by Deryn Lake
“I did not hear them clearly, and did not hear anything that I can repeat to you before I returned to my room.”
“What did they say when you had returned to your room?”
“Answer them boldly!”
Bedford left the session at the day’s end with an unfavourable impression, believing by now that the girl was either mad or being deliberately provocative. The sooner the trial was over and they burned the wretched creature the better it would be for them all, he thought as he stripped off his clothes and washed away the smell of the courtroom, anxious not to offend his mistress, the celebrated beauty Jacquetta of Luxemburg, who was currently staying in Rouen and would no doubt be more than anxious to hear his opinion of how the trial was going when he visited her that evening.
The hidden society known as the Priory of Sion, who guarded ancient secrets and who had become the underground stream of that outlawed organisation the Knights Templar, were in emergency session, two items of grave news having necessitated the calling of their members together.
On the death of Charles the Hardy, the Duke of Lorraine, early in 1431, Prince René, his son-in-law and designated heir, had received the ducal coronet only to be violently challenged by the late Duke’s younger brother, Antoine de Vaudemonte. A fierce battle had ensued at Bugneville at which Antoine, with assistance from the Burgundians, had won the day and René had been both wounded and taken prisoner. Isabella, his distraught wife, had promptly removed herself and her four young children to Charles, begging for René’s ransom, but he, having just paid the Bastard two thousand livres toumois to meet the cost of the expedition to rescue Jehanne, had been unable to aid her.
“So what can we do to help the Grand Master?” asked one of the Priory members.
“Nothing, I fear,” answered the Prior, who stepped into René’s role in his absence. “He has been handed over to Phillipe le Bon, who has locked him away at the top of a high and impenetrable tower. Unless his ransom can be found our hands are tied.”
“An ironic situation, both he and his protégé incarcerated simultaneously.”
“Ironic and dangerous to the underground stream. Let us only hope that La Pucelle betrays nothing if she is put to the test.”
“Do you mean torture?” asked somebody else.
“I do,” answered the Prior heavily.
“She will reveal no secrets,” said yet another man, a grandson of one of the original Poor Knights of the Temple. “She took her vows and will keep them sacred. Jehanne will never let be known the fact that she is a Templar, a full member of the Order.”
“But there is someone else who might,” said a shadowy figure from the back.
“Who?”
“Alison du May, the late Duke’s other consort…”
There was a ripple of laughter.
“…is proving dangerous.”
“In what way?”
“Drink has been the lady’s consolation since the loss of her partner, and in her cups she has been heard to babble and chatter about the origins of La Pucelle. Apparently she is prepared to go to Rouen to reveal the true facts about Jehanne, facts that will get the girl set free.”
“But how could revealing the fact that Jehanne is a Poor Knight reprieve her? I would have thought it would make her situation even worse.”
“Be that as it may, Prior, Madame du May intends to open her mouth.”
“Then it must be closed.”
There was a suppressed murmur. “You will visit her in person, beg her to keep silent?”
“I may,” answered the Prior ominously, “do even more.”
What had been a wonderfully beautiful child had grown into an absolutely stunning woman. At thirty-two, Jacquetta had the loveliness of a pearl, glowing and radiant, a certain bloom added to her fine-boned face, shapeliness to her small but perfect figure, understanding to her violet wildwood eyes.
“You must be the most perfect creature I have ever seen,” exclaimed Richemont, bowled over, remembering with a catch of breath that it had been he who had taken the virginity of this exquisite being.
“That is because you remember me as I used to be,” she answered, obviously not afraid to mention their youthful indiscretion.
“You were glorious then, now you beggar description.”
“And you, what lies behind that concealing visor of yours?”
“Scars received at Azincourt which I have no intention of revealing in your presence. Beauty like yours must not be sullied by disfigurement.”
“I confess that I am intrigued to see you none the less.”
“Don’t Jacquetta, for I assure you that I am not pleasant to look upon.”
“Then if you will not reveal yourself at least tell me why you have come into enemy heartland. I cannot flatter myself after all these years that it was simply to see me.” Richemont laughed. “Had I known how beautiful you are I might have come sooner. But no, there is another reason.” He cleared his throat, then said, “I have come about Rouen’s most famous prisoner, Jehanne Dare.”
Jacquetta looked thoughtful. “Ah yes, of course, I should have guessed. She was held captive at Beaurevoir, you know, the home of my aunt Philippa, Comtesse de St. Pol, and I used to see the girl there. At first it was sheer curiosity that took me but eventually I grew to like her.”
“Then you don’t believe she is a witch?”
“No, I don’t. But she is most certainly mystic. Naturally the court have got wind of that and are misconstruing everything she says about the strange voices she hears. I’m afraid John is of like mind with them. He veers between thinking she is downright evil and completely deranged.”
Richemont sighed deeply. “And there is no hope of persuading him otherwise?”
Jacquetta moved so close to him he could smell the lingering heady perfume of her hair. “I have been trying and even I have failed.” She gave a small reminiscent smile. “Do you remember how I fell in love with him when I was only eleven? Well, I’ve never changed. My body may have strayed from time to time but my heart most certainly hasn’t. And if I can do nothing to persuade him…”
Her voice trailed away and she shrugged her shoulders, the gesture saying more than words.
