**Fear not, for I haveth posted another chapter! Once again, sorry for the late updates—currently working on a bunch of works at the same time, but I could never forget our precious little Joan and armless France. Hope y'all enjoy!**
The attack on Saint Loup was a success.
The battle raged on for a couple more hours before the English carried whatever they could (which turned out to be very little) and retreat. They, the French and the Scottish, didn't win back the entirety of the city (much to Jeanne's disappointment), but at least they'd taken that first step toward absolute victory. They would occupy the space the enemy abandoned and use it to plan their next form of assault.
A round of applause erupted from the soldiers, both new and experienced. Shouts of joy and French flags were thrust into the smoky air while the French were pulled into embarrassingly obnoxious dances by the Scottish, ones that made them squawk like hawks and jump around like excited dogs.
The absolute thrill of it all was something Jeanne had never experienced before. This was nothing like the time a family in her village was welcomed by their pet dog scratching at their front door after being missing for several weeks, all happy and healthy. Nor could she compare this feeling to that time when her village's priest threatened to cut down the fairy tree if the children continued neglecting their duties and spend all their time singing and dancing around the ancient beech tree.[1] Jeanne had argued with the priest that he'd be committing a terrible sin if he did such a thing and, to the children's delight, he backed down. Even the genuine smiles and hugs she received from nine-year-olds weren't like the ones these worn-out soldiers gave her now.
Here was a sense of enormous liberation, finally replacing the fear that rooted so deeply in their bones. It was so great that some could not contain their tears; it was as if they'd already won Orléans. Because of their reactions, Jeanne was reminded of, if one didn't put all his faith into God, how high the stakes really were.
She thanked them, nevertheless, for their bravery and sacrifice. She then went to find Jean, Noël, Louis, and Edmond (Pierre had stayed with her for the rest of the campaign). She eventually found them standing by the only fallen tower of Saint Loup, breaking down the English's wooden defenses. Relief eased the tension in her shoulders when she realized she'd suffered the worst of their combined injuries (Edmond had a nasty scar about the size of a quill around his elbow and one of Noël's front teeth had been knocked out).
"What happened to you?" Jean demanded, noticing the shift in her pauldron. He dropped everything and jogged over to her once she opened her arms for a hug.
"An arrow pierced her right shoulder," Pierre answered for her. "The doctor said she'll be okay, though. Nothing was infected or anything like that."
Jean's embrace wasn't as tight as she'd like it to be, but she figured it was for the best.
"Are you alright?" He drew back and examined her face, hands, and body with wide, frantic eyes. He reminded her of their father: he had hawk eyes and the nose of a bloodhound. She would joke with him that they wouldn't need a dog or some other animal to keep watch over the farm because they already had Monsieur Jacques d'Arc.
"Yes, I'm alright," she replied, squeezing his hands. "Just a little sore is all. And a little thirsty."
"I'm sure we can get you some water." He patted his armor (now soiled with dirt and blood) as though it contained pockets. He then looked around them as if he'd somehow dropped his flask of water; it had slipped from his iron pockets.
"Edmond, I'm so sorry we left you behind." Jeanne waddled up and wrapped her arms around his rock-hard torso. "How are you? Are you okay?"
"Oh, I'm just fine! It is I who must apologize for not keeping up with you." She felt his large, rough hand pat her back before withdrawing. He lifted the sleeve of his beige linen shirt (which seemed to be new, for no bloodstains could be found on it) and showed her the thick bandage around his elbow.
"One of them somehow managed to get between my armor. Left a pretty deep cut. When Sieur Scotland stepped in, he flung the man to the ground, thus giving me an opening. I grabbed my sword, rolled over, and then sliced his neck open. Blood came spraying out and he started choking. I kept hammering away until his head was severed from the rest of his body." He grinned. "And I only came out with this scar."
He either ignored or failed to see Jeanne's disgusted expression. He clearly thought it was fascinating—what happened to him and that Englishman—but Jeanne's stomach didn't agree with him.
"I heard you screamed like a little girl," Noël piped up from behind, a slow smirk spreading across his freckled cheeks.
Edmond whipped around with an angry glare. "I did no such thing!"
"Ah, sure you did. I heard it all the way from the other side of the Loire. It went something like…" Here Noël balled his hands into fists, squeezed his eyes shut, and belted out a high-pitched yet short-lived shriek. Edmond was quick to throw the first punch and Jeanne was quick to leave their scuffle.
She walked over toward Louis, who was standing a bit awkwardly to the side. His hands fiddled with a tiny wooden fragment from the defensive stakes cluttered around one of the entrances of the city. There was a faraway look in his eyes; she could see the windmill turning slowly behind them when normally there was something much faster. The trickling of a river, a gust twirling among piles of dead leaves. He was always wondering, that Louis, so it was worrisome to see him so slow.
"How are you, Louis?" She lightly touched his knuckles. They stopped moving, his eyes blinked.
"Hm? Oh, I'm fine. Really, just…fine."
"You don't seem so sure of yourself."
"I am. I'm just tired." His eyes flicked somewhere behind her. "Where's Sieur France? Is he alright?"
She frowned at the change of subject. "He'll be fine. Now what—"
"Oh, where is Sieur France?" Noël's fuzzy head popped into view, clumps of dirt tumbling out of his locks (no doubt from Edmond ramming him into the ground). "I was wondering where he went." His face suddenly fell. "He didn't die, did he?"
"Um, kind of?" Pierre said a high voice. Jeanne didn't have to look back to see her brother's puzzled expression and shrugged shoulders.
"What do you mean 'kind of?'" Jean prompted.
"Well, he was with us while Jeanne was being treated for her arrow wound. He was in worse shape than her. He was just soaked in blood; it came out of his arm, his face. Oh, he just looked horrible, like somebody spent hours just beating him. Anyway, he wouldn't let the physicians tend to his wounds until Jeanne was looked after. He was standing to the side and then he just…fell over."
Jeanne closed her eyes. She saw him collapse; she saw his figure drop to the side behind the bodies hovering above her. Just before la Hire was instructed to take out the arrowhead lodged in her shoulder, she tried calling out Francis's name or telling the physicians to fix him instead. But then he fell and then the arrow was ripped out and then she screamed. They had thought she was screaming because of the pain, and she partially was. But Pierre's nervous "Sieur?" made them turn and gape at Francis's limp body lying on the ground.
Once they'd moved, she saw his eyes glaze over and a shaky breath leave his lips. She knew then that he was dead.
"Fell over?" Jean clarified again.
"Yes. He wasn't moving, he wasn't breathing. One of the physicians went over to him and made this grunting sound as if this has happened before; even la Hire rolled his eyes. I asked them what was wrong with him, and the doctor said that his heartbeat had stopped and was currently recharging itself."
"What does that mean?"
"They said that whenever Sieur France or Sieur Scotland are seriously injured or sick, they can lose consciousness and their heart can stop beating, just like any other dead person. But instead of 'completely dying', their bodies begin repairing themselves. Depending on what exactly is wrong with them, they could be entirely healed and awake within a couple hours. But most of the time it doesn't work like that—their bodies need extra help. They said if a personification's body doesn't receive additional medical assistance and is forced to repair itself, then the process will take much longer." A pause. "Sometimes, it can take weeks for them to wake back up, and even then, their bodies may not be back to normal! That's what they said happened to Sieur France in Azincourt."
Jeanne's eyes slowly opened and met the worried glances of Louis and Noël. Although they were aimed at Pierre behind her, Jeanne glared in Louis's direction. Clever little spider, she thought. Spun your own little conversation for the others to blindly fall into. What's so wrong with being upfront?
Louis could probably sense Jeanne's heated stare on him. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot, never making eye contact with her.
"Poor soul," Jean sighed. "Is he still…dead?"
"Uh, technically yes. His wounds have been attended to and last I saw him, he was laying by the river with some of the other wounded."
"That's enough for now," Jeanne interrupted.
