He let his eyes wander back over the encampment. “It has been almost a year since the English fell into disarray with the deaths of Edward and the Black Prince. In that year, despite the growing numbers of men who flock to his side, Charles has done nothing but prevaricate.
God?’ He hit the stone wall at his side in his frustration. “What are we still doing here locked up in this useless fort?”
Catherine laughed. “If I know my brother, Charles takes to his bed at night only to draw the covers up to his chin, and shiver and shake at the thought that some bloodletting must be involved if he is to retake the kingdom.”
Philip grimaced. “He was worse than useless when we combined to free Pans from the cursed rebels. I had to do all the work myself.”
“Aye,” Catherine said, concealing her lingering grief at the mention of the slaughter of the Parisian rebels. She had known Etienne Marcel well, and still grieved for him. “He is worse than useless, and if you are to do all the work for him, then why not take the credit as well?
Why not take the throne?”
“Because,” Philip said, so soft it was almost a whisper, “the holy maid Joan speaks of Charles as God’s beloved… not me. How can I rebel against God’s word? I would be burned for my troubles.”
“And if Joan were to be proved a fraud?” Catherine said. “If it were to be proved that she speaks with the words of evil, not godliness? What then?”
He said nothing, staring at her with dark, unreadable eyes.
“Should Joan be proved a fraud,” Catherine continued, “then Charles would collapse
completely. He would grab at our mother’s contention that he is nothing but a common-bred bastard, and he would be content to crawl away and live a useless life in some frivolous court. The way would then be open for a strong man,” Catherine reached out and touched Philip’s arm, “to take this force,” she now gestured over the wall, “and secure the throne.
France needs a strong man… it doesn’t need Charles. All these men are here for France, my love, not Charles.”
“If Joan were proved a fraud,” Philip said after a moment’s silence.
Catherine shrugged slightly. “She claims to be a virgin, yet what healthy peasant girl, living in an army encampment, is a virgin?”
Philip sent her a teasing grin, but Catherine ignored it. “Joan claims to speak the words of God and his angels … but what peasant girl knows the difference between the words of God and the sweet seductive words that demons whisper m her ear?”
Now Philip turned completely away from Catherine and leaned his arms on the stone parapets, his gaze focused on some far distant object in the landscape.
“Regnault de Chartres arrived three days ago,” he said.
Catherine smiled. “And doubtless the good archbishop is full of doubts. He could be a powerful ally.”
“Why do you hate Joan so, Catherine?”
“Because she has the power to destroy all my ambitions.”
Philip turned back to Catherine, and cupped her chin in his hand. “And what will happen, my love, when you come to believe that / have the power to destroy your ambitions? What will happen when you come to believe that 7 stand in the way of whatever it is you hope to achieve?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I pray to our Lord Jesus Christ that I will never come to believe so.”
He bent and kissed her.
“So do I,” he whispered. “So do I.”
CHAPTER IX
Vigil of the Feast of SS. Simon and Jude
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Thursday 27th October 1379)
IT TOOK FOURTEEN DAYS of whispers and innuendoes, during which time Archbishop Regnault de Chartres and his retinue watched both Charles and Joan closely, before Charles found himself confronted by the doubters.
He did not like it.
Charles sat on a wooden chair on a dais in the hall of the castle, fidgeting nervously at the deputation before him. At their head stood the tall, spare archbishop, his thin hands folded before him, and wrapped serenely in his heavy robes and the weight of his office.
Immediately behind him was a collection of clerics—priests, monks and one or two friars—as well as several of Charles’ own officials, and some of King John’s highest officers who had gravitated to Charles’ side at la Roche-Guyon.
All were wearing expressions of the most respectful gravity.
Shifting nervously, Charles let his eyes wander beyond the deputation. Guards lined the back wall, their eyes blank and unhelpful.
Charles’ eyes flickered nervously to his left.
There sat his mother in a tortuously carved oaken chair, her face resting in one hand as she leaned on an arm of the chair, her bright eyes alive with laughter.
He knew what she was thinking: a nobly bred man would know how to deal with these accusations, but a peasant-bred bastard would squirm as greatly as do you . . . as bastard born, so bastard acts.
Charles visibly twitched and tore his eyes away from Isabeau. Beside his mother stood his sister, Catherine, watching him steadily, her thoughts unknowable, and Charles wished vehemently for some of her composure.
Philip stood halfway between mother and sister and Charles, and as he caught Charles’ eye,
he gave a little nod of support.
But he did not speak, nor take control of the situation, which is what Charles more than hoped he would do … even though he knew he would then hate Philip for so emphasizing his own weakness.
Charles took a deep breath, and managed to keep tears of discomposure from moistening his eyes. Why did the archbishop have to trouble him so?
Then, as he knew he would, and as he knew everyone present knew he would, Charles looked to the girl, Joan. She was standing against the left wall of the hall, underneath a hanging depicting the Virgin and Child.
Charles tried to take heart at the symbolism, but in the end it only made him feel more nervous. With every day that passed more men journeyed to la Roche-Guyon, and more and more talk arose about how they would eventually coalesce into an army that could retake southern France from the English.
Why couldn’t anyone be content with Paris? Charles thought. Why do we have to risk body and soul trying to reconquer the ever-damned south as well? Surely we can come to some accommodating arrangement with the English? They can have Aquitaine and Gascony, and we the northern and more pleasant regions. It is a sensible plan, surely …
Joan saw Charles’ regard, and she smiled with exquisite sweetness, and, putting a hand over her heart, bowed ever so slightly toward Charles.
She will get me killed yet! Charles thought, losing his battle to keep the tears from his eyes.
Everything was getting way beyond control…
He blinked, sending a solitary tear sliding down his cheek, and addressed the archbishop.
“My Lord Archbishop of Rheims, how can you express such doubts? Is it not apparent that Joan is beloved of God, and speaks with His words?”
It was not that Charles couldn’t see the possibilities for his own peace of mind if Joan was found wanting… it was just that, right at the moment, the archbishop and his deputation were making him feel more uncomfortable and nervous than the virginal maid was. He glanced at Philip, relieved to see the Navarrese king wasn’t laughing at him.
Regnault de Chartres repressed a sigh, wondering why, if God had decided to intervene and drive the hateful English from this lovely land, he had not sent a more manly prince to do so.
More than anything else, the fact that the peasant girl, Joan, had spoken in support of this cowardly grotesque clown made him distrust her.
Surely God had more sense?
“Your grace,” de Chartres said, “we do all so hope and pray that Joan is indeed beloved of God, and speaks with His voice. What more could any of us desire,” he gestured, not only to those who accompanied him, but to the entire hall, “than to have you confirmed as the true heir to the glorious throne of France … as king, if our mighty John succumbs to the cold poisons of his English captors.”
“Then why accuse Joan with your doubts?” Charles cried, unsuccessfully trying to lower the high pitch of his tone. “Does she not want what you claim to want?”
“Because we must be sure,” de Chartres said, not liking the way Charles had said “claim.”
“Would it not be better to firmly establish the truth of Joan’s words now, so that there might not be doubts later? Would it not be better that I question her, rather than a more antagonistic interrogator? I want only what is best for France, your grace, and it would truly please me to find out that what she says is true beyond doubt. A successful outcome would mean that none of us would have to trouble you again about the matter.”