“He did,” Yolande agreed. “And guess who is Robert de Baudricourt’s lord, whom he must obey?”
“… René?”
Yolande nodded. “Jeanne also asked the duke to order René to fight in her army. René is not doing so… not formally, at any rate. But we are all working with Jeanne, whether she knows it or not.”
Gabriel wished there was more wine. Yolande smiled, and it was not altogether kind. She was enjoying his discomfiture, he realized.
“Rumors have been swirling about a Maid of prophecy for years,” she said. “I have investigated them all. Most are liars, memorizing the story and adhering to it, hoping to get a little bit of coin and some fleeting fame. But the stories about Jeanne were different. I asked René to suggest that his father invite her to visit. My son was impressed with what he saw, and reported back to me. I told him to order de Baudricourt to send her to Chinon, along with a letter of approval that the Dauphin could not deny. And we all know what happened there.”
“But you didn’t think we would see you in the darkness.”
“You’re right. I was there to observe, not participate. I wanted to know what she had to say to him when she thought no one else was listening. That both of you saw me was indeed a surprise—but in the end, not a bad one. You may have heard that Charles is somewhat hesitant. Perhaps even heard him called weak-willed.”
Gabriel blanched. He could not possibly reply.
Yolande laughed. “It’s all right. It’s true. There are reasons for it. He’s not a bad man. I love him, and René adores him. Charles’s life… it has not been a pleasant one. There has been more death and terror in it than you know. I still hold out hope that once we get him crowned, he will begin embracing his own strength. But for now….” Her eyes twinkled. “He needs a prophecy or two to convince him. Also, when both Jeanne and you saw me, I knew that the blood of the Precursors was strong in your veins. So as I say—while it was a surprising moment, it was a good one.”
“Do you believe Jeanne?” Gabriel had to know.
“De Metz has told me about the sword’s reaction to her,” Yolande replied. “I am not prepared to say she has come from God, but she is kind, and single-minded of purpose, and has the courage of true conviction. What I do believe is that she can help us drive back the English and the Templars they harbor among them. And for that, she has my full support—and that of the Brotherhood. That’s the best I can do, for the moment.”
Gabriel nodded solemnly. “So… what now?” The wine, he realized, had made him bold.
“I have been working in my role as queen, not Mentor, to gather a convoy of food and supplies to take into Orléans. Those under siege are suffering, and those who have attempted to liberate them are despondent. They have met with failure after failure. What do you think wins a war, Gabriel?”
Abruptly Gabriel wished he had not had quite so many swigs of wine, but he tried to think. “Skilled soldiers,” he said. “Greater numbers. Strong leaders. Good military strategy.”
“All of these things are good,” Yolande agreed. “But they are not enough. You need the simple things, too. You need food, and medicines. I will supply those. And you need one thing more. And that one thing, the thing that I believe can turn this war around and send the English scampering home with their tails between their legs—Jeanne will provide that.”
Gabriel thought back to the moment when Joan had grasped the sword, to the joy and the peace he had felt washing through him. To the utter certainty that all would be well, and no one would want for anything.
And he knew what the “one thing” was.
“Hope,” Gabriel said. “She’ll bring them hope.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The scene dissolved. How are you doing? Victoria asked.
“Humble pie is not very tasty,” Simon confessed. “How stupid of me not to have considered Yolande as a Mentor candidate. I knew she was a remarkable individual, too, so it’s not like it’s completely out of the blue.”
Don’t be too hard on yourself. Remember, the Assassins love to hide in plain sight. If they were readily recognizable, the Templars would have wiped them out long ago. Want to take a break?
“No,” he said. As soon as he left this room, he’d have to reply to Anaya, and he was not looking forward to that. And he was looking forward to continuing to “shadow” Joan of Arc. “Let’s get her to her army,” he said, and readied himself for the next simulation.
