from the shadowy aisles of the chapel.
She was dressed splendidly in robes of blood-red silk and velvet, with ropes of pearls
festooned about her jewelled girdle and collars of emeralds and garnets about her neck and
wrists.
On her face she wore an expression, strangely combined, of loathing and triumph.
Isabeau de Bavière. ―The good archbishop speaks nothing but truth,‖ Isabeau said, her
voice flat, then she turned to face the panel of clerics. ―The midwife has admitted to me that she
spent many nights in lustful copulation with the guard in question, my lords. When she found
herself with child, the woman panicked, and thought to deflect blame from her sins by naming
the archangel as the father.
―If that were not enough,‖ Isabeau continued, ―I myself once came upon them in the
stables of the castle, naked and sweating as they sated their lust.‖ She cast down her eyes. ―I was
appalled, not only at the midwife‘s lechery, but at her later claims.‖
―How can you,‖ said Joan, her voice soft and compassionate, ―a victim of the archangel‘s
lust yourself, so seek to demean Marie? Can you not remember how terrified you were when you
discovered yourself with child during a time when you knew you had slept with no man?‖
Isabeau went pale, the only sign of her profound shock. How did this peasant know about
Catherine? ―Are you so great a witch,‖ Isabeau finally managed, ―that you would claim I
copulated with the archangel?‖
―If not,‖ whispered one of the lesser clerics to the man seated beside him, ―it would be
the only male in Creation that de Bavière hasn”t copulated with.‖
Isabeau heard the remark, as she was meant to, and she flushed with humiliation.
―Do you deny it, madam?‖ Joan said, and the pity in her face and voice pushed Isabeau
into so deep a rage, and so great a hatred, that she did not even stop to consider how grievously
she imperilled her soul with her next words.
―My lords,‖ she said, her voice a hiss, ―Marie was not the only wanton I came upon
engaged in promiscuity within the spaces of La Roche-Guyon. I did spy Joan herself one
afternoon, her mouth attached to the guard‘s privy member, pleasuring him in the only manner
she could.‖
There was a collective gasp of horror among the gathered clerics.
―When the guard threatened to tell my son,‖ Isabeau continued, ―revealing to him that he
trusted naught but a common harlot, Joan murdered him through her sorcerous arts, as she also
similarly crippled two of his companions, true men both.‖
Joan shook her head very slightly, and looked away.
―Sorcerous arts, madam?‖ asked the Bishop of Beauvais.
Isabeau glanced at Joan, then looked back at the clerics. ―She conjured up a golden hand,
with which she murdered and maimed. I did not see this, but many did, and I doubt not their
words.
―On a later occasion I spied her sorcery with my own eyes,‖ Isabeau continued. She had
regained control of her voice and features, and her face was composed, her shoulders straight,
and her gaze level as she regarded Joan with a carefully constructed contempt.
―Yes, madam?‖ said the Abbé de Fécamp encouragingly, leaning forward.
―When my beloved son Charles was leading his army towards his magnificent victory at
Orleans,‖ Isabeau said, ―we passed by the town of Montlhéry. Joan directed us to a small shrine dedicated to Saint Catherine, and there she performed sorcery before both myself, my son and
my daughter. Using witchcraft, Joan transformed a rusting sword into a shining weapon of steel.
Joan lifted this rusting piece from the ground, where it had lain for generations, and murmured
over it, whereupon it transformed itself into new, polished steel.‖
―She performed sorcery before Saint Catherine‘s shrine?‖ the Abbé said.
Isabeau nodded, her face sad. ―Aye, my lord, she did.‖
The clerics muttered among themselves for a few minutes, then the Abbé addressed Joan.
―What have you to say for yourself, given the Lady de Bavière‘s evidence against you?‖
―Naught but this, Abbé,‖ Joan said, and turned so she faced Isabeau directly. ―Do you
remember, my lady, what happened to the guard at la Roche-Guyon who spoke lies against me?
He died, although at the archangel‘s hand rather than mine. What fate awaits you, do you think,
for your fabrications here this day?‖
Isabeau‘s eyes widened, although whether in pretended or real shock was difficult to
determine. ―She threatens me,‖ she cried, stepping back, one hand theatrically to her throat.
― I will never harm you,‖ Joan said quietly.
