Dom Moreau sprint slowed to a stumbling pace. He seemed dazed, moving forward partly blinded by fear, partly panic. He covered his moves with his shield; bumping away men engaged in hand to hand struggles as he edged his way through the mêlée with disregard for uniform or allegiance. Colors were now too concealed by blood to differentiate English from French. Campion followed Moreau’s movement across the field, and after a hundred yards realized his own strength was waning.
With each blow came extra effort, Campion’s response required energy he couldn’t muster. He strained to take one tentative step after another. He glanced at his side, the bleeding had increased.
He shouted at Moreau, “Dom - I can’t make it, go on without . . .”
Hearing the cry, Moreau stopped in his tracks and shouted. “Get your ass up here. You can’t quit now, we just need to make it to that hill.” He pointed ahead.
Between them and the hill, men on horseback wheeled swords about, the final clash of cavalry, most of which had perished in the blood soaked marshland. Moreau heard the noise – galloping chargers, men shouting. Four English riders circled the perimeter and entered the fray. They shouted as they drew nearer, eventually colliding with those fighting on the hill. Their attack wreaked havoc on the French horsemen all too weighed down with fancy armor. They became battle weary - were defeated.
Denis Campion was so engulfed with the battle on the hill that he failed to notice the man dragging himself through the mud, dagger in hand. Moreau saw the man reach out in an effort to stab at Campion’s leg. He brought his sword down with a powerful lunge and severed the man’s hand at the wrist. Campion stumbled back in surprise as Moreau made a second more aggressive plunging stab into the screaming man’s stomach. He twisted the blade with renewed anger, disemboweling the man with a two handed upward thrust.
“By God,” he said eagerly as he put on a very English voice, “these French make for such good sport.”
Campion gave a look of disbelief as Dom Moreau reveled in the bloodbath, his hauteur attitude placed more than a little fear into Campion. He stared into Moreau’s eyes with severely mixed feelings about his friend’s sanity.
“Jesus Christ,” Campion said in disbelief. “Dom, I think you’re really losing it, man.”
“Losing it?” He made a fist, punched the air. “Good observation.”
They locked eyes, stayed that way for a half minute. Campion slipped a hand inside his tunic, felt the stickiness, the warmth. He turned away, walked ahead - felt uncomfortable with Moreau trailing. He thought about it and slowed for Moreau to draw alongside. Again – a long disbelieving stare.
Moreau glanced at Campion’s side and acknowledged the fresh blood flow. “You’ve gotta rest,” he said sympathetically. “Let me take a closer look at that.”
The remnants of a church appeared in the distance. It was severely damaged and smoke still billowed from an adjoining structure. Moreau leaned into Campion’s ear and groaned as he pointed at the building, “We gotta reach that hill.”
Campion grunted, “Don’t think I can make it.”
Moreau pulled a shield over both their heads as a fresh rain of arrows pounded into the ground around them. “Can you make it to that grove of trees?” Moreau asked with his head turned to the side and one eye squinting through a muddied puddle.
Campion didn’t reply immediately. He was suddenly preoccupied trying to focus on three figures huddled over a French knight some fifty yards off.
***** Blake, Dal and Bellinger hovered over the fallen knight as Moreau and Campion stumbled toward them. Blake recognized the two men even though they were bearded and mud splattered. Moreau raised a hand and shouted as he waved his sword, “Are you with . . .”
Moreau’s head jerked back and he dropped to his knees and blood trickled from a small hole in his forehead. Campion’s eyes darted about and scanned the surroundings. He knelt, stared at the small net hole in Moreau’s head. No weapon in the 14th century did this, he thought. His face was mottled with confusion as he raised Moreau’s head and leaned nearer the pencil sized hole in the center of Dom’s forehead.
Moreau didn’t feel death coming.
A blood-bubble formed on Dominic Moreau’s thin lips. It burst and sprayed a red mist across Campion face as he gazed into his friend’s dead eyes. He turned away as though hoping it was all a bad dream. Wishful thinking. He wiped tears from his eyes and focused on the body of a French knight lying just a few feet away. The Lord of Castelnau.
