―You may rest here this night,‖ Philip finally said to Suffolk, ―and enjoy his grace‘s
hospitality.‖
At that Charles‘ eyes widened, as if he thought Philip meant that he should himself keep
the English delegation amused through the night.
Philip sighed. ―And in the morning you shall have safe escort back to the English lines.‖
―And the answer, your grace?‖ Suffolk said with a slight bow of acknowledgment of
Philip‘s assurance of safety.
―You may tell Bolingbroke that I am not one to forget my obligations,‖ Philip said. ―He
will know to what I refer.‖
Again Suffolk bowed and, taking his leave, turned to withdraw himself and his delegation
from the presence of the two kings.
―Wait,‖ Philip called, rising from his chair. He walked over to Suffolk. ―Also tell your
King Bolingbroke,‖ he said to the earl in a low voice, ―that his gift shall not come without a
price. Twenty thousand gold pieces, I think.‖
―Your grace, I do not think that—‖
―Bolingbroke asks for too much for free,‖ Philip hissed, ―including my goodwill. Tell
him that his gift comes for a price, and that price is twenty thousand gold pieces.‖
Suffolk‘s face froze. He glanced behind Philip to Charles, slouched in his chair and
chewing on a fingernail as he watched what was going on in the centre of the hall. ―Perhaps his
grace the King Charles ought to be—‖
―This is a contract between me and Bolingbroke, you rateyed wart. Just do as you are
told.‖
For a long moment Suffolk held Philip‘s furious stare, then he capitulated. He took a long
step backwards, bowed yet once more, then turned and exited the hall, his delegation at his back.
―Philip?‖ Charles called. ―What was all that about? Let me see Bolingbroke‘s letter.‖
―Do you want to lead France‘s army yourself?‖ Philip said, pivoting on a heel to face
Charles. ―Would you like to be the one facing England‘s cannon on the dawn that is surely
coming?‖
Charles flushed, as much at Philip‘s anger as at the idea that he should personally lead
France‘s army. ―No, no, of course not, Philip. But I was just curious. What can Bolingbroke have
wanted?‖
You simpleton, Philip thought, but he moderated his voice as he replied. ―He wants
victory, as always,‖ he said. ―This,‖ he waved the letter about, ―was merely an opening ploy in
the great game which is about to commence.‖
―But you have agreed to do what he asked?‖
―I do not dance to his tune. I only intend to manipulate Bolingbroke‘s ambition to
France‘s advantage. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a war to win…as you are so patently
loath to do yourself.‖
Then Philip turned smartly on his heel and left the hall.
He walked into the palace gardens, wincing a little at the smell of the raw sewage and
rotting animal corpses that clogged the Seine. Sweet Lord. The stench of this city! Then he put the odour from his mind as he once more read the contents of Bolingbroke‘s letter.
Philip,
I come to conclude the bargain we made in Gravensteen one year past precisely. Hand to
me Joan, the Maid of France, that I may dispose of her as I will. Then we will bow both our wills before Catherine, so that she may decide which of us she takes as husband…and thus which of us
takes France to wife.
Philip. You will by now have heard that Harfleur is fallen. No town, no city, no man can
withstand me. You do not wish to take this to the battlefield. Hand me Joan, then we allow Catherine to make the choice.
Send me your agreeance by Suffolk, and I shall expect the Maid within the week.
Philip snorted in derision then slowly tore the letter into tiny pieces before dunking them
into a fish pond where trout eagerly ate them. Allow Catherine to make the choice, indeed. Once
he‘d been sure of her—certainly he‘d been sure of her when he‘d made that stupid pact with Bolingbroke!—but now? No, not now. She refused to wed him, she refused to give him a child.
All this she must be reserving for Bolingbroke.
Philip no longer believed either her loving caresses or her protestations of love.
So…what to do?
Philip considered his options.
Giving Joan to Bolingbroke could only work to Philip‘s advantage. One, it would mean
that Bolingbroke would believe that Philip was still going to adhere to the bargain they‘d made
in Gravensteen. Two, it would get Joan out of Philip‘s way once and for all (Philip had no doubts
that Bolingbroke meant to put her to death…he certainly couldn‘t afford to keep her alive). Joan
was too damned determined to ensure Charles‘ place on France‘s throne. She definitely needed
to go…and giving her, anonymously as it were, to the English would be the best way to do it.
The French would blame the English, and Philip could wail with the best of them. That led to the
third and best reason to hand Joan over to Bolingbroke. The girl was France‘s mascot, its saint,
its star of fortune. The French people would go berserk with rage the instant the English got their
horrid hands on their Maid. It would rouse them as nothing else would.
Frankly, Philip no longer liked Bolingbroke‘s chances once he faced an infuriated and
obsessively vengeful French army and nation. Making sure that Joan found her way into the
hands of the English could only ever work in his favour.
In this instance, Philip fully intended keeping his part of the bargain between himself and
Bolingbroke. Of course, to do it successfully, he‘d need to involve Regnault de Chartres, for if
Philip handed the girl in body to Bolingbroke, then de Chartres would need to hand him the
ammunition to try her. There would be no need to share the twenty thousand gold pieces with the
archbishop, for Philip did not expect Bolingbroke to pay it; if Philip had acquiesced to
Bolingbroke‘s demand without demurring in some manner then Bolingbroke would have been
instantly suspicious.
But to keep the second part of the bargain? Allow Catherine to make the choice? No.
That Philip could never allow to happen.
Philip meant to hand Joan over to the English and then, while they were consumed with
rigging a trial and then a death, he would swing his army north, preparing to attack the English
from behind. Even now, he‘d heard, Bolingbroke was leading his army into Rouen (which had
capitulated without a struggle). The city was a third of the way along the Seine towards Paris,
and it would give Philip ample room to swing north and then behind the English lines.
Philip sat down on a bench, stretching his legs out in the hot sun, and grinned.
He‘d heard that Bolingbroke was having some troubles. In the days after his capture of
Harfleur, almost half of his army had fallen ill with such desperate griping in the guts that many
of them were unable to move. Ten thousand, Philip had heard from his spies, had either
succumbed to the griping, or were so ill they‘d been shipped back to England.
Worse, at least for Bolingbroke, was that the disease showed no sign of abating. No one
knew precisely what had caused it—many cited the unripened apples that the English had eaten
in the cartload from orchards to the northwest of Harfleur—but it was decimating England‘s
finest.
Philip closed his eyes and tilted his face back in order to enjoy the full caress of the sun,
sending a quick prayer of gratefulness to God and his angels for their timely aid.
Soon Bolingbroke would have twin evils to counter: the spreading sickness within his
army, and the wrath of the French people for murdering their beloved Maid.
VIII
Monday 12th August 1381
—ii—
Joan paced back and forth, back and forth, her mouth dry with nerves and her stomach
roiling with fear. She‘d known there would be a betrayal, and had known from which direction it
was likely to come, but now that it was nigh…well, premonition was never the most easy of
companions.
The news regarding Harfleur‘s fall had come two days ago, and the arrival of
Bolingbroke‘s envoy this morning. Joan had no doubts whatsoever that the betrayal would come
soon.
She wondered vaguely what price Philip had demanded for her capture.
Thirty pieces of silver, or had the price gone up since Christ‘s time?
Ah! Joan shook herself out of her thoughts. She drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes,
and prayed for courage to the Lord Jesus Christ and the woman who comforted him.
For a long moment she stood still, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, and then she
smiled very slightly, her peace of mind restored.
She opened her eyes, then walked to the door of her chamber.
Charles was in a slumber so light it could hardly be called a sleep. Far from a haven,