FRIDAY, 21 APRIL, 1429
As he rode beside Joan from the city of Tours to meet the rest of the army at Blois, Gabriel found himself well content. Odd, to feel like this as he was riding to his first battle, but how could he feel otherwise, considering how smoothly everything had gone thus far?
After three weeks of interrogating Joan, the prelates had informed the Dauphin that she had impressed them mightily. The king had gone from uncertain foot-dragging to swift and significant action. Joan now wore a full harness of plate armor, crafted specifically to fit her smaller, slighter frame. The Duke of Alençon had been as good as his word, and she rode on the broad back of a splendid white destrier. The sword that had awaited her at Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois was now strapped to her left side. It was no longer in the gorgeous velvet sheath; Joan, ever practical, had ordered a good, solid leather one made for it.
Also while in Tours, she had ordered two banners made. One was being carried by her confessor, Friar Jean Pasquerel, who marched with his fellow priests at the head of her army. The priests would plant this banner, which depicted Christ on the cross, in the earth where they would sleep during the march, and Joan had instructed all her soldiers to find the banner and make their confessions each morning.
The other banner was her standard.
She had prayed to her Voices for guidance in designing it, she told Gabriel, and commissioned an artist to paint it exactly as she instructed. It depicted Christ amidst the clouds, sitting in judgment, and a humble angel offering in his cupped hands a fleur-de-lis for the Lord’s blessing. It was clear that Joan loved the standard more than the sword, and once, a perplexed Alençon had asked her why. Gabriel had wondered, too—all of them had seen the glory and the power of the Sword of Eden when Joan had touched it. The standard was nothing but paint and cloth.
“The sword is beautiful, and my Voices did lead me to it,” she had told them. “But my standard… this is mine. The Voices told me what they wished to see, and the painter crafted it from my words. Besides, I will ride with it beside me, and all will see it and think of the Maid and the Lord she loves, who is behind them. I will inspire those who fight for France, and cast fear into the hearts of God’s enemies, without having to kill anyone.”
And she had smiled. Her light had shone, like a halo in the old paintings, and if Gabriel had ever doubted he loved her, he knew it then with the force of a hurricane.
But Joan had departed Tours with more than two standards and the armor and horse of a knight. She had many horses at her disposal—five coursers trained for battle, and several trotters for her everyday needs—and a full knight’s retinue: the steward Jean d’Aulon; two pages, Louis and Raymond; and, most telling of all according to Alençon, two heralds, Ambleville and Guyenne.
“The other members of her household are good,” the duke had said, “but heralds… they are officials, and they are granted immunity from capture when they perform their duties. They wear livery, bear messages, and deliver challenges on behalf of those the king considers to be important. This tells me that the king is convinced that our Maid should be treated with high regard.”
And finally, she was at the head of several hundred men-at-arms, foot soldiers, and archers.
Unfortunately, Jean de Metz was not among them. As he had intimated, he was at the command of others than the Maid—Robert de Baudricourt, as far as the eyes of the world were concerned, and the Mentor in the shadows. Both Joan and Gabriel were sorry to see him go. To Joan, he said, “I have not forgotten my promise. Wit
hin what powers I have, I will do everything to serve you and keep you from harm.” And to Gabriel, in private, he said, “There are eyes on you, whether you know them or not. Not all of our members are squires, or queens, or dukes.”
“I’ll miss you, Jean,” Gabriel had said sincerely.
The other man had clapped him on the shoulder. “I think we will meet again, Laxart. Keep an eye on her. You’re a better shadow for her than we could ever be.”
Joan wore her armor nearly constantly, but tended to be more forgetful about her helm. She felt Gabriel’s eyes on her and turned to smile at him. “You look happy,” she said.
“I am,” he replied. “You are on your way at last, to achieve what your Voices have promised you would.”
“It is good that we are finally in motion. I have but a year, little more, my Voices tell me.”
Gabriel felt shock crash through him, as though he’d been punched in the gut. Was she saying—could she mean—“Jeanne…!”
