Страница 5 из 77
"No such thing," Marcel said stoutly. There had been no time yet for anyone to translate, let alone copy, such a book. "Food for the army and paintings for you and Dulice to examine." Pretending he'd forgotten she was as unlettered as a farm animal, he showed her a scrap of vellum-Jean's inventory of Papa's wagons.
She batted it away, and the mule was hard in her features. "You must-"
A shriek from the east interrupted her. A girl ran toward them, one of the scouts, coming from a distant Roman edifice called the Temple of Janus. Legs pumping in her breeches, her pale face was a blot of white amid the landscape of green and brown. Hoofbeats beat behind her, a knight galloping in hard pursuit.
Marcel felt, rather than saw, Joan's movement. He flung himself blindly at the nearest horse, just reaching its bridle as she mounted.
"No!" Between them, they startled the animal into a kick. Joan lost her saddle and came off, landing half atop him. His arm jerked painfully before he thought to release the reins. As he hit the ground, the animal's back hooves whistled past their heads. The pair rolled away fast in opposite directions, gaining their feet in the same instant.
"You aren't even armed," he protested.
Joan crossed the space between them, slapping Marcel hard enough to knock him down again, then calming the horse with a single murmured word.
Rubbing his jaw, he saw Dulice was oblivious to both the animal and the fleeing girl headed toward them. Transfixed by Joan, the artist was memorizing the scene. No market for this, he wanted to tell her. Papa couldn't sell two copies of a picture of the Maid striking a follower.
"Oh, now it's too late!" Joan cried.
The knight had indeed caught up with the fleeing scout. Instead of cutting her down he snatched her by the arm, heaving her up across the horse and then galloping away.
"Captured, not killed," Marcel said, tasting blood as he probed loosened teeth with his tongue. "You'll get another chance to save her."
She ignored him, pacing like a caged dog and eyeing the bend in the road where the knight had vanished. "That knight-do you know who he is?"
"Who?"
"He's the son of Georges de la Trйmoпlle." Her voice was harsh as she spoke the name of the man who had probably prevented her ransom, years before. "Just when I think I've outlived all my old enemies… There's always someone new, isn't there?"
"It's your gentle nature," Marcel muttered, earning himself a glare.
"Joan!" Hermeland bustled to her side, glancing quizzically down at Marcel. "Autun has a
Joan scowled, scraping mud off the heels of her hands.
"We must go to Autun," Hermeland suggested. "Their walls are strong, but…"
"The king has ca
"We'll meet Charles soon, then." Hermeland spoke mildly, the old anarchist, as if he wasn't lusting after a little king's blood.
She nodded, not hiding her pained expression, and waved him off toward one of the more reliable captains. Then she extended a hand to Marcel, yanking him to his feet.
"I'll see your gifts from home now."
He didn't argue, but reached for the bundle and unwrapped it carefully. Perhaps he might just slide out the sword-
Reaching past him, Joan grabbed the wrappings and yanked them upward. Then she gasped.
White boucassin fringed with silk unfolded in her mud-smeared hand-a pe
"My standard…"
She pulled it to her face in a doubled fistful, and Marcel thought she would smell it. But she kissed it instead, tears streaming down her lined face as they so often did.
"I haven't seen it since my capture at Compiиgne." She stretched it out for a look. It was perfect: faded, soiled and then washed, its fabric worn.
Marcel waited, face a blank.
Then Joan's face stilled and her tears dried up. He felt a pain like gas in his belly as her head turned, piercing him with the look an owl might use to freeze a field mouse. "Where did you get this?"
Pretend ignorance and blame Papa? No, those eyes dragged forth the truth even from him. "Hamish Powers lives yet. He remembers the original well."
"You made a copy," she said, dropping the ba
He swallowed. "I thought… if Charles saw you with your pe
"You would stage a miracle." Marcel could see she was on the verge of throwing him away, and all Papa's resources with him. "Have you no faith at all?"
"I confess my mistake," he said, forcing himself to look down. "I want to help…"
"By doing wrong?"
"I'm sorry." Each humble word was singed by the rage rising in his throat. If she would just allow them to read the Bible in French! "I want to bring the king to our side, that's all."
"You must try harder to believe!" A silence then, while he looked at his toes and endured the stares of common soldiers who lurked at the sidelines. Intolerable, after all he had done-but he tolerated it. At length, the Maid sighed. "But you are confessed and I forgive you."
Relief flooded him, and he dared a glance up. Joan was testing the sword's weight without realizing it, raising it in that dangerous way of hers so the point was aimed at his throat.
Then, suddenly, she smiled. "Nobody will mistake this for the original-that had five crosses, and this has three." With that, she slid it into her scabbard.
Marcel indicated the ba
"Burn it." She spared the pe
"Jump, for this time we are with you." Joan, in full armor, leaps from a burning church steeple. Saints Catherine and Margaret grasp her arms, bearing her slowly to the ground. Below, Jeha
It is interesting to note that the original Dulice Aulon sketch for this plate has survived and is available for comparison with the final Orleans illumination in the codex. The sketch calls for columns of smoke from the church fire to surround Joan's body and makes no mention of the saints. It also notes that Joan's foot should be bare and bloodied but does not say what this signifies.
The inscription, it is generally agreed, indicates Joan had achieved a renewed state of grace by the time of this dangerous leap. In a 1430 attempt to escape her English captors, Joan jumped from the sixty-foot tower at Beaurevoir. Though she survived, the escape attempt failed. She said later that her Voices had told her not to jump.
They were moving to it at long last, and after so much waiting for a decisive battle, Hermeland should have been relieved.
Instead, he was too aware of his mount. His old horse, Rust, had been lamed in the skirmish the day before. He'd found him limping this morning, favoring a bloodied pastern. The young black stallion he rode now was poorly trained, fighting the bit and trying to crop grass every chance he got.
They moved with deadly purpose, racing past Autun. By meeting Charles beyond the town, they left themselves a place of retreat. If it came to that, though, they and Autun would probably come to ruin.