Hertford Castle, Summer 1430
Hertford Castle, Summer
I RIDE BACK to the castle in a daze, blind to the people in the fields, cutting the corn and making stooks of straw.
People run to the hedges and wave as we go by, and I don’t raise my hand from the tight reins or even look at them.
I always court the love of the common people, but today I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, what anyone says of me.
I can’t think of them; I can’t think of myself; I can’t think of anything.
I don’t even plot revenge, nor think how I can use this extraordinary weapon.
This is a secret as dangerously volatile as black powder, that the queen’s folly has poured into my powder horn – a secret so great that it could undermine the bishop’s palace at Much Hadham and blow it up, destroy the life of my enemy and his lover.
But I can’t even think how to use it. I am like an idiot, drooling with distress, incapable of telling myself – let alone anyone else – the fatal knowledge I have.
I can’t compose my face. I know all my beauty is gone in the gargoyle grimace of hatred; I know I am baring my teeth as I ride. My master of horse, beside me, glances at me as if he thinks I am about to fall down in a fit.
We ride towards the castle. The drawbridge is down, the gate is open, and I have no idea what I should say or do.
This is the greatest weapon I have ever held; and it is as if my hands are clamped not on the shaft but on the blade of a poisoned sword.
I am cutting myself – skin and sinews. I am not turning this dagger against my enemies; I am bleeding to death from my own grip.
My husband comes running down the steps as we clatter in, and I notice, for the first time, that the courtyard is filled with the people of the castle, the soldiers and the servants, and they are all cheering.
For a moment, for I am quite out of my wits, I think that they know that I have the power to kill Owen ap Maredudd and ruin the queen, and they are cheering me on.
But then I hear what they are shouting: ‘Death to la Pucelle!’ and Humphrey drags me out of the saddle and shouts: ‘They’ve captured the girl Joan! John of Luxembourg has Joan of Arc. She’s as good as dead!’
My mouth is filled with vomit; my breath must be foul.
I have to use the back of my gloved hand to drag my dry lips down to cover my bared teeth.
I think I cannot make my face obey me; it has always been my greatest servant, but now I cannot shape a pretty expression of joy.
Luckily, they are so mad with relief about France that nobody looks closely at me, not even my husband, who takes both my hands and dances me round and around in the courtyard as everyone cheers, and my heavy feet stumble, hidden by my gown.
‘They’ve caught Joan of Arc,’ he yells. ‘We’re safe in France again – this is the end of the French advance. What a coronation gift for the king! The witch’s head on a platter!’
I nod like a puppet. I try to smile; I think I will never smile again.
‘Bravo!’ my husband shouts. He looks around the courtyard. ‘Tonight we shall have a feast and drink to the death of the witch!’ he says. ‘Death to the French witch!’
I can think only of the woman I saw lazing on pillows on a camomile bed, her head in the lap of my lover. ‘Death to her!’ I say, suddenly finding my voice. ‘Death to her and all witches.’