The Game Called Revolution, - [ebook reader 8 inch .txt] 📗

very small percentage compared to their overall numbers. As she dove deeper and deeper into their flank, she faced an increasingly bloated mass of hostility. They shouted their hatred and frustration towards her.

“Grab her!”

“Kill the peasant brat!”

“Show her what faith gets you!”

Suddenly she was grabbed by a Burgundian archer. He took hold of her golden doublet and fiercely pulled her off her horse. She fell to the ground with a muted thud, and lay there for several moments.

She was then pulled to her feet by the very same archer who had just dismounted her. “Know your place, wench! I’m going to teach what happens to a woman who thinks herself the equal of a man.”

She promptly punched him in the face with her armored hand. Bone cracked as he howled in pain and fell over. Another soldier came at her from the side, but she kneed him in the gut. Two more soldiers tried similar attacks, and both experienced the same amount of success.

It wasn’t until they all came at her en masse that she was finally subdued. As she lay struggling in the grass, a towering figure appeared in front of her: an officer with greased-back hair, intense brown eyes and a commanding presence. “That’s quite enough, Pucelle. Know when you’ve lost.”

She looked up at him. “Who are you?”

He told her his name.

“Ah,” she said, “I’ve heard of you. The ‘Bastard of Vendôme.’”

“That’s right. Will you surrender, or do we have to kill you?” He cocked his head menacingly. “Doesn’t really matter to me.”

She gave what sounded like a light chuckle. “Very well, Monsieur Bastard. I surrender, on the condition that I remain in your custody. I will not give myself over to anyone less than a noble. In other words: an equal.”

“All right. Not that it will do you much good, but I accept your terms. Let her up.”

The soldiers got off her, and she gingerly stood up. “Lead the way, Monsieur Bastard.”

4

 

 

 

 

Vermandois, France, January 6, 1431 (Pre-Infini Calendar), 9:00 p.m.

The nobleman called the ‘Bastard of Vendôme’ delivered Jeanne d’Arc to his lord, John II of Luxembourg (also known as the Count of Ligny, who was aligned with Philip III, Duke of Burgundy.      

All the while, her tribulations were observed by the silent ghost behind her eyes. The ghost still had no idea why all this was happening, nor was she entirely conscious of the passage of time. How long had she been in this situation? It felt like ages, but she couldn’t be sure. Also, she couldn’t help but wonder about the fate of her comrades aboard the Minuit Solaire. Had they all died, and was this the afterlife for her? Perhaps this was some sort of punishment for the sins she had committed in life. She had ample time to ponder these things while she was trapped behind the eyes of her ancestor.

For the time being, Jeanne d’Arc was imprisoned in a high tower in the town of Vermandois in Northern France. She had made no attempt to escape because she believed this to be God’s will. The ghost deduced this from the soft chanting of her mantra, “The Lord is my strength, I shall not waver, thy will be done.”

Nevertheless, the ghost knew that for all her brave words, Jeanne d’Arc was ultimately a nineteen-year-old girl, and she was scared. She wanted to follow God’s will, but at the moment had no idea what His will actually was, or what it meant for her future. The ghost thought back to her own time as a nineteen-year-old soldier. She had received the proper training, but Jeanne d’Arc had basically winged it. She couldn’t help but be scared in this situation.

Her stone cell consisted of a straw mat for bedding and a bucket for…well, that. There was also a window on the rear wall above the straw mat. Other than that, the room was empty.

At that moment Jeanne d’Arc knelt praying on the floor, her back to the window. Since her prayers were silent, the ghost didn’t know exactly what she wished to communicate to the Lord. But she had a few ideas. Most likely her ancestor was asking for French victory in the war, along with an eventual rescue from captivity.

Suddenly a familiar light enveloped her. She looked up to see the archangel Michael floating in the air above her. “Arise, my sister.” She complied. “The Father has heard your prayers. He has sent me to congratulate you on your faith. You fought that battle without using the God’s Body, and He is pleased.”

“Thank you!” she chimed. “I didn’t want to surrender to them, but I had faith the Lord would not abandon me.”

“The Father never abandons His children, no matter what happens. Rejoice, for you will be with Him soon.”

There was a painful silence, and then she said, “W…What? What do you mean, I will be with him soon?”

“You will be sold to the English, who will find you guilty of heresy.” He then added grimly, “You will be burned at the stake.”

The ghost’s vision (Jeanne d’Arc’s vision?) became distorted and cracked, as if the world was splitting in two. This only lasted for a moment, though, before it returned to normal

Her ancestor’s voice became similarly cracked and distorted with stress. “T-There must be some mistake!”

The archangel took on a sterner tone. “The Father does not make mistakes. I promise you will not suffer long. You will then be with Him for all eternity.”

