The last of the reinforcements arrived in the last week of February. Jean, as he stood watching over them with Rémy at his side, felt a thrill of excitement at seeing them. This was actually happening. They were going to do it.
Rémy nudged him lightly and whispered, "Achille is staring at you again."
Jean looked to where Rémy was staring. Achille, the hulking brute of a man that Françoise had pointed out, was indeed glaring at Jean as though he wanted to vaporize him on the spot. Jean only smiled widely and fluttered his fingers in a wave when the two made eye contact.
This seemed to tick Achille off even more, but he only turned back to his work, ears reddening.
Jean chuckled lowly as he turned back to supervise his army- his army. The one after his display a month or so ago had only spoken of him in reverent tones- and well, female pronouns, but that's just par for the course anyway.
A week had passed between the time that Françoise had pointed Achille out and when Jean finally did something about it. He'd been thinking of what he should do to prove that he was good enough to lead the army to free France, but nothing came to mind. The fight itself was an accident. Achille was running his mouth again, this time to a bigger crowd, while Jean was close enough to hear. The result had been Jean standing in the middle of the crowd, sporting a few bruises- as Achille wasn't going to hit a 'girl' with as much strength as a boy, how considerate- and Achille, humiliated and thoroughly thrashed, slinking away to nurse his wounds.
The rumors had started circulating soon after and all Jean did was smile whenever someone brought it up- a coy and somewhat devilish smile.
Since then he had virtually no trouble with his troops and once the new reinforcements arrived, they would set out for Orleans.
Jean was excited. Sure he was, that's what he was here for, that's what God had wanted him to do. But a part of him balked at leaving the faux castle so easily. Which was understandable; on the battlefront full meals, a comfy bed, and water in which to bathe would be scarce. And even though as a peasant he had lived through the worst of it, after almost half a year of pampering at the castle the return to a familiar environment would be harsh. Which would be just as well as that's where he would go once he ended the war.
Rémy nudged him again, but this time he said nothing and only nodded his chin towards the doors of the building they were in. Jean grinned when he saw the elegant figure outlined by the dust. He hopped down from the ledge where they had been standing and slowly made his way over. He had attracted a few stares because of his unladylike descent (a few that chanced a look up his dress), but he ignored them.
Françoise smiled and made to embrace him but stopped short. "You're covered in dirt and dust, Mademoiselle."
Jean felt sheepish and stared down at the dust that had collected on his arms and apron. "I was...helping," he grinned harder when Françoise laughed.
"That is good. A good leader always helps in anyway they can." Her eyes swept over the encampment. "Your forces are gaining traction," she commented. "When do you suppose you'll leave?"
Jean was shaken out of his reverie at her question. He had been watching her eyes and thinking about the color and how rich and warm they were. Grapes, he had decided, were the closest in color to her eyes. "Hmm?"
She laughed. "I said, Mamselle, when do you suppose you'll leave for Orleans?"
Orleans? Oh. "Soon."
She nodded. "Soon, that is best. Would you mind terribly about carrying a message for me?"
A message? For who? Was it that man who had gone to Orleans before Jean had shown up? The thought left a sour feeling in his belly. He shook it off. She was his superior, without her none of this would have happened. He owed it to her to carry a meager message compared to how much she had done for him. "Of course not."
She produced a letter and held it out to him. "Give this to a man called Allistor. He is with the Scots."
He took the letter. "Is he your special person, mamselle?"
"He is special to me, yes."
"Is he the Monsieur Bonnefoy?"
Françoise's eyes widened quickly following his statement and then she burst into laughter, tilting her head back so the smooth plane of her neck was visible. "Oh goodness, no!"
"But you said-?"
"Yes I know what I said. He is like a brother to me, I have known him a long time. Monsieur Bonnefoy will never exist I'm afraid."
"Why not?"
Françoise stared at Jean for a moment. "Bonnefoy is my maiden name."
