Assassin's Creed: Heresy

by Christie Golden

The conversation stopped abruptly as all heads turned to look at Joan. Several men stood around a table, upon which was placed a large map with various markers.

  One of them, older than Alençon but not yet into his middle years, smiled a little at the girl. “I am indeed Jean de Dunois, cousin to the king and called the Bastard of Orléans. I have heard much about you, Maid, and I—”

  “Did you give counsel that I should come here, marching past the poor besieged city of Orléans on the wrong side of the river, instead of going straight there where Talbot and the English are?”

  Dunois’s generals had varying responses to this. One, handsome, well groomed, and clearly of the nobility, showed very white teeth when his short black beard parted in a grin. Another, about a decade older than the Bastard, dirtier and more weatherworn than the others and roughly the size of a mountain, scowled furiously—and then his mouth twitched in what could have been a hint of a smile.

  The king’s cousin blinked, then replied pleasantly, “I and my generals—Lord Baron Gilles de Rais and Lord Étienne de Vignolles—who are wiser than you in this matter, as we’ve been here longer, have indeed given this counsel. We believe this is the best and surest path to success.”

  Joan’s face was bright with anger as she strode forward, almost standing on her toes to bring her face closer to that of the Bastard, who was taller than she by almost a full foot. “In the name of God, His counsel is surer and wiser than yours. I am bringing you better help than any ever came from any soldier or any city, because it is the help of the King of Heaven!”

  “Little Maid,” came a rumble from the barrel chest of the mountainous man. “You’ve stunned the king and his courtiers. I was there when you sniffed him out, like a clever dog. But you’re in the battlefield now. Listen to the men who have spent years fighting. We’re glad to have God’s help, but He’s not down here taking the blows.”

  Joan turned her scorching gaze upon him. “Which one are you?”

  He had been leaning on the table, regarding the map, but now he straightened and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He was easily six and a half feet tall. Gabriel swallowed. “I am Étienne de Vignolles. I am called La Hire.”

  “Well, La Hire, you should not blaspheme so,” Joan chided. “I have brought priests, and they will be glad to hear your confession. I tell you, my counsel does not come from my own head, but from God Himself, who has pity on Orléans and would see it free. Why are we not attacking Talbot right now?”

  The Bastard sighed. He threw a glance over his shoulder at his generals, then seemed to make a decision. “Come here,” he said. Joan, Alençon, and Gabriel stepped to the table.

  “This is a map of the area,” the Bastard said. “This is the city of Orléans. And yes, we are well to the east of it. You see these markings?” He tapped black squares of various sizes. “These are called boulevards, defenses constructed with wood and earth and stones, to protect vulnerable areas, such as walls or gates.”

  Gabriel counted. There were nine of them, most clustered on the western side of the city. He wasn’t exactly sure why simple piles of earth and wood would pose such a problem.

  “Their low height will absorb the impact of our stone and metal cannonballs,” said Alençon, reading Gabriel’s expression. “And they are manned by soldiers with quite a lot of guns, and the English brought their longbowmen as well.”

  That sobered Gabriel instantly. Agincourt had not happened so very long ago. The English longbowmen had won an almost absurdly decisive victory, and the thought of going up against them now was not a pleasant one. “We’d have to get through those to even get to the city’s gates.”

  “All but one,” La Hire said. He stepped forward, moving with a noticeable limp. He stabbed a thick forefinger down on the map. “Here. The Burgundy Gate is their one real vulnerability. The Saint-Loup boulevard guards the road, but it’s the only obstacles.”

  “We’ve gotten messages and small groups of men to Orléans through that gate,” the Bastard continued. “When we’re ready, we’ll instruct the Orléanais to cause a distraction.”

  “And walk right in the front gate,” said the elegant nobleman, de Rais. He still seemed highly amused by the whole exchanged.

  “And we are not doing that right this minute because…?”

  The Bastard regarded Joan for a long moment. Then, “Come with me, Maid,” he said.

