A thin wail crept from the guard’s mouth, and his spear fell to the stone walkway with a strange silence.
His eyes now bulged so far from their sockets that they had begun to bleed.
The golden hand clenched even tighter within its nest of entrails.
The guard lifted from the stone walkway until his feet were well clear of the wall, and then in a
sudden, vicious movement, the hand hurled him over.
As he plummeted, the guard finally screamed.
A DULL, sickening thud echoed through Catherine’s dreams, and she jerked into instant awareness, her eyes terrified as she frantically searched the chamber.
But there was no one there, save for Philip, murmuring a sleepy protest at her sudden movement.
“Bitch,” Catherine whispered.
She did not sleep the rest of that night.
SHOCKED AND horrified by the nature of the archangel’s retribution, Joan slumped to the floor. His words bad been foul, yes, but had it been necessary to torment him so? Her moaning increased, and her stomach heaved with nausea.
Oh, sweet Jesu, if this was God’s work, then why did she feel so vile?
Then Joan gagged, for the power of the archangel surged through her with renewed force, and all coherent thought was gone.
THE GOLDEN hand crept along the stone walkway toward the watchtower where the two foul-mouthed comrades of the guard still talked and jested of Joan’s whoring abilities.
It reached the closed door, rose, and knocked.
One of the men opened the door, thinking it to be the guard returning to torment them further with his sexual recollections.
The hand grabbed and clenched and twisted, turning the man’s genitals to pulp.
The next instant the other man, also, was screaming, both his hands buried in the bloody mess of his own groin.
Its work accomplished, the golden hand rose high into the air, flicked off the blood and pulp that soiled its fingers, then vanished.
JOAN JERKED and cried out as the power of the archangel left her, then she lay still, her breath heaving.
One man dead, two more impotent.
She burst into sobs, nauseated that the archangel had forced her to partake in his violent retribution.
“It must be a test,” Joan whispered, “to ensure my worthiness to serve God in the coming battles.”
She rolled over, hugging her legs tight against her body, and lay still a very long time until she regained her composure.
Then she rose, stumbling a little as she did so, and smoothed down her shift.
Tomorrow she would be examined both physically and intellectually, and she hoped that she would be strong enough to prove herself worthy of God’s, and the archangel’s, faith in her.
There was a subtle change in the chill atmosphere of the room, and Joan realized that St.
Michael was back. She tensed slightly, half expecting to feel again the horror he had exhibited during his retributive rage, then relaxed as she felt the familiar loving regard of the archangel.
“Saint Michael?” loan looked about the chamber for the archangel’s golden glow, but he was not visible.
You shall have no need to fear the morrow, Joan.
She relaxed yet further, and smiled.
God has asked me to give you a gift, a miracle, that shall convince all doubters that you are truly the beloved mouthpiece of Heaven.
Joan blinked, thinking to ask St. Michael what he meant, but her mouth gaped as a sudden warmth consumed her lower body.
“God’s will be done,” she whispered as the warmth finally ebbed away.
CHAPTER X
The Feast of SS Simon and Jude
In the first year of the reign of Richard II
(Friday 28th October 1379)
— I —
ISABEAU DE Bavière stood before the fire, rolling up her sleeves with slow, particular movements. A small smile played about her lips.
Isabeau cared little about what she might or might not find in the course of this morning’s examination; she cared only that she might find some means to both humiliate and discredit the upstart peasant girl.
Her smile hardened. Never in her entire life had she thought to be upstaged by such a pious rustic wench!
A door opened, and Isabeau looked up. “Ah, Catherine. My dear, what’s wrong? You look so pale—”
“I look as if I have hardly slept, madam.” Catherine nodded a greeting at the three other noblewomen witnesses. Two midwives were also present, and Catherine glanced at them, noting that one was remarkably comely for such a lowly ranked woman. Then Catherine looked about the room. It was bare save for two substantial chests set against a wall, with a bench pushed against them, and a trestle table set close to the window— doubtless for the light afforded. Catherine was mildly surprised that Isabeau had ordered a fire lit in the hearth; Joan was not to be beset by drafts along with the prying fingers and eyes of the women.
Catherine looked back at her mother, who by now had rolled up her sleeves to her satisfaction, and was now ensuring the veil of her headdress was tucked securely behind her neck. “Have you heard that the guard who accused Joan of bawdry in the hall yesterday fell to his death from the castle walls last night?”
Isabeau shrugged. “No. Was it the wine?”
“More like the hand of God,” Catherine said, and then walked to the window and stared out, her back precluding any further conversation.
Isabeau stared at her momentarily, then put her daughter’s moodiness out of her mind. The fun awaited.
“Marie,” Isabeau said to the pretty midwife, “if you would bring in the girl, please.”
Catherine turned back into the room as she heard Marie return with Joan. She care-fully composed her face into bland neutrality, for she did not want Joan to recognize her fear.
Lord Jesus Christ, if Joan had the power to call down such retribution on three lowly guards who merely insulted her with words, then what would she do to those who attacked her with more substantial weapons?
Joan had arrayed herself in a simple shift of unbleached linen with a high neckline and baggy sleeves. Her feet were bare, her raggedly trimmed hair was uncombed, and her face was suffused with serenity.
Catherine’s unease grew.
Isabeau clapped her hands, making Catherine jump.
“There is no need for formality, methinks,” Isabeau said, stepping forward and push-ing her rolled sleeves yet higher on her arms. “Marie, Belle, please divest the girl Joan of her shift.”
The two midwives stepped forward, and Joan—with a small smile sent Catherine’s way—
lifted her arms obligingly.
Marie and Belle pulled the shift over Joan’s head, then stepped back.
Isabeau frowned, her eyes running up and down Joan’s body as if she were evaluating a mare for breeding, then made an expression of distaste.
“You are not appealing,” she said.
No, thought Catherine, she is indeed not appealing. Her limbs are too squat and thick, her buttocks too vast, her waist too solid, her breasts too flat, and her body hair is most distastefully copious and dark. She is built not for lust, but for Godliness.
And Catherine shivered.
Joan made no comment to Isabeau’s remark, but walked to the table and lay flat on her back
upon it.
“God is with me,” she said, and lifted her knees.
Isabeau arched an eyebrow, managing to convey deep disgust, then sniffed, and walked forward, waving the other ladies to walk forward with her. When she stood at the side of the table, Isabeau laid her hands on Joan’s thighs, and jerked them cruelly outward.
“Perhaps the midwives can tell us how many men have crawled down this path before this day,” she said. “Does she look used, ladies?”
As Isabeau spread Joan’s legs even further apart, Joan clasped her hands across her breasts and murmured a prayer.
Isabeau took no notice. She slid her ringers through Joan’s thick black pubic hair and spread her labia apart. “Is her door opened, ladies, or intact?”
And then Isabeau, together with the two midwives and the three noblewomen, bent her head for a look.
Catherine, lagging behind the other women, had barely reached the edge of the table when she heard the other women gasp in shock. A midwife and two of the noblewomen hurriedly crossed themselves and stepped back from the table, affording Catherine room for her own view.
Yet first she looked at her mother.
Isabeau raised her head, and stared incredulously at Catherine. “Mother of God!” Isabeau whispered. “This girl is built for saintliness, after all!”
Catherine wrenched her eyes away from Isabeau and looked down to where Isabeau’s hands still held Joan’s labia wide apart.
Utter coldness seeped through Catherine. Joan had no genitalia at all… she did not even have the means whereby to piss and shit! Smooth, unbroken skin ran from the top of her labia right down to where her buttocks began to separate.
Joan was physically unable to be anything but a virgin.