"I'm twenty-three."
"Then you can only have heard of me for a few years! And I must tell you that what you have heard is not my truth. My voices are true and have guided me honestly when I listened to them. They tell me of God's commands for me."
Kate bit back her first reply. Clearly, Joan wasn't the religious hysteric she had often been painted as, but just as clearly she wasn't going to admit to someone she had just met something so personal as what Kate knew had to be the truth about her voices. “I didn't mean to question you. But, really, God didn't save you, I did. I came here for you."
Joan reined in and Kate stopped her horse as well, the two gazing at each other across the small distance between them. Her face lit with some inner fire, Joan reached across to grasp Kate's hand. “Yes, you came. Do you not see the hand of God in this? You were His instrument in my rescue, and that is how I know you will continue to help me. You are a true companion. There is no falseness in you. My voices told me this, as did my heart. I cannot come with you. But you can come with me."
Kate stared at Joan, at Joan's shining eyes, at Joan's face glowing with conviction, and felt her own will yielding like a weak dam trying to hold back an ocean of faith. “All—all right."
"Then onwards!” Joan kicked her mount into motion again and Kate followed, slowly realizing as they rode that Joan was now leading, not her.
* * * *
They couldn't have gone more than an hour longer, following a wandering path along small trails and through low areas, before Joan began swaying in the saddle. “Your pardon, but do you have anything to eat? I have not been fed for two days, nor been allowed sleep in that time."
"Two days?” No wonder Joan had been on the verge of collapse. The inquisitors had softened her up in every way possible. Kate dug into another small bag containing a variety of just-in-case-they-were-needed food bars. Joan eyed the food bars dubiously, but after a tentative taste began wolfing them down.
"Have we anything to drink?"
Kate started to say no, but then began checking the contents of the bags hanging from the saddles of the horses. One contained a leather flask that seemed to have about a liter of liquid in it. “How about this?"
Joan took the flask gratefully, putting it to her mouth and drinking deeply before lowering it with a contented sigh and passing it back to Kate. Taking a cautious swallow, Kate found that the flask was filled with sharp red wine. Finishing the last food bar, Joan extended her hand for the flask again and drained it.
Not long after that, Joan fell asleep in the saddle, Kate riding as close as she could to help prop up her companion when necessary even though Kate's own discomfort from riding was growing with every jolt of the horse beneath her. She had ridden enough to know horses, but never for really long periods and rarely in armor. Despite the aches assailing her, Kate wanted to keep going even when the sun set, but the exhausted horses made it clear that wasn't going to happen. Joan roused long enough to lead them off the path they were on into a stand of trees that shielded them from view, their worn-out horses quietly cropping grass. Kate sat, her arms around her knees, watching Joan and trying to think.
Joan sighed happily before falling asleep again. “I shall sleep free tonight for the first time in many, many days. I can never thank you enough, Lady Kate."
Lady Kate? Apparently Joan had decided that Kate deserved a social promotion. The glow of happiness that brought (Joan thinks I deserve to be called Lady Kate!) soon dissolved, though. Kate really hadn't planned for a long time in medieval France. She was supposed to rescue Joan, then Joan would quickly and gladly agree to be spirited back to modern times, and some sort of vague happily-ever-after would follow. But Joan wasn't going along with Kate's perfectly sensible plan, even if that plan wasn't very detailed. She's amazing, though. No wonder Joan impressed, or scared, everybody who met her. But she's not exactly what I expected. Kate fell asleep herself while trying to marshal new arguments to convince Joan to come with her.
* * * *
The next day brought a marvelous variety of dull and sharp pains from sleeping outdoors in armor, as well as gnawing hunger since there wasn't anything left to eat. Joan seemed to be blossoming under the open sky, toughened by her peasant upbringing and well accustomed to privation from her long imprisonment, but Kate felt like death warmed over. The horses, surly from too little to eat and too short a night's rest, didn't help matters. Nor did having to wait while Joan knelt by herself for an extended period of prayer.