She slumped to the ground. “No!” she shouted, though it was a weak, hoarse shout. “I didn’t fight my hardest for the Lord just so I could suffer the most horrific of all deaths. That isn’t right!”

“It is not for you to determine right and wrong. Only the Father decides that.”

She was now in tears. “I know that, but…but…” her voice trailed off. “But why do I have to die? I’ve done everything He has asked of me, and this is my reward?”

He seemed to sigh. “My sister, one does not do His work for a reward. We do it because we are His faithful children. He has created everything, and it is His right to ask these things of us, no matter how difficult it might be for us.”

This did nothing to console her. She was sobbing uncontrollably, and the ghost could see very little through the waterfall in front of her. It was too much.

I have often wondered what she was thinking when she was told she would be burned at the stake. But nothing could have prepared me for this. I would give anything to help her right now, tell her everything will be all right.

The archangel put a hand on her shoulder. “Please be strong, my sister.” And with that, he faded from the room.

Jeanne d’Arc sat there on the floor of her cell, bawling with complete abandon. Even when she ran out of tears, the sobbing continued for quite some time. After a while the crying ceased all together, and the cell was totally silent. She simply stared straight ahead for what seemed like an eternity.

Eventually she turned back towards the straw mat, apparently with the intent (the ghost hoped) to get some sleep. That would do her a world of good, the ghost thought; sleep made everything better and helped put things in perspective.

However, her attention became fixed on the window above her “bed.” She walked over to it and examined it quite thoroughly. She even stuck her head out and looked down. It had to be at least fifty feet to the ground below. There was no way she could survive a fall from this height, if she actually had the intention to jump.

And yet, on closer inspection, it seemed there was. A dry moat lay below, and it just might be soft enough to break her fall.

That’s not a good idea. After all, this was not how Jeanne d’Arc escaped from the English, at least not according to history books.

Nevertheless, that didn’t stop her from trying. Discovering the window was large enough for her to fit through, she hesitated a moment while she seemed to contemplate this option.

      And then she jumped through it. She fell for what felt like ages (at least to the ghost) before crashing down on the soft earth below.

Although the fall didn’t break anything, it still hurt enough for her to grunt in pain. Someone must have heard this, because a voice called out, “Who’s there?” An English guard rushed over, torch in hand, and shouted for his compatriots. Several more guards soon arrived. Jeanne d’Arc tried to resist them, but couldn’t stand up; her legs were apparently too hurt from the fall. As a result, the guards simply dragged her back to her cell, where she now had to face physical pain on top of her crushing emotional pain.

 

***

 

Rouen, France, May 30, 1431 (Pre-Infini Calendar), 9:00 a.m.

Jeanne d’Arc was eventually sold to the English by John II of Luxembourg, a French soldier and member of the nobility. John II had allied with the English during the Hundred Years’ War, and led a division of troops in the battle of Compiègne. It was one of his soldiers, the Bastard of Vendôme, who had captured her. The English gave John II ten thousand livres for her.

They subsequently put her on trial as a heretic. The whole thing was a sham, a means of vengeance by the Duke of Bedford, uncle of Henry VI who was heir to the throne of England and would-be king of France. She had greatly assisted in helping give the French crown instead to Charles VII, and Bedford held a serious grudge against her because of this.

During the trial, ecclesiastical law was broken more times than either Jeanne d’Arc or the ghost could count. Legally, there wasn’t even enough evidence to go to trial in the first place. Regardless, the trial went ahead and the prisoner’s rights were violated at every turn. At one point she was even given a document to sign, despite the fact that she was illiterate. It turned out to be a confession letter. Other violations included the doctoring of the court transcript and the denial of a legal consultant.

In the end, she was convicted of heresy and sentenced to death by burning at the stake, thus ending up at Rouen in Northern France (at this time controlled by the English). She was allowed to wear only a simple white dress for her execution.

She was tied to a wooden column above a pile of logs. The executioner held an unlit torch in his hand and approached her. He looked reluctant to be doing any of this. “Do you have any last words before I carry out my appointed task?”

She was silent for several moments. Surprisingly, her breathing seemed to be calm and measured, at least from what the ghost could tell. The ghost had expected her to be frantic at this point, possibly hysterical.

Finally, she said, “No.”

One of the participants lit the torch, and the executioner put it to the logs underneath Jeanne d’Arc. The fire caught on eagerly and began consuming the logs. Smoke then began rising upwards to greet her nose.

She closed her eyes and maintained her composed breathing. The ghost thought she had accepted her fate and was saying a prayer to the Lord.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. If Jeanne d’Arc died here, then how could the ghost ever be born? Was this all just some fantasy after all?

Suddenly, though, Jeanne d’Arc opened her eyes and began grunting with some