The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter TWENTY

Leap of Faith

September 19, 1356



On September 19, 1356, English forces under the command of Edward Prince of Wales were about to deliver the second of three devastating defeats on the French.

It began decades earlier when England and France fought for control of ancestral held English fiefs in Normandy and Guyenne. The struggle evolved into a war over territory and the rule of France, a struggle that spanned over one hundred years.

Edward’s forces enjoyed success in land and sea battles, and in 1346 dealt a crippling blow to the French at the Battle of Crécy. A peace treaty and the first major outbreak of the pandemic slowed the war to a crawl following Crécy, and in 1355 King Edward III resumed England’s campaign against the French.

Edward divided his armies, hoping to keep the French off guard, to keep them from massing their forces in one location. As Henry, Duke of Lancaster, engaged the French in Normandy, Edward laid siege to Calais.

Later to be known as the Black Prince, Edward was to set out with his Anglo-Gascon army on a chevauchée, a favored English tactic of the day, a strategy wreaking havoc on French populace. A chevauchée consisted of advancing English forces burning towns and crops and looting anything of value, leaving French farmers without crops and subsequently with no produce to sell, no way to pay their taxes, and no taxes of course - meant no war funding. It was a catch twenty-two for John, the French king.

Raids by the English led French peasants to question the authority of their government - question its ability to protect them, especially as there had been very little opposition mounted by French forces to the English looting and pillaging.

Outside the quite town of Poitiers the armies gathered to do battle on September 19, 1356. Three of Edward’s divisions dismounted in readiness, the forward two under the command of the Earls of Salisbury and Warwick. The backup reserve division was under Edward’s command, while Jean de Grailly led a highly skilled group of handpicked English cavalry.

The formation was typical of the battle plan employed by the English in previous encounters. Their infantry was so well equipped with longbows and was far superior to the cumbersome French knights. The French, unable to withstand a shower of rapidly fired English arrows made easy targets, and this tactic set the scene for the majority of English victories of the 14th century.

*****

Blake’s eyes darted about, scanning the mass of warriors, looking about as men scurried to take up positions. The scene was terrifying as thousands of arrows rained down on horsemen, soldiers falling, horses agonizing, pin cushions with little to protect them from vertically descending missiles.

“We’ve gotta figure out how . . .” No sooner had Blake uttered the words than another onslaught of arrows thumped into the ground around them

Dal shouted, “They’re coming from our rear! We’re wide open!”

Nicholas leaped from his mount and shoved Blake to the ground, quickly huddled over him with his shield forming a shelter. Arrows bounced off as Dal quickly took up a position alongside the pair. Blake shouted to Bell as she chose took cover tightly pressed against a fallen charger, its legs quivering as remnants of life messed with its nervous system.

Nicholas gestured behind them. “We have the woods to protect our backs,” he yelled. “The French can only advance on us from . . .” and he pointed ahead then off to his right.

Bell turned to Dal. “I wish I’d gone to Brantôme with Maurice, it’s such a peaceful place.”

Dal thought about it for a minute. “I’d like to see that.” He let the image go and gazed at reality. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

It was their last peaceful exchange. The two forward divisions of English formed wide columns of foot soldiers, flanked by bowmen and archers filling the skies with English arrows that pelted down on screaming French forces, striking them from both front and sides - forcing the charging French into a funnel formation.

They crowded onto each other in panic, sheltering from the aerial onslaught. Crammed as they were, shoulder to shoulder, they had no room to swing their weapons and absolutely no room to raise their crossbows.

Numbering in excess of twenty thousand, the French moved forward like ants streaming endlessly toward Edwards archers who stood up to the onslaught. They responded to the French attack by firing an arrow every eight seconds.

Blake pointed at the charging forces and called to Sir Nicholas, “We haven’t a chance – they outnumber us three to one.”

The leading French division under the command of Clermont and Audrehem was made up of two small groups, each consisting of two hundred and fifty riders. The remainder dismounted and fought on foot. This was not their forte and the tactic would prove fateful.

The Duke of Normandy meanwhile led the second, third, and fourth divisions, along with the Duke of Orleans and the French King respectively. The Black Prince made a bold and unexpected decision as the French trudged across the field toward the English ranks. He ordered his army out from behind the hedge, raised his sword, and made a howling shout. “No Prisoners!”

Blake and Dal stood, and each gave a bewildered look to Nicholas. There was a long pause and Bell moved quickly to the knight’s side. “Why are we leaving this area?” Bell asked. “We’re safe here, the hedge is protecting us.”

Dal added, “We’ve gotta stay back, we sure as hell don’t need to be involved in this.”

Bell nodded as all four dropped low and flurries of arrows flew by, zapping over their heads and into the trees to their rear.

A French rider shot by, precariously hanging in the saddle, and Blake watched as Nicholas leaped to his feet and made a thrust at the man, sending him tumbling into a pile of fallen bowmen. He watched the horse bolt down the field, hurdling the fallen until it too fell prey to a thunder of arrows, its legs giving way as it crashed to the ground, quivering. Dead.

Blake caught the indecision on Nicholas’s face as he wiped blood from his sword. Dal wiped a blood-splatter from his tunic. He took in the scale of annihilation that encircled him. “It looks like there’s four French to each Englishman lying around us.” He grimaced, squatted below a large French shield and shouted to Bell, “How far to that place! What’s it called – Brantôme?”

