The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter ELEVEN

Maupertuis, France

September 17 1356

10.39 A: M



A hawk swooped down and disappeared into thick grass as it dove on a rabbit, the victim lurching, kicking, failing in its attempt to escape.

“Is this it?” Blake asked no one in particular in a tone of disbelief heavily flavored with disappointment. It was as though he were questioning the soft grass, the clear blue sky, and the strange silence. “This is 1356?” he asked in a bewildered way as he tried stretching his limbs. “This is the fourteenth century and we’re actually in France?”

Birds fluttered from the surrounding grassland, startled by the sudden appearance of the intruders. Blake sheepishly looked to his right and saw Bellinger a few feet away. He felt a rigid stiffness in his neck as he turned left to check on Dal whose eyes were tracking the hawk. Despite the atmosphere of possible danger, there was a bizarre air of surrealism. The whole world appeared to have stopped.

Bell lay there feeling insecure, hoping it was all a dream. “Listen,” she said softly. “It’s so quiet. It’s like there’s nothing here.”

For a few long minutes everything in this strange silent world seemed surreal. Blake stood, made a slow turn, cast his eyes beyond the grassy field and focused on a vividly green towering forest. He thought no pollution, maybe this healthy air makes everything greener.

“My God, it’s so amazing,” Bell said smiling – and for several long moments reality was placed in a far off corner of their minds.

Blake sensed uneasiness – as though something wasn’t the way it should be. He heard a distant shout, not a pleading voice, more one of fear, of pain. After a halfminute it ceased.

Dal raised a hand and pointed toward the forest. “I don’t believe it - this is it then - this is 1356. Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah - you okay?” Blake asked. “How about you, Bell – you okay?”

“I’ve had better days,” she groaned as she stretched each arm. “But that has to be the wildest trip ever.”

“Nah,” Blake said. “I thought our jump from that plane over Burma topped this one.”

“You think?” Dal chuckled. “Yeah well – then this has to be a close second. I’m gonna find that Campion motherf*cker and kick his ass. If he’d gone back as planned we wouldn’t be in this field in the middle of f*ckin’ France.”

Bell gave Dal a look of surprise. “That’s it?” she said. “That’s first and foremost on your mind – revenge? Like, it’s not sweet Jesus, what am I doing in the 14th century? All you can come up with is you want to kick his ass?”

“Yeah that’s it – that’s the first and foremost f*ckin’ thing.”

“Okay, okay - that’s enough you guys,” Blake said. “Knock it off.” He nudged Dal with an elbow and whispered, “Dal - help Bell - she doesn’t look too good.”

Again the shouting drifted toward them as Bell brushed Dal’s hand aside. “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Save your energy for all the ass-kicking you’re planning on doing.”

“Come on,” Blake said impatiently.

“Which way are we heading?” Dal asked, ignoring Bell’s comment as Blake pointed east toward a grove of towering greenery.

“Based on everything I see so far, this place is exactly what we saw in Bosch’s preview. I heard shouting so we better move to safer ground. The last readout Beckman had on Moreau placed him near Poitiers, so if we’re gonna find this guy - that’s where we start looking.”

Despite their unfamiliar surroundings, Blake found comfort in the fact that the grassy field resembled the landscape they’d seen on the screen at Libra, with its protective forest no more than three hundred yards off.

“We’ve got to get to those trees,” Blake said. “According to Bosch, Poitiers is less than an hour’s walk in an easterly direction. It’s around eleven o’clock – the sun’s almost directly overhead.”

The dense forest towered even higher than they’d first thought. Massive trunks surrounded them as the field disappeared from view.

Blake raised a hand. “You hear that?”

“I’m only hearing birds,” Bell said, whispering as she made a full turn. “Just the birds. No planes, no cars, and no machinery. Mowers and leaf blowers are missing too.”

The shouting grew louder causing all three to drop and peek over long reeds at three scruffy bandits beating angrily on a well-dressed nobleman. The larger of the assailants tugged at the bridle of a gargantuan horse as the smallest of the group thrust his blade deep into the man’s throat. Bell stood and instinctively shouted, “Stop!” The three attackers began running toward the new arrivals and within seconds two of the villains dived onto Blake.

As Dal stepped in front of the larger man, Bell dropped back, drew her foil, and in one quick move punctured the nearest man’s abdomen, sending him writhing to the ground. Dal froze in disbelief as the man slumped to a kneeling position, blood bubbling from his mouth and both hands clutching at his stomach. Bell lowered herself and stared as the blood flow intensified, coloring the man’s tunic a deep rich burgundy. Dal rallied to Blake’s assistance as Bell launched herself into a full aerobatic somersault, gaining momentum and lunging into the second assailant. She found a low entry point under the man’s rib cage and thrust the foil full length through the Frenchman’s torso.