  Joan and Gabriel followed him out of the tent. They stood on a slight incline, and the Loire could be glimpsed a few hundred yards away, glinting in the afternoon sun. A brisk breeze stirred Joan’s hair. “Our supplies are here, across the Loire from Chécy,” the Bastard continued. “Orléans is about four miles to the west of us. Pray you, notice which way the wind is blowing.”

  “East,” Joan said at once.

  “Exactly. The boats with all the grain, and cattle, and chickens, and everything we need to get to Orléans are still in the water. They have the current, but the wind will slow them greatly.”

  Joan laughed. “Is this all?” she said.

  The Bastard bristled. “We will have to wait until the wind changes, Maid. I have wise generals, stalwart men, and a city full of very brave people, but I am only a man.”

  “And I am only a girl,” Joan said, “but we both have God on our side.”

  She closed her eyes, clasped her hands, and bowed her head. Her breathing slowed and her face softened. The light Gabriel so loved began to shine, as if starting from her heart and radiating outward. The Bastard did not see it, and he was clearly struggling not to interrupt her prayer.

  Gabriel watched her face, the wind playing with her short, black hair, brushing it playfully to the right side of her face so that her left cheek was obscured.

  And then, her hair fell on the right cheek.

  Dunois gasped. He stared at Joan, at Gabriel, licking a finger and testing the wind not once, but twice.

  Joan opened her blue eyes and smiled softly. “God is good,” she said simply.

  The Bastard swallowed, hard. “I will give the order,” he said.

  The mists closed in. I can’t believe what I just saw, Victoria said. It’s no wonder they thought she was sent from God.

  “She didn’t even touch the sword, though,” Simon said. “The wind could have changed at any moment. A perfect example of really, really good timing.” He said it because he had to, because he was starting to spook himself. And because he didn’t want to even think of how radiant Joan, all by herself, with no Sword of Eden, was. “Another tall tale verified, though.”

  Indeed, Victoria said. I’d never heard of La Hire, but the other—Gilles de Rais, why do I know that name?

  Simon smiled without humor. “You may know him better as the inspiration for Bluebeard,” he said. “He squandered his fortune on plays recreating the events of Orléans, was accused of being involved in the occult, and… well, let’s just say that brutally murdering possibly hundreds of children isn’t the sort of thing one would like to be remembered for.”

  Really? Bluebeard? He certainly doesn’t sound like someone Joan would have liked.

  “He was devoted to her, actually,” Simon said. “Her death devastated him.”

  It could have pushed him over the edge. How awful.

  “Quite possibly. Recently, some scholars have suggested that he was framed regarding the murders, and was coerced into confessing. But considering a whole tourist industry has sprung up around him, the stain is unlikely to ever be washed clean.”

  Perhaps a mystery to investigate with your new approach?

  “Ah, now you’re really starting to see what I hope Rikkin will! But for now, let’s keep going.”

  SATURDAY, 30 APRIL, 1429

  The night before had been a triumph by everyone’s standards but hers. While the French distracted the English in a skirmish, drawing their attention from the road, Joan the Maid, at the head of a caravan of desperately needed supplies, had ridden her prancing white destrier right through the gate into Orl�
�ans. She had been welcomed with shouts of joy and tears of relief. The Orléanais pressed in close, hungry to touch her feet, her standard, her arms, even her horse. She was in their minds a savior, and the siege was as good as completed. The city’s treasurer general, Jacques Boucher, opened his pleasant brick-and-timber home to her and her retinue, and she had slept that night not in her armor on hard earth, but in a soft bed.

  But Joan had felt betrayed when, shortly after the wind shift that had silenced the French generals’ protests, she learned that the Bastard intended to separate her from her men. They would remain outside the city, while she, her retinue and a small handful of guards, would accompany the supply wagons inside. But as she argued with Dunois, Gabriel remembered the clean, bright gleam of the sword, and the gift it could bestow when held in her hands.

  “You will give them hope, Jeanne,” he said, as the Bastard shot him a look of gratitude. “Let that be enough for tonight. Because of you, the people will go to sleep with joy in their hearts and food in their bellies. They will rest well. Time for fighting on the morrow.”

