The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter EIGHTEEN

The Lascaux Caves

September 18, 1356



Bell steered the frothing mount between large trees until she reached the edge of a precipice. A white cliff rose steeply skyward along one side of her. She sat tall in the saddle, looked back, couldn’t hear the pursuing riders. She touched the damp white surface and thought, the cave has gotta be somewhere here. She felt comfortable with the absence of the French horsemen, absence of their rattling armor. She thought Dumaurier could have Dal safely in Brantôme by now. She dropped her eyes to the left, realized the sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the river below, she thought, reason enough for those guys to stop chasing me. She looked ahead, looked for sufficient width of trail – felt she could make it and spurred her mount.

The warhorse veered off as she reined the mare away from the deadly drop, skidding into the side of the limestone precipice, its rear hooves digging grooves in the damp dirt. Bell misjudged the nearness of the slope and the horse’s rump slid to a painful halt as it slammed against the edge.

She was near paralyzed with fear as she dismounted. She strained to inhale short sharp breaths and the thought of a cardiac event flashed through her mind. “Not now, please not now.” She sighed as she struggled to gain control of her body, of her mind, and her chest pounded. Come on Patrice

– get it together, she thought. You’ve gotta get to Dal, see that he’s okay. It’s gonna take both of us to get Drew out of Castelnau.

She looped the rein loosely around a tree and moved into a deep, dark recess in the side of the cliff. Paintings of large animals decorated the walls. She mumbled between breaths, “I’ve seen this place in a book, these prehistoric paintings. If memory serves me correct this place is Lascaux, so these paintings are the real deal, not the replica tourists see back home. That river down there has to be the Vezere.”

The cave was carved from soft limestone, not by man but by the action of the Vezere River. Discarded clothing and stale food littered one area and odor of human excrement reeked from further inside. Fear of the Black Death had caused villagers to inhabit the Lascaux cave in hope the disease would pass them by.

She froze as a black rat scuttled on by, annoyed by her presence. She took a few quick steps back toward the entrance, then realized the rodent was more scared of her than she of it. She recomposed and raised her eyes upward at the cliff that climbed a steep three hundred feet above her.

Fifty-five thousand years had passed since the first dwellers decorated the walls with paintings of prehistoric animals. She looked back out along the ridge and spotted a scattering of huts built against the cliffs. She cautiously made her way along the trail, rounded a bend and spotted a village built into the side of the incline.

A plethora of thoughts flashed through her mind as she cautiously moved toward the nearest hut. The sound of running water caught her attention. She paused, moved to the left, parted a hedge of rhododendrons, saw the stream and fell to her knees by the water’s edge. She cupped her hands and scooped its freshness onto her face. Thoughts of Gardner Hunter flashed through her mind. She didn’t need a session on a shrink’s couch to realize her flame for Hunter still flickered.

Visions of how close she’d come to capture by the pursuing French riders flashed through her mind. They would’ve had their way with me, she thought. She blocked that horror from her mind and returned to pleasant thoughts of Hunter, to romantic evenings and hazy summer days watching children at play by the Santa Monica pier.

She wiped her face dry and focused on the village ahead, couldn’t make out any soldiers, a good enough reason to head in that direction. She watched two men grooming a white destrier and pondered if the groomers were French. Another man sat whistling, working on a saddle. She moved a little nearer, closed her eyes as though doubting the medieval setting. She refocused; the setting was still there. She saw an old signpost with the word Brantôme. The township was a rabbit’s warren of lanes, with fine architecture, hidden courtyards, stone huts and an impressive church at the far end of a courtyard.

It appeared from nowhere. The dog scrambled through the creek and cowered at Patrice Bellinger’s side. She caught a flash of red, lowered to one knee and stroked the animal’s head. The red vinyl collar held two identification tags: a green disc similar to that given to her in Zurich and a tag engraved with the name, Bruno.

*****

Hunter’s coordinates had him materializing on a rocky slope. He stumbled headlong into a tree trunk, felt on the verge of blacking out, staggered, and slid down an incline. His head struck something hard. Barely conscious and suffering severe concussion, he shielded his eyes from the glare, squinted, and faded back into delirium.

Consciousness greeted him sometime later. He pushed the chain-mail hood from his head until it hung loose around his neck. He heard movement nearby.

