Joan smiled. “In a better tongue than yours, father.”
There was a small titter about the hall—Father Seguin spoke with the somewhat rough accents of the Limousin region of France.
Seguin’s face hardened. “And what has Saint Michael told you in your visions?”
“That I am come from the King of Heaven to deliver the French from the calamity that is upon them.”
“And how shall God’s will be accomplished?” de Chartres said.
“By force of arms—”
“If it is God’s will that the French be delivered from our current calamity,” Seguin said, his voice harsh, “then what need has He of soldiers? Can He not simply will it?”
Joan turned toward him. Her face was serene, and she was apparently undisturbed by his disbelief. “God has sent me word, via the Blessed Saint Michael, that the French must rise up in arms against the hell-bound English, and that I will be the one to lead the nation to victory.”
Seguin’s expression was now one of outrage—indeed, all of the clerics wore various degrees of scorn and disbelief on their faces.
“You?” said de Chartres. “But you are a mere girl. How can it be that you should lead the French armies to victory? How can we believe you?”
“How can you not believe God?” Joan said quietly.
“We need a sign,” de Chartres said. “Some proof that you are indeed God’s instrument on earth. I ask you again, how can it be that you, a young girl, can lead our nation to victory against the English?”
Joan lowered her face, and closed her eyes. Her hands clasped, as if in prayer. Seguin made an impatient gesture, but de Chartres laid his hand on the priest’s arm and silenced him before he could speak.
Charles stared at Joan, waiting for her to speak. Nothing he had heard thus far had
particularly allayed his anxiety about the part God expected him to play in this forthcoming battle.
Finally Joan raised her face, and looked first to Charles. “You will be king, and rightfully so,”
she said. “King John has lost God’s favor for disowning you, and he shall not live for much longer. Soon,” and yet again she smiled at Charles, who stilled at her expression, .”after a great victory which I shall win for you at Orleans, you shall be crowned at Rheims, in the company of the blessed Lord Archbishop who sits before us now.” i “This is preposterous!”
cried Seguin. “A ‘great victory at Orleans’? Orleans is not .even in the hands of the English!
How can it be that—”
“I continue to speak the words of God,” Joan said, turning to face Seguin. “How can you continue to refuse to believe Him?”
Now she looked at the archbishop. “The ways of the Lord our God are sometimes confusing to men, but we should never doubt them.”
“My lord,” said Philip, who now rose from his chair and stepped forth to Charles’ side to address the archbishop. “The maid Joan speaks with great sweetness and persuasion, and yet I am sure”—now he turned to Joan, and smiled at her with the same degree of sweetness she had previously bestowed on Charles—”she understands that we need a sign from God Himself, for we are but humble fighting men, and we find it difficult to understand how such a girl, as saintly as she may be, can lead us to a military victory.” ‘ Joan sighed, as if the sins of the world weighed heavily upon her shoulders. “You are Unbelievers all,” she said. “I find it difficult to understand how you can doubt me.”
Again she lapsed into silence, her eyes downcast, then she raised her face once more toward the archbishop. “La Roche-Guyon now contains many powerful knights, my lord. Men who have years of experience on both the tourneying and battlefields. If I were to don armor, and then to challenge and subsequently best one of these knights in the tilt, might you not then believe my words?”
Everyone stared at her. Some already believed her a holy maid, a saint who spoke the Words that God’s messengers gave into her ear, others still held doubts, while yet others had good reason to bear her an implacable hatred … but none thought such an untrained peasant girl had any chance against even the poorest of the knights present within the garrison.
Why, she had no skills in controlling a destrier, let alone bearing the weight of armor and the cumbersome lance of the tourney!
Seguin smiled dismissively, and leaned back in his chair, but the archbishop regarded her with more respect.
“If you so ask,” he said, “and if the Dauphin agrees—”
“I do! I do!” said Charles. If she were killed, then perhaps he might not have logo to war…
Joan shot him an irritated glance.
The archbishop shrugged in capitulation. “Then so shall it be. You shall have an hour, Joan, to pray and armor yourself, and then we shall reconvene on the tilting field beyond the walls of this castle.”
TO CATHERINE it seemed that the entire day was a nightmare that would stretch into infinity.
After the events of this morning and this afternoon—Catherine had no doubts at all that Joan would best any knight sent against her—Catherine knew she must be very circumspect in moving against Joan. But one day… one day…
Catherine took a deep breath, taking heart in the knowledge that, however saintly Joan might be, the girl had one potentially crippling flaw … and that flaw was St. Michael. God may have chosen Joan, but God had patently forgotten what a frightful encumbrance St. Michael could be.
But then, even Cod had strayed down the same path of temptation that St. Michael so often took.
Catherine restrained a smile. The seeds of heaven’s destruction had been sown long, long before.
She looked about her. The field was lined with rank upon rank of men, whether common soldiers, or knights and their squires. Most of the soldiers, and a goodly number of the knights, were shouting Joan’s name with an unquestioning fervor. Pennants fluttered, dogs ran up and down the lines barking as if they chased the demons of hell, and the sky itself seemed to have swollen to greater heights and majesty in Joan’s honor.
Catherine gave a mental shrug. She hoped Joan would enjoy it while she could.
There was a sound, a rising murmuring, and Joan appeared from between a gap in the ranks.
She had donned a long vest of chain mail which hung to her knees. Over this she wore a breast- and back-plate of white armor, and jointed plates over her arms and legs.
Her head was bare, and her hair, black and unruly, flowed over her shoulders.
Behind Joan walked a man, a common soldier, and in his arms he carried an unvisored helm and a lance, as well as something dangling from his belt that Catherine—who was at some distance—could not immediately make out.
Joan walked to the archbishop, and went down on one knee before him, asking his I blessing.
De Chartres hesitated, but gave it, his hand moving in the sign of the cross over her head.
Then Joan rose, and knelt again before Charles, asking for a token of his esteem.
Charles tore a length of silk from one of the tippets hanging from his left sleeve, struggling ungracefully for a moment with the resisting material, then tied the streamer of scarlet material about the plates of Joan’s left arm.
The streamer snapped and fluttered in the stiff breeze.
Joan thanked Charles, then stood.
For a moment she hesitated, looking about the field … and then she saw Catherine, standing some twenty paces distant.
Motioning to the soldier to follow her, Joan walked over to Catherine, stunning onlookers by going down on her knees before Charles’ sister.
“I would that you do something for me,” Joan said, looking up to Catherine, and Catherine saw that there was no respect in her regard at all.
Catherine raised her eyebrows.
“My hair flutters about me with impure abandon,” Joan said, her eyes steady on Catherine’s.
“Now that I am a soldier of God I have no womanly need to have it so lengthy, nor to revel in its sheen. I ask you, Catherine, to perform for me a great service. Shear it close to my skull, so that I may not be distracted in the great battle that is to come.”
Catherine smiled a little. That was a pretty speech and gesture, girl, but it will not win you the war.
I am God’s maid, Joan returned into Catherine’s mind, and you are the Devil’s handmaiden.
Catherine closed her eyes and tilted her face so that the sunshine played over it. I do not know how, Joan, but one day sin shall be your rum. Believe it.
She opened her eyes and stared down at Joan’s uplifted face.
Joan’s eyes were shining with serenity and confidence. Your words do not frighten me. God is my trust.