‘The old lady won’t last long,’ said Burgundy. ‘She is very old and not in the best of health. As soon as she has gone, then you will see.’ He leaned towards Bedford. ‘I have thought of making a bid myself.’
Bedford was horrified. Burgundy was the one bidder he feared. The richest man in France, he could offer almost anything and Luxembourg by reason of his position would have to accept Burgundy’s offer even if it were less.
Burgundy was smiling slyly. There was little he enjoyed more than watching his ally’s discomfiture.
‘You would be very unpopular, my friend, if you harmed the Maid,’ suggested Bedford.
‘Not with her enemies.’
‘What would you do with her?’
‘She’s a witch,’ said Burgundy. ‘I have little doubt of that. I might keep her in prison for the rest of her life. I might burn her as a witch.’
If he burned her at the stake … all well and good, thought Bedford. But he wouldn’t, he was too wily. He would hold her and keep her to threaten his English allies whenever he felt the need to do so. The Maid must not fall into Burgundy’s hands.
Bedford said: ‘Trade with the Flemings flourishes in England.’
The Flemings were in Burgundy’s vast domains. They lived by their weaving. There would be a revolt if their trade were interfered with.
Burgundy was thoughtful. Bedford could stop their woven goods being exported to England at the stroke of a pen.
Burgundy was thoughtful. He did not really want to be burdened with Joan of Arc.
When the time came he would let the English have her.
Soon after that the time did come. The old Countess of Luxembourg was found dead in her bed one morning. No one was very surprised; she had been ailing for some time. Her estates naturally passed to her nephew who was delighted to have the threat of her displeasure removed for ever.
Then the English came along with a very good offer and Burgundy, thinking of the Flemish weavers, allowed his vassal to accept it.
So Jeannette passed into the hands of her enemies the English and was taken to the capital of Normandy, Rouen, there to await the judgement they would pass on her.
Chapter XV
FINALE AT ROUEN
IT was in cold December, two days before Christmas, when Jeannette arrived in Rouen. She was deeply depressed. That which she had greatly feared had come to pass. She felt deserted by the King and worse still by her voices.
Her prison was a cell in the tower of the castle. It was not small but very dark. There was nothing but a straw pallet on the floor and only one window too high for her to see what was outside.
Twice she had tried to escape and her captors were determined that she should not do so again. They put fetters on her legs and an iron belt was fixed about her waist – and all these were chained to the wall.
There had been a great deal of talk about her purity. If she was to be condemned as a witch she could scarcely be a virgin, and it was very necessary that she should be condemned as a witch. Therefore her gaolers were chosen from that most brutal section of the army notorious for its barbarous behaviour. When these men raided towns and villages they brought terror to the inhabitants who had given them the name of houspilleurs which meant tormentors. Among those selected to watch over Jeannette there were two men whose reputations were slightly worse than those of the others. They were William Talbot and John Grey. When she saw them such fear as she had never known in the heat of battle seized Jeannette. One look at the brutalised faces of these men was enough to tell her what their intentions would be. She prayed then with an even greater fervour than ever before.
How could this have happened to her? It had all been so gloriously successful. She had believed she would go on until she had driven the English out of France. How foolish she had been! She had loved the glory and had sought it after her mission was done; and now she must pay for it. It seemed that God and her voices had deserted her. When she had recovered in Beaurevoir castle after throwing herself from the window, she knew. Right up to then she had believed they would save her. Perhaps she had thrown herself down being tempted as Christ was in the wilderness.
‘If they are going to kill me,’ she prayed, ‘oh God let them do it quickly.’
All her chains would allow her to take were three paces forward and back.
There was no heating in the cell and the weather was bitterly cold. The one window which gave little light and no view for her provided the draughts. She was to be tried and proved to be a witch and she was in the hands of the Inquisition who had their special methods for proving a prisoner guilty.
Her gaolers sought to insult her at every turn. They teased her, they liked to frighten her. Their words did not frighten her; it was their acts she feared.
They had set up a table and stools and played with dice. While she watched them, inwardly she prayed for the strength she would need when the time came, as she knew it would.
They would sit in a corner of the room with their dice – cursing and swearing. They muttered about her. ‘But for this naughty Maid we should not be here in this cold room passing the hours away. We should be out … in the taverns … having a good time with the wine and the wenches.’
‘What think you of her?’
‘Not very comely.’
‘Nay … nay … but she says she’s a maiden still. I always had a fancy for maidens.’
‘What even when they’re dressed to look like a man!’
‘There are parts which are like a woman.’
They hiccupped and roared with laughter.
She thanked God for the clothes she was wearing – the sort of clothes soldiers wore under their armour, padded doublet of linen laced up in the front; short breeches of deerskin and long woollen hose fastened to the doublet by eyelets and laces.
Her shoes were of padded leather. She looked like any soldier divested of his armour.
There was a certain protection in such clothes; that was why she knew she must cling to them and resist all temptation to assume feminine attire.
Now she must lie here, or take her few paces and wait for her trial while she endured the coarse conversation of her gaolers and hoped – in vain she guessed – that they would not try to put their coarse words into action.
Yes, indeed it seemed that God had deserted her.
It was not long before the onslaught came, as she knew it must.
She was exhausted and lying down; they were throwing their dice. She could hear their slurred voices, and although her body craved sleep she knew that she must stay alert.
One of them came over to her.
He touched her with his foot. She rose as well as the chains would permit.
‘Get ready,’ he said. ‘They’re going to smear you in sulphur and take you to the stake tonight.’
It was a lie, she knew.
‘Go back to your dice,’ she cried.
‘Are you not frightened, little Maid? Think of the hot flames licking that virgin body of yours. It’s a shame to die young, you know. You don’t want to feel the flames of hell before you’ve had a few pleasures on earth, do you?’
‘You lie,’ she said. ‘There has been no such order.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘God has told me,’ she said. And the radiance was there on her face as when she rode into Orléans.
It seemed to the men then that there was a strange light in the cell.
William Talbot was a little afraid but he was not going to let John Grey know that. John Grey felt the same in respect to William Talbot.
Talbot caught her and pulled at the laces of the doublet.
With all her strength she hit out at him and sent him flying across the cell. He fell knocking his head against the wall.