The Lucifer Sanction

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 man 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.

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 motherf*cker. My head’s pounding.”

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

“Aw f*ck!”

“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, “F*ck 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.