“And there’s more,” La Hire said, grabbing at the mug of ale and taking a tentative sip which he spit out on the dirt floor. “What pig swill is this?”
Jean shrugged. “What else have you found out?”
“They’re bringing in Bishop Cauchon of Beauvois.”
“Whatever for?”
“They mean to try her for heresy.”
Jean’s stomach clenched into a knot. His grip on the dagger tightened.
“What heresy?”
“The English have always called her the Witch of Orleans.”
“Cauchon is not the kind to cast her as a witch,” Jean said. “English partisan that Cauchon is, he is an educated man, known for his fairness and integrity.”
La Hire scoffed. “Well, your fair, educated bishop has already announced that la Pucelle must deny her visions and repent. She must say that she was not speaking for God. If she does not, the English will burn her.”
A sick feeling overcame Jean. If there was one thing he knew with all his soul, it was that Jehanne believed that she spoke words given to her by God, that she was on a holy mission. And many believed her. Many still believed in the Old Testament’s heroines. God had brought about victories through the exploits of girls and women like Judith and Deborah. Even as Jehanne had lost favor with her king, she had not lost favor with the simple people. In fact, the more she fell in the king’s eyes, the more she rose in theirs.
By failing to ransom her, the king was making a critical mistake. One that would turn this war from a secular struggle between Burgundians and Armanacs into a religious one. The simple people Charles and his ilk despised cared not for the dynastic squabbles that had decimated France for almost a century. But they would care about la Pucelle being sold to their enemies.
“She will never deny her visions,” Jean said, his voice shaking. “To do so would reject God. She’d rather burn.”
“So, what are we going to do about it?” La Hire asked.
* * *
January 7, 1431
Sister Marie had told Jehanne to prepare herself. The Bishop of Beauvais, a man named Pierre Cauchon had been appointed to try her as a heretic.
She would be taken to Rouen, the seat of the occupational English government. She would no longer enjoy the protection of her ecclesiastical prison with the sisters holding the keys to her cell. Instead, the English would keep her in a secular prison guarded by their own soldiers.
Sister Marie had delivered the news with tear-filled eyes as Jehanne stood before her, statue-still, numb, no longer feeling the cold of the stone under her bare feet.
“I would like to be confessed,” Jehanne said, once again. She’d asked for a confessor every day since her capture. It had always been denied.
Once again Sister Marie said, “I will see what I can do,” in that tone that said that there was nothing she could do.
“Thank you Sister Marie. For all your kindness.”
Sister Marie withdrew and turned the key in the lock.
Jehanne lowered herself into the corner with the fresh threshes.
Saint Michael, please help me.
She pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes.
Her visions had returned, but not in the way she had hoped. They all centered around Jean Porot. Sometimes they were sweet, innocent. Her hand in his. A kiss on the cheek. Her name on his lips. Other times they were more carnal. She knew them to be visions, not dreams, for they didn’t occur while she slept. They only came when she was in that other reality, that other world full of warmth and color, where she was unquestionably in the Saint’s presence.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
There was a reason she insisted they call her la Pucelle. Not Jehanne. Not D’Arc. Not Du Lys.
The voices, her counsel, had demanded it of her. She had sworn to remain a virgin until the war was won.
As long as it shall please God. The words hit the air like a hammer, ringing around her, echoing off the stone. Saint Michael’s voice flowed into Saint Catherine’s and then into Saint Margaret’s and then back into Michael’s again, over and over.
How could they ask this of her? Of all the things she was ready and willing to do, this was not one of them. She’d seen where these things led. She’d seen more bad marriages than good ones. She’d seen the pain of childbirth and the anguish of losing child after child. At Court, she’d seen infidelity, violations of God’s laws, the flaunting of vows.
She was not like those people, who could take an oath and not fulfill it. She did not want to be bound by vows of marriage, assuming Poton would even marry her. Nobles didn’t marry for love. They married for power, for alliances. She could not bear the thought of being his mistress, of bearing bastards.
No, no, no.
Her work was not yet done. Yes, Charles was king, but the English were still in France. She had so much more to do.
She covered her head with her arms. Sobs tore at her chest until she was wrung out. Her tears flowed down her cheek to be absorbed by the stone.
The visions hit her again and again, whether she closed her eyes or kept them open. It was the worst torment she could imagine.
She’d rather burn.
Jehanne curled up into a tight ball, squeezed her eyes shut, and covered her ears. Inside, she screamed as flames licked at her bare feet, as her flesh swelled and crisped.
No, no, no.
Rough hands clamped over her mouth.
“Quiet, la Pucelle, or you will give us away.”
She opened her eyes. A priest stood over her, framed in shadow. She’d not heard him come in.
The man behind her lowered his hand and let her go.
She rushed forward, falling at the priest’s feet.
“Father, please, I must confess.” The words came out in a mad rush, pounding out faster than her heart. “I’ve had impure thoughts. I’ve despaired, I’ve—”
Soldier’s boots. With fine spurs.
She backed away, dragging her chains behind her, only to bump into the other man. Her heart was going to bruise itself against her ribs. She couldn’t breathe.