She half-turned toward the rest of them. They stared back with worried, confused, and surprised looks. Her lips twitched into a frown as she added: "What's important is that Sieur France is safe with us and that the first step to saving Orléans is complete. Let's turn our worries to our next set of goals—getting those food rations to the citizens, establishing our base here at Saint Loup, and gaining back the rest of the city."
But before any of that could happen, they had to clean up the bodies.
They were spewed everywhere. Motionless figures of iron laid in the spring green grass. The cool gusts of early May brushed by the fallen flags sprinkled around the battlefield. Jeanne had stood there for a moment, at the bottom of the hill. She took it all in, though not well. Tears blurred her vision, and something thick and heavy gripped her throat.
Her fellow comrades gave her awkward sideways glances as they went on picking up the dead bodies as though they were nothing more than rotten apples on an old tree. She had to swallow any sob that boiled in the back of her throat whenever she saw them rummaging through the corpses' pockets, searching for items that'd be valuable to the living like copper coins or small daggers. Wheelbarrows were overflowing with the dead, their limbs dangling off the rims like tree branches. They were wheeled across the field and then dumped onto the steadily growing pile near the river where they would later be cremated.
Jeanne felt her heart shatter all over again. How could they, the living, treat their brothers in such detached ways? How could they not grieve? How could they handle death so normally or typically rather than the merciful angel that it was? It wasn't like this was her first experience with death—she'd watched a couple of her family's chickens die over time and heard of a friend's mother who passed during childbirth. She just didn't understand why she was the only one crying.
Taking slow and tentative steps, she walked into the silent chaos. French, Scottish, and English bodies surrounded the field with various fatal wounds—a sword protruding from their stomachs, heads separated from their necks, bodies riddled with arrows. Some were already feasted on by the tiny fleas flittering around their mouths and eyes like busy bees. She noticed how, unless you looked closely, one couldn't tell the difference between friend or foe. Some soldiers had kneeled next to a body only to pick through their possessions, stand up, and walk away. Others simply tossed English bodies into the nearby river or stabbed them to make sure they were, in fact, dead. No form of sympathetic passage was displayed for the men on the opposing side.
She helped move several bodies to the mass grave and retrieve weapons and other military inventory. Many approached her with pats on the back or nods of the head, congratulating her on a job well-done. A few even commented on her physical strength; they were very impressed how she could carry a full-grown man on her back, despite her bad shoulder. She didn't care to explain that she grew up on a farm and had to tow heavy barrels of hay around most of her childhood. She merely nodded, focused on sending prayers for each still body she came across.
The sun had lowered to the head of the hills; lovely shades of red and orange coated the sky while wispy clouds drifted by like a wandering flock of geese with nowhere in mind to go. It had gotten cooler, but nothing too chilly. Nearly all French and Scottish bodies had been gathered and prepared for cremation. General de Richemont ultimately decided that leaving English corpses alone would probably bring disease to the soldiers and frighten the citizens of Orléans, and had large trenches dug near the bottom of the hill. The bodies were then stacked in these graves and then buried.
Jeanne straightened up and peered toward the crowded woods. A dull ache clawed at her chest as her thoughts started to fill up with her country's personification. The look on his face when she flew to his aid, sitting at the feet of a particularly skilled Englishman. The way his body just dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. It sent cold shivers down her spine and made her question who exactly that Englishman was.
She remembered his hand. Her thoughts were in a jumbled frenzy at the time; the only thing she knew was that Francis's life had been in danger and she had acted upon it. She remembered feeling detached from her body somehow as her God-given sword sliced through flesh and bone, and her tongue formed some threat that she couldn't recall now. But the one thing she remembered most clearly before being shot was the man's eyes.
They were wide with confusion and pain. He stared at her like she was some dangerous animal; how did a bear get in here? his eyes seemed to ask. But then they narrowed into sharpened slits and its vibrant emerald color appeared to darken into an ugly dampened moss shade. It reminded her that bears, too, could be hunted down and skinned alive.
Terror pumped through Francis's legs as he plucked her from the ground and ran for the hills. "You don't know who that was." Francis knew him. How many English soldiers did he know exactly? Maybe a couple generals, sure, but Jeanne figured he wouldn't know individual rookies like herself.
Something caved within her chest as an idea fluttered through her brain. Could that man possibly be the personification of England itself? What is his name again? Arthur…
A low rumbling sound echoed somewhere behind her. She turned her head slowly. The crumpled tower of Saint Loup laid several yards behind her and no living or dead soldier could be spotted near the remnants.
Her gaze swept across the remains once the same low rumbling sound repeated itself. She stepped over cracked stones and shattered wooden fragments. It sounded like something heavy was being dragged around. But no one was here and nothing was moving—
Just in time, her eyes caught a small section of the broken tower fall to the side, just like how a single book simply drops without balanced support. She noticed a little caved-in tunnel that the small piece of foundation was once a part of. Upon closer inspection, she also noticed a hunched figure crawling out of that tunnel's cramped darkness and into the setting light.
Her heart dropped and her feet moved.
"A survivor!" she cried. "Someone get help!"
She ran toward the man, hopping over the rubble and skirting around obvious barriers. Her armor clanged and clanked with each step she took, and its hefty weight kept her from getting to her destination sooner. But she went on—how could she stop in the name of life?
Finally she stumbled upon him, falling onto her knees in the process. Her eyes scanned the man's well-being: he wasn't armored with sheets of iron, but rather with tightly-bound leather. He also wore a leather sack across his back which appeared empty. Dust, dirt, and destruction covered him like a blanket. A large dark stain soaked his right side and his left leg was twisted in a way that no limb can naturally move. He was flat on his stomach, sluggishly dragging himself out of his stone cage, his own blood trailing after him.
Her eyes widened. This poor man was an English soldier.
Once he noticed her presence, his hands flew to his head and shielded the back of his skull. His body trembled violently and some pitiful groan escaped his throat. She listened to the words he was moaning into the ground yet could not understand them. They were fast and breathy and high, nothing like her own thick, nasial voice.
She spread her hands in surrender. "Don't worry! I'm not going to hurt you. Do you understand me? I'm not—"
She stopped once she realized she wasn't helping. The man continued babbling whilst burying his head deeper into the ground. He was terrified out of his mind.
Jeanne snapped back toward the field. None had come forth to assist her—in fact, no one was even looking. Gritting her teeth, she tried again.
"There's a survivor over here! Someone get help, now!"
A few heads turned her way, and she directed her attention back to the Englishman. He was still quivering in the dirt like a trapped mouse, whimpering like a dog with an injured paw. Her heart broke for him; poor creature had been stuck within these ruins for God knows how long while his life drained out of him (everything except the fear, that is).
Very gently, she laid a hand on his shoulder blade and spoke equally so: "Help is on its way. It's coming, I promise."
She tried calming him down with soothing words and light touches. She tried her best to swallow down the shock scratching at her neck, for she couldn't pry her eyes from the growing stain near his stomach nor the curvy earthworm that was his leg. Ultimately the man peeked up at her (with his hands still on his head), but he still trembled so.
"I'm sorry for what happened to you," she said through the thick tears welling in her eyes and throat again. "I'm sorry for your pain and suffering. Please don't be afraid of me."
The soldier didn't respond in any way; he probably couldn't understand her. She spread out her hands once more.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she repeated.
Carefully and slowly, she reached toward him. He flinched back, yet she managed to tuck both arms underneath his armpits and cautiously flip him onto his back. A terrible moan rumbled from his chest. She kept an eye on his leg as it limply slumped to the side like a ragdoll.
She glanced up again to find more faces staring at them from a distance. They looked puzzled yet interested. She then spotted one of the doctors that assisted in repairing her shoulder jogging toward her—she recognized his chubby face, his dark thinning hair, and his lightning blue eyes. But once he saw what was happening, he too slowed to a stop and stared.
"You! Come here!" she ordered. "What do you think you're doing, standing there like a fool?"
