Page 317 of Historical Hotties
She was looking at him, eagerly, but de Russe was harboring great doubt. Whether or not it was wise, or considered betrayal, weighed upon him heavily. This young woman had waged a hard-fought battle for years, was ultimately betrayed by the French and then mistreated by the English, when all she had wanted to do was free her country from English rule and see thedauphinupon the throne. It was not such a terrible thing, what she had wanted. But to put the Maid’s remains upon English soil… de Russe wasn’t so sure about that.
De Russe sighed heavily, shaking his head as he spoke. “I have been fighting in France for many years, demoiselle,” he said. “My oath is, in fact, to England and not to France. My oath is not to you. As much as I deplore the way you have been treated and believe that your inspiration is, in fact, divine, I am not entirely sure I can plant you upon English soil to haunt the English people. I would be betraying everything I hold dear and everything I stand for.”
The Maid’s expression of hope wavered and she forced a smile as she realized that he was denying her request. She was disappointed, that was true, but she also understood that the man’s true loyalty was not to her but to his country. She, of all people, understood loyalty to one’s country. She was an enemyof his people and he was a soldier. He had done all he could for her. He could do no more.
“I understand,” she said. “You must do what you feel is right, of course. But if you do not take me to England, then… then I hope you will make sure my remains are disposed of.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
She took her hand off his arm, turning away from him and heading back towards the spindly, uncomfortable bed. “I do not wish to become the fodder for those who wish to own a piece of my body,” she said. “I do not wish for my finger bone to end up in someone’s house as an object of veneration, or worse, used for monetary gain. I do not wish to be sold or bartered. Will you make sure there is nothing left of me, then? If you choose not to take me to Hampshire, then cast me into the river. Make sure there is nothing left.”
De Russe’s intense gaze was upon her. “As you wish,” he said. “I will make it so.”
The Maid lowered herself back onto the uncomfortable bed, the last bed she would know upon this earth. Her memories of earth would not be particularly pleasant and she found she was somewhat eager to be done with it all. After shifting on the bed to find a comfortable position, her dark-circled gaze found de Russe once more.
“Thank you, my friend,” she said softly. “For all you have done for me and for the comfort and concern you have provided, you have been an excellent big brother. I am grateful.”
De Russe was experiencing a great, hollow feeling in his chest, as if a light had gone out. Something had been taken away from him that he wasn’t sure he would ever regain. He didn’t even know what it was. All he knew was that he was filled with sorrow and disillusionment. He was a knight, straight and true, and the things he believed in, the things he held dear, had been twisted and chewed up and spit out by Bedford and a hostof crafty English clerics. This wasn’t the England he wanted to serve. He wondered when, and how, things became so distorted.
De Russe spent the rest of the night in the Maid’s cell, sitting against the cold stone wall, speaking with her in soft tones, watching over her while she slept fitfully a few hours before dawn. The uneasy sleep of the condemned. It made him sick to watch.
When the sky began to turn golden and the wall above him began to turn colors as the sunlight streamed in, he rose from his position against the wall and made his way down to the guards on the lower level, where three out of the four were sleeping. He sent the awake guard for the Maid’s last meal but was prevented from presenting it to her alone when a few of the clerics who had presided over her trial arrived in the tower, coming to escort the woman to her doom.
The trial bailiff, Jean Massieu, also joined the congregation of men. Much like de Russe, he was somewhat sympathetic to the Maid, as he had presided over the entire trial and had seen what had been done to force this woman into the position she was in. It had been a travesty in many ways. As the sun rose, all of these men, and several guards, crowded into the Maid’s cell as de Russe personally placed her tray of bread, wine, and some cheese in front of her to eat.
The Maid smiled thankfully at de Russe but would not eat anything. As the charges were recited and the sentence against her was read once more so she understood exactly why she was facing such an end, de Russe stood silently by. It was de Russe and Massieu who escorted the young woman from her cell and down to the waiting wagon, the one that would take her to the square in Rouen where she would be put to death. De Russe wouldn’t let anyone else touch her until she got onto the wagon.
The town had turned out for the execution, a massive event for the French. Clad in the men’s clothing, the only clothingshe had been allowed to wear, and her dark hair cut in a short bob that came to the bottom of her ears,la Pucellewas both jeered and cheered as she was taken to the town square, with its massive marketplace, for maximum exposure for her execution. There was a frenzy in the air this day, something rarely seen, as the entire city gathered in the square, waiting, watching, for the Maid to be put to death.
De Russe was astride his charger, riding just before the wagon, clearing out the crowds who were gathering in the road. He was an impressive sight, a massive knight astride an equally massive charger as dark as coal, kicking people aside when they didn’t move quickly enough. He also managed to trample three people to death when they rushed the wagon, grabbing for the Maid. He had rushed back to pull them away and ended up killing them. He wasn’t sorry in the least.
