Prologue #5
Bedford eyed de Russe. The man was a stone-faced and stoic as always but Bedford knew that was just a facade.
He knew the man was feeling more about the situation than he was displaying, bewitched as he was by the Maid.
Even though he had been separated from the woman for nearly two weeks, escorting Lady Anne to Calais, Bedford suspected the separation had done nothing to ease the man’s obsession with the Maid.
Or, at least his great interest. But now, that bond was broken, never to be restored.
Moreover, Bedford had plans for de Russe. Very big plans.
“Once you have disposed of the remains, you will attend me,” he said. “I have something very important for you to do.”
De Russe nodded faintly. “Aye, my lord.”
Bedford suspected that was the only answer he’d get out of the man at the moment, so he walked away, joined by a few of his advisors as he went. He had much to plan and much to discuss. With the Maid gone, there was much to do, now without her radical interference.
De Russe watched the man walk away, disappearing into the night.
He was usually in that crowd that followed Bedford around, but not this time.
After all of this, he wondered if he would ever be in Bedford’s crowd again.
It was a coward of a man who would destroy a young woman the way he did, no matter what the circumstances.
Returning his focus to the pyre, he could see that it had burned down enough so that now it was simply smoldering ruins.
He went to it, kicking aside ashes and pieces of wood, peering down at what was left of the Maid.
A few soldiers and the executioners were standing around him as well.
He knelt down, flicking aside wood to clear away what was left of the body. It was a sobering sight.
“We must remove her remains so none can scavenge what is left of her,” he said, struggling to be businesslike about the matter in spite of his personal feelings. “Find me a box or an urn, anything to contain these remains in. And someone had better bring a broom.”
The men wandered away to collect what they could as de Russe remained crouched beside the ashes.
He could see bits of bone and most of her skull.
The fire hadn’t been hot enough to burn it entirely.
There were teeth and a jawbone. But as he flicked away chunks of charcoal and embers, he could also see something else.
Curious, and with a hand protected from the heat by a heavy leather glove, he flicked aside a heap of smoldering embers and picked it up.
It was small, round, and slightly charred on one side but the moment he turned it over, he could see it for what it was.
Her heart. It hadn’t been burned entirely, which was shocking.
In fact, it was in rather good shape, considering.
They could burn her but they couldn’t burn her stalwart heart, he thought to himself.
It was a rather startling revelation. That which had survived the pyre couldn’t simply be cast aside.
It was too strong for that. She was too strong for that.
Nay, he couldn’t let her heart be cast into the waters of the Seine.
Something of her, somewhere, had to survive.
Make sure there is nothing left.
For once, this was one promise he wasn’t going to keep.
When the Maid’s remains were cast into the Seine on a clear night beneath a full moon, her small heart found a home in a little wooden box, tucked deep into de Russe’s saddlebags.
What he didn’t know, however, was that one of Bedford’s other men saw him put it there.
The young knight, bearing the name of Fitzwilliam, knew de Russe had taken something left of the Maid. He just didn’t know what it was. But he tucked the knowledge deep into his mind, to be used at the proper time. Not many had a hold over de Russe. Fitzwilliam intended to profit off of his.
But de Russe was ignorant of knights with greed upon their hearts.
He was more concerned with the turmoil in his own.
Upon seeing Bedford later that night, he received orders that turned a tense situation from bad to worse.
The orders he received were orders that set his blood to boiling but he didn’t show his distaste.
He could only obey them, as any good knight would have.
He hadn’t come this far, or earned the reputation he had, to destroy it all because of a difference of opinion with Bedford.
Besides, his new orders would accomplish one thing he desired – they would get him back to England.
De Russe looked forward to setting foot on English soil again, for he was mightily sick of France.
He hated everything about it and after the events with the Maid, he particularly hated Bedford.
He couldn’t wait to go home and evaluate his priorities.
In the days following her death, he found himself questioning everything.
Was loyalty to the crown worth his soul? He wondered.