Joan cocked her head, gazing at him in confusion, then her eyes widened. “Oh! No, Gabriel, I do not see my death! That is forbidden for anyone to know but God. I may live to be a hundred, or die tomorrow from bad fish!”
The fear bled out of him so swiftly it left him feeling weak and sick. “Thank God,” he said, and it was a true prayer.
“But… my Voices do tell me that I have but a year or so to do what I am meant to do. This is why I chafe so at every delay. I must make the best use of what time I have, to make sure that Orléans is free and the king is crowned. And,” she added, “anything else God would have me do.”
“And I will be beside you,” Gabriel said immediately.
“As long as God wills,” Joan reminded him, and despite her earlier comforting explanation of her words, Gabriel felt a shiver.
The singing ahead had stopped. They crested a hill and, halting their horses, stared in silence at the army spread out below them.
Blois was a safe place for French soldiers. Even so, Gabriel knew, as many of them as possible would be quartered within the gray-white walls of the huge fortress. But there were hundreds of tents and little orange dots to mark the sites of campfires in the surrounding fields. Seemingly tiny horses cropped spring grass, and hundreds—thousands, perhaps—of French soldiers milled about.
Joan’s army descended, pleased to have reached their destination. As they drew closer, it became clear that Yolande of Aragon had delivered on her promise. Gabriel’s jaw dropped to see so many wagons and carts—quite literally dozens of them. Some were filled with sacks of grain. Others bore large barrels, presumably containing dried fish and meat. Most, though, were crowded with sheep, crates of chickens, and pigs, while several cows and oxen were tied to the backs.
“Jeanne!” The voice was familiar, and both Gabriel and Joan turned to see the Duke of Alençon. He cantered up to them on his horse, grinning. “Look what I have brought you!”
“My dear duke!” Joan exclaimed, overjoyed. “God is good!”
“And so is Queen Yolande,” Alençon retorted, with a rather impudent grin. “The Bastard of Orléans himself has arrived to meet you. Tomorrow, your army will be marching to Orléans!”
“You will not be coming with me?” Joan’s face fell. Alençon’s dark gaze darted to Gabriel, then back to the Maid.
“I will be supervising these glorious foodstuffs,” he said. “Think you the oxen will walk to Orléans on their own? We will have to take them up the Loire. But I have promised not to fight against the English until my ransom has been completely paid, so I cannot stand in battle with you. Yet,” he added, grinning. “But I do not come alone. There are two other fellows who, I think, you will be even happier to see.”
Two foot soldiers were loping toward Joan even as he spoke. Joan turned, confused. Then, suddenly, Joan went very still, her blue eyes wide. She reached and pulled out the small pouch, clutching it tightly. Then, to Gabriel’s astonishment, her filled with tears even as her lips parted in a smile.
“Jean!” she shouted. “Pierre!”
Despite her armor, she was off her horse and running toward her brothers a heartbeat later. There was much laughter and tears, and being brothers, they mussed her hair and called her the prettiest boy they had ever seen.
“We got your letter,” Pierre, the youngest, said. “It made Mama cry. Even Papa looked like he might weep.”
Gabriel had been the one who had written the heartfelt letter Joan had sent once she had reached Chinon. She had felt very guilty about leaving her family without a word, but explained that she had to go, and that she loved them dearly.
“I keep the ring they gave me in here, always close to my heart, along with a few other things that are special to me,” she told them, touching again the pouch she had begun wearing since Chinon. “Have—did they—”
“Of course they forgave you, and love you,” Pierre hastened to assure her. “They even gave their blessing to us and said we could come join you.”
“You’re famous, Jeanne!” Jean said. “People have started to come visit, to see where the Jeanne the Maid was born. We are making a tidy amount in lodgers.”
“Good! After frightening Papa and Mama so, I am… pleased….” Joan turned her head slowly in the direction of shouts of laughter.