Her gaze momentarily broke away, falling onto the dying man in her lap. His face was so unbelievably pale—whiter than winter's snow, whiter than cow's milk. She could see the outline of his skull vividly; his cheekbones were prominent and sharp, eye sockets deep and hollow, lips cracked and colorless. Death had made its mark and surely was on its way.
When the doctor failed to come any closer, Jeanne snapped back through clenched teeth: "Come here at once! What's the matter with you?"
"But Commander, that's an English soldier."
"So?"
"But…" He scrunched his eyebrows together. "What do you want me to do?"
Jeanne looked at him through her blurry vision as though he just sprouted another head. "To treat his wounds, of course! I don't care who it is—fix his wounds immediately!"
The physician hesitated for another moment before reluctantly dragging himself over. He lowered onto his knees and tugged on his medical satchel. He did a quick scan of the Englishman's injuries; his pink fingertips fanned over the gash in his side and gently pushed at his misshapen leg. The soldier groaned in agony once again, muttering more unintelligible words under his breath.
"What is he saying?" Jeanne asked the physician. "Do you understand English?"
He shook his head. "I do not. That is beyond my capabilities."
He prodded at his patient some more and Jeanne had to tighten her grip on the wriggling soldier. His pitiful cries made her want to cry even more—she hated feeling so helpless, just standing by and watching another get knocked down and smushed into the ground like a tiny bug. She wished she could something, anything to ease this poor man's suffering.
The physician eventually came to a conclusion based on his findings—he dropped his hands, leaned back on his heels, peered down with a solemn look in his eye.
Jeanne glanced his way. "What is it?"
His bright eyes met hers. "He's lost too much blood," he murmured. "There's nothing I can do."
She blinked and then blinked again. Realization slowly sank in, her chest caving in, her breath evaporating. She felt as though all the air in her lungs had been stolen from her, sucked away like some vile whirlwind. Her gaze narrowed in on the doctor's as she regained her voice (although in a mere whisper): "What do you mean 'there's nothing you can do?'"
His face burned red as he sputtered out his excuses: "It-It's as I just said—he's lost too much blood! See how unusually pale his cheek is? He has been bleeding for far too long; I presume he received his injuries when the tower fell near the beginning of battle, given his wounds and where he was found. That means he's been lying here nearly all day, bleeding. And I have no choice but to amputate that twisted leg of his, which will cause even more bleeding. No matter what I do, he will surely die." He looked down again. "There's nothing I can do."
Jeanne shook her head while the physician spoke this. Her eyes glazed over the other men surrounding them—still they appeared confused by her tears, uncertain of what to say or do. The sucking feeling in her chest grew stronger; she could feel her voice getting smaller, even though she hadn't used it yet. Her teeth began to chatter and her shoulders trembled slightly.
She peered down at the Englishman in her arms. He was gasping shallow breaths and clawing at her forearms. It was all a great effort for him, to stay awake, to stay alive. His eyelids drooped, his chest slowed, his shoulders relaxed. Sniffing loudly, she took one of his hands. It was cold and rough and bloody. It felt so fragile in her grasp like a robin's egg or a glass bowl. His eyes locked onto hers—they were a lovely golden-brown hue, the color of honey or baked bread.
She squeezed his fingers. "I can at least pray for you," she whimpered through her tears.
She then bowed her head, closed her eyes, and asked God to gently take this dying man from her arms. She asked for his suffering to end and for a peaceful afterlife up in heaven. She prayed for the man's family, friends, neighbors, comrades, and other loved ones to be at ease with his passing, knowing that he was in a far better place now.
When she was finished, she crossed herself and murmured "Amen" into her chest. Her damp eyelids peeled open. The man stared back, but his golden-brown orbs held no expression. They had glossed over, still as stone. His bloodied lips were set ajar and his cold hand laid limp within her own. He did not sigh, he did not blink. He was gone.
Jeanne wept quietly; a tear or two slipped from her cheek and fell onto the dead man's chin. It flowed into his spittle of blood, transforming into a light pink color as it continued curving down his pointed chin. She wasn't sure how long she sat there crying, but it was long enough for her lungs to ache and throat to dry up as though she'd cried out all the water in her body.
Eventually someone came to her (she couldn't recall who, just that it was an unfamiliar face) saying, "Commander, the burning will begin soon." Her head lifted yet she couldn't see pass the Englishman's glassy eyes. When she hardly moved, a meaty hand slid into her hazy field of vision, blocking the soldier's eyes from her. The hand went as swiftly as it came and she noticed that his eyes were now closed.
"Come now," said the same unknown voice. "We'll bury him with the others. Rise."
As he spoke, a pair of arms took up the dead man from her lap while another helped her to her feet. She made no sound (besides the occasional heavy sniffling), letting herself be guided toward the neatly piled bodies of French and Scottish soldiers and away from the others, tangled corpses deep in the open ground.
They stood by and watched the flames devour the bodies, its orange ribbons licking the rainbow sky. Flesh crackled and popped as black smoke bellowed out in thick ringlets. The horrid odor started faint and distant, but ultimately became unbearable. Not that the smell itself was terrible—it was sweet and dense, just like the slow-cooking of some animal—but the very fact that it emitted from human beings was what made it so horrendous.
Jeanne watched through blurry awareness. Tears still flowed down her cheeks yet she was as quiet as those around her. She had enough tears, it seemed, to shed for all who passed that day, regardless of nationality. Her chest had been broken several times since she started her holy mission, and she had a feeling that it wasn't going to get any easier. In fact, it would only get worse, unfair even.
But I can't stop now, she reminded herself. Just because I don't like it or things are getting difficult doesn't mean I can simply quit. So many people are counting on me; the Lord is counting on me. I must move on, no matter the cost.
And, somewhere deep within her being, she knew that the cost would be great.
The night passed roughly. Once the dead were taken care of, positions were distributed amongst the soldiers for rounds of resting or guarding. Tents were set up and cold bread was passed around. Jeanne insisted that they go ahead and plan their next attack for tomorrow, but she was swiftly overpowered by the other generals. "Let us all rest for an hour or two," de Richemont suggested in a tired voice, "and then we'll discuss further advancements." She didn't put up much of a fight—her damp eyelids could barely stay open.
She retired to her assigned tent with her brothers (which was roomy and organized compared to others) and laid down between them, still clad in armor (besides her gauntlets and helmet). Her eyes snapped shut but sleep didn't come as easily as she'd like. Instead of the peaceful black of night, flashes of frightful reds and sharp silvers whirled behind her eyes. She heard swords clashing and agonizing screams when she should've been listening to singing crickets and whistling winds. At times she thought she could still smell the blood and fire; where were the midnight dews or warm baked bread?
De Richemont was wrong, she thought to herself as her hands gently laid across her rapidly beating heart. We'll get an hour's worth of sleep if we're lucky.
As soon as the dark, creeping shadows were replaced by soft rays of light and the pleasant chirping of birds, Jeanne got up and went marching straight to the Bastard's tent, to where the other generals planned to meet. She didn't get too far before a distraction (quite literally) tapped her on the shoulder.
"Good morrow, little Commander," greeted Allister with a wide grin. "I see that the English assassins have failed."
If it weren't for that stupid smirk and the playful wink he threw at her, she would've believed him to be serious. But, as she was quickly learning, Scotland's personification carried a dry sense of humor, speaking fluent sarcasm half the time.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't you have somewhere pointless to be? Wandering aimlessly in a cave? Floating in the middle of a lake?"
"Not until this siege is lifted will you find me hanging out of a tree, drunk out of my mind. Until then I'm obligated to follow you around like the annoying little mutt I am." His grin broadened and her frown deepened.
"Which is partly why I am determined to end this quickly," she muttered under her breath as she continued stomping away. She tried smothering the red, hot knot pumping in her stomach, an early and telltale sign that she was angry (or irritated at the very least). Francis told her to be nice.
"Aye, I thought this would all end eighty years ago, and yet here we are," Allister agreed with a low whistle. He placed his hands on his hips and looked at his kicking feet as he easily kept up with Jeanne's speed walking.
