Many thanks to Coeurgryffondor and Jacquzy for the beta.
I remember her eyes.
Even after all these years, they are what I remember most about her. They had a light in them, a kind of fire that seemed to shine brighter whenever she saw me. It was as if she could cut through my armor and expose the innermost parts of my soul with just one glance. I never understood it; it frightened me. No one has ever been able to do that. Disarm me with words or a look, yes, but read my thoughts and emotions so easily and so quickly? No. She baffled me, this girl in armor with a sword in her hand and angels' lips at her ear.
How I loathed her.
I first saw her at Orléans. She rode to the gate, France at her side and an army that looked as if they were willing to follow her into hell if she led them there. Her white and gold banner waved proudly in the wind. Looking over the battlements, I laughed. Never had I witnessed a scene more ridiculous.
"Bonnefoy!" I shouted. "Have things become so desperate that you are recruiting women to fight for you now?" Everyone knew France had lost this war, and yet he stubbornly refused to surrender and give up what rightfully belonged to me. Instead he had continued to fight, even as he lost more of his land and power, dragging this conflict out for longer than either of us had originally hoped or intended. He was nothing if not determined; I had to give him that. But as long as he continued to struggle, I would not yield any of my gains. Sooner or later, I hoped, he would come to his senses and lay down his sword.
To my surprise, France made no reply. The girl turned to ask him something, and he whispered his answer in her ear. Whatever he told the girl made her smile. Urging her horse forward a few steps, she lifted her eyes to me.
My blood ran cold.
She raised her banner.
I fled Orléans within a week.
I do not know what it was about her eyes that frightened me so much then. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I realized that things had changed, and what I had once taken for granted would soon be ripped away from me.
And change things did.
Soon I struggled with every ounce of my power to keep the territories I had once held onto with ease. But no matter how hard I had fought, France still won battle after battle; there was nothing I could do. The girl inspired that damned Frenchman in a way none before her had managed to. She promised him victories and gave him a king whom she crowned with her own hands. When I heard the news, I felt humiliated, both for myself and my child monarch. Everything had been so certain once, but those days had ended.
Of course I heard the rumors, the rumblings in the camps and among the men. Witch, they called her. How else would she have been able to accomplish the things she did? There was no other possible explanation in their minds. The accusations made me uneasy, but I said nothing. Fears about sorcery were growing more intense in those days, and even I was a little nervous at times. I knew, though. But why should I have said anything? She was my enemy. She helped France when my victory was near. Victory after over a hundred years of war. If the soldiers wanted to believe stories, that was their concern, not mine.
But I had also heard whispers of removing the girl, stripping away France's adoration and bringing ruin to her cause and her king. I did not like what I heard. I was willing to overlook this conspiracy if I could regain what I had lost.
It could not last forever, but I suppose it ended earlier than she had anticipated or wanted. That is the way things usually happen, though. I admit, I was surprised when I heard she had been captured, although I suppose I should not have been. Now that he had what he wanted, her king seemed to have grown tired of the conflict, and the girl had been forced to face defeat a few times. Even then, I did not expect for her to fall into our hands so easily. Our allies caught her and imprisoned her. Yet that was not the end of the matter, and we all knew it. She had to be discredited, and her message and methods condemned with her. There was only one way to do that.
A trial for heresy.
I never wanted to see the proceedings. They were not my business, or at least, that was what I rationalized to myself. Besides, I was too busy to stay in Rouen for several months, though I heard what went on during those long sessions, how the girl defended herself and evaded the judges' traps with more deftness and skill than she should have possessed. As time went on, our allies grew increasingly frustrated and furious just as she grew more and more exhausted from the endless debates and questioning. Perhaps the silence from France caused her to despair as well, although it was nearly impossible for him to send her some kind of note or letter.
As the months dragged on, my curiosity grew. I wanted to see her again, although why I do not know. Perhaps I needed to see this creature who had so easily reversed my fortunes up close, without her armor or protection. Or maybe I felt that I could ease my conscious somehow if I saw her. The accusations against the girl had started to prey on my mind, and even though she was my captured enemy, I could not help thinking about how wrong the whole procedure was. This was not the way a trial for heresy was supposed to be run. But still, I held my tongue.
Eventually, I found myself in Rouen. One of the first things I did was visit her in prison.
I pushed open the heavy door to her cell. On the opposite side of the room she sat motionless on her cot, hands clasped and lips moving silently in prayer. I entered hesitantly. Something about the sight before my eyes made me reluctant to intrude, but I urged my feet forward. Her cell was tiny, dark, and sparse with only an undersized window for light. The girl did not seem to notice me, or if she did, she did not acknowledge my presence. It was so strange, seeing her like this. She was smaller that I remembered and younger looking as well. For some reason, I felt surprised that she looked no older than her nineteen years. How strange that someone so fragile could have created so much havoc in my life. But I reminded myself that this was not a delicate flower but a young woman who had led France's armies with boldness and audacity. The stubborn girl had known exactly what she was doing.
