―He will lead you to victory,‖ Joan shouted, now standing in her saddle, her eyes shining
with the fervour she‘d once reserved for the archangel. ―Charles will save France! Charles will
save France. Hail France! Hail Charles!‖
Charles almost panicked. And any respect he‘d ever had for Joan fled at that precise
moment.
Damn, she was dangerous.
He turned about to look at Philip once more.
Philip stared at him, a sardonic smile playing about his lips. I told you she was
dangerous.
Charles returned his gaze to Joan. Damn her! Damn her!
Charles was now completely determined to hand military control to Philip. At least Philip
wouldn‘t ask, or expect, him to ride with the army. Philip would allow him to remain safely
tucked away in whatever palace seemed safest at the time. Philip would always take care of him.
Philip was best, and Joan was looking more and more treacherous every minute.
The crowd still roared and surged about Joan, ignoring her continued impassioned pleas
to consider Charles as their saviour.
They might be ill-bred, but they didn‘t consider themselves stupid.
The slow ride through the crowds meant that they didn‘t reach the royal palace before
late afternoon. By then, everyone from Maid of France to king to lowliest foot soldier assigned
as escort was tired, irritable, and wanted nothing more than to eat, then fall down somewhere
vaguely comfortable and sleep.
But for Joan, both eating and sleeping were denied her for an hour or so. And yet, she
minded not in the least.
As they rode into the courtyard of the palace, a man and a woman emerged from a
doorway, standing shyly to one side as valets and servants fussed about the royalty and nobility.
Joan saw them only after she‘d dismounted, and handed the more easily removed bits of
her armour to a valet.
―Mama?‖ she whispered. ―Papa?‖
Catherine had said that she would arrange for Zabillet and Jacques d‘Arc to meet Joan in
Paris, but Joan had hardly dared to believe it.
Now she rushed over to her parents as far as her exhausted body and heavy armour would
allow. She hesitated just as she reached them, clearly wanting to hug them, and yet not wishing
to crush them against her armour, and so she dropped to one knee before them, and bowed her head, asking humbly for her parents‘ blessing.
Jacques‘ hair and beard were grey now, and his face more lined with care since Joan had
last seen him. But his eyes were still warm, and full of love and compassion for his daughter. He
stepped forward, and placed his hand on her bowed head.
―Jeanette…‖ he said, and her heart almost broke as he spoke the diminutive of her name.
―Jeanette, you always have had, and will always have our love. Do not kneel before us.‖
Joan lifted her face, and took one of her parents‘ hands in each of her own. ―I want so
much to come home with you,‖ she said, ―but I cannot. Not yet.‖ Tears formed in her eyes, and
slid down her cheeks.
Zabillet‘s heart almost broke. ―You must do as the angels tell you,‖ she said. ―We know
that.‖
A peculiar expression came over Joan‘s face. ―I do as my Lord Jesus Christ tells me, and
no other.‖
There was a step behind her, and Jacques and Zabillet looked up, their faces blushing and
unsure. ―Madam,‖ Jacques said, and bowed deeply as his wife curtsied.
Joan looked around.
Catherine had walked over from her horse, hobbling a little with the stiffness in her body
caused by their long ride. She held out a hand to Joan, aiding her to rise.
As soon as she‘d regained her feet, Joan also bowed as deeply as her armour would allow
her before Catherine. ―I do thank you,‖ she said, ―for this act was nothing but kindness on your
part.‖
Catherine smiled, nodding a greeting at Jacques and Zabillet, but speaking to Joan. ―I
would speak with you later,‖ she said. ―Perhaps before you retire?‖
―Gladly,‖ said Joan.
―Joan,‖ Catherine said to her many hours later as both met in a small chapel in the vaults
under the royal palace. ―Why not go home with your parents?‖
Joan shot her an amused glance, then picked up a small wooden statue of the Virgin from
the altar. She stroked it gently with her fingers, as if drawing comfort from it.
