Charles blinked. “Montlhéry is one of the safest—”
“The Duke of Burgundy took it eighty years ago with little apparent effort,” Philip said, and only barely managed to restrain his laughter as Charles’ face fell. No doubt the fool had thought to wait out the war within its walls.
“Oh,” said Charles.
“Well,” Isabeau remarked, “it will do to give us shelter for this night. I, for one, will be glad enough to dismount from this horse.”
“It must be passing strange for you to be doing the riding for a change,” Charles said nastily.
Isabeau’s face tightened in anger—more at the fact that her son had finally managed to needle her than at his actual words—but her vicious retort died on her lips as Joan suddenly rode back to join them.
Charles smiled and nodded, glad that she arrived just as he’d managed to best his mother.
“Do we rest here tonight?” he said to Joan.
“Aye, your grace,” Joan said, “but we do not ride direct there. Look, good sir, can you see that stand of trees?”
She stood in her stirrups, graceful despite the heavy weight of chain mail she wore, and pointed to a small wood that grew up a small rise to the west.
Charles nodded. “What of it?”
Joan sat back in her saddle, and smiled beatifically. “Nestled within the sheltering trees is a small shrine dedicated to the Blessed Saint Catherine. We shall ride there, you and I, his grace of Navarre, the six great lords who ride immediately behind you and”—she pointed to Isabeau and Catherine—”your mother and sister. There we shall witness the miracle I prophesied.”
Charles frowned. “Is it safe?”
“God watches over us,” said Joan, and with that Charles had to be content, turning his
stallion’s head with some difficulty and much bad grace to follow Joan as she rode toward the small wood.
IT WAS cool and dim under the trees, silent save for the crackling of dead leaves and twigs under the hooves of the horses. Joan led them, her roan stallion treading confidently as if he’d known this track all his life. Directly behind Joan came two of the lords she’d asked to accompany her, then Charles, Philip, the two women and the remaining four lords.
No men-at-arms accompanied them.
The shrine to St. Catherine consisted of a tiny chapel, made of rough-hewn stone and a low, slate roof, that crouched under two massive beech trees. It had a door, but no windows and no spire: nothing to indicate its holiness save the flowers strewn on the ground before its step.
With a soft word, Joan halted her stallion a few paces away from the chapel, then slid from the horse’s back.
“Come,” she said, glancing behind her to make sure the others were also dismounting. “Saint Catherine awaits.”
Philip shared a glance with Catherine—what was going to happen?—but walked after Joan with as much self-assurance as he could manage.
Once he stepped inside he understood why Joan had insisted so few accompany them.
The chapel’s interior was tiny, and their party of eleven only just managed to crowd inside.
Set against the far wall was a large block of sandstone that served as an altar. It was draped with a pale linen cloth and was set with several fat, lit candles. On the wall behind it was a rough-hewn cross with an even more crudely worked figure of Jesus.
Fresh flowers were strewn across the altar.
Joan waited until the last man had stepped inside, then pointed to two of the lords.
“My lords,” she said, and smiled so sweetly that Philip suddenly thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, “do you see this slab set in the earth before the altar?”
They nodded. “How may we serve you, blessed virgin?” said one.
“Lift the slab,” said Joan, “and we shall see what we may.”
The two lords, both in the prime of their lives, stepped forward, each squatting and taking an end of the slab in their hands. They strained, rested, then strained again, and the slab groaned and shifted.
After catching their breath, the two lords managed to tip the slab over—sending everyone (save Joan who had stood to one side and watched with a small smile on her lips) scurrying to get out of the way.
A sickening stench of damp, mouldering earth rose in the air, and everyone—Joan included—
coughed and gagged.
Once they’d grown used to the smell, they stared down at the patch of dank earth revealed by the slab’s removal.
At first Philip thought there was nothing there save the barely covered, tangled roots of the two beeches that overhung the chapel, then he realized that the earth-covered twist-ings were not roots, but long-buried cloth.
It was obvious that whatever the cloth concealed had been there for generations, for the earth had the look of something that had not been disturbed in a very, very long time.
Joan leaned down, digging in the dirt with her bare hands, then she grunted, and pulled something forth.
They could see that it was a sword, wrapped in cloth so old and damp it was virtually disintegrating.
No one spoke, all eyes on Joan.
Very carefully she unwrapped the sword, taking such a time about it that Philip felt like screaming and snatching the sword from her to get the task accomplished the quicker.
But he didn’t. As with everyone else, Philip could not have moved to save himself.
Eventually, the last fragment of rotting cloth fell away, to fully reveal the unscab-barded sword.
It lay naked in Joan’s hands, its hilt covered with slime and fungus, its blade entirely covered in thick rust.
Joan raised shining eyes, extending her hands slightly so all could see clearly. “Behold,” she whispered.
“That is your miracle?” said Isabeau. “If God can do no better than the production of that rusting carcass then—”
“Reveal thyself,” whispered Joan, and everyone gasped.
The rust and slime fell away from the sword in a sudden shower of foulness. In a blink of an eye the sword changed from rusting relic to a gleaming, silvered weapon. Five crosses ran down the length of its blade, and the words “Michael” and “Gabriel” were inscribed in gold at the very top of the blade where it joined the golden-wired hilt.
“With this sword,” Joan whispered, staring at the other ten who gazed transfixed back at her,
“I shall lead France to victory!”
Several of the lords fell to their knees, their hands clasped before them, and Catherine stirred as they moved.
Her expression changed from one of amazement to one of contempt.
“Swords can be broken,” she said, and turned and left the chapel, Joan’s eyes boring into her back the entire way.
CHAPTER II
The Feast of St. Eadburga
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(Friday 13th June 1380)
HOTSPUR SAT IN THE CHAIR, one leg swinging idly over an armrest, his chin cradled in a hand, and an expression of utter boredom set on his face. Despite the summer sun, outside the stone tower in which Hotspur had his command post was cold and comfortless … as it seemed were most things about this damned country.
Hotspur had come to loathe Orleans and everything French.
Before him, as also the five or six other English nobles present within the chamber, played a troupe of French musicians. They were truly excellent, and Hotspur would on any other occasion have enjoyed their music.
They had arrived this morning, on loan from the commander of the garrison within the city of Orleans, and Hotspur was sure that they were less a gift than an insult: we have fine musicians, and plenty to eat, and you won’t be starving us out of here anytime soon.
The troupe started up a lively carol, and Hotspur sighed. He’d much rather be back home than stuck here in the French countryside with nothing to do but order a daily barrage of stone balls, hurled by the five cannon, against Orleans’ walls.
Most of them fell short anyway, and then the English had to risk arrows and bolts to try and roll them back to the English fortifications to use another day.
As he’d known, the siege was not going well.
Damn Richard for not sending what he needed!
Orleans still sat, safely walled, on the Loire. Its four land gates were still firmly bolted, as was the gate that opened to a (now breached) bridge across the river. Hotspur had managed to establish his siege in some ten fortifications on the northern, western and southern side of the city—including the great four-towered fortification of les Tourelles on the bridge itself—but the eastern side of Orleans lay virtually free of an English presence. Hotspur simply didn’t have the men or the weapons to completely encircle the city.
Thus the good folk of Orleans managed to replenish their supplies of food and ammunition through the eastern gate of the city. The English could harry the convoys moving through the gate, but not stop them completely.