“My God, Bell,” he groaned to himself. She was some fifty yards off. He stayed out of sight and a moment later realized Bruno was sitting alongside her, enjoying her affection. He took advantage of the distraction and quietly crawled to a tree nearer the stream, rolling on a twig as he went. Bell heard the snap, looked about. She stared, waited

- heard no more movement. She looked at the dog and while giving the animal a comforting hug took a long few seconds to examine the tags. Hunter risked another glance, saw her inspecting the tags and knew she was querying the red collar.

She recalled the words ‘we sent abandoned dogs scheduled for euthanizing at the Zurich pound.’

“Bruno, you poor baby,” she sighed and gently stroked his head. She secured Bruno’s snout to safeguard against his barking, stared into his brown eyes and waited

- heard nothing. She turned from the dog’s sad stare and scanned trees behind her – still nothing. But she had this subliminal feeling that someone was watching. She stayed quiet, smiled at Bruno and gave him an appreciative nod. She created visions of Gardner Hunter and thought yeah, they’ve transported him to help us, Libra’s come through.

Again, the sensation someone was moving in the thickets. She allowed a minute to pass, placed her hand back around the dog’s mouth and held its collar with the other and asked, “Did you come alone, big boy?”

Bruno panted.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, so what do you say, shall we?”

She straightened up, brushed off her hose, and tenuously released hold of the collar. As she did, Bruno appeared to digitize – and in a nanosecond, the dog vanished.

Bell sat dumbfounded. They’ve taken him back, she thought. Maybe they’re checking to see if the system’s working.

Her eyes shifted back to the village, to a stately man stepping from a nearby hut, his head lowered to avoid striking the lintel. He caught her staring eyes and gave a friendly wave, a ‘come here’gesture. She smiled a masculine smile and strode awkwardly toward him – cognizant of her mannish disguise. She kept a low voice, a deep masculine tone. “I’m a visitor and am lost. I’m searching for some friends. We are Irishers. Can you –“

The handsome Frenchman extended a hand and halted her mid-sentence as the sound of thundering hooves approached from the far end of the village. Five riders split the center of the main street causing villagers to scatter.

The handsome Frenchman spoke in a panicked tone, “Les soldats du roi, rapidement nous devons cacher.” His look of fear precluded translation, his actions sufficed. He took Bell’s arm, pulled her into the dwelling. Hoof beats fired down the street as he moved quickly to the small trapdoor beneath a table. Bell turned to him and asked, “What is it? Why are you hiding from your own people?”

The question went unanswered.

They crammed their bodies tightly into the darkness of the hole as horses bolted by causing the ground to shake. When the riders were no longer audible, the Frenchman climbed from the hole, cautiously looked about, extended a helping hand and hauled Bell out. He pushed a mat in place to conceal the opening and paced to a window. He peered in the direction of the five horsemen now thrashing about in foliage at the far end of the village.

Bellinger could hear the commotion and didn’t quite know what to make of it. She was mystified as to why this Frenchman avoided the French riders as though they were the enemy.

He gestured for Bell to sit. “Vous n’êtes pas d’ici. Pas de la France?”

*****

Bruno materialized and leaped from his chamber into d’Artagnan’s waiting arms. The dog had been gone for precisely three minutes.

“Your man, he has arrived safely,” d’Artagnan said victoriously.

“And the dog, any issues?”

“No problems, Bruno is magnifique.”

*****

Hunter’s hard landing had left him with a slight concussion. He tried to stand but was floundering. He thought safer for me to lay low until I’ve regained balance and strength. He watched Bell as she moved into the village, squinted as the tall man moved from the cottage. He gazed at his Sig, slipped a finger on the safety, could have intervened but his vision was still blurred, his balance

- unsteady. I can be more of a liability than an asset he thought.

He relaxed his grip on the Sig, made a quick summation, one of his so called ‘field decisions.’ He moved clumsily about the perimeter for several minutes, taking rest stops, blacking in and out of consciousness. His need to locate Blake and Dal had precedence over the temptation to call out to Bell. An engagement in this village could complicate his assignment. He thought, gotta assume Bell’s in control of her situation. Then he thought where’s the dog?

****

Patrice Bellinger considered the Frenchman’s next move. She spent a few long moments awaiting comment. None came and she opened with, “I’m an Irisher. My French is not good. Je suis désolé.”

“You’re Irisher?”

He let out a hearty laugh. “This is a good thing, no?

Ecossais vous êtes? Ceci est alors une bonne chose.” Bell asked, “What is your name?”