I took another step. The noise disturbed her, and she moved, the chains on her wrists and feet clinking loudly. Her large blue eyes fixed themselves on me. For several moments, I stood completely still and watched the emotions flicker in her face. Curiosity, despair, loneliness, caution, defiance, hope. At the same time, the feelings I had experienced when I first saw her at Orlèans returned with a vengeance. I do not know what the girl thought as she scrutinized me, but I felt as if all my secrets had been plainly laid out for her to see. Her unwavering gaze made my palms itch and throat dry. Desperate to find something to break the tension between us, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"You are not a witch." Instantly, I bit my tongue.
The girl inclined her head with interest. "If you believe it, then why am I here?" Her eyes glowed in the darkness of the cell. "I know you. I have seen you many times, and he has talked about you often. Have you come to free me?"
I shook my head and looked away. I did not want to see her eyes anymore, even though I could still feel her gaze. Instead I focused on the shackles around her ankles. "You and I both know what you would do if I released you."
"Is it not right? It is what God called me to do, and I will fulfill his commandment."
"I think that is impossible in here."
"God has promised me a great deliverance and a grand victory."
"What?" I asked. "When?"
"I do not know the day or the hour. All I know is what God promised me."
I sighed heavily. "Why do you do this?" Her feet shifted on the cot. "You could have had a long, quiet life on your little farm. Instead, you run off, filling France's head with all sorts of idiotic ideas about victory and glory. And what will it get you? You will burn, or you will stay in a prison cell for the rest of your life. Is that what you wanted when you left home? Is this the fate that you expected? Is this what you were promised?" She made no reply. I forced myself to look at her. Her head was turned away from me, and she stared at the bars of the window.
"Is it him?" I asked. I let out a half-hearted chuckle. "He won't marry you, if that's what you thought. It's not in his nature; it never has been."
"I do not desire his physical love or that of any other man," she replied. "I only wish for his safety and the love of God."
"You set the French king on his throne. Was that not enough?"
"My mission is not complete."
Suddenly, I felt very jealous of France. Why had this girl been given to him instead of me? It had been centuries since a woman had cared so much for my wellbeing that she willingly sacrificed everything to keep me safe. Looking at the girl stirred something inside of me, and instead of a peasant, I saw a tall woman, wild red hair flowing past her shoulders and a torc around her neck. I could hear blades sharpening and the chanting of thousands of warriors calling her name. Yet this was not the ancient warrior queen I barely remembered but rather France's holy warrior. She had bound her life to his, and she would not undo the ties.
"Your mission ended with your capture," I told her. She turned towards me. I wish she had not. Her eyes flared, and all of her passion, determination, and ferocity instantly flew at me. I could not look away, no matter how much I wanted to.
"My mission will never be over until every Englishman has been driven from the shores of France!" There was a strange calmness in her voice.
I could think of no reply. She stared at me in silence for several minutes. A sliver of light slipped through the window, catching her eyes and making them shine. She waited expectantly for my response. I wanted to tell her something, something about France, or the strength of my forces, or just what her learned judges thought of her. My tongue could form no words, though, no matter how hard I tried. So, I stared back. Slowly, her eyelids slid down, and she began to pray once more. Again I wondered how someone so innocent and pious could be so dangerous. Not wanting to look at her anymore, I turned away. I had seen what I had come to see. My curiosity satisfied, I could do no more. Fixing my gaze straight before me, I hurried out and closed the heavy door, leaving the girl alone in her cell.
A month later, I received word that she had indeed abjured. Part of me was not surprised. She was human after all. There was only so much she could take. I wondered how France would take this bit of news. It would be a nasty bit of demoralization, and I knew he would probably soon lose faith in the king his savior had crowned. But maybe he wouldn't. Just how strong was France's faith? Would he still believe in what the girl had told him, even when she had signed a confession saying that her voices were not from God? Would he even attempt to rescue her from her perpetual imprisonment?
I did not have to ponder that for very long.
She recanted her abjuration a few days later.
The weather that day was warm, almost hot but not quite. My helmet did little to protect my eyes from the sun. Raising my hand, I surveyed the scene I stood in the midst of. Peasants and nobles alike had flocked to the square. Women leaned out of windows, some of them clutching small children. I was not surprised at the amount of people there. Pleasant temperatures tended to draw large crowds to executions. I believe, though, that even if sleet and snow had rained down on us, people still would have come in droves just to see what happened to the girl. Curiosity and apprehension marked their faces. I followed their gaze upwards.
