Awaken My Fire (8 page)

Murmured approval rose from the crowd, but the question begged asking: "Be it true that the lady murdered Lord Edward?"

"Aye and nay." The knight's voice filled with a strange intensity as he answered the charge. "She did and did not. The vengeance of God Almighty pointed a finger at Edward and he was blasted into the dark place below of fires and eternal suffering."

Awed whisperings rushed through the crowd. "Lord have mercy—"

"Only Mary hath that same chastity—"

"She be touched by God for sure, destined to sainthood."

"Is Reales still under siege?"

"Aye," the knight said as he fought his mount for the bit and explained. "The castle is still under siege, but we have escaped to warn the poor and good people of Brittany. Henry wants revenge. He will see the lady burned as a heretic, a murderess or a traitor!" He added with feeling, "That is, if he can catch her. Henry has sent none other than the infamous Vincent de la Eresman, the Duke of Suffolk, to reclaim the castle. And this man hath landed on the shores of Brittany with knights numbering two hundred. The godless barbarians shall ride through Greve on their way to Reales to subdue the rebellion."

Fearful whisperings expressed the apprehension and dread this news brought to the simple peasants of Greve. They shifted nervously on their feet, their minds greeting this worst of all possibilities. "God have mercy on me weary soul!"

"The fields!"

"At least the crops have not sprung yet—all the God-damns can burn is the soil—"

"And my roof! 'Twill take a month to raise up the cottages, and with no oxen in the next seven villages to help!"

"Get ye the goats—'tis the only thing keeping the wee ones from starvation through the famine—that and roots and berries!"

The knight's eyes narrowed with, a wealth of antipathy as he interrupted. "Aye! Do what ye must! The English beasts will be mad with a thirst for revenge against the people. Hide thy womenfolk and children and beasts— what little they haven't already burned or sacked or pillaged. Let their thirst for French blood go unquenched. And pray ye for God Almighty's judgment to send them to much-deserved deaths!"

Potiers' voice—so strangely deep and forceful in the still night air—inspired a growing fear. All reason dissipated, swallowed up in the darkness. Two overwrought women ran to the group, crying. "Tis the Armageddon! Henry be the true Antichrist!"

"The Duke of Suffolk be his disciple! The judgment of

the faithful is upon us!"

"Aye! The Antichrist!" An old, withered man suddenly shouted, "It hath been said that when the time hath come, a foreign king shall rise in the west: this king shall be a lord of deceits and killer of men, an esteemer of gold and enemy of the faithful! He hath come! He is Henry of England!"

Shivers raced up spines and tension seized the men as they began exchanging the many signs of the impending Armageddon in a rush of heated words:

"Bands of brigands sacking cities and countryside!"

"Four rainbows arched across the sky less than a fortnight ago! Remember?"

"Two popes in one world, that be the worst sign. If God is not a-shudder at that folly—"

"Hush, good people of Greve!"

All looked up to the young boy.

"Fear ye not God's judgment—the faithful shall be brought into the bosom of heaven! Are ye not the faithful? Are ye not the very souls for whom Christ suffered?" The melodic voice, even more than the reasoned words, quieted the people's fears, and unlike their priests, this young knight promised heaven rather than hell. "Besides, who can say when Armageddon shall be upon us? God alone knows this. And though there be few more wicked men on earth, Henry cannot be the Antichrist. Simply because Henry shall be defeated by the force of good on earth. By us! By the people of France! And his time has come. Let the rebellion spread, let it consume our hearts and minds! The people shall not be subjugated to a false king!"

These words sent a loud and long cheer up, louder as the young knight added, "Long live Charles! And may God soon see him to his rightful crown!"

Like a sudden shift in the wind, the mood of the people changed, becoming hopeful. When the last cheers died, a call rose from the crowd for the young rider's name.

"What be thy name, young sir?"

“
What saint hath warned us, and thereby saved our wives and daughters, and spared what frail beasts we have left?"

"Aye," another cried out, "whose praise shall we sing?"

The rider had turned the stallion toward the road, yet looked back to answer. As the reins were kept checked in one hand, the other thin hand lowered the hood. The men gasped at the sight of a maid, her hair lifted into a crown of braids, each as thick as a man's fist. A maid more fair than a hundred others, they would tell their wives, a maid who looked like an angel and rode like a demon.

"You know my name—I am the Lady Roshelle of Reales!"

The cheers died beneath the thunder of hooves as Roshelle and Potiers gave their mounts free rein, racing back to the road. Grinning from ear to ear, Potiers raced after her. Two more villages were left. They would easily make it back before daylight and, with a little luck, slip into the passageway without being seen before the captain woke from his drunken stupor. Four barrels of wine had miraculously appeared on the edge of the army camp—Roshelle's idea, of course—and all the captain would find of their night's adventure would be two mysteriously spent horses.

The windswept up the sound of Potiers' laughter as they raced along. Within minutes, they reached the crossroad, where they split in two different directions. Only two more villages left. And the night was still young.

"Like all of your sex—you are a beast!"

The disparaging words sounded loud in the quiet night as Roshelle sat atop the roan-colored stallion waiting at the crossroad for the rendezvous with Potiers. Knights only rode stallions, which had provided her with a fine choice of mares all her life. She had never before ridden a stallion. The foolish English guards had been so drunk, she and Potiers had decided to steal these right from the heart of the camp, thereby saving themselves the walk to Reales, where their horses were kept hidden. No wonder all knights had spurs! After she'd ridden fast for at least four long hours through the countryside, shouting warnings to every chateau, cottage and village, and after she'd battled the spirited stallion for control the entire way, the feisty beast still had some fight left in him.