Jean le Maingre would never again strike out at a juggler. The Lord of Castelnau lay face up, lifeless eyes staring at a few straggling clouds that intruded on an otherwise star filled sky.
Patrice Bellinger recognized Campion. She recalled him suspended in the chamber and aside from looking more haggard and blood splattered, there was no mistaking the man - no doubt this was the same person she’d looked down on in Zurich.
Blake and Dal approached with caution as Campion remained kneeling alongside Moreau.
Bellinger called aloud, “Campion – Denis Campion!”
The red bearded man looked about with inquisitive eyes.
Dal and Blake arrived at his side and stared down on Moreau. Dal knelt, felt for a pulse, shot his eyes from the body to Blake - back to Moreau. The disbelief in his voice was mixed with anger and hesitation. “He’s dead? What the fuck’s going on here? None of us can be dead!”
Blake pointed at the hole and said disbelievingly, “Look at this,” and he placed a finger on the wound. “If I didn’t know better I’d say this came from a nine millimeter.”
Dal grumbled, “Impossible,” as more arrows pounded into the ground, forcing them to raise their shields. Bell caught a glimpse of Campion quickly removing a small item from Moreau’s pocket. He placed it into his waist purse and caught Bell’s glare as she huddled beneath a large muddied shield. Campion smiled, looked about, gestured to Bell to move ahead.
***** Blake, Bell and Dal pushed forward amidst arterial spurts and dismembered bodies. She’d seen horror movies, but nothing portraying the reality of hand to hand medieval combat. Men with heads dissected, horses hobbling about missing legs, some with noses hacked away, ears loped off, and so many severed arms and occasional limbs still clutching weapons, the host body nowhere to be seen. But the horses shocked her most and she’d turn away from the maimed equines. She thought the movies never show the horses.
Nicholas brought his mount to a stop, stepped down and leaned over Moreau. He removed a glove and placed a finger on the edge of the neat hole above the man’s eye. He turned to Blake with a confused look. “What witchcraft is this that strikes a man down yet leaves no bolt or cut?”
Blake ignored the question. He gestured at shouting men clashing not too far from their position. It was then he caught his first glimpse of the man with the raised weapon. He was aiming in Bellinger’s direction. Blake began to shout a warning as a crazed knight stormed by, his sword about to strike a savage blow on Patrice Bellinger.
Blake shouted, “Bell, get down!”
There was a blinding flash and the rider was flung backwards off his mount. Gardner Hunter raised his Sig Saur to his forehead and tilted his head at Blake in salutation.
Blake yelled, “Hunter - is that you?”
Bell swiveled about and mouthed, “Gard – is that really you?”
Hunter sprinted across five fallen chain-mail clad figures, two drowning in their own blood and making gurgling sounds. One of the men grabbed out, causing Hunter to stumble. As he did he let loose of the handgun and it slid into the mud. Bell’s look of glee quickly changed to horror as the Frenchman thrust a blade at Gardner Hunter, but the blow bounced off his shoulder. Somewhere between horror and instinct, Patrice Bellinger lunged with her foil and the point slid easily into a soft spot under the man’s Adam’s apple. His head jerked back in spasmodic movements as blood trickled from his mouth. Bell stepped back, wiped the blade on the man’s hose.
Hunter retrieved the Sig and fired
off another shot at an approaching rider, then realized Blake, Bell and Dal were all staring, wide eyed. Before he could reply, another knight charged toward them, his broadsword waving above his head.
With peripheral awareness of the approaching rider, Blake began a counter move. Before he could retaliate, Hunter reeled off two silent shots and the knight stormed on by - a dead rider held upright solely by his armor.
Cries from French footmen rang out through the cold night air as the two forces continued the battle. Edward’s men-at-arms pressed forward, while archers now spent of arrows continued hand-to-hand combat with whatever weapons littered the field.
A nearby knight had seen Hunter aim the strange, silent weapon. He reined in and swung his mount about in an attempt to take in the stranger’s moves.
“You see this,” Hunter said pointing the weapon. “This is a Sig Sauer, has fifteen nine millimeter slugs. The next one of you primates that crosses this fuckin’ line is a dead man.”