The surviving man sprung onto the horse and fled the scene.

Blake shouted, “Motherf*cker!”

The shout was added to his short-list of ‘lifetime mistakes.’ No sooner had he shouted than the rider pulled the horse to a halt, dismounted and collected a weapon from the grassy field. He was now armed with an enormous lance.

“Aw Christ,” Dal groaned, “Now you’ve really pissed him off,” as Blake backed away and pulled his broadsword. Dal groaned, “Where did he get that lance?”

“Must have belonged to the horse’s owner,” Bell said. “Maybe the he was a knight. They must have mugged him and...”

Dal stumbled backward and shouted, “Sweet Jesus he’s coming at us fast!”

“These swords are useless,” Blake said. “Take cover, quickly, back, back!”

They scurried back toward the safety of the trees as the destrier drew nearer, steam shooting from the frantic animal’s nostrils. Then for no apparent reason the charge began to slow and the rider brought his mount to a stop and sat frozen.

Blake and Dal apprehensively stepped forward. Then in a show of bravado each of the three waved their swords over their heads, unaware of the mount thundering from behind them. Blake spun about as a heavily armored rider galloped on by. He perpetuated all Blake had come to imagine as the quintessential Knight of The Round Table. His helm displayed three large feathers, two red and one blue, his armor was a silvery black with red plumes and he carried a blue shield decorated with a golden eagle.

All three stood in awe of the spectacle, of the black destrier gleaming with sweat, its mouth foaming as the rider held his lance fully extended toward the ruffian. Blake and Dal winced at the clash of metal on metal as the dashing knight impaled the brigand with a proficiency that made Raoul’s light footed leaps appear constipated.

Bell kept her eyes on the entire spectacle like a child at a renaissance fair enjoying the show. Blake stared at the forest for a moment, shook his head in disbelief and then turned back to Dal as the knight slowed his mount to a canter and came to a halt at Blake’s feet.

He dismounted, inspected the three and extended a gloved hand. “It is good fortune that brings me your way, for death most certainly would have befallen you if my travels were not this route.”

Blake nodded. “Thank you for your intervention.”

“There are many dangers in this land,” the knight replied. “Though death has gone, the corpses are not too long beneath the soil and vermin still harbor their plague for which you must heed care.”

Blake, a little on edge, asked, “Who were those men, were they French?”

“Aye, they were John’s brigands from the camp beyond the mount. It was destiny that brought me your way. Had the rains not made my passage more dangerous, indeed I would have traveled the shorter route.”

Dal tested his rib cage and winced, “Destiny? Tell him again how we’re not gonna die here, tell him how we’re just passing through this f*ckin’ century.”

The knight gestured toward the trees. “These forests are fraught with French villains. They roam the region with mournful cries on their lips, not only for their loved ones lost to our forces but to the demon plague. You must have faith in preordained destiny. Your very existence depends on it. We must be on our way, dear friends. There’s much danger ahead, certainly nothing pleasing to the flesh. This sickness, this plague, it threatens us on one hand and King John on the other. Betwixt them lay nothing but bloodied rotting corpses, gallows, scaffolds, stakes and countless horrible instruments of death and torture, loved ones dying slowly by ways unimaginable. ‘Tis a countenance in sorrow more than anger.”

Dal slid a glance to Blake and whined, “Oh joy.”

Blake tilted his head to one side, fascinated at the knight’s words. “Honorable knight - by what name go thee?”

Dal saw humor in Blake’s attempt at old English. Bell quickly jabbed him and cut his mirth short.

The knight let out a rollicking laugh, “Honorable knight indeed. I am Sir Nicholas Mansfield but you have named me well. I am a sinner more than a knight of honor. If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending of all living souls, for I covet more than any man in England. Pray thee I will not lose so great an honor.” The laugh intensified. “Better that we reduce their numbers. That will be a favor to France, the fewer men the greater their share of French honor. Prosperity eludes them and Bourgeoisie bones shall be their greatest wealth.”

Dal moved closer to Blake. “You get the feeling this guy dislikes the French?”

“It’s a long queue,” Blake chuckled, “a really long, long f*ckin’ queue.” He turned to Nicholas and bowed. “I’ve heard of you, Sir Nicholas. I’ve heard the spirit of the gods lay within you.”

Mansfield patted his mount, walked around the massive beast and ran an eye over its legs, inspecting its fetlocks. He spoke to Blake without moving his eyes from the horse. “Your praise lays countenance to your wisdom,” he said, “but the words are spoken with a strange tongue. Are you not English?” He gestured with a gloved hand down the full length of Blake’s attire. “Though ‘tis clear your dress is of English origin.”

