Chapter Twenty-Four #3
“There is no one,” he whispered loudly to them. “Hurry up!”
Bastian didn’t need to be told twice. As Gisella held steady one of the saddlebags, he opened it up and rummaged down in the bottom of it. First, he pulled forth a big dagger in a leather sheath and set it aside. Then, he rummaged around a bit more before pulling forth a small, wooden box.
The box was simple but well made. He pulled off the lid, revealing a small leather pouch inside. As he plucked it out, Gisella spoke softly.
“Your saddlebags were in the dressing room the entire time you were gone to Wallingford Castle,” she said softly. “When those men broke in, they stole a good many things but they somehow missed your saddlebags. Was the heart in them the entire time?”
Bastian nodded as he opened the leather pouch. “The entire time,” he confirmed softly. “Even if they found it, they probably would not have known what it was. Relics usually involve bone or hair. They would not have been looking for this.”
With that, he turned the pouch over and expelled the contents into the palm of his right hand. A small, blackened ball was revealed, oddly shaped, and Gisella peered closely at it, studying the tiny heart of a woman who had been mightier than a king.
“It’s so small,” she murmured. “Why is it so small?”
Bastian inspected the heart for a moment, thinking back to that wise young woman he had befriended. He smiled at his wife’s question.
“Her heart was not small,” he assured her quietly. “She had the biggest heart of anyone I have ever known, save you. This is simply what is left of that big heart, a reminder of the greatness she was. I am sure she would not have minded if you held it.”
Timidly, Gisella lifted her hand and he put the small, blackened relic into her palm. It was the size of a prune, dry and black, but Gisella felt as if she were in the presence of greatness. Somehow, she could see the woman this had belonged to, a bold woman who had led armies against the English.
As she scrutinized the relic, Bastian took the dagger from its sheath and quickly dug out a small hole against the wall of the transept.
The box wasn’t very big, but he wanted to make sure that it was buried deeply enough that time and foot traffic wouldn’t uncover it.
As he shoveled out clods of dark, hard-packed earth, he heard Gisella speaking softly to the remnant in her hand.
“You do not know me, but I am Sir Bastian’s wife,” she whispered.
“I know you do not think much of the English but I know you think much of my husband. For as poorly as my uncles treated you, I hope that what we are doing, in some way, makes up for it. I truly hope you find peace, la Pucelle. And I hope, wherever you are, that you protect my husband for doing this for you. He has made a great sacrifice in so many ways to ensure that your last wish is fulfilled.”
Bastian was finished digging before she finished speaking, but he was rather touched by her soft prayer to the Maid.
He didn’t believe she truly understood his need to fulfill the Maid’s wish, but she was supporting him nonetheless and that was all that mattered.
He gazed at the woman as she spoke softly to the heart of a dead woman, with all of her gentleness and kindness.
He knew the Maid would have liked Gisella.
It was difficult not to like the woman. Indeed, Bastian had been rewarded as the Maid had once predicted.
It was the greatest reward he could have imagined.
“Give it to me, sweetheart,” he said softly.
He held out his hand and she carefully dumped the little heart back into his palm. Returning it to the pouch, he put the pouch back into the box, and then nestled the box down into the hole he had dug.
Quickly, he pushed the dark earth back over it, assisted by Gisella.
They shoveled all of the earth back into the hole and then tamped it down, packing it, trying to make it look as if the earth had not been disturbed.
In fact, Bastian began hacking up the earth in random spots and smoothing it back down so his fresh-packed hole wouldn’t look so obvious.
He tried to make the rest of the floor look the same.
It was becoming lighter now in the transept as the sun rose, casting a warm glow over the stone, and throwing more light on the floor.
Bastian wanted to make sure it all appeared the same.
Gisella stood up, brushing the dirt off her hands as Bastian went around disturbing the earth to make it all blend in together. As Bastian gave the Maid’s grave one last stomping to pack down the dirt, Gisella went over to Henry, who was taking his job as the watchman very seriously.
“We are finished,” she whispered to the young king. “We must leave quickly.”