He gestured an imaginary line and fired off a single warning shot. The shot placed a hole in the corner of the Frenchman’s shield, causing a moment of indecision. The knight and two comrades behind him inquisitively inspected the hole. To Hunter’s dismay it served to enrage them even further and all three lunged toward him.
He fired another two shots as Blake shouted, “Time to get out of here.” He moved forward and grabbed a hold of Hunter’s arm. “You’ll have the whole French fuckin’ army lying dead with bullet holes in ‘em. That’s gonna look great in the annals of history.” He lowered Hunter’s gun hand and shouted, “Let’s go. Go, go!”
Six minutes later they broke through an expanse of tall trees and into a cleared field and three hundred yards ahead sat the smoldering ruins of a church.
Blake guardedly led the way as they passed through remnants of the arched doorway. Only the stonework remained and the floor was littered with fragments of wood beams, old doors and possibly the roof destroyed by missiles flung through the air during the mêlée.
They dropped to the floor as a hefty object crashed through the gaping hole that was once the ceiling’s dome. It bounced off a side wall, and came to rest by Bell’s feet. She pushed it away as Blake kicked it into darker shadows. He raised a fast hand, placed it across Bell’s eyes and said, “Leave it. It’s a head. They’re using trebuchets to catapult body parts.”
Bell trembled at the sight of the man’s head lying just a few feet from her. Dal caught Bell’s look of horror, and using his foot, shuffled it farther from sight. He pointed at the Sig as Hunter slipped a fresh magazine into the butt.
Dal: “You got another one of those?”
Hunter passed Dal the second handgun.
“I was under the impression we couldn’t bring modern day shit on this mission,” Dal said.
Silence.
Dal fondled the handgun. “Okay then – so you got preferential treatment, wise ass – then you’ve also a plan to get us out of here, right?”
“Yeah well – I was under the impression you guys didn’t need babysittin’ to get back home.” He made a face at Dal, mimicked his words. “Yeah, I got a way. I’ve got us each a disc.”
The side door of the ruined church sprung open as a tall man clad in blood-spattered armor stood silhouetted in the opening, his helm had been discarded, chain-mail hanging loosely around a ghostly face.
The tall man drew his sword, widened his stance, took three steps toward the huddled group as Hunter jumped to his feet and pointed the Sig. The tall man ignored Hunter’s reaction and grunted in barely discernible English, “I fear no man. Are you cowards that hide from the battle?”
Blake stepped between Hunter and the man. “We are with Sir Nicholas Mansfield. We are Irishers.”
Hunter threw Blake a curious look. The tall man wavered, his demeanor giving up a little of its aggression.
Bell said, “He’s wounded,” and pointed to the blood by his feet. “Look at the floor.”
A pool had formed around the man’s leggings. He lowered his eyes, dropped the broadsword, and scowled. “God has spared me this night, but I fear I shall not greet the morn.”
The tall man wilted as Blake and Hunter rushed to support him. They moved the heavily armored knight to an oak bench where Bell went about unfastening his breastplate. A sword had found a gap beneath the tall man’s armpit and blood was running freely from the wound.
Bell glanced at Hunter. “If we can clean this wound it could make a difference. It’s deep but might have only cut into his muscle.”
Hunter made a quick assessment. “Doesn’t look like arterial blood.”
A few minutes later a tourniquet made from belts and old burlap was wrapped around the man’s chest. A few minutes after that – he was dead.
Bell wept, shuddering as she wiped at her tears. She whispered in a trembling voice, “When will it end?”
“It’s the hundred year war,” Hunter said, “any fuckin’ clue there?”
“Aw, that’s not nice,” Blake said, and flashed him an icy look.
***** The air was damp with a smoke-filled fog as cries carried through the dying hours of a frigid French evening. Small birds lay dead on the ground outside the church, and flames whipped about the remnants of bushes that were a onetime hedge that formed the perimeter of an adjoining priory.
Blake held his breath as another missile whistled overhead, a sporadic bombardment that continued throughout the night and disallowed sleep. Another head ricocheted off the altar, sending stones flying about them and coming to a stop some ten yards away.
“Wha’dya think,” Blake muttered, “about two hours to sunup?”
Dal looked skyward. “Dunno, can only figure out time when the sun’s up.”