She had only sore bones, tired arms and a keen, new appreciation for knightly spurs that she had never found necessary to use. Seeming to agree, the horse tossed his fine head back, and danced round a circle. Roshelle used her last strength to pull him up again. "Easy, easy, my pet," she whispered as she stroked his sleek neck. "Just a few more minutes, and I'll turn you toward home, hmm?"

This had been the last stop they dared—the army should be just behind. Less than six hours of darkness left to get home again, and through the secret door before the camp began waking.

Potiers, where are you?

As if the question produced the reality, the sound of pounding horse's hooves came from the north. She pulled the stallion up hard and held perfectly still as the dark shape came ever closer into view.

"Potiers!" She led the horse out to the road.

"Milady! Sorry it took so long, but the village Sanmone fell to hysterics. Like before. Ye know how badly they got it when Edward came through—wasn't a woman there who didn't take to running. I sent a boy to warn the people at the chateau, and then I had to help the men folk gather the animals. Seems they built some kind of special corral to hide them in—"

"Likewise at Chinon," she said as she reined the horse around. Animals were essential to the peasants' survival. Manure made the difference between a poor crop and a bountiful one, which made it more valuable than gold.

Besides, when foodstuffs were at the lowest point during early spring, a single cow's or goat's milk often kept a family from starvation. "This time we have saved them. The Duke of Suffolk will have no revenge from the poor people of Brittany."

Potiers nodded as they turned their horses east toward Reales, though the simple statement struck at the heart of the matter. Somehow Roshelle Marie felt the responsibility for the people's welfare belonged on her shoulders and she must sacrifice her happiness for them. As Papillion had always warned, she would find her peace and transcend her despair through charity.

Papillion’s fate ...

Shortly after Roshelle's first wedding, Rodez generously pledged two hundred livres to Cardinal Cecile de Grair for his ambitious plans to build the largest cathedral in France. Within a week the cardinal announced that Papillion was wanted to stand trial for the sorcery, witchcraft and Satanic domination so diabolically displayed at Lady Roshelle Marie's first wedding.

For many months it was a jest that entertained the entire Orleans court, keeping them all in stitches as Papillion played cat and mouse with the cardinal and his bumbling bands of soldiers, duping them time and time again. No one believed the cardinal would do anything anyway, for everyone, all the world, knew and loved the old sage of the forest house. Papillion had more friends than a honeybee in a summer garden. Why, half the church owed their lives to his medicines! So everyone laughed uproariously as the bishop's men would rush to the guilds or the marketplace, only to discover that Papillion had left long ago or minutes ago or that he had not been there for days or that in fact he was at that exact moment lecturing on the very steps of the cardinal's house…

Then one fateful day Papillion's faithful servant Sergio lay on his deathbed, apparently a victim of poisoning. Without a thought of the consequences, Papillion attended him, easing the terrible pain of his last hours. The Christian soldiers appeared and took him away. Within hours, they had tortured him and tried him as a heretic of the Christian world. The nightmarish scene emerged in Potiers' mind: Roshelle behind the Orleans guards who forced a way for their passage, so that Roshelle burst into the hall to see Papillion moments before his death. Papillion stood naked and in chains before the inquisition, his body wrecked by torture.

Potiers spotted Rodez immediately as he came up behind Roshelle. He would never live long enough to forget the shock in her eyes as she beheld Rodez's revenge as the cardinal's sentence echoed in the eerie silence of the hall. "Condemned unto death to live in darkness and without light, so that your soul shall discover the remorse of living out its eternity in the absence of the God Almighty you have so wickedly shunned—"

Rodez's smile vanished as Roshelle cried, "You have killed him! Oh, God, in the name of revenge you have killed him! God's vengeance shall shine in the memory of her eyes! 'Tis my vengeance as well! Angelique's eyes reveal your doom! Forevermore you are doomed!"

Potiers never knew what happened after that, no one did. For Papillion suddenly cried out, a loud and mournful moan that Roshelle swore formed the words "Beware the ring, Rodez!" And then he was dead. Roshelle screamed in a faint, and as Potiers caught the girl in his arms he watched Rodez rush to the body. To get the ring? Did he get the ring? Or had it been gone already? Or was he just making certain Papillion was dead?

That was the beginning of these past torturous years that had at last led to this sorrowful time. The light in the girl's eyes had died with Papillion; she was thrown into the chaos and poverty and destitution that was France as well as her own sad fate. The older man sighed, and hopelessly tossed his gaze to the dark surroundings, trying to distract himself from the unpleasant future.

The air felt moist, fresh and unusually mild for spring. Oak trees lined the road and created a dark canopy overhead, blocking out the light of the moon riding high across the cloud-filled sky. The only sound came as the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves picking their way home. Hazel trees and field maple shrubs dotted the gently rolling hills and appeared only slightly darker than the night sky.

How she longed for the peace of prayers! The peace that let her escape from the endless circle of her tired thoughts: thoughts of the people and their trials and suffering, of the endless war thrust upon her land, of the dark shadow the Duke of Burgundy cast over Joan's life. She felt the yearning, the terrible yearning, to find a measure of peace, and with it, freedom...

There was no peace to be found now, and even less chance for freedom. The thought led her to the encroaching woods and she said, "The forests always return with the English laying claim to the hard-worked tilled fields. For one hundred years, the history of France is told by the encroaching forests of beech and oaks and ash. Innocent timber tells of murder, raping and death brought by the hands of godless island beasts!"

"Aye," he said, wanting to ease her burden and turn her thoughts. "Someday it shall be farmland again, milady. I've no doubt you will see to it single-handedly. Are ye hungry, milady?" / :