The Death Of Joan Of Arc (2 page)

William rounded a corner and suddenly found himself in the town square.

Hundreds of people had crowded into the Vieux-Marché in Rouen earlier that day to watch the execution. Guards armed with staves and sticks had kept them away from the huge funeral pyre, while more soldiers patrolled the mob, looking for troublemakers. There were archers on the roofs of the surrounding buildings and mounted knights in the side streets. And despite the terrible event that was about to take place, there had been a carnival atmosphere, with jugglers and minstrels, food vendors and poets moving through the crowd.

Now it was chaos.

Up to that moment, William had wanted to believe that the girl on the black horse was human. Now he knew she was not.

The armored horse carved a path through the mob, right up to the tall pillar in the center of the square. Joan was tied to the pillar, and stood, eyes closed, face turned to the sky as Geoffroy Therage, the executioner, piled tall bundles of tinder-dry wood around her. The fire had been lit, and crackling flames and twisting black smoke were curling around the girl. Her clothes had started to smolder. The red-haired warrior leapt off the horse and sliced her way through the soldiers, her curved swords blurring so fast that they reflected the morning light until it seemed as if they blazed.

William saw the Frenchwoman open her eyes and look down. And then her face lit up with a brilliant smile. He saw her lips move and form a single word, a name. Later, much, much later, Geoffroy Therage told him she had said the word “Scathach.”

William watched the executioner scream and throw himself on his knees in front of the red-haired girl. She swatted him away as if he was a fly, and the sword in her left hand darted out, cutting away the burning wood. Then, standing back, the warrior chopped at the manacles around Joan’s wrists. Metal sang off metal and the chains fell away. Scathach tossed one sword to Joan. William heard the red-haired warrior laugh, a sound of pure delight, as she turned and attacked the gathering knights. He watched, both awed and horrified, as the two women fought their way through the square. Nothing could stand against them. Even though she was weak from months in prison, Joan of Arc drove back the waves of English knights, while Scathach chopped arrows out of the air, and slashed and cut at anyone who came too close. William watched in amazement as she fought with fists and feet, her metal-gloved hands as deadly and dangerous as her sword. The two women were now standing back to back, working as a team, fighting their way to the black horse, which was surrounded by
knights and soldiers attempting to catch it. The huge armored beast reared and kicked, cracking shields and shattering armor.

Ducking back into the side street, William tried to nock an arrow to his bow, but his hands were shaking too badly. He had never believed Joan was a witch, but the evidence was overwhelming. He didn’t think the red-haired girl was a demon, but she certainly wasn’t human. She was … He tried to find the right word. She was unnatural.

He pressed back against the wall as four heavily armored knights wielding broadswords, spears and axes rushed past him and attacked the two women. Joan ducked under a flailing ax and chopped its wooden handle in two. Scathach neatly dodged the spear thrust at her, then grabbed the shaft and tugged, pulling the knight toward her. Off balance, he fell to the ground, bringing two of his companions with him in a heaped pile of metal and flesh. Scathach leapt onto the back of the fallen knights. She caught Joan’s arm, hauled the smaller woman up and then flung her into the air. For a moment, the ragged warrior hung suspended in midair, and the image momentarily silenced the uproar in the square. Then Joan dropped onto the back of the black horse.

Scathach screamed, a long, terrifying, triumphant war cry that drove the men around her to the ground, holding their ears. Dancing lightly across the squirming bodies, she somersaulted onto the back of the black horse and dug in her heels. The armored beast surged forward, crashing through everything in its path. Arrows rained down from the roof, but the red-haired warrior knocked them out of the air as she and her companion raced toward the gate.

William realized with horror that they were escaping: one woman had defeated an entire army to rescue Joan of Arc. He pressed himself back against the alley wall as the horse bore down on him. Now that it was close, he could see that, like its mistress, it was not entirely natural. Beneath the spiked metal sheath that covered its head, its eyes blazed bloodred.

William could not allow the prisoner to escape. The moment the horse thundered past him, he stepped out of the shadows and fired after them.

The heavy metal-tipped arrow bit deeply into Joan’s shoulder. She shuddered and slumped forward and would have fallen from the horse if Scathach had not caught her. The red-haired girl screamed again, but this time it was a sound of pure anguish. Then she turned to look back at William, and he saw her face undergo a terrible transformation, mouth opening to reveal a maw of needle-sharp teeth. She pointed her sword at him, and although she did not speak, he clearly heard her words in his head:
You will pay for this injury. I swear it
. Then she pulled the arrow out of her friend’s shoulder and flung it back at William. It hit him with tremendous force, striking him high on the arm, breaking bone and tearing muscle, and in that instant, William of York knew he would never pull a bow again.

In the last moments before unconsciousness claimed him, he watched Joan of Arc and the red-haired warrior escape on the black horse.

Joan of Arc escaped—but that is the story you have never heard.

History records that Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orléans, died in Rouen on that last day of May in the Year of Our Lord 1431.

A girl died that day, but it was not Joan.

Sick with pain, I watched as a girl who bore but the slightest resemblance to the Maid of Orléans was dragged out of the dungeons and hauled to the place of execution. Knights moved through the crowd, warning the people that if they spoke about what had just happened, they would be condemned as heretics and suffer the same fate.

I could not bear to stand and watch an innocent girl die. I walked away from Rouen, abandoning everything I owned, and began the long journey back to
England. After that day I never fought in another war. My left arm withered and I was never able to hold a bow again.

I have often wondered what happened to the Maid of Orléans and Scathach, the red-haired, green-eyed warrior who rescued her. Where had they gone? Had Joan survived the wound I gave her? I hoped she had. And what of Scathach? Did she still live? I was guessing she did: I imagined that killing her would be almost impossible.

—from the Last Will and Testament of William of York
,

This day, the 13th day of October 1481

Look for the books that inspired “The Death of Joan of Arc.”

The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series includes:

The Alchemyst

The Magician

The Sorceress

The Necromancer

All available from Delacorte Press

An authority on mythology and folklore, Michael Scott is one of Ireland’s most successful authors. A master of fantasy, science fiction, horror, and folklore, he has been hailed by the
Irish Times
as “the King of Fantasy in these isles.” “The Death of Joan of Arc” is the first short story based on Scott’s bestselling series The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel. Look for book one,
The Alchemyst
; book two,
The Magician;
book three,
The Sorceress
; and book four,
The Necromancer
, all available from Delacorte Press.
You can visit Michael Scott at
dillonscott.com
.