He rambled on in his clustered accent (yet he spoke perfect French), giving Jeanne a chance to look him over. Compared to Francis and other injured soldiers, he emerged from battle victorious both in mind and body. No weary or empty look adorned his eye and the only wound that appeared note-worthy was the bright purple bruise swelling between his upper lip and wide nostrils. Nothing terrible had befallen him; he seemed as well as she.
"The Lord watches over you closely if you survived the battle without so much as a scratch," she remarked to him. "He must have greater plans for you."
Allister glanced up and his beard shifted as he grinned again. "The Lord obviously has great plans for you and your country, yet Sieur France still fell over dead and you were still shot." He shrugged. "We're all a part of God's plan, whatever our situations may be."
Jeanne stared back, slowing down her pace unintentionally. He lightly nudged her bicep. "How's your shoulder?"
The dull throb that had been nibbling at her collarbone for the past twenty hours suddenly became present in her mind once again. Her hand gently pressed against her armored shoulder—a slight pressure swelled near the small scar between her shoulder and collarbone, but she didn't feel any bodily fluids ooze out. That must've been a good sign.
"It's doing well," she responded. "The doctor says I mustn't raise my arm over my head or carry anything too heavy."
"Will you obey the doctor's orders, I suppose, is the real question I should be asking."
Her eyes sharpened at the smirk in his tone. "Yes—as much as I can, anyway. I have a mission to do, and nothing can get in its way, not even an arrow."
Allister blinked and then shrugged again. "I suspected as such; France said you were stubborn and a bit hypocritical at times." When she turned on him, he raised his hands in surrender. "His words, not mine."
"When did he tell you this?"
"About a half of an hour ago, so I'm certain his mind hasn't changed."
A sudden bolt of fire coursed through her body. Her feet halted and her chest heaved. Without really thinking, she reached out and grabbed Allister's elbows. He stopped, peering down at her with interested eyes.
"Where is he?" she demanded. "What tent is he in?"
Allister dramatically rolled his eyes to the morning sky. "Don't worry, your boyfriend's on his way to the Bastard's tent now, so there's no point in going after him."
Jeanne flinched back. "Boy—?" That fiery tightness formed in her stomach again, but now she couldn't cease her fingers from curling into a fist and ramming it into Allister's gut. He took it well, but a low grunt had escaped from his throat.
"You men are such perverted animals!" she snapped. "We're in the middle of a war and that's all you can think about? The nerve of you!"
Allister coughed out a chuckle as he rubbed his abdomen. "What a fiery, little cannonball are ye," he mused more so to himself than to her.
She gritted her teeth and grabbed at him again. "Tell me where he is!"
"Alright, alright." His hand waved somewhere behind his curly head. "He's in a big ol' tent right beside the tower. It's in the middle—"
But she was already gone, dashing between awaking soldiers and low camps. She had temporarily forgotten her current agenda, for all that occupied her mind was the memory of Francis's dead eyes as his body dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. He died and now he's alive, just like Lazarus in the Gospels. Jesus Christ has healed him; the Lord has been with him this entire time. She smiled to herself. Thank you, my God up in heaven! I promise to watch over him as well; I'll keep him safe.
Her armor clanked as her legs pumped faster, darting around like a flea in the mud. She yanked back the curtain of several wrong tents—some were vacant while others contained half-dressed boys struggling into their uniforms. She'd then storm away in a huff and rip down the next fabricated door.
It wasn't until she reached the fifth tent that she finally found him.
She called out his name before she even fully pulled back the curtain. Near the back-right corner of the rather large tent (much like hers) stood the man she was looking for. He flinched in surprise, glancing up from whatever he was doing. Once their gazes locked, she sensed the all-too-familiar feeling of tears springing to her eyes and the sensation of newfound hope churning in her tummy.
He was alive, he was really alive. There he stood, on his own two feet, eyes blinking, hands twitching, breath hitching. That image of him dropping like a hat was now replaced with this new gift of life. She could not compare this absolute bliss, this utter relief to most anything else in her life.
In fact, she was so taken by his sheer aliveness that she almost completely disregarded the state of his body and the fact that he was half naked. Almost.
She blinked once, twice, and then sensed all the blood rush to her face as her eyes gradually registered what she saw. Wearing only a dirty pair of trousers and knee-high boots, Francis was tightening a belt around his waist when Jeanne entered his tent. She saw every scar, stitch, burn, and welt decorating his torso and arms. She saw the mutilated stub where his right arm should've been—its center was curled and twisted like the knob of a tree as if his bones were knotted together. The stitching of this wound appeared to have been redone time and time again, for the thread was loose in some places and dried blood caked each loopy line of black thread.
Stained bandages wrapped around his abdomen, across his chest, and the top of his shoulders. His physique was much smaller than she predicted—his skin was snow white with splotches of red, purple, and black sprinkled all across the canvas that made up his body. Slender and brittle were his bones, his ribs and collarbone bulging sickeningly. She could tell that she was more able than he. Yes, he was taller and more knowledgeable of war and fighting, yet she had more confidence in saying that she'd execute a punch or kick better than him. He was the ghost of a person, a living image of death who had to continue wandering about the earth.
It made her sorrowful, it made her heart ache, but, mindful that he didn't have a shirt on and that she was staring at him, the whole situation made her highly uncomfortable.
With a gasp, Jeanne slapped her hands over her eyes and spun around, hoping and praying that Francis hadn't seen the giant blush spread across her cheeks. She heard Francis call out her name in an innocently, confused voice with a splash of pleasant surprise. When she failed to respond, he asked "Jeanne, are you alright?" and then his footsteps could be heard shuffling across the ground, coming toward her.
She struck out a hand behind her and flapped it wildly, keeping her eyes squeezed shut. "No, no!" she cried out. "Back away! Go and put on a shirt. Now, please!"
A moment's hesitation ensued. When she heard the tiny scrape of his boots slide forward, she waved her arm again and said, "I'm serious, go and put on a shirt. I can't properly speak with you until you cover up…" Her hand swirled through the air, gesturing to his bareness. "…that."
A small chuckle bubbled from Francis's throat, and Jeanne listened to his boots click away. "I'm afraid you're going to have to get used to seeing herds of naked men walking around camp," she heard him say, his voice shrinking in volume the further he strolled away. "It's inevitable; there's no stopping it."
Her palms rubbed furiously at her closed eyelids, trying to erase the image out from behind her eyes. "Boys. Are. Disgusting."
Another chuckle from Francis before a painfully, awkward silence washed over them both. Jeanne's face grew hotter by the second, and she desperately wished Francis would hurry up or that someone else would come in and distract her. I haven't seen any man unclothed besides my brothers, she thought in a panic. What am I supposed to do? This isn't right. I didn't mean for this to happen! I should've knocked or asked for entrance like a normal person—
"I was told that you went back into battle right after they took out that arrow," Francis finally spoke up. He hesitated before adding, "And that you reclaimed Saint Loup."
She focused her attention on the new subject at hand and the heat in her cheeks subsided somewhat. She peeked through her fingers and down at the dirt ground, her hands sliding down her face and curling under her chin. Her eyes studied her muddied sabatons.
"It is true," she confirmed. "We are to construct another plan today to take back the rest of the city."
There was another bout of silence that simmered between them, and Jeanne was just as anxious as the last time. What is he thinking? Is he impressed or disappointed? No, it doesn't matter what he thinks; I'm doing this all for Jesus Christ. But there's a reason why He wants France to live. For love, of course, and for happiness too. So, my mission isn't only to save France, but to bring him joy as well—
"Thank you. For everything."
The unexpected comment came so quietly, so tiny like a mouse sneaking into the pantry for a midnight snack, that she almost didn't catch it. Without thinking, she turned her head back toward him, and another fiery blush bloomed across her entire face when she discovered that Francis was sitting on the edge of a cluttered desk, staring at her (and still without a shirt on).