Eventually they got on the road, but soon Joan insisted on veering into a small village in search of food. “Have you any coin?” Joan asked Kate, cradling bread and wine that a peasant had brought from a tavern.
Kate reluctantly hauled out the single just-in-case real silver coin she had brought along. The image of Franklin D. Roosevelt on one side of the dime was already worn down quite a bit, so there didn't seem much chance that anyone would be able to recognize the coin by the time actual United States currency came into existence in another three or four centuries. But Kate paused as she started to hand the money over, staring at the coin. I'm worried about a single anachronistic dime? Yesterday, I blew my way out of Rouen with Joan of Arc, who won't be burned at the stake there on schedule, and I'm worried about a dime messing with history? What will freeing Joan do to history if she refuses to come home with me and keeps rampaging around France? What the hell have I done?
But it wasn't like she could turn Joan back over to the English. The English would probably burn both of them to death on matching stakes, which wasn't the kind of altered history Kate was interested in being a part of. Without a map, Kate knew only that they needed to go south to find safety, but the winding roads they were following didn't seem to care about cardinal directions. After an hour's ride they reached one crossroads that looked like every other crossroads they had passed. Trying to make out the words on the battered wooden sign to one side of the path, Kate wondered how anyone in this time found their way anywhere. “My kingdom for a GPS."
"You have a kingdom?” Joan asked.
"No, it's a saying.” Kate thought it best not to explain that it was from an English playwright, especially since Shakespeare had referred to Joan as a “foul fiend."
"What is a Gee Pee Ess?"
"It's kind of like a map."
Joan nodded, then pointed assuredly down one of the intersecting roads. “We have no need of maps. My voices told me this morning that we should come to this place, and to take this way when we did."
"Your voices?” Somehow that didn't sound to Kate like a good substitute for a GPS. When had Joan talked to her voices? “We need to go south to get to safety, and that's kind of west, I think."
Shaking her head, Joan pointed down the other roads. “The English have many parties out trying to find us. They have every man available on the search. If we go down any of those other ways, our chances of being found are much higher."
"What's so special about that road?"
Joan smiled. “It is the right road."
"Joan—"
"We must go that way. We dare not linger here to debate. Come!"
Kate found herself riding to catch up with Joan's horse as they headed down the road Joan had chosen.
As the morning and their ride wore on, any remaining glow of adventure faded as the pain grew in Kate's chafing thighs and sore butt and her mind worried about what a free Joan would do to change history. The rising summer sun beat upon her armor until Kate wondered just how long it took to broil a human being alive. Just after noon they rode through a village whose inhabitants stared at them both. They had almost made it out the other side when an old man stepped into the road and gestured for them to halt.
Irritated, Kate started to ride past, but Joan reined to a halt and gave the man a respectful nod. “Good day, friend farmer."
The man came close to Joan, studying her face, then smiled to reveal a mouth with few remaining teeth. Kate had been gradually getting used to the unwashed
fragrances of human bodies, including Joan's, but this man was particularly ripe. From the smell, he seemed to raise pigs. “The Maid. You are the Maid."
Joan smiled back as if to an old acquaintance. “I am, friend farmer."
"You still fight for France?"
"I will fight for France to my last breath, friend farmer."
The old man smiled again and gestured them to wait, then hobbled quickly to a house nearby.
Kate glanced around nervously. “Joan, we need to keep moving."
"No. Let us wait."
Setting her jaw with growing anger at Joan's assumption of command, Kate started to argue again, then stopped as the old man reappeared along with two younger men carrying heavy burdens. “You will need these,” the old farmer announced, unwrapping the bundles. In one, an assortment of pieces of armor rested, in the other, a sword and scabbard. “Years ago, a drunken Burgundian knight stayed here the evening, attempted to dishonor one of my daughters, and never left. He rests in one of those fields. Now you can make use of his armor and weapon."
Most of the armor didn't fit, but Joan was able to fasten on the breastplate, then belt on the sword. “My thanks."
