The Lucifer Sanction (21 page)

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.

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 motherfucker. My head’s
pounding.”
“That’s not the worst of it,” Bell said with her eyes
lowered. The discs – le Maingre destroyed them.”
“Aw fuck!”
“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, “Fuck 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.