Prologue #4
De Russe’s gaze lingered on John de Lancaster, the Duke of Bedford, whose father had been Henry IV.
He was a rather short man with a big nose and a very big forehead.
He had a reputation for being both fair and fearless, and his military acumen was unmatched.
De Russe had always respected him up until the last few months when the duke’s cunning mind had turned against a nineteen-year-old girl.
Now, he realized he had no more respect for Bedford at all.
Perhaps that was the terrible hollow feeling he had been experiencing, disgust and mistrust where there had once been veneration.
The duke smiled at de Russe when the man went by, obviously pleased to see him leading the prisoner to her doom, but de Russe didn’t acknowledge him. He continued on to the pyre and, dismounting his charger and handing the beast over to the nearest soldier, waited for the wagon to come to a halt.
The job of securing the Maid to the stake should have been left to the executioners but de Russe couldn’t seem to do it.
He took the Maid by her skinny arm and put her back against the pole, proceeding to tie her hands behind her back excruciatingly tightly, so tight in fact that her fingers turned blue.
When a soldier handed him a chain to reinforce the tie, as rope would burn away, he tied that on tightly, too.
As he was securing the chain, he whispered softly into her right ear.
“The binds are tight because I do not want you to pull free and try to run,” he explained. “Nothing would be worse than watching you run around the square as you burn to death. You must remain here. It will be quicker this way. I hope you understand.”
The Maid didn’t look at him, knowing he was doing this as a courtesy to her.
She nodded, briefly, but her fear was getting the better of her.
The acrid smell of oil was filling her nostrils and she knew that, soon, she and the oil and smoke and fire would become one.
As she felt the last of the chains going around her body now, securing her tightly to the pole, she felt someone squeeze her hand.
She knew it was de Russe. He squeezed it one last time and then he was gone.
It was a sweetly poignant last gesture, something that filled her heart with peace.
The tribunal filled the platform now, watching as the guards moved away from the prisoner so the pyre could be lit.
As the sun rose over a bright blue sky, it was a beautiful morning as the executioners began to light the oil-soaked wood.
They had more fuel on the side to feed the flames, watching as the fire took off rapidly.
A hush settled over the crowd, over everyone, watching as the flames began to lick the base of the post where the Maid was secured.
De Russe was standing about twelve or fifteen feet away, not too terribly far considering how big the flames were going to get.
He stood right in front of the Maid, his eyes riveted to hers, just as he had promised.
At one point, as the fire began to lick at her feet, she smiled at de Russe and he smiled back.
She did not present a smile of fear, nor of bravery.
It was the smile of a woman whose life was well spent.
She was about to meet God and she was joyful.
I am not afraid to die. As he watched the fire burn, he believed her.
But that belief was put to the test when the flames began to consume her clothing.
Her rough woolen breeches were the first to ignite.
Since her feet were bare, as they had allowed her no shoes, her feet were starting to catch fire as well.
De Russe could see the smoke from the lower part of her body, knowing she was igniting, and it took every bit of strength he had not to rush to help her.
There was nothing he could do, anyway. Were he to pull her free, she was already burned and would eventually die a slow and agonizing death from it.
It was better to let her go up all at once, as sickening and agonizing as it was to watch.
But the Maid maintained eye contact with him even as her lower body started to burn.
The smile on her face, however, turned to a grimace and eventually, he watched as her eyes rolled back in her head and she turned away, overcome with pain and smoke.
As de Russe began to pray that she would fall unconscious before the flames reached higher, the Maid suddenly cried out.
“French people!” she cried. “Continue to fight, because the voices in whose name I led you to victory truly spoke orders that came from Heaven. Heaven will give you, therefore, the complete victory!”
It was odd how the small woman’s voice could be heard over everything; the flames, the smoke, and the muffled hush of the crowd.
It reverberated off the buildings, off the cathedral itself, as the flames began to snake up her body.
Now, her tunic was starting to smoke and the flames from the lower part of her body were beginning to shoot around her shoulders and chin. She gasped but nothing more.
De Russe found himself fighting off tears.
The pain she was experiencing was undoubtedly agonizing but she was bearing it with bravery he had never seen.
He was standing so close that the entire front side of his body was searing from the sheer heat of the bonfire and, out of necessity, had to take a few steps back. He could smell her flesh burning now.
The Maid’s hair began to ignite. As short as it was, it was smoking and little sparks began to flash all around her head. Soon, the flames would consumer her entire face and body, but before she went up in flames entirely, she cried out one last time.
“Know this, all of you!” she screamed. “You friends and enemies, you men of my time and you men of the future until the end of the world – know that the voices I heard came from Heaven. With this last proclamation, my mission is accomplished!”
With that, her head pitched forward and, as de Russe watched, went up in flames.
Everything about her was in flames now as she became one with the post behind her, with the wood piled up around her.
Everything was one, giant, massive flame that shot up into the sky, sending billowing black smoke into the atmosphere.
De Russe could only pray that she was completely unconscious at this point.
He believed so because he could see no movement.
He continued to stand there, however, because he’d promised her he would.
He had promised her that his face would be the last one she saw before she died and he had fulfilled that vow but, still, he couldn’t seem to move away.
He had to stay there, if only as a show of respect for the odd friendship they shared.
The executioners poured more oil onto the fire, causing it to burn hotter and brighter, and de Russe continued to stand there for the duration of the burn.
It took hours. But still, he stood rooted to the spot, even as the crowd thinned out because the Maid was obviously dead and now it was simply her corpse they were burning.
Eventually, the fire died down, the post she had been tied to collapsed, and all of it was one big, smoldering heap.
It burned all day. When the fire died down towards sunset, the executioners pulled back the embers to reveal the Maid’s charred body, onto which they poured more oil and burned it again.
They wanted no trace of her martyred remains.
When the sun finally went down and the crowds mostly cleared out, including the ecclesiastical tribunal, de Russe continued to stand and watch the embers burn.
“Make sure this is all cleared out, de Russe,” someone said behind him. “We want no trace of her for scavengers.”
Even before de Russe turned around, he knew it was Bedford speaking.
He turned to the man, politely, because that was what propriety dictated.
But the moment his eyes fell on him, all he could feel was disgust. He could also hear the Maid’s voice in his head – make sure there is nothing left.
For once, the Maid and Bedford thought alike.
“Aye, my lord,” he replied steadily. “I will cast whatever is left into the river.”
Bedford nodded, eyeing the smoldering pile of what used to be a young woman.
“This is a victorious day,” he said to de Russe, slapping the man on the arm.
“Victorious indeed and, in spite of what the girl said, victory shall be England’s.
Now that she is dead, the French have lost their inspiration. A victorious day, indeed.”
“Indeed, my lord.”