“A great pity,” the Earl answered quietly. “Because I have brought the one thing that even the great Duke of Bedford might appreciate with an army to victual and pay.”
“Money?”
“Her ransom. Twenty thousand livres toumois”
“Christ’s blood!” exclaimed Jacquetta and whistled like a boy. “Surely Charles de Valois hasn’t that kind of money! Whose is it?”
“Six are mine, fourteen have been funded by the Queen of Sicily.”
Jacquetta shook her head in wonderment. “It is obvious that you French hold the girl in highest regard. Only a king could demand that kind of fee.”
“Then you think Duke John might be interested after all.”
“I will most certainly mention it,” Jacquetta answered, “who would not?” She moved a fraction closer. “Richemont, do you think for old time’s sake…”
“It had already crossed my mind.”
“It would have to be under the terms of strictest secrecy.”
“Believe it or not I still love the woman I told you about on that wicked occasion long ago. I will not breathe a word.”
“It was very wicked but also very wonderful,” Jacquetta replied and, stretching upwards, kissed him on the mouth. “Are you going to remove your mask?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“Then desire and intrigue will run hand in hand.”
“Indeed they will,” answered Richemont, and let all the savage years slip away from him as he relived the past by sinking down with her onto the cushions by the fire.
It was the only thing that warmed her these days, the fire from her stomach when it was full of good brandy wine. For though she might indeed never have been legally married to the man she loved, Alison knew she mourned far more than his real wid
ow, the great fat Bavarian hulk who had been only too glad to see the back of Charles the Hardy, that wonderful affectionate amusing man who had come out of the snows to rescue Alison on the night Jehanne had been born, and had stayed in her heart ever since.
“Oh Charles, oh Jehanne!” sobbed Madame du May, and added as an afterthought, “Oh René!”
Thinking of the three of them like that almost made Alison sober again as she recalled the old proverb that events, both good and bad, always happen in threes. So, stretching out her arm, the woman who loved each one of that unfortunate trio poured herself another generous helping of brandy wine.
“Mustn’t mope,” she said aloud. “Must take positive action. There’s one of them I can help.”
“What’s that?” asked her principal Lady, equally drunk and slumped forward over the table.
“I’m going to help Jehanne. And I’m going now.”
“You can’t, Madame, it’s nearly dark.”
“Nonsense, there are two hours of daylight left at least. Go and give orders for my litter to be prepared. Tell them we’re off to Rouen to speak the truth.”
But a snore greeted this momentous remark and shaking the woman did no good, rather having the reverse effect as she slumped slowly down the bench seat and finally fell to the floor.
“Servants!” said Alison furiously and, tossing the red hair that had once been so bright and lovely, made her precarious way to the stable block to arrange matters for herself.
Yet when she got there it seemed inebriation ruled everywhere that day, for the principal ostler and his two lads lay sprawled on the cobblestones face downwards, and of the other men there was absolutely no sign at all.
“Drunken pigs!” exclaimed the mistress of the house, and hiccoughed loudly.
Weaving dangerously but with a look of fierce determination on her face, Madame du May tottered into the stables, straining her eyes in the hay-sweet gloom.
“Where are you all?” she called. “Somebody come at once. I have to leave for Rouen. I’ve got to tell the judges about Jehanne. It’s a matter of life or death.”
“Death I fear,” said a soft voice behind her, and Alison spun round in shock.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said angrily. “You could terrify people creeping up on them. I may have to dismiss you from my service.”
“Alas, Madame, I fear that will not be possible,” the voice answered.
And then two hands with fingers strong as wire were round Alison’s throat, constricting and squeezing until she could no longer breathe. It was as well she was drunk and the full horror of what was happening to her was dulled. As well she went quickly, abruptly ending the life that had started in a mean street in Angers and risen to great grandeur. As well her lifeless body was removed and buried so that no one could ever afterwards know the awful truth. As well she followed her beloved Duke Charles so swiftly, for an existence without him held no further meaning for Alison du May.
The very thought of coming face to face with John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, Regent of France, Richemont’s stepbrother, to give him all his many and varied titles, was so daunting after all the intervening years, that the Earl, mighty and seasoned campaigner though he might be, knew a nervous upset of his stomach and found it necessary to visit the garderobe in Jacquetta’s grand lodgings several times before the appointed hour came. Finally though, fortified by brandy wine, he settled down, glad that his face was covered by a mask concealing not only his scars but also the depths of his loathing for that most arch of all the enemies of France.
Bedford looked considerably older, the dark hair thick with grey, the hook nose pinched, the full lips, so like his brother Henry V’s, surrounded with lines, the intelligent face careworn.
‘He’s tired,’ thought Richemont. ‘He’s tired of all this war,’ and hope suddenly rose in his heart.
“My Lord, it’s been a long time,” he said carefully, and held out his hand.
