DESTINY
Rogue Angel 01
Alex Archer
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.
Prologue
Rouen, France
30 May 1431
OUT OF BREATH, feeling as though the hounds of Hell pursued him, Roux whipped his horse mercilessly. The beast barely kept its feet on the muddy road. Bloody slaver covered its muzzle, streaking its neck and chest.
Straw-thatched houses lined the road, interrupted by the occasional stone building. He guided the horse between them, yanking the bridle hard and causing the animal to stumble.
"They're going to kill her," Durand Lassois had reported only a few days earlier. The big warrior had tears running down his scarred face and trickling through his black beard. "It's the damned English, Roux. They're trying her as a heretic. They're going to convict her and burn her at the stake. There's nothing we can do."
Roux hadn't believed it. The girl was marked for important things. She was a guardian of innocents, a true power to be reckoned with in the mortal world. The English were greedy bastards and fools besides.
He still didn't believe the girl would be killed now. He'd sensed the strength within her. Seventeen years old and she'd led men into battle at the besieged city of Orléans two years ago.
That had been the beginning of a string of victories that had lifted the English yoke from French necks. Her efforts, her conviction and her leadership brought the crown to the dauphin and allowed him to be crowned Charles VII.
Hypnotized by the power and a chance to negotiate peace, the new king had failed to act quickly and lost the tide of the war. The girl had been wounded during the attack on Paris. The French army never regained its momentum. She was captured during the attempt to lift the siege at Compiegne in May of last year. For the ensuing twelve months, the English at Rouen had held her.
Another half-dozen turns and traffic choked the roads leading to the market. Oxen-pulled carts, horses and asses stood in disarray. French peasants who had buried their hatred of the English in fear for their lives and armored English soldiers who pursued French maidens shared the road.
Roux jerked the reins and brought his horse to a stop. The flashing hooves threw mud over bystanders as the exhausted animal sagged to its rear haunches. Roux vaulted from the horse and landed in the mud.
Garin brought his mount to a similar sliding halt inches shy of colliding with Roux. The younger man's dismount was not nearly so elegant. His foot caught in a stirrup and he tumbled into the mud. When he rose, he was covered. He cursed in German as he tried to brush the muck from him.
Four inches over six feet in height, Roux's apprentice drew immediate attention because of his size. His straight black hair hung to his broad shoulders. Handsome features and his square-cut jaw, devoid of a beard because he was vain about his looks, drew a second glance from every female in the crowd. Magnetic black eyes held challenge and ferocity.
Gathering his riding cloak about him, Roux strode through the crowd. Grudgingly, people parted before him. He carried himself like a lord, though he was no such thing.
He looked like an old man, with white hair and a white goatee. His skin was fair, red from the sun and the wind during the long ride. Though not of the best quality, his clothing – pants, blouse and knee-high boots – showed signs of being well kept. At his side, he carried a saber with a worn handle.
Garin trailed Roux, swaggering through the crowd. He wore a long broadsword scabbarded down his back so the hilt jutted up over his right shoulder.
Only a moment later, Roux stood at the front of the crowd.
The English had tied the maiden to a pillar in the marketplace. She stood atop a pile of wood and more logs were piled up to her calves. Her executioner had also outfitted her with faggots, small bundles of sticks and straw that were tied to her calves, thighs, hands, torso and hair.
Her death was intended to be cruel and painful.
Sickness twisted Roux's stomach. Steeling himself, he watched with grim expectation.
She will not burn, he told himself. She will not die.
This is not her destiny.
Still, for all that was in him to believe, he doubted. The young woman had always been stronger in her convictions. Her faith was one of the things that had drawn him to her. That, and the raw, unbridled power that clung to her. Roux had never been able to withstand the pull of that force.
As she faced death, clad in the same male clothing she'd worn so proudly in battle, she stood solemn and unshaken.
She didn't come here to die, Roux told himself. She's going to be all right.
"We can't just stand here and let them kill her," Garin said softly at his side.
"What do you propose, apprentice?" Roux demanded. "Should we rush in, you and I, and slay all the English warriors and free her?"
"No. We can't do that. They would only kill us." Garin's answer was immediate.
Pierre Cauchon, the presiding judge, stepped forward and read out the charges. Stern and dogmatic, he accused the warrior maiden of heresy and of being opposed to the church. He went on to add that she was a bloodthirsty killer and demon possessed besides. No mention was made of his own part in the bloody Cabochien Revolt in 1413 or his defense of the assassination of the duke of Orléans in 1407.
At the bailiff's command, soldiers lit fires along the pyre. Flames eagerly leaped up and twisted through the jumble of wood. The stench of smoke filled the air.
The young woman cried out, but not for help. She asked only that her friends hold up a crucifix so that she could look upon it. Two men did. In a strong, brave voice, the maid prayed to her Savior, asking for the aid of the saints.
You can't just let her die, Roux thought. Not like this. She's meant for more than this. His promise to her and to himself haunted him.