An embarrassed groan rumbled in her throat as she whipped back to the entrance of the tent. "If you won't get dressed, then I'm leaving!"
Through his laughter, he said, "Alright, alright. Give me a moment."
Jeanne huffed to herself and angrily tapped her foot, the plates of metal squeaking as she did so. Her anger did not linger for long—her foot became still and the intensity in her arms subsided some. Her mind strayed on what Francis meant when he said "for everything."
Something else popped into her trail of thought like a spark in a flame. Her eyes strayed on the morning sunlight streaming in through the crack in the tent. "You cursed," she said to the canvas.
A pause. "Did I?"
"Out on the battlefield, you did. I heard you while you were carrying me away."
She heard a sigh, but he wasn't blowing off steam or getting annoyed with her—instead, he sounded casual or mildly inconvenienced as though he were saying "Oh well, what are you to do?"
"You can hold grudges for years, can you?"
"No, I'm merely a good listener and you a poor chooser of words."
"Well, I'm terribly sorry if I harmed your feelings in any sort of way, but you must understand the situation we were in. I was in great distress, you see, and I wasn't thinking about my speech at the time. All I could think of was how you were right…"
His voice trailed off, and Jeanne knew where his mind drifted towards. It was her turn to sigh. She didn't realize that it would trouble him so much; her hand lightly scrapped over her collarbone, recalling the utter panic that vibrated through his body and seeped into his words.
"I do understand," she replied gently, "which is why we must always resist the temptation of falling into fear's hands, because fear takes away our sense of reason and makes us do things we later regret." She paused and then added, "And I'm sorry for making you worry so."
Francis also hesitated before breathing out, "Well, you did warn me." She heard fabric shifting around behind her and something creaked like a rickety old door. "There wasn't anything differently I could've done, n'est pas?"
Jeanne's eyebrows twitched and her shoulders slumped as she scratched at her undercut. "Once it passes through the lips of God, nothing can change it."
"Have your voices told you anything since then?"
She shook her head. "No."
When he didn't reply, her mind wandered again. Did he feel guilty about the arrow? Surely he knew he couldn't have reversed the prophecy, no matter the strength, speed, or determination. Was he beating himself up for not "doing enough"? Was he blaming the whole situation on himself alone? What an awful way to destroy oneself.
Before she could ask him, he changed the subject yet again: "I also heard that you showed mercy for an English soldier. They said that you prayed for him as he passed."
She didn't really want to talk about it, but she decided to humor him nevertheless. "Why do you sound so surprised?"
"Oh, well, it's just that you also threatened to feed England himself to a sounder of pigs, so I don't know what to believe," he pointed out casually.
"So, that man was the personification of England!" Jeanne's spine straightened back into place with the velocity of a slingshot. Her eyes locked onto a dirt smear near the bottom corner of the canvas doors, but all she could see were those piercing green daggers and the malice glowing behind them.
"He's most likely still here," she added, mainly to herself, "so it is crucial that I meet with him as soon as possible."
"So you can feed him to the pigs or pray for his soul? I'm confused as to what your intentions are."
She frowned at the dirt smear. "It's to save this nation and to crown the Dauphin as king."
"And how do you plan to do that exactly? By pounding everyone into pig food or making them attend mass?"
When she heard the tiny snickers slithering out into his voice, she barked like a rabid dog, "I'm not trying to make anyone into pig food! That just came out of my mouth; why do you only listen to that part of what I say? For a thousand-year-old man, you have the mind of a twelve-year-old boy!"
She went to turn back on him but, recalling what happened earlier, she only got halfway before turning back around. Incoherent words sputtered out of her mouth as sizzling anger took hold of her tongue. Her hands clenched and unclenched themselves at her sides, her eyes scanned at the floor in front of her for something to hit Francis with.
When she failed to find anything, she let out an irritated growl. "Oh, forget it! I came here to see how you've recovered, but now I've lost the ability to care. I'll see you on the battlefield."
Just as she ripped one of the curtains to the side, a small figure stepped forward and her hand knocked against their unarmored collarbone. She immediately knew who it was once she heard an all-too-familiar choking sound of someone being hit in the throat.
"Now what do you want?" she boomed down at Noël, who was sprawled on the ground, clutching his chest. He was dramatically gasping for breath as if he just emerged from underwater. Near his dark locks was a rolled-up scroll with tiny splotches of mud sprinkled along its edges. Edmond and Louis were there too—Edmond stood a couple feet away, shaking his head solemnly while Louis stood even farther away, anxiously twiddling his thumbs.
Noël glared up at her. "Well, you could start by losing the attitude."
She took a giant step out of the tent and then crouched down toward his level. She craned her neck forward and snarled in his face, "Tell me what to do one more time, and see where you'll end up next."
His eyes widened some, yet he attempted to conceal his mild fear with pure annoyance, swatting his hand at her as though she were a flea. "Oh, forget I said anything! I'll let you be mean just this once, though, because you have a boo-boo on your shoulder."
"I told him it would be a bad idea to hunt you down," Edmond proclaimed with a fist on his hip and a frown on his lips. "I said that you were on your way and that we would read it once you got there, but no. Apparently Noël likes getting punched in the face." He turned his head toward Louis. "Isn't that right, Louis? Didn't I say that?"
Louis squinted. "Uh…"
"What were you going to show me?" Jeanne asked as she straightened back up. Noël scrambled onto his feet as well.
"This." Noël plucked the scroll from the ground, dusted off some dirt, and then held it up like a prize. Jeanne sensed Francis step out of the tent behind her, for Edmond and Louis blinked in complete shock before striking a stiff salute.
"The English have finally written back."
A small spark zapped through Jeanne's arm as she reached out and yanked the scroll out Noël's grasp. As she unfurled it, she asked him, "Did you read it yet?"
"No, I can't read. Thanks for reminding me, by the way."
She shot him another glare and Edmond took that as his cue to wrap his giant hand around the back of Noël's neck and steer him away from Jeanne's reaching distance. She glanced down, absorbing all the tiny black loops and lines that meant absolutely nothing to her. Instead she attempted to read the indentions in the paper to see if she could make out the hand of the writer. Were they hesitant and nervous or were they forceful with frustration?
Her eyes raised and met Louis's. "Have you read this yet?"
He shook his head. "We were going to read it once you arrived at the Bastard's tent, but Noël really wanted to bring it to you earlier," he explained in his shy, petit voice.
"It's just you've already written two letters and they haven't responded until now." Noël defended his position with Edmond's claw still clasped around his neck, wiggling like a worm caught in a hawk's beak. "This is a big deal, you guys!"
Jeanne suddenly felt the paper slip through her fingers. Her gaze trailed after Francis, who was lumbering pass them all with the letter in his hand. Almost immediately, she bounced after him, calling out, "What does it say? What does it say?" The others followed.
Francis studied the writing a moment longer before letting the paper roll back into itself like a snail retracting into its shell. He didn't look at her. "It's nothing that would change anything."
"What does it say exactly?"
He casted a glance at her and looked straight ahead again. "Nothing important."
She gritted her teeth and tried grabbing the scroll, but all he had to do was raise it above his head and it was game over. Her nose scrunched up like a withered strawberry and her eyebrows lowered like the silhouettes of mountains.
"I have a right to know," she hissed. "They wrote to me, hadn't they?"
He looked down at her once more, this time with a sad streak in his stare. "He's making fun of you. No announcement of surrender, no compromise of a possible treaty. He's simply trying to bully you into submission."
Her eyes narrowed. "He? As in England himself?"
Louis ducked his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of the dangling words within Francis's grasp. He cowered back into himself when Francis glanced at him disappointedly.
"Still read it to me," she demanded with a bit of a pout. "I want to know what he said."
With a huff, he came to a halt and unrolled the scroll once again. He hesitated before reading aloud: "For the little girl who cut off my hand, it would be considered most unwise of you to stay within these battlegrounds—nay, the entire city of Orléans—any longer. This is not the place for a mere farm girl to be playing solider; go back to your cows where you belong! Your options for your future are limited to two: either you return from whence came, unmolested, or have your head chopped off by the English sword. Signed, Commander Kirkland."