"Will you touch my sons, Maid, that they may have long lives and find good wives?"
Joan gave a weary sigh, but then smiled and lightly touched each of the younger men on their shoulders. “I have no special powers, but I ask that God grant you long lives and good wives."
The old farmer grasped Joan's hand for a moment and kissed one of her rings. “May God bless you, Maid."
"And may He bless you,” Joan replied, before finally heading onward.
"I thought we were in a hurry,” Kate grumbled some time later, after stewing since leaving the village.
"But now I have a sword and some armor. The poor people have few who listen to them, who care for them. I do what I can,” Joan replied.
It was bad enough that Joan kept telling her what to do, but Joan also had been right to stop for the old man. That just made it more aggravating. It would be nice if you listened to me even once, you bossy little—Kate caught herself. This was Joan. She knew what Joan had done, and she knew how Joan had done things. Why had she ever expected Joan, of all people, to be compliant? And any student of the Middle Ages knew that Joan was absolutely right that few with any power cared about common folk. Remorse replaced anger. “I'm sorry. I'm really rotten sometimes."
Joan turned a reassuring smile on Kate. “You are not a bad person, Lady Kate. You came to save me."
Kate stared at Joan as a realization filled her, as clearly as if one of Joan's voices had been speaking a truth that Kate did not want to hear but couldn't avoid. I didn't come to save her. I didn't really know her. I came to save her for me, for what I wanted her to be. It was all about me, never really about Joan. Not this Joan, not the real Joan.
"Kate? Are you well?” Joan, who had just endured many months of torment, was watching Kate with real concern.
"I'm fine. I haven't gone through anything compared to you."
Joan shook her head. “I am not an easy person, Kate,” she confided in a low voice. “I was raised a peasant, without the fine manners of the court. My mission from God and my devotion to France consume me. I can be impolite and abrupt, and sometimes prideful. I know this, I sorrow for this, and I pray you will grant me forgiveness for my failings."
Kate, consumed with guilt, reached out a hand to touch hers. “Joan, you're a wonderful person. Really."
"Really? But I am a witch, a sorceress, and a heretic, did you not know? The English and the University of Paris have said so.” Joan grinned in a sudden mood swing. “In the name of God, it sometimes felt when I was a prisoner as if only God was on my side!"
Kate laughed. “I've run into my share of university professors who think they're God, and the English aren't the best people around these days. But if not for the English we wouldn't have had the Beatles, so I guess they get better."
"The beetles?” Joan's mood shifted again, to curiosity and puzzlement. “Beetles are from England?"
"I mean the singing ones."
"Singing beetles?” Joan laughed this time. “What do they sing? Do the fairies lead them in song? The common folk of your land must have the same fancies as those here.” Her laughter faded. “Such things are innocent, I think, yet the learned churchmen tried to use the simple old beliefs as proof I was a witch. My faith in God sustained me, but I hope He will forgive that I wondered sometimes during my ordeals at His purpose.” She crossed herself.
Kate's frustration came back, fed by her own clashes with the church she had been raised in. “I don't understand. I just don't get it, Joan. You're so smart. So very intelligent. Anyone talking to you can tell that."
"Thank you, but I can neither read nor write anything but my own name."
"You just weren't taught how to do those things! That has nothing to do with how smart you are. But then you talk about your voices, and God ... and..."
Joan turned a puzzled look on Kate. “And?"
"How can you...?” She couldn't say it, couldn't accuse Joan of mindless superstition, of being the kind of hysteric that history had often painted her as.
But Joan somehow understood, looking first startled, then to Kate's shock laughing again. “Do you think that being smart and having faith cannot live together?"
"But—There's no proof—"
"Proof?” Joan waved her hand. “I am here. Orleans did not fall, Charles was crowned king in Rheims. None of these are proof?” She laughed again as Kate struggled for words. “Lady Kate, my voices do not tell me to deny what is. They do not say ‘Joan, ignore what your eyes see, for the sky is red, not blue.’ I would not listen to them if they said such things, because by that I would know them false. The churchmen who examined me in my trial questioned my faith and my voices in many ways, but even they never could point to anything and say ‘this is proof she is a witch and a heretic.'” Joan gestured to herself this time. “Though they cared not for my male attire, as you may have heard."