  The morning had brought the news that Dunois refused to go on the offensive until reinforcements arrived. Gabriel understood the military logic behind Dunois’s caution—the Bastard did not want a repeat of the Battle of the Herrings. But he also knew how fiercely Joan burned to act, after so very many examinations, and journeys, and refusals. And her words, I have only a year, perhaps a little longer, ate away at him.

  “So… what now?”

  “Dunois told me the English have my herald. The one I sent from Blois.” Her eyes were fierce. “I want him back.”

  “Jeanne, you can’t just march out there and—”

  “Of course I won’t. I just want to talk to them.”

  There was nothing to do but follow her. Now he stood beside her on the ramparts of the Renart Gate. Her brothers, four soldiers, and one of her pages, little Louis, had also accompanied her—as, it seemed, had half of Orléans.

  One young woman in crowd the caught Gabriel’s eye. She had long, fair hair and deep blue eyes that were fixed on Joan. Her face and clothes were dirty, dirtier than that of most of the Orléanais. She looked familiar to Gabriel, but of course that wasn’t possible.

  Beside Gabriel, Joan placed her hands on her hips and stared out—

  —at the English.

  Joan had been right. There were places in the city where the English army was close enough to the besieged town that one might engage in conversation with the enemy—if one was careful. And if one shouted.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Men of England!” she cried. “I am Jeanne the Maid, sent by God to deliver this city. I sent you my herald. By all laws and traditions, he was to return to me unharmed. Release him to me!”

  “We used him for target practice!” one of the Englishman shouted back. Another man, apparently of higher rank than the others, stepped forward. His French was perfect, revealing him to be a Burgundian.

  “Do you really want true men to surrender to a woman—a girl at that?” To Gabriel, Pierre, and Jean, who were standing beside Joan, he shouted, “You are worse than little dogs sitting in her lap! Worthless mackerels!”

  “What?” shouted Pierre. “You whoreson!”

  “Do not swear!” Joan chided. “Such things are for those whom God has abandoned.”

  Gabriel did not know what a worthless mackerel was, but judging by Pierre’s reaction, he could hazard a pretty good guess.

  But Joan was done, and turned to Gabriel, her eyes wide, grinning. “Let’s go to the bridge now! Tonight they will talk of nothing else but their wounded pride.”

  They walked to the Bridge of Orléans, the crowd tagging after her. Gabriel found himself looking to see if the perplexingly familiar fair-haired girl was among them. She was, still raptly focused on Joan. Gabriel frowned. Why did he think he knew her?

  The Bridge of Orléans was, before the siege, the major entrance into the city. It stretched across the Loire, most of it under French control, and culminated in a French fortification on the island of Belle-Croix. Beyond this point, two arches of the bridge had been destroyed by the French, to keep the English from advancing further. The English had taken and now occupied the fortified gate flanked by large towers known as Les Tourelles, on the south bank of the Loire. In front of it was the strongest boulevard in Orléans.

  He could not see it from his vantage point, and was somewhat glad, as Les Tourelles itself was sobering enough. Gabriel glanced at Joan’s brothers, who looked somber. All of them, himself included, were starting to fully appreciate what they were up against.

  The soldiers defending the fortifications on the French side of the bridge cheered as they approached. As Joan and Gabriel climbed to stand beside them, he realized just how close they were—a mere four hundred or so yards.

  “Glasdale is over there,” one of the soldiers said. William Glasdale had been a fighting man for twenty years and part of the English invasion forces for six, and was not someone to be taken lightly. He had been placed in command of Les Tourelles, and Dunois had told them the man had vowed to kill everyone in the entire city.

  Joan leaned forward and shouted the commander’s name. “Glasdale! I am here by God’s will to do what I said I would do! Surrender yourselves to God and King Charles, and we will spare your lives!”

  The small figures suddenly grew very interested in the Belle-Croix fortification. Then one of them shouldered his way to the forefront. He was of middle years, large and powerful, His French was good, though heavily accented, and his voice was deep and commanding.