Henry, thinking he was relieved of his duties, went back into the transept and realized that he couldn’t tell where the heart had been buried.
Bastian had to point it out to him. As gentle light from the angle of the morning sun began to beam through the windows, Henry gazed down at the spot in the earth where the Maid’s heart had been buried.
The first thing he did was make the sign of the cross and then put his hands together in prayer.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” he whispered. “Blessed are thou among women… blessed are thou….”
He came to a halt, staring down at the disturbed earth. Then he turned to look at Bastian, who was standing a few feet away. His young face was lined with confusion.
“I do not feel right praying to the Blessed Virgin,” he said. “Do you think I can simply talk to the Maid instead?”
Bastian smiled faintly at the boy. “She would like for you to speak to her,” he said softly. “Say what is in your heart and let us be done with this. We must leave before we are discovered.”
Henry nodded quickly and turned back to the small grave.
“My name is Henry,” he said quietly. “England is my kingdom. I know you do not think that France belongs to me but I think it does, at least some of it, but I will not argue it with you. I just want you to know that I am sorry for what my soldiers did to you. I pray that you are at peace with Our Holy Father now.”
He crossed himself again just as a ray of light beamed forth from the window behind him, streaming in through the open window, creating a dance of light a few feet away.
The sun was brighter now as morning was underway and streams of light were coming in from most windows at this point, but this beam of light was different.
It was quite blinding and seemed to be shimmering somewhat.
It was lighting up the entire corner of the transept.
Bastian had turned away by now, moving to join his wife, but Henry happened to glance over at the light simply because it was so blinding.
As he did, he abruptly came to a halt and stared at it.
Frozen to the spot, he didn’t move. Bastian made his way back to Gisella, completely ignorant of the fact that Henry was still standing there, looking at the sunbeam.
He was only aware of it when his wife spoke.
“Where is Henry?” she asked.
Bastian looked behind him, realizing the boy hadn’t followed.
He could see the lad, tucked back in the transept, just standing there as sunlight streamed around him.
They couldn’t see his face because he was turned away from them and Bastian didn’t want to yell, so he retraced his steps back into the transept until he reached the young king.
“Your Grace?” he hissed. When he received no reaction, he spoke louder. “Henry? Come along, now. We must leave.”
Henry didn’t respond for a moment. When he did, he turned to look at Bastian with tears in his eyes and glory in his expression. Shocked, Bastian grasped the boy gently.
“Henry?” he asked softly. “Why do you weep? What is wrong?”
Henry’s face was full of joy and wonder. The child looked as if he were having a fit of some kind because his lips worked but no sound was coming forth. When he finally spoke, it was in a tone Bastian had never heard before.
“Did you see her?” he finally gasped.
Bastian frowned with confusion. “Who?”
Henry gasped again, with joy, pointing to the corner of the transept where the sunbeam was weakening as the sun rose higher in the morning sky.
“Her,” he insisted. “The golden lady. She said, ‘May God so keep you, ma bête’. You did not hear her?”
Bastian didn’t know what to say. He stared at the boy, who was overwhelmed by some kind of euphoria.
It was evident all about him. Bastian’s gaze moved to the light in the corner, now fading in intensity.
Ma bête. That was what the Maid had called him, making light of his nickname, his persona, that which followed him.
My beast. She was the only one who had ever called him that and there was no possible way for Henry to know that.
No one knew it, not even Gisella. He was stunned.
“Nay,” he said softly, still looking at the beam of light in the corner. “I did not hear her. Is… is she still there?”
Henry looked at the corner again where the light was fading. “Nay,” he said, awe in his voice. “She is gone. She was smiling when she said it. She was smiling at me. I truly saw her, Bastian. I swear that I did.”
Bastian’s gaze was still focused on the sunbeam, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
He didn’t know why he instantly believed the young king about his vision, but he did.
Perhaps it was because he’d long suspected that the saints had actually spoken to the Maid.
Now, it would seem that he had his proof in the form of young Henry’s vision.
The Maid had been telling the truth all along.
She had indeed reappeared as she said she would, but not to the whole of England.
Only to the king, who represented all she had fought against.