Francis closed the letter once more. He peered at her with an apologetic look in his eyes. "Don't let him hurt your heart. He's always been a miserable, little wretch."
Jeanne admittedly started to sense a familiar burning in the back of her eyes, but she succeeded in blinking away any oncoming tears. She used Arthur's hateful taunts not as a source of fear or rage, but as a way of pushing forward, a reminder that, sometimes, not all can be saved.
With that in mind, she rolled back her shoulders (temporarily forgetting about the dull ache pulsing in her left one), inhaled and exhaled deeply, and then stormed toward the Bastard's tent, where she would announce an immediate plan of attack. Everyone else followed her.
They wasted much time arguing before anything solid came of it. The Bastard disputed with her the most, disagreeing with her ideas of "surprise" attacks and the use of cannons.[2] The two yelled and yelled until their throats became sore; de Richemont and la Hire had enough by then.
"We don't have the time for useless discord!" la Hire would shout as his giant hands slammed down upon the table, goblets and candlesticks toppling.
"Dear Duke," de Richemont would explain as calmly and effectively as possible, "it would be of our best interests to go with the commander's suggestions of how to best handle the siege."
"The letter she received clearly states that the English plan some sort of offense strategy. We must form a defense!"
The Bastard was firm in his opinion, but Jeanne definitely had more aggressiveness than he. "There is no such promise in those words. The only promise we've got is the Lord's, which is the freedom of the Orléans peoples and the crowning of the Dauphin." She grounded her teeth together and spat through the gaps, "And I'm the one who's going to get us there. I demand all the cannons we currently possess to be brought to Saint Loup, so we can use them at this next battle. I decide where they should be placed, I decide when they should be used, and I alone shall give the commands. Do I make myself clear?"
The Bastard gave Francis, who stood behind her like how the Dauphin's advisors were always rooted behind he, a glare of exhaustion and reluctance. "She's seventeen," he stated bluntly.
Mere silence lasted only but a moment before Francis replied casually and simply, "She's all we got and she's all we need."
A couple hours passed before the Bastard begrudgingly let her trudge deeper into the city while carrying as much gunpowder and weapons as she could. Jeanne kept her word and gave command to all; with a voice that shook the mountains, she headed straight towards the next nearest English barricade, her army right on her heels. They soon came upon the Boulevart, the English's strongpoint.
Francis, as instructed by the Dauphin, stayed by her side through it all. Worry seized her heart whenever he lifted his arm and winced quietly to himself or struggle to pick up or carry anything heavier than a shield. He should go get some rest, she insisted—she was sure the Dauphin would understand if they were to be separated for some time, for he literally died and came back to life not too long ago.
With a wobbly yet charming smile, he reassured her that all was well and it wasn't because of the Dauphin that he was following her. "I too wish to experience the glory of you."
She allowed herself a moment to think him sweet, and then returned her mind back to the war.
Being a strongpoint for the English, Boulevart stood in the middle of their garrisons, overlooking the Glasdale and Augustines bastions. Jeanne knew a fair number of soldiers in Glasdale were attending to the smaller French and Scottish troops right across the bridge (that's where those two captains she encountered yesterday were stationed) and that Augustines relieved some of their men to assist the Glasdale soldiers. In short, both Augustines and Glasdale were weak on protection, and Jeanne was snatching the opportunity.
With all the cannons in place and her fellow warriors filed behind her, she gripped her crossed sword, stabbed the morning sun, and shouted "Fire!"
As the iron balls shot out like a round of thunder and lightning, the Bastard's annoyed words echoed in the back of her head, though the sound was small, muffled by the noises of the future: We must properly meet for battle—send a letter, a runner. How else will they know?
Simple. Just knock down the front door and they'll get the message just fine.
The tower that stood for Boulevart was struck twice, once at the roof and again near the body. This happened only yesterday, but it felt like she was seeing it all for the first time. The explosion of the cannons was ear-deafening and the smell of smoke already burned her nostrils. Stone crumbling upon stone and the surprised screams of men filled the air like rain, and Jeanne sensed her insides jumble around each time a cannon went off.
"Destroying your own city just to get it back." Allister cracked a crooked grin before knocking down his visor down. "Bloody brilliant."
"Let's just hope that the English don't have a backup plan," de Richemont mumbled beside him, drawing forth his longsword.
Jeanne unleashed another fierce "Fire!" and another round of thunder erupted. More bits of stone and iron flew into the sky as the remaining foundations of Boulevart's overseeing tower crumbled to the ground. Men scattered here and there, gathering their weapons and injured comrades, and rushing toward the suddenly bold and seemingly fearless Franco-Scottish army.
"Attack!" Jeanne screamed and already her troops were on the move. Only Francis and de Richemont stayed behind with her and the handful of soldiers who worked the cannons themselves. Her eyes trailed after her friends until all she could see were shades of silver and her egg-white standard bobbing in the crowd. She went on barking orders and moving cannons around, all the while scanning for that little green-eyed wrench.
He has to be here somewhere, she thought to herself. He couldn't have written that letter and then run away. If that's the case, then he's an even bigger coward than I thought.
Smoke, grey as ash and thick as mud, soon concealed her view, forcing her to halt and heed for the enemy. Firing blindly into a sea of her own soldiers was obviously not a wise decision, so she held up a hand and ordered "Hold your fire!" to the few men beside her. Eyes narrowed, teeth bared, she peered into the black cloud with the gaze of a preying cat, ready to pounce on any sign of an approaching enemy.
Eventually she spotted her blinding white standard wiggle in the foggy air as if caught in a struggle. She watched it get swallowed up by flocks of arrows and bloodied swords.
"Now—!" she started, but her words were cut off when she felt herself being thrown back so rapidly that she failed to see what had hit her. A sharp pain shot through her right foot and, when she landed on her back, another burst of agony pulsed in her wounded shoulder. For a moment, all she was aware of was the new pain in her body, the deafening clash of iron upon iron ringing in her ears, and the body beneath her own.
She immediately recognized who it was once she realized he had only one arm. She slumped off of him and gripped her foot, swallowing a groan. Upon closer inspection, she didn't find anything particularly wrong with it (blood didn't coat her sabaton nor was it twisted in an abnormal way), yet it pained her to move it. She casted a quick glance at Francis beside her—his face was crumpled in a painful expression as he clutched his side, no doubt his old stitches and dark bruises coming back to haunt him. But, thankfully, no new major injury was bestowed upon him.
She turned her attention to the battlefield and was met with a shocking sight.
One of their three cannons was blown to smithereens, the one on the far left that she'd been standing next to. Its barrel was caved in on its side and its wooden carriage was shattered into several sharp pieces. An iron ball, cracked like a lightning bolt, sat nestled in the middle of the mess with a wriggling body beneath it. She knew it to be the man that controlled the now fully damaged cannon. He was fine a second ago, but now there he was, his middle smashed to a pulp while his arms quivered like shriveled up worms on a hot day and horrible gurgling noises grumbled from his bloodied lips.
Jeanne let out a horrified squeak and stumbled onto her feet. Needles of pain sprung up her leg once she put her weight on her bad foot, yet she limped onward. She was at a disadvantage, for Francis was able and quick enough to sit up and grab her ankle, pulling her back to the ground. She landed hard, her outstretched hand catching a couple shards of wood.
"Pull back, Jeanne!" Francis's voice boomed over the distant shouting and dull ringing in her ears.
She whipped her head back toward him, ready to kick at his fingers if she must, but something caught her attention halfway, in the direction the cannonball came from. Peering through the lingering smoke, her breath got stuck in her throat once she could make out the outline of an approaching army with long-cannons and broadswords. What made this realization more frightful, more intimidating, however, was that they came from Augustines, the garrison she believed to be mostly abandoned.
