obedience to the Church, and their fear of what the Church might do to them should they make a
fuss, kept their uneasiness to a sullen low murmur and the passing of uneasy looks between
neighbours and friends.
Saints had been martyred before, it was almost the expected outcome for any saintly
enterprise, and perhaps they should count themselves fortunate to be here to witness the passage
of the Maid into the arms of God and His angels, where she surely belonged.
Carpenters and labourers had worked through the night to erect the scaffolding about the
stake and to collect enough wood to ensure the Maid burned properly. The stake itself stood on a
platform that had wood heaped beneath it and about it: a small space had been left clear so that
Joan‘s gaolers could tie her securely to the stake.
A wooden board had been fastened to the top of the stake. On it were written words in
red paint: Jeanne who calls herself Maid of France, liar, pernicious deceiver of the people, sorceress, superstitious, blasphemer of God, presumptuous, boastful, idolatrous, cruel, dissolute, invoker of devils, apostate, schismatic, and heretic.
The labourers had erected two stands a close but safe distance from the stake. In one
would the English king, his entourage and the civilian notables of Rouen watch the proceedings,
in the other the members of the Church who had gathered for the spectacle. Many of the clerics were already arriving, resplendent in newly laundered and brushed clerical robes of purple,
crimson and black wool and silk, some of them wearing furs against the cool morning.
They fully expected to be able to discard them in the later warmth of the day.
The crowds were permitted to gather in the other two sides of the square, and in the
spaces between the stands.
By nine of the clock there were some ten thousand gathered in the square. Among them
was a scruffy, weary-faced English nobleman. He leaned against the supports of the stand where
the king would shortly sit, his arms folded, his face staring at the stake. The skin beneath his
black hair and above his unkempt beard was ashen, his eyes ringed with red, his mouth a
thin-pressed white line.
Neville had spent the entire night roaming the streets of Rouen trying to find James. He‘d
shouted his name, he‘d pounded on the doors of those carpenters‘ workshops he could find. He‘d
wept and screamed and sobbed.
But he had not found James.
Christ had deserted him today, it seemed.
Neville‘s eyes swung towards a movement in the crowd in front of the stake.
A man stood there, ethereal, exuding a faint unearthly aura. His features were all but
hidden beneath a long, hooded, black cloak. All that Neville could see of him was a pale flash of
a face deep under the hood, and the gleam of flat, black eyes.
The blackness of the cloak gave forth a faint, sickening light. A darkness that hung over
the man, cloaking him from most eyes.
All eyes save those of another angel, or of one of their children.
Another movement, slightly to the left of the first cloaked man, and Neville‘s eyes flew
that way.
There stood another black-cloaked and hooded man, exuding the same unearthly glimmer
of darkness. On his hooded head sat a black obsidian crown, its points flickering in the light as if
on dark fire.
An archangel.
Michael.
Neville stood up straight, letting his arms drop to his sides. His eyes moved about the
crowd. There, there…there! The crowd was intermixed with a throng of angels, all blackly
cloaked and hooded, some wearing the archangelic obsidian crowns.
All with pale faces under their hoods, all turned towards Neville, all with black eyes
unblinking.
None among the human crowd realised their presence, or realised that every time they
moved they bumped elbows or shoulders or hips with an angel come to gloat amid Neville‘s
misery.
Hundreds of angels, the entire throng of heaven, moving very slowly to the front of the
crowd so that they lined the semi-circle of open space in the square.
Decision time, brother. Are you ready?
Neville briefly considered flight, hungered for the cowardice that would allow him to
turn and flee.
But he could not.
―James,‖ he whispered. ―Where are you? Help me, please. Oh, sweet Jesu, help me… help
me…‖
A clarion of horns sounded, and Neville jumped.
The castle gates opened, and through them rode Bolingbroke atop a black destrier— as
black as the angels” cloaks—Catherine riding a smaller palfrey at his side. She was dressed in crimson, and it did nothing to soften the lines about her eyes, or the strain about her mouth.
