“I know. Oh…but how I wish we could go home!”

“The crowning will take place and then you will go.”

“But when…when?”

I might well ask.

The months were passing and still we lingered at Rouen. With the French so close, Bedford dared not venture out with the King.

Anne told me that he was abandoning all hope of getting to Rheims and that it might be necessary to crown Henry in Paris.

“Why not?” I said eagerly.

“Because Rheims is the place where the Kings of France are crowned and have been since the twelfth century, when Philip Augustus was crowned there. You know that, Katherine. And the French would not believe he could be truly King if he were not crowned at Rheims.”

“Somehow I do not believe they will accept Henry as their true King wherever he is crowned.”

“In time they will. John is certain of that.”

But still the weeks passed and we remained at Rouen.

There was news of The Maid. The English had paid the ransom for her, and she was in their hands.

I guessed they would bring her to Rouen, which was a city more important to them than Paris because it was the capital of Normandy, which they had always considered part of England.

I was right. The Maid was close to us.

A hush seemed to have fallen over the castle. She was in everyone’s thoughts. Those who had seen her said that there was a radiance about her and an innocence never seen before. To see her was to believe in her Voices, it was said. Now that she was a prisoner of the English—those who had suffered most through her—what would happen to her?

“Poor girl,” said Joanna Courcy. “Sold to her enemies for 10,000 livres.”

“How could Luxembourg have found it in his heart to sell her?”

“He was thinking of his pocket rather than his heart,” said Joanna grimly.

“What will it be like for her in that prison?” I wondered.

“They may be in too much awe of divine judgment to harm her,” suggested Joanna.

“I pray that will be so.”

“But her judges will condemn her in the end. She has done too much harm to our cause.”

“I wonder what she feels lying there.”

“Your brother will save her surely.”

“Why, yes,” I cried. “Charles must save her. But do you think he can?”

“He will do all in his power. She has turned the tide for him. She has given him new hope, brought back his dignity…his crown, one might say.”

“Yes, you are right. My brother will save her. But can he do so…if she is in English hands? Oh, to think the French sold her to the English for 10,000 livres!”

“The Burgundians,” Joanna corrected me. “The French would never have sold one who was their best hope.”

“How strange it is. Are not the Burgundians French? The Duke of Bedford will be rejoicing that there is still some friendship between him and the Duke of Burgundy. I wish I could stop thinking of that poor Maid.”

“People would say that we should rejoice because she is under lock and key.”

“Oh, but she is so young…so innocent.”

“An innocent girl who led an army to victory!”

“How I should love to see her…to talk to her…to discover for myself whether I could believe she truly heard those voices.”

The Maid’s name was on everyone’s lips as Christmas came and we were still in Rouen.

I cannot say it was a happy Christmas. Few were in the mood for merriment. True, The Maid was no longer an inspiration to our enemies, and the fact that she lay at this time in her prison should have cheered us, but it did not. It was impossible to rid ourselves of the lurking belief that she was indeed inspired by Heaven and that the hand of God would be turned against us because we had made her a prisoner.

My thoughts were back in Hatfield with my children. Jasper was a year old. He would not remember me when I returned. Would Edmund? Oh, it was cruel to separate us. How much longer must we remain in France?

“Are we never to leave this place?” I demanded of Anne.

“Not until it is safe for the King to travel.”

So the days passed.

I did have one or two opportunities of spending a little time with Henry.

He was deeply interested in The Maid.

“Do you really think that she hears voices from Heaven?” he asked me.

“I do not know,” I answered.

“If it is true, we should not punish her.”

“Perhaps we should let her go back to tend her father’s sheep,” I said.

“My lord uncle says that she would not do that. She would set herself at the head of the French army and lead them to more victories.”

“Perhaps she would lead them to defeat.”

“How could she, if God is with her?”

“Your uncle does not believe God is with her. He thinks she is a wicked woman…a bold woman who dresses like a man and lives with rough soldiers. Henry, tell me. Do you defend her…to your uncle?”

He turned to me, and I saw the bewildered look in his eyes. “I should mayhap,” he said. “But I do not.”

“Why should you?”

“Because it may be true.”

“You really think that, do you not?”

“Sometimes…when I am alone…at night perhaps. And I pray to God and ask Him to guide me…to let me see the truth. But when I listen to my uncle and my lord Warwick and the Earl of Stafford, I think I am wicked to think that she who is our enemy may be working with God.”

“Dear little King,” I said, “they have put too heavy a burden on those young shoulders.”

“They are putting her into the hands of the Bishop of Beauvais. I signed an order for him to set up a court and try her. My lady, could it be like trying God?”

“Only if you believe she is holy and has indeed been visited by the angels. Your uncle does not believe that.”

“Oh no.”

“So…you will not.”

“My uncle says she is a witch, and if she is a witch, she deserves to die, does she not?”

“They will prove she is a witch if they want to, I’ll swear.”

“They do want to. Oh yes, they want to. But it must not be because they want to but because she is.”

I soothed him, for I could see that he wanted comfort.

“We shall see,” I said. “Whatever happens, you must not blame yourself. It is not your responsibility, you know.”

