Catherine rolled away from him, curling up into a ball, hugging her belly, praying that his
damage of her had not gone too deep.
Bolingbroke laughed softly, but then his laugh was cut off as another bout of coughing
claimed him.
She curled into a protective ball about her belly, still asleep, still caught in her dream.
She jerked, and cried out softly, then whimpered.
Her cry woke her husband. He rolled close to her, cuddling her, stroking her shoulder,
gently waking her.
“Do not be afraid,” he whispered. “You are here with me.”
She blinked, finally rousing into full wakefulness.
One of her hands slid about her belly, checking. She sighed, relieved, and he felt her
shoulders and back relax against him.
“Our child is safe,” he whispered against the roundness of her shoulder, and she felt his
mouth smile.
“I have been caught in the most vile dream,” she said, very low.
“I know.”
She turned slightly, enough so she could look into his face. “I dreamed I lived in a broken
world of darkness with a man who hated me. I dreamed our child was nothing but a black
malignant mass in my womb. I dreamed I was broken…” She lifted one of her arms, frowning a little at its smooth round paleness, as if such wholeness was strange to her.
“You are whole now,” he said. “And our child is living and warm cradled within you, not
a dark malicious imp waiting to murder you.”
“Do people still hate us?” she said, unable to believe they could possibly be safe.
“No one hates us now. We are but simple folk. No one takes any note of us, no one sees
us.”
She relaxed even further, giving him a loving smile. She touched his face, marvelling at
every angle, every line, every hollow.
“In my dream,” she said, knowing she could say this to him, “there was one brightness.”
“And that was…?”
“A man who loved me. Respected me. Trusted me. He was my friend.”
“And did you love him?”
“Aye, I did. I could weep before him, confide in him, trust him, and not doubt him. I had
no shame before him.”
“Then he is a man to be treasured.”
“Aye,” she said slowly. “A man to be treasured.”
Then she grinned, impishly, her hand slowly traversing his chest. “As are you.”
He laughed, filled with wonder that she had finally returned to him. “As are you. ” He
bent and kissed her.
II
Monday 9th September 1381
Paris still held out against Bolingbroke, but there was little he could do about it until
reinforcements arrived from England. While he waited, Bolingbroke meant to dispose of Joan
once and for all.
In this ambition, Bolingbroke had an unexpected ally. Isabeau de Bavière—now his
mother-in-law—had somehow managed to extricate herself from Paris to arrive at Rouen in time
for Joan‘s trial.
It was the least she could do for her daughter‘s new husband, she‘d announced, and not
even Catherine‘s studied indifference could wipe the triumphant smile from Isabeau‘s face.
Isabeau de Bavière had not only managed to reposition herself at the centre of power, but
she had also arrived in time to slide the dagger deep into Joan‘s hated back.
Life for Isabeau was very good indeed.
The trial of Joan of Arc, Maid of France, for heresy and witchcraft began at eight of the
clock of the morning of Monday the ninth of September and continued for a full twelve hours. It
was conducted by Abbé de Fécamp, aided by French, Roman and English clerics, and all armed
with the information that Regnault de Chartres had given them. Two years of jealousy, hatred,
rumours, innuendo and bigotry fed their ardour to achieve a successful verdict…and for them a
successful verdict meant nothing less than a guilty verdict on as many charges as possible.
There had been many people, both within the Church and without it, who had lusted for
this opportunity for a long time. Most of them had made their way to Rouen, determined that the
court should hear their version of how the Maid had conducted sorcerous rituals, magicked
several women into giving birth to deformed infants (and one fivelegged rabbit), and uttered
hundreds of heretical and hurtful criticisms of the true Church, exclusive mouthpiece of God and
His angels. Her so-called miracles had been nothing but Satanic magical spells, her military
skills an obscene parody of her womanhood, her alleged conversations with Archangels
delusional hysteria, or, worse, diabolical plottings with Satanic imps.