―My lords,‖ Isabeau said.
―We have heard enough, I think,‖ said the Abbé. He looked to Isabeau. ―Madam, we do
thank you for your aid here this day. I can understand that your testimony must necessarily have
been difficult.‖
―I swear that even standing in the presence of such foulness soils my soul,‖ Isabeau
murmured.
―If your soul has been soiled,‖ Joan said, ―then it has been through no work of mine. You
have dragged yourself into the mud of meanness, madam. I have had no hand in it.‖
Isabeau reddened, angry that she had not managed to dent Joan‘s composure. She went to
speak further, but Lemaistre waved her into silence.
―There is yet one more case of sorcery to be answered, Joan,‖ he said. ―Your tumble from
the tower of Beaurevoir. How can any mortal man or woman fall that far and walk away unhurt?
Did you fly your way down, like a witch?‖
―Christ saved me,‖ said Joan. ―I did not save myself.‖
Lemaistre gave her a long look, then leaned over to confer with the Bishop of Beauvais.
The bishop nodded, and Lemaistre turned his eyes back to Joan.
―We would like to hear why you chose to discard your womanly apparel and ride garbed
in armour,‖ he said. ―Can you explain to us these ungodly actions?‖
And so the questions and the accusations continued through the day and into the evening,
Isabeau interjecting at every opportunity with her own pretended witnessing of Joan‘s witchcraft,
until Joan was drooping with weariness and her accusators‘ voices harsh with judgement.
In the end, furious that they had not broken her, Jean Lemaistre pronounced their panel‘s
judgement.
―This woman commonly known as Joan of Arc, Maid of France, is denounced and
declared a sorceress, diviner, pseudo-prophetess, invoker of evil spirits, conspiratrix,
superstitious. Implicated in and given to the practice of magic, wrongheaded as to our Catholic
faith, and in several other articles of our faith sceptical and astray, sacrilegious, idolatrous,
apostate, accursed and mischievous, blasphemous towards God and His Archangels, scandalous,
seditious, disturber of peace, inciter of war, cruelly avid of human blood, inciting to bloodshed,
having completely and shamelessly abandoned the decencies proper to her sex, and having
immodestly adopted the dress and status of a man-at-arms…‖ His voice droned on, accusing her of so many heretical and sorcerous activities that few miscreants could have fitted them into six
full lifetimes. ―It is our unanimous opinion,‖ Lemaistre eventually finished, ―that you are a
relapsed heretic, a witch and a sorceress, and that you are to be abandoned to the justice of the
English king, Henry Bolingbroke, with the request,‖ his lips curled maliciously, ―that you shall
be treated as mercifully as possible.‖
To one side Isabeau de Bavière‘s face relaxed into triumph. Finally! Merciful be damned.
Joan was going to burn.
Joan gave a single nod, as if Lemaistre‘s verdict was nothing but what she had expected,
but, as she turned to go, she gave a soft cry and collapsed to the floor.
For several minutes they stared at her, thinking this only a subterfuge on her part. But
when she did not rise, the churchmen instructed a guard to walk over and inspect her.
He did so, first poking at her with his boot, then leaning down to roll her over a little
distance.
―She is consumed with fever,‖ he said.
They put Joan on a pallet in a small, windowless chamber off the main hall of the castle.
Margaret, having heard of Joan‘s collapse, came hurrying and was allowed to tend her.
Bolingbroke, having also been informed of Joan‘s collapse, sent for the physician Culpeper, then
visited Joan himself.
The chamber was crowded, the lack of window, the closed door and the sputtering
torches contributing to its airlessness.
―Well?‖ said Bolingbroke, as Culpeper finally stood back from the pallet.
Joan lay with her eyes closed, her face flushed and sweaty, her hands neatly folded across
her breasts.
―She‘s exhausted and malnourished,‖ Culpeper said. ―She has been kept on her feet for
twelve hours after spending many weeks imprisoned in poor conditions. Anyone might faint
under such circumstances.‖
―So she will live?‖
―Why do you want me to live?‖ Joan rasped from the bed. Her eyes had opened, and now
stared directly at Bolingbroke.
By her side, Margaret laid a soft hand on Joan‘s arm.
Bolingbroke ignored Joan. ―Take good care of her,‖ he said to Culpeper. ―She must not