“Tell me what you wish.”
I took his face in my hands and I was picturing him at Hatfield…in the nursery with his little brothers. Oh, if only that could be! If only I could wipe away that anxious look…if only I could make this bewildered little King into a carefree boy!
The year was moving on, and we were out of January—and still no sign of leaving Rouen.
I was growing restless. I sent for Owen.
He came cautiously, but I flung myself into his arms. He held me firmly, but I was aware of his tension. All the time he was wondering if we could possibly be watched.
“I am tired…tired of this, Owen,” I cried. “I want to go home. I want to see my children. This is a nightmare which never ends.”
“It must end soon,” said Owen. “They will try The Maid. They will condemn her…and when she is dead, the French will say that as there was no miraculous rescue, The Maid deluded them. They will return to their old slothful ways, and the Duke of Bedford will be the feared and respected Lord of France once more.”
“And what of my brother whom she has crowned King?”
“He will revert to his old ways. In fact, it seems he already has. It was expected that he would make some move to come to the aid of the girl who had done so much for him. But what did he do? Nothing.”
I thought of Charles…indolent…self-indulgent. Oh Charles, I thought, have you no shame? Everyone expects you to make some effort to save this girl. But for her you would still be Charles…ironically called the Dauphin. You would never have done anything to bring yourself out of the rut into which you had fallen. But she did it for you. Are you going to ignore her now?
I feared that he would. Perhaps I knew too well that little boy who had been with me all those years ago in the Hôtel de St.-Paul.
Winter had passed into spring, and we still waited. A feeling of doom had overtaken me. I should never escape.
I should have been bold. I should not have come here. I should have made excuses to stay at home.
It was already May. What were my children doing? Guillemote would keep my memory alive with Edmund. She would tell Jasper of his mother who loved him and longed to be with him. I could trust Guillemote. I thought of the spring in Hatfield. The trees would now have emerged from their winter nudity and be clothed in green leaves. How beautiful it would be in Hatfield, where my children were growing up without me!
Every few days there was news of The Maid. She had been passed over to the secular law. We knew what that meant.
The law would now pass on her that sentence which the Church feared to…just in case they were dealing with someone who had been guided by Heaven. How I despised them! How ashamed I was of my brother, who stood aside and made no attempt to help the girl who had done so much for him.
There was unrest everywhere and a tension in the air. People wondered what would happen when The Maid went to her death, for they had condemned her as a witch—and that meant death by fire.
Poor child! She was little more. Could they not show some mercy to one so young? Could they not send her back to her family…to the fields where she could once again tend her father’s sheep?
But they feared her. Lurking in their minds would be the question: was she indeed the emissary of God? And if she were, what fate would befall those who harmed her?
I thought that right at the last moment someone would intervene to save her but, when the day came, no one attempted to do so.
It was May 30. A hushed silence prevailed throughout the castle. The thoughts of everyone were with that young girl who had heard voices from Heaven and as a result had led an army and changed the course of the war.
How could a simple girl have done that without the help of Heaven?
I shall never forget that day.
People crowded into the streets to witness her martyrdom. We did hear details of it afterward for those who had witnessed it were eager to talk—indeed, they could not stop talking of it.
Henry had asked that I come to him.
We sat holding hands. I was surprised that he, being so young, could be so deeply affected.
He said little. He just clung to my hand; and I knew he was thinking of The Maid.
There was a deep silence all about us. Instinctively we knew that it was over. And still we sat together…Henry and I.
His secretary, a man named Tressart, came into the room. He looked startled to see us there and was about to mutter an apology when Henry said: “Stay, Tressart.”
There was a look of shock on Tressart’s face and I guessed he had just returned from the square.
Henry said: “Tressart…you were there?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You saw …?”
Tressart nodded; he was too moved for speech.
“Tell me, Tressart.”
Tressart covered his face with his hands and still did not speak.
“Tell me, Tressart,” repeated Henry.
“She…er…she died bravely, my lord. She asked for a cross that it might be held before her till the last. An Englishman in the crowd made a cross with two sticks and gave it to her.”
“An Englishman,” said Henry. “I am glad it was an Englishman.”
“Cardinal Beaufort and even the Bishop of Beauvais wept when the faggots were lighted. Then someone fetched the cross from the church and held it before her eyes.”
“God rest her soul,” said Henry.
“And the Canon of Rouen cried out: ‘Would my soul were where that woman’s will now be!’”
“They should never have done it,” said Henry.
Tressart stood very still, shaking his head. “We are lost,” he said. “This day we have burned a saint.”
It was later that day that Tressart came to me.
“The King is asking for you,” he said. “He is distraught.”
I found Henry in great distress. He immediately asked Tressart to leave us.
I went to him and took him in my arms. “Henry, what ails you?” I asked.
“My lady…mother…I cannot forget it. We have done this terrible thing, and it was in my name.”
“You are thinking of Joan of Arc still.”
“I cannot get her out of my head.”
“It is a terrible tragedy, but these things happen now and then. It was no fault of yours. You have done nothing.”
“It was done in my name.”
“But that is another matter. You are too young to be blamed for what those about you do. They use your name, that is all, and you must obey them. It is they who are responsible.”
“But I should have stopped it.”
“There was nothing you could do.”
“She was a saint, they say.”
“She was the enemy…your enemy…the enemy of your country. She led an army against you. That is how you must see it, Henry.”
“I cannot. I cannot. Mother, there is something I must tell you.”
“Yes, my love.”
“They took me to see her.”
“In her prison?”
He nodded. “I did not speak to her. They made me look through an aperture in the wall. I saw her lying there. She was dressed like a man. Her hair was closely cropped. Yet she did not look like a man. Her lips moved. I think she was praying, because there was no one with her to whom she could be talking. I shall never forget her.”
“You will, Henry,” I said. “It is because it is so recent that you think this…and there has been so much talk about her, all this…hysteria, your uncle Bedford would call it.”
“It is not that, dear mother. There was something about her…a shining radiance. And suddenly her lips stopped moving and she looked straight at me. She just looked…and looked…and I felt as though I were in the presence of holiness.”
“My dear child, they should not have taken you.”
“I wanted to go. I wanted to see her.”
“Well, you did…and now it is over. Whatever was done cannot be changed now.”