“It’s three forty-five,” Hunter said. “I’d say we’ve got about ninety minutes.”
Dal: “How’d you do that without the sun?”
Hunter held out his wrist, tapped on his watch, and Blake gave Dal ‘the look.’
The few seconds of humor at Dal’s expense was short lived. Hunter reached into his surcoat and passed a green disc to each of them.
***** By battle’s end the French suffered another loss
- two thousand knights captured including their king. Another two thousand lay dead in the field. Among them lay the body of Dominic Moreau.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Neuberg
The scene at the village was totally transformed as geese scurried from the path of thundering hoof-beats and five riders destroyed the serene setting. The leading Frenchman charged forward, pushing fearful villages aside as Hunter scrambled back across the creek. He reached inside his surcoat, unclipped the Sig from its holster, gave the silencer an extra twist and checked the clip. He checked the nearest rider and took careful aim.
The warhorses pranced about as white foam covered their steaming flanks. The senior ranking rider moved in Hunter’s direction, halted, distracted by a sudden flight of doves some twenty or so yards off. Another rider, adorned in shining armor, entered the fray. His armor was noticeably unlike the battle fatigued protection worn by the five Frenchmen.
Günter Neuberg charged headlong into the fray, his broadsword still in its scabbard. The French horsemen stared momentarily, glancing from one to the other, unsure of what to make of this madman with suicidal intent.
One Frenchman called, “Cet homme est fou!” Hunter picked up on ‘this guy is . . .’ and assumed the last words could be something like, ‘fuckin’ crazy.’
The charging rider raised a hand and in the blink of an eye, two of the French riders tumbled from their saddles. The remaining three parted and allowed the stranger to careen on through. Hunter remained hidden, his expression stone faced. From back of a hedge he spoke softly to himself as he admired the stealth and precision of this killing machine. He smirked, “Hellooo, Mr. Neuberg.”
Gunter Neuberg wheeled his mount about as riderless mounts cantered away from the foray. Hunter stayed crouched behind the thick hedge.
He thought maybe they’ll do my job for me, if Neuberg goes down; all I need do is retrieve the sword and get the devise.
It wasn’t to be.
Neuberg raised his weapon, held it in a steady mounted position and fired off three rounds. The sound of each rider as he fell to ground resembled a drummer beating on a trash can. Hunter froze, awestruck at Neuberg’s firing skill. His training was telling him to take advantage of his element of surprise, but he procrastinated, remained behind the hedge, preferred to remain an observer. He momentarily reflected on his Sig, but in the confusion and speed of Neuberg’s assault his better judgment suggested he remain out of sight. There’ll be a better time, he thought, a time this guy will drop his guard. This guy’s a fuckin’ killin’ machine at its best.
Neuberg sensed he wasn’t alone. He flipped his helm back, looked about, to the left; slowly looked ahead, quickly snapped to the right, saw no one. Hunter stayed low, one hand firmly resting on the butt of his Sig and stayed in a near breathless pose for a few long minutes.
The killer sat upright in the saddle, absolutely frozen. He reminded Hunter of a bronze sculpture – a medieval Remington. And then as quickly as he’d arrived on the scene, Günter Neuberg cantered off.
**** The odor of rotting flesh filled the cold night air. Hunter reined the horse, gazed about; caught a glimpse of decaying corpses amidst deep undergrowth. The attacker lurched wildly from an overhead branch as he shrieked, “Yeeeaaah!” He grabbed Hunter from back, one arm choking, pulling, and dislodging him from his horse. Two more attackers emerged on foot, brigands wheeling swords and pounding on shields. Hunter was more annoyed by their insolence than their threat as they yelled incessantly as though the shouting would increase their aggression. Hunter pulled the Sig and fired off two rounds, casually disposing of the two drum bangers. The larger man, the one who’d pulled him from his horse, was confused by the silent weapon. He saw no arrow, no bolt, had seen nothing. Hunter enjoyed the man’s idiotic quandary. He smiled and gestured the man to move nearer, the attacker oblivious to impending doom. He gave a half-nod to the attacker and smiled. “My name’s Hunter. I’m your angel of fuckin’ doom.”
The Lucifer Sanction Page 22