“Indeed it has,” answered the Duke, and smiled a cynical smile which started in his eyes then slowly covered the rest of his features.
“And a great deal of blood has flowed.”
“Too much, Richemont, too much.”
“But that is beside the point. I take it that Madame has told you the reason why I want to see you.”
Bedford made much of pouring himself a glass of wine, bending over the jug so that it was impossible to see his face.
“You do realise that my position is difficult, to put it mildly,” he said eventually. “The girl is in the hands of an ecclesiastical and Inquisitional court. She is accused of blasphemy, sorcery and heresy, to say nothing of wilfully affecting masculine garb.”
“She is still dressing as a boy?”
“She insists on it. And with all these charges laid against her I really don’t see how she can possibly get off.”
“Then the matter is simple,” Richemont answered boldly. “In return for her ransom money you must enable her to escape.”
“What you are suggesting is highly improper.”
“But profitable.” The Earl drained his wine cup. “My Lord, we are both soldiers. We know the cost of war, know that no exchequer can go on funding men and arms indefinitely. I am offering you twenty thousand livres tournois in exchange for the life of a young female. It’s a bargain.”
“Things would have to be done in such a way that I could not be connected with the affair,” Bedford answered slowly.
“There are always solutions to problems,” said Richemont softly, his breath quickening at this first ray of hope. “Promise me that you will at least give the matter your consideration.”
“I’ll go that far, yes.”
The two men caught each other’s eye and needed to say nothing further.
“I will await your instructions,” Richemont replied, and bowed his head to hide the beginning of a smile.
*
The governor of Rouen, in charge of running the entire city, answerable only to the King and Regent of England, was Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who, though not young, was still a lean handsome man with eyes the colour of malachite, eyes which at the present were creased with amusement.
“He offered you what?”
“Twenty thousand livres tournois. Double a prince’s ransom.”
“They must reckon the witch very highly.”
“Obviously.” Bedford paused momentarily then said, “She is that, I suppose? A witch?”
“I imagine so. Why do you ask?”
“Simply because the girl is virgo intacta. I know. I saw it for myself.”
“You did what?”
“When my wife was examining her for lack of virginity I looked into the room through the squint. The girl’s not normally made, Richard. She and Satan could never have known the joys of fornication.”
Warwick raised a pointed brow. “Well God damn me! Is anyone else aware of this?”
“Anne, obviously. And I presume Dr. Delachambre, who is in charge of the prisoner’s welfare.”
Warwick put the tips of his fingers together and leant his chin on them thoughtfully. “What a very interesting slant on the case.”
“Isn’t it though. However, that doesn’t solve our problem. What are we going to do about Richemont’s offer? I mean we can’t let the girl escape, yet to pass up all that money doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“There’s only one thing for it,” answered Warwick, grinning crookedly.
“And that is?”
The Earl glanced round surreptitiously. “Walls have ears,” he said, then, leaning close to his companion and cupping his hand round his mouth, started to whisper.
Thirty-Six
This dream was so vivid she could have sworn it was real. She had been fasting again, partly because she wanted to, partly because she had been ill and food revolted her, and it was hunger and stress that woke her, except, of course, that she was really asleep, simply dreaming she was lying awake.
Throughout
her imprisonment in one of the castle towers, her time alone being spent in a small round room, her feet and ankles bound together and attached to a wooden stake, her wrists fettered as well, Jehanne had become convinced that at least one of her voices was actually living in the castle with her. Obviously not in the same cell but somewhere not far away, possibly in the room below hers, possibly in the King’s lodging or the Regent’s.
“What is your familiar?” they had asked her in court.
“No, my Voice.”
“Does it call you the Daughter of God?”
“After Orleans I was called Daughter of God, Daughter of the Church, Daughter of the Great Heart.”
“It is sinful to claim to be these things.”
“But I am from God.”
She had felt their coldness, their shuddering away from her, their feeling that if it were so easy for an ordinary person to communicate with the Almighty what need was there for churchmen. With every word she spoke Jehanne was condemning herself and yet her voices assured her that she was doing the right thing and in the end would escape death.
But now she dreamed that an entity stood at the end of her bunk, radiant as moonlight. It was a woman clothed in white, the most beautiful Jehanne had ever seen. Hair the colour of molten gold hung loose, flowing to the vision’s waist, and eyes like wild violets stared directly at her. Glancing into the comer of the room Jehanne saw that the three English soldiers who shared her cell, reviling her and occasionally forcing her to touch their virile members, only leaving her alone when they escorted her to the garderobe, had somehow all mysteriously vanished.
“Jehanne,” said the visitor in French, her accent educated, unlike the other voices.
“Yes.”
“Listen carefully to what I have to tell you. Plans have been made for you to escape from prison and when that time comes you must do exactly what you are told. So fear nothing and continue to be brave.”
“When will this be? I can’t bear any more of this. How much longer do I have to stay locked up here?”
“That I don’t know. But whatever happens you may put your trust in the Duke of Bedford.”
Even in the moonlight, even though she was dreaming, Jehanne felt there was something vaguely familiar about the beautiful face she regarded so solemnly.
