Prologue #2
De Russe stood there, looking at her, before sighing faintly.
He ignored her question. “I have heard of your troubles,” he said.
“But I was told that your gowns were taken from you and you were given male clothing to wear. You were forced to break your promise and recant your confession because of it. Is this true?”
The Maid lowered her gaze. “Who has told you this?”
De Russe could see she was being evasive.
“One of my men who remained behind,” he said.
“Bedford removed him from guarding you and he was told that another guard, a man instructed by Bedford no less, removed your female clothes and provided you with only male clothing to wear, male clothing you swore off under penalty of death.”
The Maid shrugged. “It does not matter,” she said. “It is done.”
“If this is true, then you were trapped. I will summon the Pope personally to intervene.”
The Maid shook her head, shushing him. She didn’t want to discuss it, which aggravated him.
Either she was resigned to her fate or fearful of what more they could do to her, or even to de Russe since his sympathies toward her were an open secret.
Whatever the reason, she cut him off from further discussing the subject.
Frustrated, de Russe took a few more steps into the room, looking around at the filth.
“And this,” he grumbled. “Have they not cleaned this out for you? I have warned them against treating you like an animal.”
The Maid shushed him quietly. “Come here, ma bête,” she said. “Come and sit. I must speak with you.”
De Russe looked at her, not at all liking her words or her tone. He was sure she was going to say something he did not want to hear.
“You need not say anything to me,” he said quietly. “But there is something I must say to you.”
The Maid lifted her dark, slightly arched eyebrows. “What is that?”
He looked at her, really looked at her. His eyes, the color of the sky on a hot summer day, were intense.
“I have been thinking of this for some time,” he asked quietly. “Your previous escape attempts… I have come to the conclusion that I should not have stopped you.”
The Maid gave him a half-grin. “You did what you were supposed to do,” she said, some irony in her statement. “As did I.”
His gaze lingered on her a moment as if hesitant to say what he was thinking. “If you wanted to run away now, I would not stop you.”
The Maid was surprised. “That is kind of you, but where would I go?” she asked. “There is no longer anyone to help me, no one to run to. Those days are gone. Other than you, I fear there is no longer anyone I can trust.”
“You still have supporters,” he insisted. “I know, for I have fought against them. If I were to turn my back and allow you to run to them….”
The Maid shook her head, cutting him off.
“De Russe, your complicity would be discovered and then you would burn along with me. Nay, my friend, it is foolish. I am grateful for your offer, but it is futile. No more escape attempts, no more thoughts of running away. That is over. My time has come and I am not afraid to die. In fact, that is what I must speak with you about.”
De Russe was becoming increasingly disturbed.
He moved away from her, back to the door that was still open.
He shut it so that the guards with their big ears down below would not hear anything, guards who would report back to Bedford.
But once he shut the door, he continued to stand there, his hand on the panel, his mind drifting to Bedford and the Burgundians, and everyone else who had betrayed this young woman.
True, the Maid had led the charge against the English but de Russe was more and more convinced that she’d had divine guidance.
A simple woman, an illiterate farm girl, could not have done what she had done single-handedly.
There had to be more to it, perhaps something glorious and blessed.
But the clergy and the English, those who proclaimed to believe in God, failed to see the Maid’s divine inspiration.
They thought she was mad, or worse, and had gone to great lengths to destroy her.
The more he pondered the coercion he had been a party to, the more disgusted he became.
“I did not come to France to kill a girl barely on the cusp of womanhood,” he said, his voice low and hoarse.
“I did not come here to watch the English manipulate the clergy until they had no choice but to sentence you to death. What my liege has done, what they have all done, is underhanded and deceitful. Never were you given a fair chance, in anything. Your death is the result of vanity and nothing more.”
The Maid was watching him closely. “Whose vanity?”
De Russe looked at her, leaning back against the old door.
“Bedford,” he said simply. “Bedford and the Burgundians. They are ashamed because a young woman has beaten them in battle. Your presence here is the result of male vanity and nothing more. There is nothing honorable about your death and now I am to be part of that dishonor.”