Following her gaze, Gabriel saw a group of soldiers standing about, talking to a small group of women of various ages. The women were clothed modestly enough. But there was something about their faces—something hard and wary, even though they smiled and dandled their fingers against the men’s arms or chests. One of the men tugged at the woman’s lacings and bent to kiss her throat while the others cheered him, reaching for their own seemingly eager women. And abruptly Gabriel realized what was going on.
But Joan, despite her innocence, had caught on even faster than he. “In the name of God, I will have no ribaudes!” she shouted, and drew her sword from its scabbard.
It blazed, bright and glorious, as if white flame danced along its shining blade, so brightly that Gabriel had to squint his eyes against it. Before he could recover, Joan was running toward the cluster of lusty soldiers and the camp followers, her sword raised, her armor bright in the afternoon sun, and for a terrible moment Gabriel feared she would run the girls through in some awful display of the wrath of an offended God.
But Joan, so soft-hearted she created a standard to inspire her warriors rather than wield a sword that might harm the English enemy, would never do such a thing. She turned the blade and struck them with its flat, pulling the blow at the last moment. No one would suffer a true injury, but even so, Gabriel winced; the strike would sting, and there would be a nasty welt.
The other girls screamed and fled. One of them, a fair-haired girl about Joan’s age who would have been pretty had she not been so dirty and hard-eyed, hesitated, staring openmouthed for a moment before she, too, turned, hiked up her skirts, and ran.
Gabriel’s breath caught. Could it be possible for a prostitute to—
Joan turned her attention to the men, brandishing her sword. “And you! They are poor women who are hungry and desperate. You will not degrade them and your own bodies, which God has made in His own image! Do you understand?”
The soldiers, big, grizzled, bearded men who towered over the girl in the shiny new armor, all took steps backward and hastened to nod.
“Good. Do you see that standard?” Joan pointed to a small smudge of white several yards distant. “Wherever you see that, you will find priests. Go. Make your confession.” When they didn’t move, she shook the sword angrily. It still glowed, but Gabriel realized that neither these soldiers nor their women—nor, for that matter, Jean or Pierre—seemed to see its radiance, though they clearly felt something of its power. Even as he had the thought, he wondered about the blonde girl.
“Now!” Joan shouted. The soldiers didn’t quite run, but they did move with haste.
The Duke of Alençon was trying and failing to stifle a grin. “Careful, Maid,” he called, his voi
ce bright and warm with humor, “you might break that blade on the back of one of those whores if you are not careful.”
Joan scowled at him. “Do not swear!” she growled, then added, “You should go to confession, too.”
The Duke of Alençon threw back his head and laughed.
But he did go to confession.
***
The mists closed about Simon as Victoria’s voice came to his ears. I can’t believe Joan of Arc used a Sword of Eden to chase out camp followers!
“It’s one of the more persistent stories,” Simon said, “but honestly I thought it didn’t happen. I think it was Alençon who said she actually broke the sword striking one of the women.”
Obviously not. And I’m glad her family reconciled with her, though now I’m going to worry for her brothers.
“Both of Joan’s parents may have had some Precursor DNA, but it looks like it didn’t manifest strongly in her siblings. Her mother, Isabelle Romée, was an independent woman who went on some very dangerous pilgrimages. And Joan’s father had a nightmare of his daughter ‘going off with soldiers.’ He actually told her brothers to drown her if she did so.”
What? Victoria’s voice was shocked.
“He interpreted it to mean she would become a camp follower. Joan knew about the dream—and what her father had said. He was right—she did ‘go off with soldiers,’ but in quite a different manner than he feared. It may be the reason she feels so hostile to the camp followers.”
I don’t think she’s going to have to worry about that for a while, Victoria said, not after that display. What’s next?
Simon took a deep breath. “Orléans,” he said.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
FRIDAY, 29 APRIL, 1429
“Are you the Bastard?”
Assassin's Creed: Heresy Page 15