Behind them rode Isabeau de Bavière, clad in demure grey, but with such a gleam of
triumph in her eyes and her bearing that her entire face had lost its fragile air of beauty to a hard mask of malice. Isabeau was certain that, if nothing else, the horror of being burned alive would
surely dent Joan‘s irritating composure.
Isabeau meant to enjoy Joan‘s death.
Following Isabeau rode a score of nobles, all splendidly accoutred, and perhaps a
hundred heavily weaponed menat-arms.
And behind them came a cart drawn by four great horses. On this cart sat a cage, and in
this cage, clinging to its bars, stood Joan. She wore nothing but a simple unflattering sleeveless
shift of undyed linen that came down to her calves; in places it clung in great patches to her skin
where she had sweated. Joan‘s hair had been rough-cut very short to an uncombed dark cap
about her head. Her eyes were wide, staring, but strangely calm. She almost seemed to be in
another place. Neville wondered what she saw with those eyes…the market square, or something
far more strange?
About her neck someone had hung a sign which read, simply, Sorceress.
Behind the cart walked Margaret, looking terrified rather than calm. Her clothing, while
not quite so basic as Joan‘s, was almost as simple: a pale grey woollen robe, a simple corded belt
tied low about her hips, a white lawn veil holding back her hair.
Neville‘s heart lurched within his chest, and his eyes filled with tears. Poor Margaret.
Did she think he had deserted her?
But perhaps he had, for the angels had left him no room to manoeuvre, no room to gift
Margaret his soul.
―Jesu! Jesu!‖ Neville whispered, not caring that his staring eyes and ashen face drew
concerned looks from those in the crowd close to him. Where is this third path, James? Where
my third option?
At that moment he saw Bolingbroke‘s face harden, and the man‘s hands jerk against his
horse‘s reins as they tightened.
He‘d just seen the angels ringed about the square.
Bolingbroke stared, then his eyes darted about until they found Neville, still close to the
stand where Bolingbroke would eventually sit. His lips moved soundlessly, but Neville could
hear Bolingbroke‘s voice in his head.
Do not fail me now, Neville. Do not fail Margaret.
Neville broke out into a sweat. I will fail if I choose the path you point me at, Hal.
Bolingbroke‘s face contorted, and Neville knew he struggled to contain his rage. If they‘d
been alone, if tens of thousands had not been watching, if the damned angels had not stood there gloating in their imminent victory, then Neville knew Bolingbroke would have been
hard-pressed not to reach out and destroy him for that thought.
Far behind Bolingbroke, Margaret let out a soft cry of terror as she, too, caught a glimpse
of the ranks of the angels about the square.
It drew Neville‘s eyes back to her, and he began to cry for her and for mankind, whom
this morning he would be forced to condemn into eternal enslavement.
He cried for himself, as well, knowing that his failure would doom him to an eternal hell
clasped within the brotherhood of the angels. He moaned most pitifully, and bent over, his clenched fists at his forehead. Why couldn”t he hand his soul to Margaret? Why? Sweet Jesu
knew that he loved her. Oh, why? Why?
The black glimmering ranks of the angels shifted, almost as if they had no solid foothold
on the ground, and they drifted in the slight breeze that blew through the square.
You cannot choose Margaret, they whispered about Neville. You know that…Beloved
Brother among Us.
Bolingbroke and his entourage had now reached the stand while the cart bearing Joan,
Margaret still walking behind it, drew into the open space in front of the stake.
Joan, lost in some strange world of her own, stared unseeing about her.
Margaret shrank closer to the cart, one hand gripping its backboard, her eyes staring,
terrified, at the angels about her.
Many of them hissed at her: Demon. Bitch. Heretic imp.
Bolingbroke dismounted from his horse, looked to make sure that Owen Tudor helped
Catherine down from her mount, then shot Neville a smouldering glance of anger. Choose