  “Your letter made us laugh!” he shouted back. “And I am glad you are here, ‘Maid,’ though I doubt you are one. You won’t be when we are done with you. You are nothing but a filthy cowherd!”

  “Better a French cowherd than an English general!” she shouted back.

  “You will die here, Maid. Along with everyone else in your city.” The voice was cold, flat. “If we find you alive, we will take you and torture you for our sport. And when we are done, we shall burn you and dance in your ashes!”

  Simon felt a shock through his system at the words. Beside him, Joan froze, going terribly pale. Then she reddened, as if the blood had rushed back to her face all at once. “I do not know the hour of my death, but know this, William Glasdale—if you do not surrender, it is you who will die!”

  Joan turned and abruptly returned to the bridge, regaining her composure with every step. She turned to Gabriel, and once again, she was smiling. “Shadow,” she said to him playfully, “do you know what your Jeanne is doing?”

  “I do,” her brother Jean said. “We’ve seen you do this before. You’re picking a fight.”

  “Exactly! If the French will not attack the English, then perhaps I can be like a fly and sting enough so that the English will attack the French. We must fight them, and soon. My Voices are very clear.”

  Gabriel wanted to ask her if her Voices had been clear when she had predicted Glasdale’s death, but as soon as he had the thought, he rejected it. He did not want to know.

  He found himself looking for the blonde girl as they returned to Boucher’s house. Sure enough, there she was, somehow managing to stand apart from the throng that Joan now permitted to fall step beside her. Gabriel hesitated, then told Pierre, “I will catch up to you.” He nodded, and Gabriel worked his way back to where the girl was.

  She didn’t appear to have noticed him. As always, she was watching Joan with an expression of joy and wonder on her face. Gabriel came up behind her, then darted forward and grasped her arm firmly.

  The girl gasped and turned to him, and all at once he realized where he recognized her from.

  “You,” he said. “You were one of the ribaudes Jeanne chased away at Blois!”

  Pain filled her eyes and she lowered her gaze. “Say it. I’m a whore. A camp follower.”

  “I know,” he said. “At least, you were. But you’re not anymore, are you?”

/>   Startled, she looked back at him. “No,” she said. “I’m not. Not since I… since she….”

  “What does she look like to you?” Gabriel pressed. He didn’t want to put words in her mouth. “When you see her?”

  She didn’t answer at once. Then, softly, as if the words were a prayer, she said, “She burns with white fire. Like a candle does, when the flame has burned so deep inside it, you cannot see the fire itself, but only its glow through the wax. I—I want to be close to her. I have no right, I know she must despise me, but—”

  “But you see her,” Gabriel breathed. She had what de Metz had called Eagle Vision. This girl, this common camp follower, who had offered her body for money to more men than he might be able to count—she had the blood, just as he did. Just as Yolande did, and de Metz, and Alençon.

  Some people were completely unaffected by Joan, like her brothers, de Baudricourt, and what he had seen of the English. Others responded to her. But only a few saw her.

  How he wished an Assassin were here right now. He hoped he wasn’t making a huge mistake. “Come with me.”

  ***

  Joan sat up on the bed as Gabriel entered, smiling. She was alone; it was likely Pierre and Jean were exploring more of the city on their own, or else talking with some of the soldiers. He was glad they could speak privately.

  “There you are, Gabriel! I thought I had lost my Shadow.”

  He smiled. “Ah, never that, Jeanne.” Sobering slightly, he said, “I have never asked anything from you, other than to stay with you as long as you would have me.”

  She smiled at him. “This is truth,” she said. “My witness. I would be lost without you. Is there something you wish of me now? If God will let me grant it, I will.”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “There is someone you should talk to. I… well, you may recognize her, but please do not be angry with her.”

  Jeanne cocked her head, confused. “Such mystery! If you think I should meet her, then bring her in.”

  He ducked back outside the room, closing the door. The former camp follower stood at the foot of the stairs, twisting her hands together nervously.