The Maid studied him. This knight, this massive knight who struck fear into the hearts of French and English alike, had become her unlikely ally.
Like the father she wished she’d had or the brother she had always wanted, de Russe had been cold and professional at first but gradually, as he’d come to know her, he had opened up somewhat.
The Maid understood the heart of a soldier, and de Russe had the heart that few knights had.
There was righteousness there, and honor.
He had done his best to provide her comfort and protection, and she was deeply grateful.
After several long moments of scrutinizing him, her gaze trailed to the colors of the sunset upon the wall.
“I am at peace with what will come,” she told him. “In truth, since the moment I started this campaign, years ago, I always knew I would not live a long life. May I tell you a secret?”
De Russe nodded his head, folding his big arms across his chest. “Of course.”
A twinkle came to the Maid’s dull eyes. “St. Catherine told me that the joys of this earth were not meant for me,” she murmured. “She said that joys would be awaiting me in Heaven. That is why I am not afraid to die. I am tired of misery and wish to know joy.”
De Russe cocked his head slightly. “You told the ecclesiastical court that you would never divulge what the saints had told you,” he said, a smile playing on his lips. “Yet you tell me now.”
The Maid grinned. “They do not need to know,” she said. “Why should I tell them? They would only turn it against me. I know you will not, de Russe. You will keep my secrets safe.”
De Russe nodded in agreement. He didn’t need to say any more than that because they both knew acknowledgment was unnecessary. But it was clear he was still stewing on something, uneasily.
“I have a confession,” he finally muttered.
“What is it?”
He took a long, deep breath. “I am fearful of standing before God and telling him that I did not do all I could to help you, as a servant of God,” he said.
“I have done many things in my life that would warrant me a prime place in Hell, but this… if I do not try to help you in your final hour, I fear that even Hell will not be good enough for me.”
The Maid shook her head firmly. “De Russe, listen to me,” she said.
“Tomorrow, I will meet God and I will tell him how good you have been to me. He will know of your grace, I swear it. But you must understand that I was never meant to live a long and good life. I am like a shooting star, quick to flare brightly and strongly, and quick to burn away. Soon, I will burn away. As for you going to Hell, I can assure you that is not the case. God has great things in store for you, my friend, happiness such as you cannot imagine. You have been a good and true servant, de Russe, and you have been kind to me when you did not have to be. You will be rewarded.”
He grunted. “Is that a hope or a prediction?”
“It is a promise,” she assured him softly. “Will you do something for me, then?”
De Russe sighed heavily. “You know I will.”
The Maid’s expression tightened somewhat, belying her fear of what was to come no matter how she tried to convince him otherwise. “Tomorrow when I meet God,” she whispered. “Will you be there?”
De Russe hung his head. He found he couldn’t look at her any longer. He could hear the terror in her voice and it hit him in the gut, squarely, like a punch. He could hardly breathe, knowing what pain this gentle, pious girl would suffer on the morrow.
“Aye,” he mumbled.
“Good,” she replied, struggling to brighten. “Then I have nothing to fear. I… I want your face to be the last one I see upon this earth. Will you do this for me? Will you let me see you?”
He closed his eyes tightly, briefly, struggling against great rage and sorrow at the injustice of it all. “Aye,” he replied quietly. “If you wish it.”
The Maid struggled to move off the bed. She wasn’t eating these days and was very weak, but she managed to climb off the bed.
Stiffly, she moved towards de Russe, a skinny slip of a girl who had once carried the hopes of a country upon those skinny shoulders.
As she went to stand before de Russe, barely coming up to his chest in height, she put a small, cold hand on his forearm.
“St. Michael told me once that he would bring someone to help me in my need,” she said.
“He never told me who, or where, but I believe he meant you. Do you not understand, de Russe? God has sent you here to be with me in my final hours and bring me comfort. Moreover, you must do something else for me.”
De Russe gazed down at that dark little head. “You only need ask.”
The Maid looked up at him with her dark, hollow eyes, but there was fire there. Fire that could have only come from a heavenly source.