"But I thought you were married? The Prince-"
"Been talking to the Prince about my marital status, have you? Big topic of interest with the two of you?" Françoise said, obviously trying to mute her laughter. Jean flushed red. Françoise laughed harder. "No no no, Charles is just very protective and he spun that lie to get the courtiers off of my back about marriage."
"Do you not want to marry, Ma-...?"
"Françoise; I thought we agreed to use our first names, Jeanne."
"-Françoise?"
She shrugged. "When you get as old as I am, marriage seems futile."
"Madam, you are not yet twenty."
"Right," she said, nodding lightly.
"I am older than you."
"Sure you are. I also heard a rumor from your little buddy over there-" she waved to Rémy "-that you wiggled your own way out of marriage a few years ago."
He was going to have to remind Rémy not to talk about him behind his back.
Françoise smiled once more his way and then pointed to the envelope he still held. "Allistor Kirkland, Scottish ranks."
"I'll remember."
"Merci," she smiled and leaned forward and kissed his cheek quick as a snake. Then she was gone.
Jean ambled back to Rémy, his cheek still tingling with a hysterical expression on his face as Rémy burst into laughter. Jean didn't care. He let a dopey smile overtake his face- which sent Rémy off again, but whatever.
It was going to be good.
France had her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, where she could feel each breath she took. If she could be grounded in her present- since she was a huge entity not unlike a god and hence she could be anywhere at anytime- then she could block out the whispers of her people; the loudest of them being those in Orleans.
She watched the last of the carriages as they were loaded and prepped for the army's excursion tomorrow.
"-Veuillez protéger mon papa alors qu'il est en guerre-"
There was a little light from the soldiers' barracks. She wondered if some, even if their light was out, if some were resting on their backs, staring up and thinking about home and family.
"-quelque chose, veuillez-"
She thought about taking a walk- the cold air would draw most of her attention back to Chinon and not in the dusty streets of Orleans where her people were sitting huddled, waiting and hoping desperately that they had not been abandoned.
"-et ma maman et le bébé-"
She shouldn't, she finally decided. There were too many people out there. She didn't know who she'd meet in the middle of the night.
"-il n'y a pas plus de nourriture-"
Though, the last time she had met Jeanne, so it wasn't that unpleasant.
"-et de Yves, même si il a jeté la saleté à moi-"
Where was she? She had been at supper for only a few minutes.
"-l'anglais sont si proches-"
She was almost untouchable now that things were picking up, France reflected. That was a disappointing thought. France had a hard time making friends being immortal and such. And the thought of losing Mademoiselle d'Arc was bitter but not unexpected.
"-, mais c'est très bien,-"
Mortality, it seemed, was a blessing denied to few.
"-nous ne pouvons pas faire ceci plus-"
Had it been Marguerite? or Blanche that told her that God had only chosen the strong to live forever as she did. Regular mortals did not have the capacity to watch those around them die and be replaced like she was forced to.
"-j'ai jeté plus de nouveau vers lui-"
It must have been Marguerite. It had been a week after Blanche, her mother-in-law, had been laid to rest that she found her outside in the courtyard. Those had been her words of comfort.
"-veuillez."
France turned her head to stare at her traveling cloak that she had pulled out just after she retired to her chambers. "Don't do anything ridiculous," Scotland had said.
"-maman dit-"
"It's not ridiculous,' France said to herself, turning away from the window. "It's...helping." Her hand ran down the fine cloth of her cloak. "A good leader helps in anyway they can."
ok so my french is abysmal on the best days so if any lovely reader who knows French better than i do notices an issue with it, please leave it in a review or a comment and I will make that correction shortly.
I used SDL translate for the french (which is pretty on par with its spanish translation so i figured it should have the same results) and the translation are asl follows (its meant to be a mother and a child during their evening prayers):
please protect my daddy while he's at war
something, please
and my mom and the baby
there's no more food
and Yves even if he threw dirt at me
the English are so close
but that's okay
we can't do this anymore
i threw more back at him
please
mommy says-