With the cathedral in the background, the square was a vast, open place of dirt and people. The Maid’s pyre had been set up, with piles of wood being soaked in oil and an oil-soaked stake that she would be attached to. About twenty feet away was a platform, having been built over the past few days, which would contain the tribunal to watch the execution. As de Russe led the procession into the square, warming in the early sun, already he could see that both civil and ecclesiastical dignitaries were gathering, including Bedford.
De Russe’s gaze lingered on John de Lancaster, the Duke of Bedford, whose father had been Henry IV. He was a rather short man with a big nose and a very big forehead. He had a reputation for being both fair and fearless, and his military acumen was unmatched. De Russe had always respected him up until the last few months when the duke’s cunning mind had turned against a nineteen-year-old girl. Now, he realized he had no more respect for Bedford at all. Perhaps that was the terrible hollow feelinghe had been experiencing, disgust and mistrust where there had once been veneration.
The duke smiled at de Russe when the man went by, obviously pleased to see him leading the prisoner to her doom, but de Russe didn’t acknowledge him. He continued on to the pyre and, dismounting his charger and handing the beast over to the nearest soldier, waited for the wagon to come to a halt.
The job of securing the Maid to the stake should have been left to the executioners but de Russe couldn’t seem to do it. He took the Maid by her skinny arm and put her back against the pole, proceeding to tie her hands behind her back excruciatingly tightly, so tight in fact that her fingers turned blue. When a soldier handed him a chain to reinforce the tie, as rope would burn away, he tied that on tightly, too. As he was securing the chain, he whispered softly into her right ear.
“The binds are tight because I do not want you to pull free and try to run,” he explained. “Nothing would be worse than watching you run around the square as you burn to death. You must remain here. It will be quicker this way. I hope you understand.”
The Maid didn’t look at him, knowing he was doing this as a courtesy to her. She nodded, briefly, but her fear was getting the better of her. The acrid smell of oil was filling her nostrils and she knew that, soon, she and the oil and smoke and fire would become one. As she felt the last of the chains going around her body now, securing her tightly to the pole, she felt someone squeeze her hand. She knew it was de Russe. He squeezed it one last time and then he was gone. It was a sweetly poignant last gesture, something that filled her heart with peace.
The tribunal filled the platform now, watching as the guards moved away from the prisoner so the pyre could be lit. As the sun rose over a bright blue sky, it was a beautiful morning as the executioners began to light the oil-soaked wood. They had morefuel on the side to feed the flames, watching as the fire took off rapidly. A hush settled over the crowd, over everyone, watching as the flames began to lick the base of the post where the Maid was secured.
De Russe was standing about twelve or fifteen feet away, not too terribly far considering how big the flames were going to get. He stood right in front of the Maid, his eyes riveted to hers, just as he had promised. At one point, as the fire began to lick at her feet, she smiled at de Russe and he smiled back. She did not present a smile of fear, nor of bravery. It was the smile of a woman whose life was well spent. She was about to meet God and she was joyful.I am not afraid to die.As he watched the fire burn, he believed her.
But that belief was put to the test when the flames began to consume her clothing. Her rough woolen breeches were the first to ignite. Since her feet were bare, as they had allowed her no shoes, her feet were starting to catch fire as well. De Russe could see the smoke from the lower part of her body, knowing she was igniting, and it took every bit of strength he had not to rush to help her. There was nothing he could do, anyway. Were he to pull her free, she was already burned and would eventually die a slow and agonizing death from it. It was better to let her go up all at once, as sickening and agonizing as it was to watch.
But the Maid maintained eye contact with him even as her lower body started to burn. The smile on her face, however, turned to a grimace and eventually, he watched as her eyes rolled back in her head and she turned away, overcome with pain and smoke. As de Russe began to pray that she would fall unconscious before the flames reached higher, the Maid suddenly cried out.
“French people!” she cried. “Continue to fight, because the voices in whose name I led you to victory truly spoke ordersthat came from Heaven. Heaven will give you, therefore, the complete victory!”
It was odd how the small woman’s voice could be heard over everything; the flames, the smoke, and the muffled hush of the crowd. It reverberated off the buildings, off the cathedral itself, as the flames began to snake up her body. Now, her tunic was starting to smoke and the flames from the lower part of her body were beginning to shoot around her shoulders and chin. She gasped but nothing more.
De Russe found himself fighting off tears. The pain she was experiencing was undoubtedly agonizing but she was bearing it with bravery he had never seen. He was standing so close that the entire front side of his body was searing from the sheer heat of the bonfire and, out of necessity, had to take a few steps back. He could smell her flesh burning now.
The Maid’s hair began to ignite. As short as it was, it was smoking and little sparks began to flash all around her head. Soon, the flames would consumer her entire face and body, but before she went up in flames entirely, she cried out one last time.
