder of arrows, its legs giving way as it crashed to the ground, quivering. Dead.

  Blake caught the indecision on Nicholas’s face as he wiped blood from his sword. Dal wiped a blood-splatter from his tunic. He took in the scale of annihilation that encircled him. “It looks like there’s four French to each Englishman lying around us.” He grimaced, squatted below a large French shield and shouted to Bell, “How far to that place! What’s it called – Brantôme?”

  Mansfield pointed at the French who were now drawing nearer than any point of the battle. “Brantôme lies beyond our reach. Our position behind this hedge is more suited for fighting their mounted troops.” He pointed his sword northward. “They have dismounted and are advancing on foot. They can penetrate the marsh and will be through this hedge within minutes.” He gestured to Bell and Dal. “You cannot stay here like cowering children.”

  Knowing the French intended to attack his archers with massed cavalry, Edward ordered each archer to carve an eight foot long stake into a sharply pointed end and to drive the stakes into the ground at an angle that would impale a charging horse. The air was darkened by another surge of arrows ripping across the sky. They produced a deafening noise as missiles rained down on the French lines. They fired ten flights each minute and by the time the first landed, another flight was air born. The French cavalry charged amidst the noise of confused Frenchmen and injured animals, followed closely by the first line of dismounted men-at-arms. It took almost a full minute for French horsemen to cover the distance to the English lines, enough time for a further four volleys of arrows to rain down on the advancing French.

  The French charge was severely undermanned as it was caught by the ferocity of the English assault. Unable to flank the archers they’d no choice other than a predictable frontal assault.

  They didn’t see the stakes.

  Those who survived the arrows were impaled as their mounts crashed headlong into the thicket of spikes. Survivors, now retreating in disarray were cut down by further volleys of English arrows. Horses crazed and uncontrollable and with no space to maneuver caused havoc as they crashed into their own advancing footmen. To add further disarray to the French advance, their cavalry charge was severely hindered by marshland. As the distance closed, the trajectory of the English arrows lowered, allowing for the use of arrows fixed with Bodkin points designed to penetrate armor. Bowmen were now firing directly at their targets.

  As the field narrowed to one hundred and fifty yards, the French forces became compacted by those on the flanks who’d shied away from the hail of arrows. Fallen French presented obstacles to those advancing and by the time they’d arrived at the English line there was insufficient room to fight freely.

  The English pressed forward, easily cutting through their attackers. A tumbling effect developed. The French were pushed from behind as their front lines were forced back onto their own men. As their line spilled out towards the English archers, the archers downed their bows and grabbed swords, axes and other weapons, including those dropped by the French. As one or two attacked the French men-at-arms, a third maneuvered behind and slashed at parts least protected by armor. Exhausted knights were easily dispatched by a blade thrust through the grills of a faceplate or a gap in the armor.

  The slightly injured were unable to rise through exhaustion as the weight of armor holding them in muddied ground. They were trampled underfoot by the forward surge of their own forces now advancing from the rear.

  The English rushed headlong over the last few yards. The disorderly French line’s artillery had been reduced to a position of impotence by lack of a clear field of fire. French archers and crossbowmen, clearly outclassed by the faster, longer and more accurate rate of fire of the English longbow, were pushed out of position by their own retreating men-at-arms. By the time the French had reached the English line they’d lost all momentum.

  Nicholas, Blake, Bell, and Dal moved with compulsion through the foray despite the threatening clouds crowding the skies above Poitiers. The echo of clashing swords continued to shatter the air like a thousand blacksmiths beating on anvils. The fog quickly thickened as the panicking French crossbowmen, now depleted of arrows, ran blindly th
rough the white shroud.

  Horses lost their footing in blood-drenched mud as they stumbled to hurdle bodies of slain soldiers lying piled three and four high. Charging English knights thrashed with broadswords as their breastplates became splattered with blood, pieces of flesh and sinew.

  ***** Gardner Hunter peered into the hoard of sword swinging madmen and fought the urge to waste a single shot from his two clips. His fingers felt the Sig as he stayed low alongside a quivering horse, its body pricked by a dozen arrows. He looked about at the battle, at carnage some one hundred yards from his position.

  Hunter’s progress was hindered by a French soldier as he stumbled about in a final attempt to escape the routing. The soldier raised his eyes at the man in English colors and made a lunge as Hunter whipped the sword from his belt, sidestepped and drove the blade into the man’s stomach.

  ***** Blake swung his axe at a mounted soldier and missed. The Frenchman slammed into Blake. He tumbled to the ground hard and grabbed a nearby shield and held it over his head. Bell quickly retrieved a lance, swung it about, struck the rider’s head and dislodged him from the saddle. He landed alongside Blake who rolled away anticipating the soldier’s continued attack – but the Frenchman’s glare was lifeless – dead eyes staring at the dark sky - mouth agape – blood trickling from a small hole in his forehead.

  Blake shouted as another French knight raised his sword behind Dal who lifted an arm to block the sword and as he cowered in readiness for the blow a neat hole appeared in the knight’s temple and he collapsed forward across Dal’s feet and he was very dead.

  ***** Moreau and Campion scrambled through the marshland landscape. Moreau’s eyes zapped about confused at the sudden commotion to the rear of them. English soldiers stumbling over the fallen and indiscriminately jabbed broadswords at men lying impaled with arrows.

  Moreau scrambled, fell, rolled onto his stomach, came to rest eye to eye with a wounded French archer, who seeing the Englishman, resurrected himself made a death lunge toward Moreau. Dom rolled away, muddied and covered in what he thought to be sinew and pieces of flesh. Mine, he thought. He gave his body a frantic once over, realized the blood and whatever had belonged to a horse, or perhaps another soldier. Knowing he suffered no wounds gave him renewed vigor and with that thought he sprinted away from the horrific bloodbath. Campion turned, looked about, and with one foot still firmly on a swordsman’s chest, plunged his blade into the Frenchman and quickly darted off in Moreau’s direction.