Something told him she wanted the same.
揟hank you for doing what you did,?she said. 揧ou may have saved things.?
He smiled. 揋lad it worked out.?
揑抣l see you tomorrow.?
That she would.
Chapter 17
Claire settled into the seat of the private plane, rented hastily at the Ghent airport. No time existed for cars or trains and there were no commercial flights available at this late hour.
But she had to leave Belgium.
Now.
The flight south would take a couple of hours. She should be tired but she wasn抰。 The pilot had brought along some drinks and sandwiches, but her appetite seemed gone too. She was dressed in street clothes, ditching her habit since this journey needed to go unnoticed. But the chain with the pendant remained around her neck. With her thumb she gently felt the outline of the fleur-de-lys. Its presence always brought her comfort. However fleeting that might be at the moment.
Thankfully, only a precious few in the world knew the true significance of the Just Judges panel. Most of those were members of her order. Others lay within the Vatican. Two diametrically opposed sides. At war with each other for centuries. A conflict that had remained dormant for the better part of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
But that had not always been the case.
The four-month trial had ended.
An inquisitorial court, composed of dozens of judges and a hostile presiding officer, had convicted and sentenced Joan of Arc to death. They decreed that her supposed visions did not exist and her explanations for wearing men抯 clothing梩hat heaven had ordained it梬ere blasphemous. She was found to be bloodthirsty, idolatrous, rebellious, and working at the instigation of the devil. The verdict? Death. But since the church could not lawfully carry out an execution, the nineteen-year-old was handed over to secular authorities for execution.
On the morning of May 30, 1431, two priests appeared in her cell and pronounced that the time for reckoning had come. She was dressed in a rough gray tunic and led through the streets of Rouen to the old market square. A jeering mob lined the way, clamoring for her demise. Not unexpected given that Philip the Good, the Duke of Burgundy, enjoyed widespread local support, and it had been the duke himself who抎 turned her over to the English for trial.
Nearly a thousand soldiers accompanied her on the walk from the prison, there to ensure not only that the crowd behaved but that no rescue attempts would be made. Four platforms had been erected. One for the ecclesiastical judges, another for the secular judges, a third from which a sermon would be delivered, then a fourth, the highest, which held the stake. Joan wore a paper miter upon which was written 揌eretic, Relapse, Apostate, Idolater.?A placard had been erected that proclaimed, 揓oan who had herself named Pucelle, liar, pernicious person, abuser of people, soothsayer, superstitious woman, blasphemer of God, presumptuous, unbeliever in the faith of Jesus Christ, boaster, idolater, cruel, dissolute, invoker of devils, apostate, schismatic and heretic.?
She was short and stocky, strong and resolute, with the spirit of a tomboy and the energy of a missionary. Her face was ruddy and weather-beaten, like that of a thousand other country girls, with deep watery eyes that seemed to seek out and feel others?pain. Much in the way of legend would later blur reality. But there were some truths. Her Christian name was Jeanne and she passed her childhood and adolescence in Domr閙y with the d扐rcs. She claimed to have heard the voices of the Archangel Michael, Saint Margaret, and Saint Catherine, all telling her to support the dauphin Charles as king and free France from English domination. Eventually, she and the dauphin met and he approved of her visions. She was examined by the church, which also approved. Ultimately, she participated in ending the siege of Orl閍ns and was instrumental in the consecration of the dauphin as Charles VII. But she fell captive to the Burgundians, outside Compi鑗ne, who turned her over to the English.
Now she would die.
After all the requisite pomp and ceremony, along with a final sermon delivered to the penitent, Joan was led to the stake and bound to it by chains. The executioner had been instructed to not place her close to the flames so that she would not quickly asphyxiate from the smoke and death would come more slowly.
The kindling was lit and the hem of her robe caught afire.
Within moments she was engulfed.
A priest stood before the pyre, holding a crucifix, and prayed for her soul. She uttered loud groans and asked forgiveness, saying that Charles was not responsible for anything she抎 done. Her final word has been clouded by myth, but the most often one repeated was Jesus.
The crowd watched and jeered as she died before their eyes.