“We’ve come to free you,” the voice behind her said.
She whirled around. Poton. In Luxemburg’s regalia. The tunic a little tight on his broad frame. The trousers mismatched, but passable in the dark.
Blood rose to her cheeks, her ears. She pushed him away and fell back, tripped by the chains.
He knelt down beside her, working a key into her bonds.
“Hurry up,” the priest said. This time she recognized La Hire’s deep grumble. He lowered the cowl of his robe. Even with it down, his beard hid so much of his face, her eyes went wide with disbelief.
“How?” she asked as Poton pulled the cuff off her right leg and set to work on the other.
“Didn’t give the priest much choice,” La Hire said with amusement.
“You threatened a priest? You’re impersonating a priest!” Jehanne said.
La Hire shrugged as he stole a glance over his shoulder to the open door.
“Seeing as I’m already going to Hell, what’s one more sin?”
She let out a gasp.
“Hurry up, Poton,” La Hire said. “We don’t have all night.”
The cuff fell away from Jehanne’s left ankle. Poton took her hands, folding them into his own for just an instant before setting to work on the locks.
Trembling, she held her hands up for him.
“Where’d you get the key?” she asked.
“The good Sister,” Poton said, frustration creeping into his voice as he worked the lock.
“Quickly,” La Hire urged, as he stuck his head out the door.
Poton’s hands were steady, methodical. The locks finally gave way, and the chains rattled to the floor. Jehanne backed away from them as if they were vipers.
Poton took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders.
“Can you walk? I can carry you.”
She pushed herself up on we
ak legs and lost her balance. Months of being chained to a wall had done nothing for her strength. She ended up in a pile on the floor, surrounded by Poton’s cloak.
He scooped her up and hoisted her over his shoulder.
“That’s better,” La Hire said. “Time to go.”
La Hire adjusted the hood of Poton’s cloak so it hid her head.
For the first time in months, she was outside the room. She caught a glimpse of the guard and said a prayer for his soul.
Down the spiral stairway they went, their way lit by what must have been a torch held high by La Hire.
“Here, Sister,” La Hire said. “The keys.”
“Go. Hurry,” Sister Marie said.
“Come with us, Sister,” La Hire said. “We can protect you as well.”
Poton hoisted Jehanne off his shoulder. She landed on wool blankets set atop hay. Poton was already climbing into the back of the wagon and pulled the tarp shut by the time she yanked the hood off.
He pulled her against him and held her tight. His fingertips raked over her scalp. She shivered at the touch.
“What did they do to you?” he asked as his fingers found the scar above her temple, the one she’d gotten when she’d been captured.
The wagon lurched forward.
Jehanne pulled away, drawing the cloak around her and crawled into the opposite corner. She wedged herself in it and anchored her fingers around the wood struts.
The hurt in Poton’s eyes was clear as the wagon filled with unearthly light. She squeezed her eyes to shut it out, but it pierced her eyelids.
She raised her palms to her face.
“Make them stop,” she cried out. “Jean, please, make them stop.”
* * *
Jean scrambled across the cart and clamped his hand over Jehanne’s mouth. He pried her hands off the struts and turned her so her back was up against his chest.
He had to keep her quiet or she was going to give them away.
Jehanne struggled in his grasp, but she was weak. He had never seen her so gaunt, her eyes so sunken in. She looked like she had aged a decade.
He snuck a peek through a hole in the planks. La Hire, in his priest’s cassock was urging the horses on. Sister Marie sat beside him, under a swaying lamp.
He wished that La Hire would go faster, but understood his caution. A nun and a priest together, driving a wagon at a reasonable speed would not attract unwanted attention. Still, how long before someone realized that the bishop’s very valuable prisoner was gone?
He kissed the top of Jehanne’s head. “It’s all right. It’ll be all right.”
She continued to struggle for far longer than he thought she’d have the strength for. The rose light of dawn cut through the slats of the wagon before he took his hand from her mouth.
He’d thought her asleep, but she twisted in his grasp. When her eyes opened, they were filled with an unearthly light. The face was the same, but Poton knew that he was not looking at his Jehanne.
“Marry her,” Jehanne said, in a voice not her own. It sounded like the voice of a queen.
“Marry her,” the voice commanded, “or she will burn.”
Jehanne’s eyes closed, and she went limp and slumped back into his arms.
Poton trembled as he held her.
Jehanne had always said that the Saints Margaret and Catherine also spoke to her. Jean didn’t know which one had just spoken to him, and it didn’t matter.
* * *
My escape was attributed to witchcraft and for many months; they scoured the countryside for me. For us.
We stayed ahead of them thanks to my counsel who warned me whenever we were in danger of being discovered.
But it was not without a price. Nothing ever is, after all.
The saints did not cease tormenting me. Even as their counsel guided and saved us, day after day, week after week, every waking moment, every dream was filled with the need for Jean Poton.
On a fine Sunday morning, Jean asked me to marry him. He told me that he understood me well enough to know that I did not want to be a wife or a mother. He told me that he understood how important my virtue, my virginity, were to me. He said he did not expect me to sacrifice them, but that God had commanded him, and his heart demanded that he marry me.