Rope and chains bound her to the stake. Her arms were free. The girl was thinner than I remembered, although that should not have been a surprise. She wore a shapeless, white robe that was a little too big for her. Her head had been shaved, and on top of it sat a paper bishop's miter bearing the words "heretic, relapsed, apostate, idolatress". The pyre had been built high, so everyone could see her. With a shudder I realized that there would be no way for the executioner to kill her before the smoke and flames did. She wept quietly, and I could hear her sobs, but there was a strange peacefulness in the way she held herself and whispered her prayers that I did not fully understand.
My stomach churned. An uneasy feeling began to grow, develop, and gnaw on my insides. I took a deep breath and tried to ignore it. The girl was my enemy. Yes, this was unpleasant, but I had yet to find an execution that was not. War took its victims freely. The goal had been accomplished. She had been discredited and condemned, and she would bother neither our soldiers nor our allies any longer. This was for the best. There was no other way. Yes, she was innocent, but there was nothing I could do about it.
Nothing at all.
A flash of gold caught my eye, and I turned. A dark cloak hid his features, but the hair visible underneath was unmistakable. What was he doing here? Had he planned some impromptu, ridiculous rescue mission? It would be just like him to try something like that. Slowly, he raised his arm and drew back his hood. His hair gleamed bright in the sunlight. Tears freely flowed down his face. Suddenly, I wondered if the damage had already been done. My warrior queen had died, and Rome took what he wanted. I barely remembered her, but France would never forget this girl. He and his armies would rally to her name, and there would be no holding them back. He would clearly remember everything she had done for him; he would remember how she died.
What was I doing?
The judge's voice rang out. "Executioner, do your duty!"
"A cross! A cross!"
My mouth went dry.
"A cross! For the love of God, a cross!"
The sticks broke easily in my hands. Quickly, I bound the pieces together with a bit of twine. It wasn't much, but it was the best I could do at the moment. Stretching my arm up, I raised the rough, wooden thing to her outstretched hands. Her fingers brushed against mine. Our eyes met.
In that moment, everything seemed to melt away. It was as if we were the only two people in existence, and that little part of the square made up the whole cosmos. My body felt stiff. If my feet had been nailed to the ground I would not have been any more immobile. Riveted, I stared up at her, my formidable enemy. My formidable enemy with her shaven head and too large robe and my cross held gently in her hands. And the full weight of what was happening came upon me. I had known. I had known and said nothing. For what? Land? Power? Fleeting things. Was anything I could possibly gain worth the price I would pay for this? Desperate, I opened my mouth, but my tongue was locked. I could say nothing.
Those strange, blue orbs fixated on me. I could not look away. I felt myself drawn to them, their serenity, gratefulness, sympathy, compassion, mercy….No, I realized as I gazed at her in shock. She could not possibly….And yet she was. After what I had done, what she knew, she still…I could not comprehend it.
Her eyes closed. She pressed the cross to her lips and tucked it safely into her robe. My feet stepped back of their own accord.
Out of an oak forest, a girl would be sent forth to bring healing.
Had Merlin said that?
I stood too close to the pyre. A cloud of smoke and ash blew into my eyes. They itched and watered. I closed them quickly.
They said that was one of Merlin's, but I couldn't remember.
"God help us! We are burning a saint!" People screamed and wailed. My knees buckled under me.
I looked up. The flames hid her from view. A flock of doves flew through the smoke.
Out of an oak forest, a girl would be sent forth to bring healing.
I could feel the heat on my face.
Jeanne. Jeanne.
I bowed my head and wept.
A/N: According to Jean Massieu's account of Joan's execution, an English soldier quickly made her a cross out of two sticks. His identity is not known.
There're a lot of fanworks dealing with France's relationship with Joan but hardly any about England and Joan. That's a shame I think, since England definitely would have had some thoughts about her. I wondered what England would have felt about Joan's trial and the accusations against her, especially since he is a wizard. Hence this fic.
England is remembering Boudica, queen of the Iceni tribe. She led a series of rebellions and raids against the Romans so devastating that Nero considered withdrawing troops from Rome. Eventually, the Romans slaughtered the Iceni forces at the Battle of Watling Street and regained control of the land. Boudica's fate is not known, but she probably died soon after her defeat.
The description of Joan's eyes came partly from Hetalia fanart, which frequently depict her with these huge blue eyes, and partly from Renée Maria Falconetti's portrayal of Joan in Carl Th. Dreyer's Passion of Joan of Arc. Seriously, go watch it if you haven't already seen it; it is a masterwork. Following off of that, much of the music that helped inspire some of this came from Richard Einhorn's libretto, Voices of Light, particularly "Sacrament" and "Karitas".