―You think to be rid of me so easily?‖
―We are no longer the enemies we once were,‖ Catherine said, cross that Joan had chosen
that manner in which to respond.
Joan sighed, and put the statue of the Virgin back in its place. ―No, not enemies, but I do
not think ‗friends‘ yet, either, Catherine. I do not loathe you, I do not fear you, and I understand
you, but I do not think myself your friend. You want either Bolingbroke or Philip for France, I
want Charles.‖
Catherine studied the girl‘s face for a moment, then sank down on the cushions scattered
over the steps before the altar. She was very tired, and would be glad to go to bed.
She thought she would have it to herself this night. Philip would be closeted with his
commanders and his new-found authority in the war rooms of the palace.
―Oh, Joan,‖ she said, concern making her voice husky. ―If you stay you will die. Both
Philip and Charles plan your downfall, and the good Archbishop Regnault de Chartres as well, if
the whispers I hear are correct. I beg you to go home with your parents. Mind your father‘s
sheep. Joan, Charles plans your downfall as much as anyone. Why this loyalty to him? If you
want to save France, why think him the man to do it?‖
Joan sat down beside her, staring towards the back wall of the chapel. This late at night
there were only two or three oil lamps lit about the altar, and the back wall was covered in
flickering shadows.
―Is Philip the man to save France?‖ she asked softly, her eyes still on the shadowy wall.
―Or Bolingbroke?‖
Her eyes suddenly shifted back to Catherine. ―Both men want France for themselves, and
for their own ambitions. Both men will rape France.‖
―And what will Charles do?‖ Catherine cried. ―Suddenly find his spirit and courage and
lead France into a glorious and secure future? Charles? ‖
Joan‘s mouth quirked in genuine amusement. ―Charles. Yes, he will. Charles does not yet
know himself.‖
Catherine laughed shortly, disbelievingly. ―Charles will do nothing but lead France into
muddlement and disarray. He is a fool. Joan…if you stay here you will die. And what will that
accomplish? Go home. I say that, not because my scheming wants you out of the way, but
because I do not want you to die for nothing.‖
―I will not die for nothing,‖ Joan said very softly, reaching out to take Catherine‘s hand.
―My death will accomplish France‘s freedom. It is a simple thing to do, a simple act for a simple
girl, and I will not shirk it.‖
―And is this what the archangel told you?‖ Catherine said, her voice full of bitterness.
―No,‖ said Joan, smiling secretively, and not explaining her answer. ―Catherine, what I
do is for joy. Joy for my parents and my village and my homeland. And I do it because I know
that my death will give Charles what he needs to be a true king to France.‖
―You are a fool, Joan,‖ said Catherine, but her voice held no hostility, only despair.
Aye, thought Joan, once I was a fool, but no more.
―Why care so much for me, Catherine?‖ she asked. ―Why care so much for my fate?‖
Catherine took a long while answering. ―Because you have been so grievously handled
by the angels. As grievously handled as their children.‖
―Where have you been hiding this heart all these years?‖ said Joan. She leaned forward
and kissed Catherine‘s cheek gently. ―Now go to your bed. You and I are both tired, and if we
stay here any longer we shall weep.‖
Catherine smiled. ―And that would not do, would it? Not for the Maid of France, nor for
the Princess Catherine.‖
Joan grinned, and helped Catherine to rise.
―Charles is an idiot,‖ she said, ―but he will not be so forever.‖
II
Friday 26th July 1381
Having ordered England‘s affairs as best he could, and leaving behind Ralph Raby, Earl
of Westmorland, as Justiciar to govern England, Bolingbroke embarked for France a little shy of
a month after his announcement to invade. Three score ships set sail from the Cinque Ports, fat
with archers, men-at-arms, knights, valets, horses and all the weapons, armour, gear, and as much of their sustenance as they could manage. Ships glistening not only with the spray of the
Narrow Seas and the hot sun above, but with the jewel-like banners, pennants and sails that
strained at every masthead and pole and rope, and with the shimmer of light from the helmets