“I am Maurice of Brantôme.”

He made a waving gesture. “This is where I have

lived since a child. This village is Brantôme.”

“Maurice, the soldiers have taken my friend, a

fellow traveler from Ireland. Do you understand me?” The Frenchman nodded.

“Good. It is most important that he is set free. We

have a mission that will save many lives, without him we

cannot save them.” She thought over what she’d said and

felt good about it.

The English had ravished Ulster and the Irish were

continually attacking English strongholds. Consequently

it was quite conceivable that Bell, Dal and Blake could

actually be in France as Irish observers.

“Where is your friend?”

“In Castelnau, if you’re able to help free him you’ll

have served us well in our plight to inflict serious damage

on the tyrant who rules your land.”

“What name do you go by?”

“My name is Bell.”

He glanced at her curiously. “You desire my

help?”

“Yes – can you please help me?”

“We are not fond of John and his murderous scum.

I have many friends in the nearby towns of Mareuil and

Issigeac, some work at the Mill, others at the farms that

supply the soldiers. I have six very trustworthy friends here

in Brantôme who have no love for John and his murderers. They make sport of the soldiers and will welcome helping to free your friend from the clutches of Jean le Maingre’s Castelnau. We have sympathetic ears across the Dordogne in Castelgard. Each and every man, woman and child can be relied upon in times of need. They too make sport of the

crossbowmen of Castelnau.”

He swallowed hard, took a deep settling breath,

and flicked a thumb toward the window. “These people,

they have no love lost. Le Maingre bleeds them dry of

their produce so he can place fine food on the tables of

Castelnau. Le Maingre’s men pillage our villages, taking

women when they have need of companionship; such are

all of the pigs that serve this king. English or French, they

differ not in their lust and deviances. You understand what

I am saying?”

“Yes, Maurice, I’m sorry.”

“There are many items abandoned by John’s men

when they sought refuge in the cave fortresses. They

abandoned their armor, their shields and their helms in

their effort to blend with surrounding villagers.” He paced

about the room for a minute as Bell awaited his next words.

“We shall dress as French knights and ride into Castelnau

escorting our prisoner.”

“Prisoner?”

“Yes, their eyes will see you dressed as one of

Edward’s men. Your arrival will bring cheers. Their minds

will not question our escorting a prisoner into Castelnau.

They will welcome us. English and Irish prisoners are well

received guests of King John. Once inside we will see

what destiny has in hand. Remain here, rest easy my young

friend. I shall return shortly.”

Twenty minutes passed.

Maurice sauntered back, followed by six young

men, none of shaving age. They exchanged glances as

Maurice explained Bell’s predicament. She was a silent

observer during the discussion, exchanging occasional smiles with the group. Maurice gestured at Bell. “So then, it is agreed, we are yours. We share common dislikes of le Maingre.” He waved a palm across the six friendly faces. “The soldiers have twice taken liberties with his sister,” and he pointed at a blonde haired kid who nodded and lowered

his watery eyes in a saddened way.

The blonde haired kid raised a hand.

“What is it, Andre?”

“I want the pig to myself.”

Maurice turned to Bellinger. “One of le Maingre’s

swine took the sister of Andre. This man is stationed on

the main tower. The sister has never recovered from the

brutalizing. She’s not spoken to this day.”

“What does he want?”

Maurice let the question go unanswered. He placed

a hand on the kid’s knee and nodded. The watery eyes

understood.

“We will go to the cave. Uniforms and weapons

lay there. Come along, when we are wearing le Maingre’s

colors we will ride to Castelnau.”

*****

At six o’clock on the evening of September 18th with broadswords bouncing about, their mounts cantered in unison toward the moat forming the perimeter of Castelnau.

Bell expected the entrance to be heavily fortified but this was a festive time and a social flavor surrounded the fort. Villagers gained easy access, coming and going at ease with their carts loaded with produce and rolls of brightly colored cloth.

On occasions when le Maingre was not in residence, a smaller compliment of thirty crossbowmen under the supervision of a corporal saw to the protection of Castelnau. Should a threat arise, the local populace would augment fortification. When it came to the castle proper, the defensive quality of Castelnau was paramount to le Maingre. His moving from place to place with large retinues consumed food supplies at an alarming rate, and such a large entourage required more food than any single village could supply.

On this day, le Maingre was in Castelnau.