Blake hesitated for a few long moments. “Yes, we’re from the north lands. Our tongue is cursed with a wee Scottish influence.”

“Scottish ye say, hmm.” And he let it hang there. “Let us move on,” Sir Nicholas said with a smile that showed teeth surprisingly white for the period. “The good Lord shall guide us and light the way so we may not only begin well, but finish well, for I have word Poitiers shall be the demise of the French forces.”

They followed Nicholas, hanging on his every word, hoping to familiarize themselves with his dialect. They reached a small stream where the knight chose to rest. He slowly removed the bulk of his silver armor and then attended his sweating mount.

Blake stroked the horse and asked, “Do you have knowledge of two strangers to this area?”

“Strangers?”

“Yes, one has red hair and goes by the name Denis Campion?”

“Campion? The name is French,” the knight groaned, his eyes remaining on the stallion. “Who is this traitorous swine, is he one of whom I must be guarded or is he a friend?”

“Friend,” Blake quickly replied. “He is a friend. He is the one we seek.”

“Seek him among the dead rather than the living,” the knight replied. “There lay bodies burned, beheaded, drowned or otherwise murdered by the French swine. Whichever path we travel we must tread through the midst of dead men’s bones and try not to slip on their entrails as their crimson blood flows in rivulets. French crows give praise to our English God for the abundance of French flesh we provide along our passage; ‘tis indeed the French entrance to heaven, to their infinite garden of paradise.”

“Maybe their names will mean something,” Bell groaned, “Campion and Moreau?”

Nicholas turned to Bell and roared, “By my Lord Savior, yet another French devil. Campion, and now this, this Moreau?”

“Yes, Moreau,” Bell affirmed.

Blake cut in with, “We were told we could find him in the Dordogne region. Near Poitiers.”

“Poitiers? It is the direction in which I ride – I travel there to join Edward’s army.”

“You’re joining Edward?” Blake asked. “You’re fighting alongside the Prince of Wales?”

Bell whispered to Dal, “The Black Prince?”

“Aye, Edward,” Nicholas continued. “A mere twenty-six year stripling set forth by his father to lead our army to north-central France where we will meet up with two more of our forces by the town of Poitiers.”

“What of his father?” Dal asked. “Why’s he not by his son’s side?”

“His Majesty remains in England. He came by an adviser, a soothsayer of sorts who conferred upon my Lord such strategy and guidance that gave up many victories.”

Blake’s ears pricked up and Dal flashed a look his way.

“A soothsayer?” Blake queried acting surprised. “Does this advisory speak with a strange tongue such as mine?”

Nicholas reflected on the question. After a few seconds of procrastination he began slowly nodding his head. “Aye, now that I recall his words, aye - he does speak in your tongue - with your Scottish tinge, and that harbors danger for ‘tis also with the Scottish that we wage war. These men of whom you ask, best they have their route well in hand. Uncertainty of their route is secondary only to nurturing fear of the journey itself. As for thy Scottish tinge, best ye make it the tinge of an Irisher. French ears will bestow less observance on those from Ireland, but a Scot – if you are Scottish, you shall surely be dead should you fall into the hands of the English.”

*****

September 17, 1356 2.15 P: M

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 f*ckin’ long time.”

*****

September 18 9.06 A: M

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 f*ckin’ 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 f*ckin’ 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 motherf*cker,” 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.”

***** “My friend,” Nicholas said with concern as he rode alongside Dal, “We will need to rest and tend your wound. The blood is a deep color and this is of great concern to me.”

The attackers were upon them with stunning swiftness, riders wearing le Maingre’s colors led by le Maingre himself.

“You, Dumaurier,” Nicholas shouted to one of his lieutenants. “Take these two and ride to Brantôme!” He pointed to Dal. “See to his injury!”

The destriers veered about on the grassy field and charged toward the French, thundering hooves shaking the ground as the two forces met, horses rearing, swords slashing, blades cutting into flesh - removing hands that still clutched swords.

Le Maingre caught sight of the three fleeing riders. He reeled his horse about, pointed and shouted. “Those three, pursue them, they for sure are the Irishers!”

Dumaurier was aware of the chase; he signaled to Bell and pointed frantically away from Brantôme. “Squire, you must ride toward the Lascaux caves. They must follow you, and I will take your friend to the village. Hold back, let me distance myself from le Maingre’s riders; ‘tis certain they will follow the slower rider.”

Bell slowed her mount to a canter as Dumaurier and Dal galloped off at speed. She gave them ten seconds then booted the destrier. The warhorse picked up speed and headed away as the French pursuers split into two groups, two riders staying with Bell, the others pursuing Dal and Dumaurier.