Mansfield pointed at the French who were now drawing nearer than any point of the battle. “Brantôme lies beyond our reach. Our position behind this hedge is more suited for fighting their mounted troops.” He pointed his sword northward. “They have dismounted and are advancing on foot. They can penetrate the marsh and will be through this hedge within minutes.” He gestured to Bell and Dal. “You cannot stay here like cowering children.”

Knowing the French intended to attack his archers with massed cavalry, Edward ordered each archer to carve an eight foot long stake into a sharply pointed end and to drive the stakes into the ground at an angle that would impale a charging horse. The air was darkened by another surge of arrows ripping across the sky. They produced a deafening noise as missiles rained down on the French lines. They fired ten flights each minute and by the time the first landed, another flight was air born. The French cavalry charged amidst the noise of confused Frenchmen and injured animals, followed closely by the first line of dismounted men-at-arms. It took almost a full minute for French horsemen to cover the distance to the English lines, enough time for a further four volleys of arrows to rain down on the advancing French.

The French charge was severely undermanned as it was caught by the ferocity of the English assault. Unable to flank the archers they’d no choice other than a predictable frontal assault.

They didn’t see the stakes.

Those who survived the arrows were impaled as their mounts crashed headlong into the thicket of spikes. Survivors, now retreating in disarray were cut down by further volleys of English arrows. Horses crazed and uncontrollable and with no space to maneuver caused havoc as they crashed into their own advancing footmen. To add further disarray to the French advance, their cavalry charge was severely hindered by marshland. As the distance closed, the trajectory of the English arrows lowered, allowing for the use of arrows fixed with Bodkin points designed to penetrate armor. Bowmen were now firing directly at their targets.

As the field narrowed to one hundred and fifty yards, the French forces became compacted by those on the flanks who’d shied away from the hail of arrows. Fallen French presented obstacles to those advancing and by the time they’d arrived at the English line there was insufficient room to fight freely.

The English pressed forward, easily cutting through their attackers. A tumbling effect developed. The French were pushed from behind as their front lines were forced back onto their own men. As their line spilled out towards the English archers, the archers downed their bows and grabbed swords, axes and other weapons, including those dropped by the French. As one or two attacked the French men-at-arms, a third maneuvered behind and slashed at parts least protected by armor. Exhausted knights were easily dispatched by a blade thrust through the grills of a faceplate or a gap in the armor.

The slightly injured were unable to rise through exhaustion as the weight of armor holding them in muddied ground. They were trampled underfoot by the forward surge of their own forces now advancing from the rear.

The English rushed headlong over the last few yards. The disorderly French line’s artillery had been reduced to a position of impotence by lack of a clear field of fire. French archers and crossbowmen, clearly outclassed by the faster, longer and more accurate rate of fire of the English longbow, were pushed out of position by their own retreating men-at-arms. By the time the French had reached the English line they’d lost all momentum.

Nicholas, Blake, Bell, and Dal moved with compulsion through the foray despite the threatening clouds crowding the skies above Poitiers. The echo of clashing swords continued to shatter the air like a thousand blacksmiths beating on anvils. The fog quickly thickened as the panicking French crossbowmen, now depleted of arrows, ran blindly through the white shroud.

Horses lost their footing in blood-drenched mud as they stumbled to hurdle bodies of slain soldiers lying piled three and four high. Charging English knights thrashed with broadswords as their breastplates became splattered with blood, pieces of flesh and sinew.

*****

Gardner Hunter peered into the hoard of sword swinging madmen and fought the urge to waste a single shot from his two clips. His fingers felt the Sig as he stayed low alongside a quivering horse, its body pricked by a dozen arrows. He looked about at the battle, at carnage some one hundred yards from his position.

Hunter’s progress was hindered by a French soldier as he stumbled about in a final attempt to escape the routing. The soldier raised his eyes at the man in English colors and made a lunge as Hunter whipped the sword from his belt, sidestepped and drove the blade into the man’s stomach.

*****

Blake swung his axe at a mounted soldier and missed. The Frenchman slammed into Blake. He tumbled to the ground hard and grabbed a nearby shield and held it over his head. Bell quickly retrieved a lance, swung it about, struck the rider’s head and dislodged him from the saddle. He landed alongside Blake who rolled away anticipating the soldier’s continued attack – but the Frenchman’s glare was lifeless – dead eyes staring at the dark sky - mouth agape – blood trickling from a small hole in his forehead.

Blake shouted as another French knight raised his sword behind Dal who lifted an arm to block the sword and as he cowered in readiness for the blow a neat hole appeared in the knight’s temple and he collapsed forward across Dal’s feet and he was very dead.

*****

Moreau and Campion scrambled through the marshland landscape. Moreau’s eyes zapped about confused at the sudden commotion to the rear of them. English soldiers stumbling over the fallen and indiscriminately jabbed broadswords at men lying impaled with arrows.

Moreau scrambled, fell, rolled onto his stomach, came to rest eye to eye with a wounded French archer, who seeing the Englishman, resurrected himself made a death lunge toward Moreau. Dom rolled away, muddied and covered in what he thought to be sinew and pieces of flesh. Mine, he thought. He gave his body a frantic once over, realized the blood and whatever had belonged to a horse, or perhaps another soldier. Knowing he suffered no wounds gave him renewed vigor and with that thought he sprinted away from the horrific bloodbath. Campion turned, looked about, and with one foot still firmly on a swordsman’s chest, plunged his blade into the Frenchman and quickly darted off in Moreau’s direction.

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 f*ck’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 f*ckin’ 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 f*ckin’ 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 f*ckin’ 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.