Before they could fire again, Jeanne scrambled backwards as fast as she could. Her wide-eyed stare strayed on the man crushed between the cannon and certain death. She saw him jolt once, twice, and then fall still, his facial features forever rested in a painful expression. Not a minute passed by before the daunting sound of another cannonball shot through the air. Luckily, the spring gusts pushed its aim away and, instead of hitting Jeanne or the squashed man before her, it whished behind him and rolled across the ground like a growing snowball down a mighty hill.
"Retreat!"
Heart sinking faster than the missiles around them, Jeanne's eyes darted toward de Richemont's voice on her right. The general had stumbled onto his feet, adjusted his helmet, stabbed his sword at the sun, and exclaimed once more, "Retreat! The enemy is advancing from the Augustines. Retreat now!"
"No," she whispered under her breath. They've just arrived and, even if they all came, it still wouldn't be enough to equalize our own army. He's giving up before we even started; history is repeating itself.
"Advance! Advance!" she counterattacked, struggling to get back on her feet. She growled into her chest as bolts of lightning fired up her leg, yet her will dominated the pain and she managed to rise once again. Facing Francis (who was resting on his knees), she reached down and tugged on his arm, bringing him onto his own feet and dragging him along as she stormed toward de Richemont (as much as she could with a hurt foot).
"Call off the retreat at once!" she ordered, nearly dropping Francis in the process (thankfully, he still possessed enough strength to carry his own weight, so he slipped out of her hold both comfortably and steadily). "I demand you to this instant!"
De Richemont barely glanced her way. "The enemy is coming in close; we will soon be overwhelmed if we don't retreat now."
"No, we won't! Our numbers far outman the English and we still have the element of surprise on our side. They have no idea how many of us there are, so what's the use in running away?"
De Richemont continued waving his arm in big arcs, his own fear clogging up his ears. The men who were maneuvering their cannons just moments ago were now running back the way they came, others following after them. Many were not mortally wounded yet still sprinted away as if fear alone was excuse enough to not do anything. Familiar faces soon passed by including Pierre, Edmond, Noël, and the Bastard. They gave her looks of either scared confusion or irritated ignorance. Before they could get too far, she reached out and grabbed Edmond's elbow, halting him in his tracks.
"We can't afford to lose anymore men, weapons, nor any part of the city," de Richemont told Jeanne, still not looking at her. "We're removing ourselves from the situation before it's too late."
Her stare hardened like a crystal within the earth's tomb, sharpening itself with every nick and shove its surroundings inflicted upon it. "But you said that I alone would be given command of this mission. Whatever happened to 'Commander d'Arc' anyway? I'm the one who's supposed to lead this attack, so why is everyone listening to you?"
She didn't mean to sound so harsh, but, given the circumstances, there was no time to be gentle. Finally, his stern gaze fell on her. She then knew what the matter was: he, like everybody else, was afraid, and he was doing the only thing he knew how to do.
"That is an order, d'Arc," he hissed through tight lips. "Carry it out or I will have you physically removed from here."
Her eyes widened and the veins in her neck stood on end. She looked around wildly, seeing everyone's expecting faces waiting for her. The Bastard's glare was sharper, and her blood began to boil. I thought he was on my side, but he backs away once he disagrees with me. Apparently, it's incredibly easy for my own team to turn their backs on me. Not only do I have to watch what the English do, but my own companions as well.
Horror soon tightened her muscles, making her fury seem like nothing more than a slight tremor in her stomach. But instead of flying away with the rest of them, her legs became tree roots, burrowing deep into the ground she promised to liberate.
She unsheathed her sword and sent the deadliest glare she could manage up at de Richemont (but not before sending a quivering frown in the Bastard's direction). "I will not," she growled through bared teeth, stirring up the wolf inside her.
De Richemont's jaw clenched slightly at her response. All he had to do was flick his eyes over her head for a pair of arms to wrap around her torso and drag her backwards, towards the fleeing army.
Jeanne began kicking and punching and biting and screaming, trying everything and anything to break free from the Bastard's hold. Jean and Pierre rushed over, shouting "let her go" and "stop it; you're hurting her shoulder!" But she wasn't even thinking about her shoulder nor her foot; she was only aware of the powerful urge to run forward. Somehow her brothers were held back, for they never came forth and for a while, all stood by as she alone struggled to break herself free.
"Let me go!" she hollered, prying apart the Bastard's fingers but to no avail. "Let me down, you—"
Something blew pass her head and she believed it to be a cannonball (but without the blaring scream), having narrowly missed her face and smashing in her perpetrator's. She was immediately dropped; her body fell hard to the ground, a splintering pain echoing through her shoulder. A small squeak escaped her, but she was quick to get back on her feet, despite the pain coursing through her heel.
The Bastard was laying facedown in the mud, cupping his left cheek while struggling to sit up. La Hire loomed over him with the aura of a Viking warrior. He peered down at his comrade, his dark eyes hardening and dimming like an oncoming snowstorm. Whenever la Hire lost his temper, it wasn't like when Jeanne lost hers. She'd feel her face heat up and her blood boil and her vision blur as though she were peering through a smoke-filled room, a powerfully bright flame in her eyes and chest. But la Hire's anger was cold and harsh and left one's bones stiff and frozen days after an encounter with one of his furious outbursts, for he wasn't nicknamed "the Wrath of God" for nothing.
"What the bloody hell are you—" the Bastard barked at him, his fists clenching and unclenching at his red face, the faint shade of a deep red mark blooming over the entire left side of his face. La Hire was quick to bite back and good Lord, did it send shivers down her spine.
"I should be the one asking you that." He lowered to his level and spoke only through his teeth. "What the bloody hell are you doing, dragging the commander away like that? Didn't we all establish that she'd be the one to handle all the forces until we raise this siege? Where's that hard courage and willingness to accomplish anything, you spineless pig? I thought you were a Frenchman, not a cowardly, little Burgundian."
"I'm doing what is right—"
"What you're doing is ruining the plan! How many fuckin' opportunities do you think we have at this? You and I both know this is the closest we've ever been to liberating this city, and you're forcing our chances at success to decrease each time you open your mouth. Are you trying to bring defeat to our people yet again?"
While the two continued to stand there and argue loudly like a pair of screeching owls, de Richemont wiggling himself into the middle of it all, Jeanne saw Francis jog up to her with a worried expression on his face. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking down at her foot. "Can you walk okay?"
But she didn't answer. Her head whipped around, eyeing the battlefield. Her army was fleeing faster than the wind, and the English, knowing this would happen, were in no particular hurry to catch up. In fact, some had slowed to a stop, simply staring as they started sprinting out of their own city. She then glared at the men surrounding her—looks of confusion and shock (though mostly fright) stared back, standing motionless as they waited for their generals to lead the way. Even Allister and General Stewart beckoned their Scottish warriors backwards.
This was spiraling out of control. If things didn't change soon, they would be kicked out of Orléans once again and she would have failed her Lord and Savior.
Jeanne gritted her teeth and shoved Francis out of her way. Jean and Pierre opened their arms and mouths, prepared to comfort her, but she elbowed her way pass them as well. She stomped over to Noël, Edmond, and Louis (all while disregarding the throbbing pain in the bottom of her foot). Noël and Louis flinched and braced themselves for impact, but she wasn't coming for them.
She yanked her standard out of Edmond's grasp (Edmond didn't put up much of a fight, for he was just as lost as the rest of them). "I'll do it myself," she muttered under her breath.
She then drew forth her five-crossed sword, which felt as light as a feather in her grip—she could sense a mighty yet gentle aura radiate from it as though someone were guiding her hand. Despite the bubbling anxiety in the pit of her stomach, she felt a strong surge of courage and determination and loyalty sprout within her as if a sunflower, tall and sturdy, had bloomed inside her chest.
This was the power of her voices—the saints and the archangel—who she knew worked through Jesus Christ and, with that in mind, she let them pull her forward onto the battlefield, just herself and God.