Kate couldn't help smiling. “I understand your male clothing and fighting in battle horrified them more than the idea that you were a witch or heretic. It will be a long time before men can accept women wearing so-called men's clothes."
"I do not know that men will ever accept that!"
"Sure they will. If you'd come with me, I could take you to a place where they do."
Joan smiled back, then shook her head again. “No, Lady Kate. I could not betray my mission."
"But how can you still believe in that mission when everyone you helped abandoned you?” Kate burst out.
"There must have been reasons. I must believe.” Joan must have read Kate's reaction. “Surely you believe in something, Kate?” Joan spoke confidently, her eyes seeming to glow, her presence so strong that Kate stared wordlessly for a moment. “You may confess to me,” Joan whispered with a grin.
"Yes,” Kate said, unable to take her eyes off of Joan's face. “There is something I believe in, something that was a lot more than I thought I knew."
"Then follow your heart,” Joan advised. “Our Lord gave us both heart and head for a reason. Everything has a purpose.” She crossed herself again. “In time, we may learn the purpose."
Every argument that Kate had ever heard against such fatalism popped into her head, but faced with Joan they all seemed inadequate. Orleans did not fall, Charles was crowned king in Rheims. Both had been thought impossible before Joan came to lead the French army. The very idea of a teenage girl with sword and armor leading the French army into battle had been thought impossible, would be dismissed as fantasy if the historical record wasn't undeniable. How did anyone refute that those things had nonetheless happened? Would Kate be the one arguing that the sky was red if she tried to refute them? Anyway, fatalism wasn't the right word, was it? Joan might believe that God was dictating outcomes, but she used that faith to motivate her to action on behalf of others. “I just don't know."
<
br /> "Your heart will tell you if you listen,” Joan said again.
* * * *
Sunset wasn't far away when they rounded a turn and found themselves facing an even dozen mounted knights in battle-scarred armor. Kate froze, knowing they should run, but too shocked at the moment to react.
Joan sat calmly, though, raising one hand in greeting. “Good day. Who do you serve?"
One of the knights rode forward, his battered armor and harsh face telling of long years at war. “We serve France, Maid. It has been long since I saw you last."
"André.” Joan smiled. “I was told that one I knew before would find me this day. Who pays you now?"
"Duke Alencon."
The smile on Joan's face broadened so much that Kate felt as if the sun had suddenly come out from behind clouds. “My good duke. He is near?"
The knight shook his head somberly. “Duke Alencon could not come here. Nor could any army he could raise fight its way this deep into territory controlled by the English. Instead, he hired a few small groups of mercenaries such as we who could travel through the nets of the English and the Burgundians. We were to go to Rouen in hopes some opportunity to aid you might arise. Maid, there are English everywhere. They scour the countryside for you.” André turned a questioning look on Kate. “I do not know this knight."
"Lady Kate. She is my rescuer and trusted companion."
"Another Maid to fight for France?” one of the other knights asked in a wondering tone.
Kate hoped it was getting dark enough that her blush couldn't be seen. If these knights were looking for another virgin, they had found Kate a few years too late.
But Joan was already answering. “Lady Kate is a stout warrior who alone rescued me from Rouen.” The mercenaries all turned impressed looks toward Kate, making her blush even more. “If God wills it, we shall return safely to my good duke. Do you know of a secure place for the night?"
André nodded and, turning his horse, led them onward in the direction that Joan and Kate had been traveling. By the time night fell they had made camp in a small dell well off the road, with trees close enough by to provide a small measure of shelter as well as fallen wood for a small fire. Overhead, the stars came out so thick and bright that Kate couldn't help staring, astounded at their brilliance and finally understanding why people had thought that the heavens really did hold Heaven.
Analog SFF, November 2009 Page 19