Dumaurier’s words ran through her mind, y ou must ride toward the Lascaux caves. She could feel her body trembling, could feel the sweat as it squeezed its way between her tightly bound breasts, icy cold air ripping into her face, her eyes tearing, the air growing colder by the minute as her mount careened into the early night. With no more than two hundred yards between herself and the shouting Frenchmen, Bell tried to block the fact she’d absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of the Lascaux Caves.

Thirty minutes after the chase had begun the riders following Dumaurier and Dal were gaining ground. Dal gave an occasional glance at his wound and thought it has to be congealing; the flow of blood’s slowing.

Dumaurier pointed at the final slither of crescent sun. “We will stop soon,” he shouted aloud. “You cannot keep up this pace!”

Dal gave an infrequent smile, his eyes heavy, his posture showing need for rest as the cool air whipped at his face. He tugged the chain-mail hood up around his chin in a feeble attempt to block cold fingers of wind that too easily found gaps around his armor.

Dumaurier drew alongside Dal’s mount, grabbed hold of his reins as Dal slumped forward with each of his arms wrapped around the horse’s neck. He guided both horses behind a deep grove, carefully lowered Dal to the ground and removed the blood stained chain-mail. Five inches of shaft protruded from his left forearm, a few inches farther left and it could have proven fatal.

Dumaurier raised his eyes to the stars, his mind weighing the options as Dal slipped in and out of consciousness. “We could push forward” he whispered to himself. “But reaching Brantôme requires an hour of hard riding.” He paused and wiped a cloth across Dal’s forehead. “Your breathing has grown shallow. We can stay through the night but that would surely risk your bleeding to death. But then, if we ride the fifty minutes or so to the village, I will likely arrive in Brantôme with a dead man.” He removed his surcoat, rolled it into a ball and placed Dal’s head on the makeshift pillow. “Rest comfortably, my friend,” he said. “I shall return shortly.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dumaurier arrived at the cottage of Henri De Gaulle. His family had farmed the small outlying valley for generations and both he and Maurice were known to Henri’s wife. He felt certain De Gaulle would assist his wounded companion. With eyes stinging from the fast ride and cold night air, Dumaurier pounded a hard fist on the door of the old farmhouse. As he slipped to his knees his face scraped the rough timber of the door jam, snagging his chain-mail as he collapsed to the ground.

De Gaulle’s voice was a frosty shout. “Who is there, what is it you want at this hour?”

Dumaurier called aloud, “Henri, open the door, it is Andre – Andre Dumaurier from Brantôme. I am a friend of Maurice. Please, open the door.”

A six inch opening allowed sufficient light to filter onto the intruder’s face. Dumaurier let out a grateful sigh as he propped himself against the door-jam. The farmer recognized him and carefully assisted him into the cabin. Once inside, Andre Dumaurier went about explaining his situation.

Henri De Gaulle said, “I wish to take my family to Lille, I have relatives there, we must move the children to safer grounds. The English with their Edward, and even our own Frenchmen under the rules of the day – it is all far too dangerous here.”

De Gaul’s wife poured wine into a goblet. “Andre,” she said, “I recall when you were a mere child. I was close to your family, to your sister, Jeanne. I know what the soldiers did to her.” She gave a consolatory nod. “I have five little ones to care for. I fear for them. The soldiers are such animals.”

She appeared on the verge of tears as her husband put out a hand and nodded, “Shh, my dear – you will alarm the little ones.”

He turned to Dumaurier. “Our family has promised to place my boys into the Jesuit school in Lille. They will have the opportunity to learn the ways of fine gentlemen.” He waved a slow hand about the room – gestured at the four walls – at the children. “This is my world – my family. They will have the chance for so much more than I could possibly offer them in Brantôme. I must believe destiny has far greater things in hand for my little ones - and for their children’s children.”

Dumaurier sensed the acquiescence in the man’s voice, allowed a few moments to pass, enough time for compassion to weigh in, and then in a pleading voice asked, “Can I beg your help?”

De Gaul sighed, slipped a quick questioning look at his wife as she spooned beans from a pot. She didn’t raise her eyes, just flashed a consenting smile.

“We have a cart and will go for your friend,” De Gaul said. “But he cannot be brought back here to our house.” He pointed a quick jabbing finger at the five pair of eyes locked on Dumaurier. “These little ones,” he said, “they need their papa.”

Dumaurier nodded. “I understand.” He spooned down a mouthful of beans, gulped, and wiped a sleeve across his lips. “But Brantôme is quite a ride from here, I fear my friend will not...”

De Gaulle’s wife banged the serving spoon into the pot to attract her husband’s immediate attention. His eyes shot to her and quickly back to Dumaurier. “As you said, it is a long ride to Brantôme. Best we waste no time fetching your friend and returning. My woman will see to his wound.”