Behind her, she heard her name being thrown repeatedly into the smokey air. "Jeanne! D'Arc! Commander!" She paid no heed; they should've known that there was no stopping her when God was on her side. Her foot and shoulder slowed her pace, yet she held her standard high over her head and gripped her sword firmly. She glared at the gathering Englishmen across the way, waiting for her.
I'll save this place, even if I must go alone.
She was about twenty feet away from the nearest Englishman when she sensed Francis's presence quickly sneak up behind her, no doubt intending to drag her back from whence they came. Her feet came to a sudden halt, and he nearly toppled over her, catching himself at the last moment. Instinctively, she struck out her elbow and nudged at his torso, ignoring whatever he was trying to do.
And so, with a great sweep of her arm, she raised her starch white flag into the air and then drove it straight into the ground beneath her with such strength that the pole dove deep into the dirt, vibrating from the force. She then called out in a loud voice, as strong and convincing as she could muster: "In the name of God, move on!"
As soon as those words were uttered, the power surging through her suddenly erupted like a great spark from a mighty fire or the deafening screech of an owl in the dead of night. She could feel it exit her body and seep into the floor, and then expand, a rumbling star underneath her feet. She knew Francis (who was holding onto her elbow) could feel it too, for his breath hitched and he jerked back his limb as if her touch shocked him somehow.
A great, stand-still silence covered the land, from the crumbled tower of Boulevart to the Frenchman farthest from the action. Jeanne and Francis stood in the middle of it all, Francis looking around wildly like a lost puppy while Jeanne stood her ground, an ancient tree rooted firmly into its proper home. A moment passed and then two and then, from behind her, a great explosion of noise spilled forth, filled with anger and bravery and inspiration.
She could see the look in the Englishmen's eyes as her own troops started running toward them again. Armor clanking, swords banging against their shields, the rhythmic screaming that came out of the Scots' mouths intimidated them. She couldn't help but to smirk at her brothers, whom she could hear ranting and raving like wild dogs, no doubt encouraging Louis, Edmond, and Noël to follow.
But still her eyes scanned the crowd in front of her, searching for those familiar green orbs.
An English soldier she didn't recognize thrusted a flapping arm into the air and shouted something she couldn't understand. His fellow comrades turned toward him with puzzled yet frightened faces, similar to the expressions her men were wearing just moments before. They merely stood there, not attacking, yet not running away either.
Growing impatient, Jeanne slashed at the windy barrier separating them. "Where are you?" she hollered into the gathering. "Come out, you coward—!"
"Watch out!"
Jeanne felt herself being thrown back again but, unlike last time, there was no giant blast that made her ears ring, but a quick, buzzing noise instead. Francis's arm and shield blocked her view of the sun but, from the corner of her gaze, she could make out the severed arrow at their feet.
Before they gained the opportunity to attack, Jeanne noticed Pierre's long legs sprint forward and heard his furious battle cry along with the clashing of iron. Soon enough, the sounds of battle raged on, and the Franco-Scottish army was winning.
She wriggled free from Francis's hold and darted between all the rapidly crowding soldiers, a dog hunting through the wood to capture the sneaky mole. Francis was right behind her the entire time, yet she wasn't keeping as close an eye on him as she should've. Her mind was occupied, driven by the will of God to clear this land of a particular green-eyed man and his many henchmen. She pushed pass several soldiers, although they didn't put up much of a fight. They were too wrapped up, she believed, in the very idea that they were fighting back. Or perhaps they saw the archangel wings sprout from her back, golden feathers as sharp as daggers yet as gentle as kisses flapping in the breeze, stirring up a gust of powerful courage among her kind.
Ultimately the battle for the Augustines and its surroundings had diminished. The soldier she saw panicking earlier kept shouting and waving a piece of linen tied to a stick until Francis mentioned it to her. Lowering her sword and raising her standard, her weapon of peace, she ordered her men to halt and wait for her next command.
She (along with Francis, la Hire, and Stewart) met up with the soldier, who stood among a sea of his dead friends. He was General Lord John Talbot, he claimed in broken French, and he was willing to surrender if they promised not to attack them. Jeanne made an effort of sliding her sword back into her sheath, looked him straight in the eye, and nodded firmly.
"I promise no harm will come toward you during your exit."
She was well-aware of the stares she was getting from her own men. She knew why they stared—they were thinking of their slaughtered companions and missing body parts and all the emotional turmoil they've endured for many years. But she too was thinking of all the things the English had done for the past hundred years. How families narrowly escaped the hands which pillaged their hometowns until only rubble remained, how her neighbors cried and moaned over the death of their sons, fathers, nephews, and uncles. For God's sake, the condition of France was standing right there beside her.
But that wasn't right, killing the frightened or the weak or the vengeful (or anyone for that matter). They were all sinners, yes, yet they were also children of God. It was the right thing to forgive, as difficult as it could be sometimes—forgiveness and love were the most powerful weapons one could wield.
Jeanne disregarded any complaints from her men (regardless of status) and hopped onto her horse (with Jean and Pierre's help, due to the piercing pain in her foot). The other generals did the same, and ordered the rest of the army to step back into line and watch the English leave.
They moved sluggishly, the English, but move they did. After occupying Orléans for over half a year, the foreigners ultimately scurried away with their tail between their legs. The sun settled behind the stone walls when they all left the premise, slumped over their horses or hobbling silhouettes in the field. Jeanne looked on as a hefty weight released itself from her shoulders. One of her missions had been completed; she sensed something pure and true bloom within her, just like on the day when she first received her holy duties. She could cry at the relief washing through her veins, an ocean of tranquility and inner peace.
Once la Hire uttered lowly "Should we advance now?" when not all had yet exited the grounds.
Her golden wings twitched. Her gaze shifted to the right and landed on the nearly seven-foot-tall man beside her. He was seated upon his steed and glaring at the passing figures, a streak of dry blood caked on his cheekbone. Jeanne frowned and parted her lips to answer, but Francis (who was on la Hire's other side) spoke up before she could:
"We cannot, for it is Sunday."
Jeanne saw Francis's crooked smile broaden as la Hire turned his head his way. She could only imagine the face he was making, but still Francis flashed him his most charming smile and she let her words die on her lips. Instead, they curled into a grin, let out a giggle, and almost immediately was the warm bliss of hope restored to her soul.
[1] Near Domrémy, Joan's home village, was a tree called the "fairy tree" or "ladies' tree" by the townsfolk. There were rumors (those of which Joan heard) that female fairies lived in the tree, although Joan claims she never saw them herself yet still believed that they were there. There was also a fountain by the tree that was said to grant healing abilities. To understand why such a thing exists, we have to understand where France originally came from. About fifteen centuries before Joan's time, France was called Gaul and its people were mainly Celts. The Celts firmly believed that spirits or gods lived in nature and would often worship trees (Joan probably would've heard about Celtic tales sometime during her life). When Christianity became a thing and people went around trying to convert others, Christians had a very hard time telling the Celts of Gaul that nature wasn't as sacred as they claimed it to be. There are countless stories of Christians burning holy trees to the ground and then building a church out of its wood afterwards (that's a giant "fuck you and your religion" if I ever heard one). After centuries of failure to convert or convince the Celts to stop worshipping trees, Christians ultimately incorporated nature into their worldview. Even today, wells consecrated to Christian saints (like Joan) and Christianized Celtic deities or gods are important features of the Celtic landscape.
[2] Known as being an aggressive military commander, Joan was always going for offense instead of defense when it came to military tactics. She had a weird love for surprise attacks and encouraged to stock up on cannons on the battlefield. Having no military experience prior, it's understandable why her French allies were hesitant to go along with her. Gunpowder was on the rise during in this point in history and English king Henry V only used cannons when absolutely necessary. Joan would use cannons in all of her sieges, but never in open battlefields. She knew how to level with the same amount (if not more) of cannons as the English and where to position them for the best effect. She embraced the new change of military tactics that progressed throughout the Hundred Years War, while many of her French generals were still stuck in the "old-fashioned" way of war.