The saints had been cruel to him as well. I had seen signs of it here and there all along, but I’d ignored them in favor of prayer. Nevertheless, no matter how long or how hard or how earnestly I prayed, the answer was always the same.
My work was done.
Charles was king.
Saving France from the English was not my task.
So, I married Jean and on our wedding night, I gave him the most important thing I had left.
A year later, he took me to his home. In that year, I became another woman: Catherine. For my sister who had died before I ever set off to crown the king. For the saint that had been my counsel. No one will ever look at Catherine Poton de Xaintrailles and see Jehanne D’Arc.
Catherine can read and knows her numbers. She has long hair. Her body is that of a woman, not a waif that can fit into a suit of armor. Catherine cannot ride a horse. In fact, she is terrified of them, just as I was before I was commanded to overcome that fear.
And Catherine doesn’t hear voices. She has no counsel. She is not overly pious. She does not spend hours in prayer. She does not give advice on military matters. She has no interest in politics and no desire to go to Court or test what must be God’s hand at work in that she’s not been discovered.
It took me a long time to make peace with this woman I have become. For God had indeed blessed me, with a loving husband who holds to his vows, and most of all, with easy births. A boy we named Pierre, after my brother, who did not survive the wounds he took while fighting at my side. Another we named Michael. A third called Etienne after his “uncle” La Hire. And finally, a daughter—Margaret.
Amongst all of this, both of us, Catherine and Jehanne, have found something most people only dream of: love and happiness.
One night, Saint Michael will appear to me as the angel of death. He will come for me at last and give me a chance at redemption. He will hold in his hands scales perfectly balanced to weight my soul.
It is not as worthy of an offering as the soul of a martyr, but I hope it will be enough.
* * * * *
Monalisa Foster Bio
Monalisa won life’s lottery when she escaped communism and became an unhyphenated American citizen. Her works tend to explore themes of freedom, liberty, and personal responsibility. Despite her degree in physics, she’s worked in several fields including engineering and medicine. She and her husband (who is a writer-once-removed via their marriage) are living their happily ever after in Texas. Her epic space opera, Ravages of Honor, is out now.
Link for author page: https://www.amazon.com/Monalisa-Foster/e/B075Z7SDJ1
# # # # #
Secondhand Empires by Brad R. Torgersen
“General Chrysoloras?” the young man’s voice said softly.
The old figure—slumped in a wooden chair positioned at the small room’s single open window—did not react.
“Sir?” the voice said, this time just a bit louder.
“I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed,” the figure grunted, still facing away from the door. Birds chirped pleasantly in the cool autumn air outside, though the booming of far-away Ottoman gunpowder cannon belied the peaceful scene.
“I apologize, sir,” the young man said, his head bowed respectfully as his shoulders pushed through the partially open doorway. “We all know what your orders were. But something has happened, and I really think you ought to come see for yourself. Emperor Palaiologos’s ambassador demands it, in fact.”
“Once upon a time I was Palaiologos’s ambassador,” the figure rumbled unhappily.
“Yes sir,” the young man said timidly, but still did not withdraw from the room.
The stubs of snuffed candles covered a pewter plate on
a small desk, next to a thin bed. Rolls of official parchment were laced into bundles on the desk’s surface, and the remnants of a fire glowed weakly in the tiny stone-and-mortar fireplace.
After a pregnant pause, the figure said, “You won’t go away without my attendance, will you?”
“I’m sorry sir,” the young man said.
The figure sighed as if the weight of the world were upon his shoulders—was it not true, since his mission to the Pope had failed?—and reluctantly stood up. He did not have the clothing nor the bearing of a field commander. As a man of letters, the general was more comfortable among academics than he was among soldiers. But God and fate had placed him in a village on the eastern-most shore of the Black Sea. With five hundred of Palaiologos’s men under Chrysoloras’s control and strict orders to find an ally. In the most unlikely of places. Right on the Ottoman Turks’ proverbial back porch.
“It would be better if we just let Constantinople go,” Chrysoloras remarked bleakly, shuffling away from the window on legs which silently complained of too many years spent abroad in the service of the emperor.
“Sedition?” the young man asked, opening the door wide so that his master could pass. Chrysoloras grunted at his aide-de-camp’s raised eyebrow.
“Acknowledgment of the obvious,” Chrysoloras replied.
The wooden door to the general’s meek quarters thunked shut solidly. He slowly gathered speed as the muscles of his body loosened with repeated movement. It had been a chill night and a morning without breakfast. The rumbling in the general’s stomach reminded him that he’d eaten too little, too often. His coat draped over shoulders which were distinctly bony compared to when he’d first set sail the year before.
At the time, Chrysoloras had told himself it was preferable to being executed. His inability to persuade the Pope—or any of the princes of the West—to aid Emperor Palaiologos against the Ottoman Turks had been the signature defeat of his career. Despite an education and talent in the diplomatic arts, he’d returned home empty-handed. And been promptly dispatched on what he now believed to be a futile diversionary adventure which would probably cost Chrysoloras and the others in his command dearly.
Trouble in the Wind Page 11
