direction, interrupted only here and there by a stand of trees, or a tiny village. Birds fluttered
overhead, sometimes landing on the roof not far from Joan‘s feet as if to beg from her a morsel
of the breakfast she had left uneaten.
Joan spent several minutes standing motionless in the centre of the roof, her hands folded
before her, her eyes resting on the peaceful view. The sense of danger had now grown so intense
it dominated her consciousness.
She looked over her shoulder. Her two female companions were standing by the door to
the stairwell, gossiping quietly. Further away stood the three men-at-arms who had accompanied
them, watching Joan, but not with any serious attention.
Not one of those five looked to have a single murderous intent lurking within their minds.
Joan looked back to the view before her…and gasped in horror.
Before her stood the very faintly illuminated figure of Archangel Michael.
You stupid peasant, thinking you could switch your allegiance from us to that Demon
Trickster Jesus. Thinking you still have a role to play in the drama ahead. Fool! Have you not
yet realised how utterly redundant you are? How useless ?
And without waiting for any kind of answer, he lunged forward, enveloping Joan in his
golden luminosity.
A second later, she felt herself being lifted up and hurled over the side of the tower.
Joan tried to scream, but the earth below rushed to meet her so fast that there was no
time.
―Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?‖
Encased in such agony that she knew she must be dead, Joan managed to open one eye a
fraction.
A man leaned over her. A craftsman by the leather tunic he wore, and the belt of tools at
his waist.
―Help me,‖ she whispered.
―How may I do that, mademoiselle,‖ the man replied, ―when you are not even badly hurt.
A little bump to your head, and a twisted ankle.‖
Suddenly Joan‘s pain vanished, and she felt her broken body miraculously knit itself
whole again.
―Lord Jesu,‖ she whispered.
He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling against the strong morning sun. ―I have not forgotten
you, Joan,‖ he said, ―nor forgotten how important you are to me. Do not doubt my love and need
of you.‖
And then, suddenly, he was gone, and she was surrounded by the terrified faces of the
men-at-arms who had rushed down from the tower roof.
―She lives!‖ cried one.
―And with barely a scratch!‖ said another.
―A miracle,‖ Joan murmured, and closed her eyes and smiled, knowing how the angels
must be screaming in frustration.
Thirty-six hours later Philip‘s men came to take her away.
II
Friday 16th August 1381
—ii—
Catherine paused inside the doorway, waiting for Philip to notice her. He was standing in
a group by the window of the large chamber, gesticulating angrily with several of the French
commanders, the Archbishop of Rheims, Regnault de Chartres, and the Provost General of Paris.
She wondered if this was the best possible time to try and speak with him. But when else?
Philip had not come to her bed at all in the past two nights, and had made no attempt to see her
during the days. He had been lured away, not by the charms of another woman, but by that heady
mistress, War. France had roused as never before against the English threat—the English dogs
had stolen their Maid—and this time the French were determined to push the invaders back
beyond the Narrow Seas once and for all. Now men and horses and equipment gathered in
increasing numbers in the fields and meadows above Paris. There was a sense of resolve, a sense
of purpose, and a sense of unity that gripped all Catherine met (save, naturally, her brother,
Charles) and which was to her so strange as to be quite remarkable. Joan‘s stealing had
accomplished what very little else was able to: a forgetfulness of personal feuds and ambitions in
preference for a united stand against the English.
If only Joan knew, thought Catherine, she would be so happy.
Then her mood darkened. France was going to war against England, but, more
importantly and tragically for Catherine, Philip was going to war against Hal.
She suddenly realised Philip had seen her. A stillness had come over the group by the
window, and all eyes had turned to her.
Catherine smiled—an expression meant to display confidence rather than
amusement—and moved deeper into the chamber. She‘d dressed carefully for this occasion: the
deep crimson gown that Philip liked so much, jewels at her neck, upper arms and waist, and a
delicate golden tracery of lace that trailed about her coiled dark hair and down her back.
―My lords,‖ she said, inclining her head. ―Surely this talk of war must not consume all
your time? Are there no minutes left in your day for your women?‖
The men glanced at each other, embarrassed and out of sorts with Catherine‘s entrance
and words. There were great matters to be decided, a war to be won, invaders to be trod into the
dust of the earth…this was no time for wives and lovers.
―Ah,‖ Catherine said softly, ―I have disturbed your talk.‖
She glanced at Philip. His dark gaze was riveted on her, his expression that of utter
neutrality. Catherine knew him well enough, however, to know he was angry at her interruption.
―I irritate you,‖ she continued, ―I can see that. You think what I am and what I have to
say is of little consequence. My lords…‖ Catherine sat on a throne-like chair that had been
placed ready for Philip, her head and shoulders held elegantly, her hands carefully, deliberately,
rearranging her full silken skirts into precisely the correct folds. She raised her head, regarding
each man frankly, and continued. ‖And yet this woman can perhaps aid you.‖ She tilted her head and regarded Philip. ―If I said the right words, Philip, could I not win for you—‖
―Perhaps it would be better if Catherine and I spoke privately,‖ Philip said. He waved
away the group about him. ―Meet with me again this evening, and bring with you the latest
reports on both the English and our preparations.‖
The men filed out, slowly, reluctantly, their every movement stiff with affront that
Catherine should have so interrupted them.
Finally, when all were gone, Philip closed the distance between himself and Catherine in
three heavy strides, and leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of the chair so that his stiff
arms trapped Catherine.
―What do you here?‖ he said, finally allowing his anger some freedom.
―What do you do here?‖ she countered. ―Philip, what is going on? Joan is gone, taken by
Hal, they say…although I have my doubts. And here you are, preparing to lead an army against
Hal. Philip, you cannot win.‖
He stepped back from her. ―I thank you for your confidence in me.‖
Catherine‘s shoulders slumped, and she looked down at her hands as they lay in her lap.
―May I rephrase that last?‖ she said softly.
She received only silence for an answer.
Catherine looked up. ―I do not want you to lose, Philip. I do not want to lose you. ‖
Again, silence, although now his regard was more calculating than angry.
―You said that Hal and you had made a bargain. Together you would dispose of Joan,
then you would let me decide France. Whoever I took as my husband would take France.‖
―Aye,‖ he said.
―Then stop this foolish war,‖ she said, ―and marry me.‖
Nothing she could have said would have stunned Philip more. For months, years, she had
consistently refused to marry him.
― What? ‖ he said.
―I do not want Hal,‖ she said, her voice even softer now. ―I want you. You will do better
for France than either Hal or Charles. Marry me.‖
His eyes narrowed. ―This is some trap.‖
She smiled, but sadly, knowing that she deserved his suspicion. ―No. No more a trap than
any marriage. Marry me.‖
―Catherine…‖ Philip came close, squatting down before her. He took both her hands in
his. ―Catherine. There will be war anyway. If Hal discovers that you have wed me…‖ He gave a
short laugh. ―My love…neither of us meant that bargain. The rejected suitor was always going to
take out his frustration on the battlefield.‖
―I know. Marry me anyway.‖
―Catherine…why now?‖
―Because I think the world is about to fall apart,‖ Catherine said, and began to weep
soundlessly, ―and I would prefer it to fall apart while I am in your arms than distanced from
them.‖
He lifted a hand and wiped away some of her tears. ―Regnault de Chartres is undoubtedly
close. His ear is pressed permanently to doors. Should I call him now?‖
She nodded.
III
Monday 19th August 1381
(Night)
The stubble of the grain field crackled underneath the boots of the men and the hard-iron
hooves of the horses they led on loose reins.