Joan might have a devoted following among the common people of France, but among
both churchmen and nobles she had won many enemies. As much as they might detest the
English, on this matter the French bishops were prepared to work with Bolingbroke. Joan must
be stopped, and this court was just the vehicle to do it.
As quickly as possible so that the damage she‘d wrought might be contained in timely
fashion.
The castle in Rouen hosted the trial. Joan‘s guards woke her at dawn, offered her
breakfast, which she had refused, then gave her the opportunity to pray and clothe herself. When
the guards finally brought her into the chapel, Joan wore the same tunic and breeches that she
had worn for so many months.
Her judges and their clerics were arrayed in a semicircle of benches and desks, their
backs to the altar.
Their faces were grave, their eyes gleeful. They had her, and they knew it.
The trial began with a request by the Abbé de Fécamp for Joan to summarise as briefly as
she could the history of her visions, and her campaign on behalf of the French king (who, the
Abbé noted, was remarkable for his absence).
Joan, standing before them with her hands folded neatly across her abdomen, declined.
―My visions have ever been personal,‖ she said, ―and my efforts on behalf of our gracious King
Charles a matter of public record. I do not see why I must repeat them here.‖
―Mademoiselle,‖ said the Abbé politely, even though his grey eyes were flinty with
hatred, ―there are many among us,‖ several of the bishops to either side of the Abbé nodded,
―who are concerned that these visions may not have been the work of the great Archangel
Michael, but of Satan, disguised, whispering dark words into your ears. You must reveal what
you know, or we shall be forced to think the worst.‖
Joan regarded the Abbé steadily. She did not answer.
―How,‖ said the Bishop of Beauvais, who sat three places to the Abbé‘s left, ―can we
believe that the great archangel thought to confide himself in you, a common peasant girl?‖
Joan almost did not respond, but just as the bishop was about to speak again, she said, ―I
suited his needs.‖
―His ‗needs‘?‖ said the bishop.
Joan remained silent.
―What do you mean by his ‗needs‘?‖ said the Abbé. ―You surely do not suggest that the
archangel had ‗needs‘ as mortal sinful men have ‗needs‘?‖
Now Joan hung her head, her cheeks mottling dark pink.
All the churchmen drew sharp breaths of horror.
―Are you implying,‖ said Jean Lemaistre, the Dominican Vicar of the Holy Office of the
Inquisition in Rouen, ―that the archangel sought sexual comfort from women? Mademoiselle, I
remind you that in this holy chamber you must speak the truth.‖
Now Joan raised her head, the colour in her cheeks coalescing into a bright red spot in
each cheek. Her eyes were brilliant. ―The Archangel Michael,‖ she said, ―is a sexually lascivious
rapist. No more, no less.‖
Horrified before, the churchmen were now speechless. They stared at Joan, then they
finally managed to turn their heads and stare at each other.
―As are all the angels,‖ Joan said. If they do not burn me for that, then they will not burn
me for anything.
The Abbé de Fécamp stared at Joan a moment longer, then turned in his chair and
whispered to the friar who served as his aide. ―Once we are done we burn the transcript of this
trial. I do not care what you put in its place, but this transcript must be buried for all time.‖
The friar nodded, understanding, and the Abbé turned back to Joan.
―You can have no evidence of this,‖ he said. ―Unless you claim that the archangel lay
with you. ‖
There were impolite sniggers about the chapel. The Maid was too ugly for any man, let
alone a mighty archangel, to contemplate lying with her.
―The archangel lay with my companion Marie,‖ Joan said, ―getting her with child—‖
―She lies,‖ said the Archbishop of Rheims, Regnault de Chartres. He had been listening
to proceedings from a spot hidden behind a rood screen to one side of the altar. Now he stepped
forth.
―The midwife Marie has admitted that she lay, shamelessly and adulterously, with a
guard of the watch at La Roche-Guyon—‖
― You lie,‖ Joan began, but was halted from further speech by the appearance of a woman