“But…I have to sign the papers.”

“That is only a symbol. You are not responsible for what the Regent does.”

“But I am the King, dear mother.”

“I wish …”

“Tell me what you wish.”

I took his face in my hands and I was picturing him at Hatfield…in the nursery with his little brothers. Oh, if only that could be! If only I could wipe away that anxious look…if only I could make this bewildered little King into a carefree boy!

The year was moving on, and we were out of January—and still no sign of leaving Rouen.

I was growing restless. I sent for Owen.

He came cautiously, but I flung myself into his arms. He held me firmly, but I was aware of his tension. All the time he was wondering if we could possibly be watched.

“I am tired…tired of this, Owen,” I cried. “I want to go home. I want to see my children. This is a nightmare which never ends.”

“It must end soon,” said Owen. “They will try The Maid. They will condemn her…and when she is dead, the French will say that as there was no miraculous rescue, The Maid deluded them. They will return to their old slothful ways, and the Duke of Bedford will be the feared and respected Lord of France once more.”

“And what of my brother whom she has crowned King?”

“He will revert to his old ways. In fact, it seems he already has. It was expected that he would make some move to come to the aid of the girl who had done so much for him. But what did he do? Nothing.”

I thought of Charles…indolent…self-indulgent. Oh Charles, I thought, have you no shame? Everyone expects you to make some effort to save this girl. But for her you would still be Charles…ironically called the Dauphin. You would never have done anything to bring yourself out of the rut into which you had fallen. But she did it for you. Are you going to ignore her now?

I feared that he would. Perhaps I knew too well that little boy who had been with me all those years ago in the Hôtel de St.-Paul.

Winter had passed into spring, and we still waited. A feeling of doom had overtaken me. I should never escape.

I should have been bold. I should not have come here. I should have made excuses to stay at home.

It was already May. What were my children doing? Guillemote would keep my memory alive with Edmund. She would tell Jasper of his mother who loved him and longed to be with him. I could trust Guillemote. I thought of the spring in Hatfield. The trees would now have emerged from their winter nudity and be clothed in green leaves. How beautiful it would be in Hatfield, where my children were growing up without me!

Every few days there was news of The Maid. She had been passed over to the secular law. We knew what that meant.

The law would now pass on her that sentence which the Church feared to…just in case they were dealing with someone who had been guided by Heaven. How I despised them! How ashamed I was of my brother, who stood aside and made no attempt to help the girl who had done so much for him.

There was unrest everywhere and a tension in the air. People wondered what would happen when The Maid went to her death, for they had condemned her as a witch—and that meant death by fire.

Poor child! She was little more. Could they not show some mercy to one so young? Could they not send her back to her family…to the fields where she could once again tend her father’s sheep?

But they feared her. Lurking in their minds would be the question: was she indeed the emissary of God? And if she were, what fate would befall those who harmed her?

I thought that right at the last moment someone would intervene to save her but, when the day came, no one attempted to do so.

It was May 30. A hushed silence prevailed throughout the castle. The thoughts of everyone were with that young girl who had heard voices from Heaven and as a result had led an army and changed the course of the war.

How could a simple girl have done that without the help of Heaven?

I shall never forget that day.

People crowded into the streets to witness her martyrdom. We did hear details of it afterward for those who had witnessed it were eager to talk—indeed, they could not stop talking of it.

Henry had asked that I come to him.

We sat holding hands. I was surprised that he, being so young, could be so deeply affected.

He said little. He just clung to my hand; and I knew he was thinking of The Maid.

There was a deep silence all about us. Instinctively we knew that it was over. And still we sat together…Henry and I.

His secretary, a man named Tressart, came into the room. He looked startled to see us there and was about to mutter an apology when Henry said: “Stay, Tressart.”

There was a look of shock on Tressart’s face and I guessed he had just returned from the square.

Henry said: “Tressart…you were there?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You saw …?”

Tressart nodded; he was too moved for speech.

“Tell me, Tressart.”

Tressart covered his face with his hands and still did not speak.

“Tell me, Tressart,” repeated Henry.

“She…er…she died bravely, my lord. She asked for a cross that it might be held before her till the last. An Englishman in the crowd made a cross with two sticks and gave it to her.”

“An Englishman,” said Henry. “I am glad it was an Englishman.”

“Cardinal Beaufort and even the Bishop of Beauvais wept when the faggots were lighted. Then someone fetched the cross from the church and held it before her eyes.”

“God rest her soul,” said Henry.

“And the Canon of Rouen cried out: ‘Would my soul were where that woman’s will now be!’”

“They should never have done it,” said Henry.

Tressart stood very still, shaking his head. “We are lost,” he said. “This day we have burned a saint.”

It was later that day that Tressart came to me.

“The King is asking for you,” he said. “He is distraught.”

I found Henry in great distress. He immediately asked Tressart to leave us.

I went to him and took him in my arms. “Henry, what ails you?” I asked.

“My lady…mother…I cannot forget it. We have done this terrible thing, and it was in my name.”

“You are thinking of Joan of Arc still.”