The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter THIRTEEN

Abbey of Nouaille, western France September 18, 1356

7.20 P: M



It was a bitterly cold September evening at the abbey of Nouaillé in western France. The aroma of food drifted across the ramparts of the English camp as Edward, the Black Prince ordered his army to take rest for the night. At seven-twenty, Edward sat by an open fire and prodded the flames with his broadsword, quietly reaffirming his strategy for Poitiers with John de Vere, the only son of Thomas de Vere, a descendant of King Henry III. He’d accompanied Edward on several successful campaigns, including the great raid in Languedoc.

“We are well suited for our engagement,” Edward said, gazing into the hypnotic flames. “French blood will give birth to rivulets and they shall swell to streams and the streams will become rivers. Their women, their children, they will all drink their own blood for survival. Tell me, what strength do you have in readiness for our victory?”

“The archers are at full strength, my Lord,” replied John de Vere, “and our numbers are greater than one hundred score of England’s finest bowmen. If by reason of strength their numbers are short...”

The Prince chuckled as he continued prodding the burning logs. “O Hell, what strengths have we here, a carrion death? Within each bowman’s eyes I behold destiny written. I shall further read such writing as our bolts rain down upon their mounts, for they shall feel the sting of England’s arrows. I doubt not the strength of our numbers, de Vere. You have stood me well and shall once more. It would be fair justice should our Savior grant a swift and merciful death to the French mounts, for ‘tis they that are steered into such carnage that their blood cuts deep into the soil and flows to their beloved Dordogne.”

“Aye, my Lord,” de Vere sighed, “their mounts are their strength and yet I feel sorrow for their legs will soon be cut from beneath them when our arrows rain down.”

“Contemptuous villains,” Edward cried aloud, “my ears are closed to their bootless cries for truce! Yet it angers me how our plans are at times known to them. It weighs on my mind. I cannot fail but ask myself how it can be the French have prior knowledge of what we lay to paper. ‘Tis though they have, hmm - forewarning of our intent. We laid waste to French forces at Romorantin. Their man, Jean le Maingre conspired with Lord de Craon. It was following his departure from Bergerac and our march through their kingdom that we dismissed with such ease the many French armies those two dogs sent into the fray.

“At Romorantin, de Craon and le Maingre lay holed up like the vermin they are, with no more than small numbers. For the eight days we besieged them I prayed to Our Lord for a rescue attempt by their king and his Count of Poitiers. Our Lord did not heed my prayers.”

The Black Prince drew a deep breath; spat a bad taste into the flames as de Vere passed another goblet of wine. Edward nodded appreciatively and raised the goblet. “If nothing else, my friend, France has given us this fine wine.”

De Vere lifted his goblet and toasted, “To John for giving us this poor man’s drop.”

The two drank in sullen silence for a few minutes, then Edward again spat into the flames with a look of distaste. “Aye, to John’s wine,” he grinned. When his goblet was dry, the Black Prince used a downhearted tone. “Your opinion, de Vere, tell me why you believe our trap went by the way? Under our onslaught the lords within Romorantin surrendered, yet this should not have been. Their brave king should have led forces to their rescue but he allowed them to fall. Why did he turn his back on their cries for mercy?”

The response was slow to come. “My Lord, I cannot say, your action in freeing those within Romorantin was in itself an insult to their king for his disinterest in coming to the aid of those within its walls. His actions, as usual, are not those of a worthy leader.”

“And news of le Maingre, did he escape our clutches, what news of him?”

“He lays low at Castelnau with less than sixty men at hand. Sir Nicholas and his bowmen will play him well.”

Edward laughed, “Eh? Think you so? With le Maingre’s armor ablaze I pray. ‘Tis good we torched his surrounds.”

“Aye, ‘tis true,” de Vere retorted with a grin, “Yet I feel our chevauchée of the town and castle did not gratify our men sufficiently for eight days of enduring the stench of French cooking that flowed each night across the ramparts.” He waved a hand in disgust and let out a chuckle. “My Lord, it appears the poor of France are not deprived of food,” and he made a belching gesture and rubbed his stomach. “I shall pray for those poor bastards, those French who must endure such cuisine.”

“By the grace of God and all that is sacred, de Vere - best you pray you do not encounter such men when hunger drives their anger. I hear the French relish broiled meat of fallen Englishmen. Hear me well; our England shall never lie at the feet of a conqueror.”

De Vere raised his goblet toward the flickering flames and in a half blurred gesture groaned, “Hear, hear, m’ Lord.”

Both hovered over the embers with hands outstretched to draw remnants of warmth. It was ten-fifteen on a bitterly cold September night.

The aroma of French cooking rode a chilled night breeze.

French Camp

September 18, 10.45 P: M

Four figures, resplendent in their attire of purple velvet tinged with gold brocade, sat around a large table sumptuously covered with trays of fowl, fruit and nuts.

“My Lord,” Baron Clermont said to the man draped in deep purple, “it seems we are well set for Edward. Our men will be far grander and our arrows will fall upon them like a torrent from the heavens. Our arrows will block the sun from the English dogs.”

“You speak truth, yet I have heard these words from your lips on other occasions, Clermont. What say ye, Charles?”

Charles, a short man with a ginger tinged beard and a thick head of knotted hair nodded. “I fear the English arrows will find our knights to be large targets, my Liege. Far better we risk being a target of less mass. Perhaps dismounting, taking the fight to the English on foot. My footmen will advance and lead, followed by the Duke’s horsemen.”

The Duke of Orleans disguised an air of false confidence. “It is a plan worthy of victory, Charles. My men are best positioned at the rear from where I will lead them onward to finish the last of Edward’s villains. What say ye, Clermont?”

“The strategy is sound. I will lead my knights, followed by the Dauphine’s infantry. Sire, your eventual engagement will be the complete destruction of what remains of Edward’s men.”

John gave a judicious nod, reached for a pheasant carcass and ripped a leg off the bird. He bit heartily into its flesh as an attendant poured him wine then busied himself adding to the cups of those seated among the war council. John stood, walked from the tent, gazed at the near full moon as Baron Clermont sidled up to him.

“Sire, forgive me,” Clermont said, “You show concern.”

“Beneath the glow of such a moon, Clermont, our plan appears sound, it appears feasible. Best we consider on nights such as this with so fine a moon, that its beams give visage to the hopes of men and less to their realities.”

“Sire?”

“My old friend, there are those such as Edward whose deepest desire is to have his name chiseled into history. Such is his folly. His greatest fear is that he might pass unknown from this world.” John let out a hearty laugh, “As though such would be a great tragedy.” The hearty laugh intensified. “Better he concern himself with departing this world without his compatriots. With God by our side France shall give him fair accompaniment on his heavenly quest.”