The Lucifer Sanction (10 page)

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?”

“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
motherfucker and kick his ass. If he’d gone back as
planned we wouldn’t be in this field in the middle of fuckin’
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 fuckin’
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, “Motherfucker!”
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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ 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.”