The Omega Factor(28)
On the morning of May 30, 1431, two priests appeared in her cell and pronounced that the time for reckoning had come. She was dressed in a rough gray tunic and led through the streets of Rouen to the old market square. A jeering mob lined the way, clamoring for her demise. Not unexpected given that Philip the Good, the Duke of Burgundy, enjoyed widespread local support, and it had been the duke himself who’d turned her over to the English for trial.
Nearly a thousand soldiers accompanied her on the walk from the prison, there to ensure not only that the crowd behaved but that no rescue attempts would be made. Four platforms had been erected. One for the ecclesiastical judges, another for the secular judges, a third from which a sermon would be delivered, then a fourth, the highest, which held the stake. Joan wore a paper miter upon which was written “Heretic, Relapse, Apostate, Idolater.” A placard had been erected that proclaimed, “Joan who had herself named Pucelle, liar, pernicious person, abuser of people, soothsayer, superstitious woman, blasphemer of God, presumptuous, unbeliever in the faith of Jesus Christ, boaster, idolater, cruel, dissolute, invoker of devils, apostate, schismatic and heretic.”
She was short and stocky, strong and resolute, with the spirit of a tomboy and the energy of a missionary. Her face was ruddy and weather-beaten, like that of a thousand other country girls, with deep watery eyes that seemed to seek out and feel others’ pain. Much in the way of legend would later blur reality. But there were some truths. Her Christian name was Jeanne and she passed her childhood and adolescence in Domrémy with the d’Arcs. She claimed to have heard the voices of the Archangel Michael, Saint Margaret, and Saint Catherine, all telling her to support the dauphin Charles as king and free France from English domination. Eventually, she and the dauphin met and he approved of her visions. She was examined by the church, which also approved. Ultimately, she participated in ending the siege of Orléans and was instrumental in the consecration of the dauphin as Charles VII. But she fell captive to the Burgundians, outside Compiègne, who turned her over to the English.
Now she would die.
After all the requisite pomp and ceremony, along with a final sermon delivered to the penitent, Joan was led to the stake and bound to it by chains. The executioner had been instructed to not place her close to the flames so that she would not quickly asphyxiate from the smoke and death would come more slowly.
The kindling was lit and the hem of her robe caught afire.
Within moments she was engulfed.
A priest stood before the pyre, holding a crucifix, and prayed for her soul. She uttered loud groans and asked forgiveness, saying that Charles was not responsible for anything she’d done. Her final word has been clouded by myth, but the most often one repeated was Jesus.
The crowd watched and jeered as she died before their eyes.
Once the fire had subsided, her naked body was exposed for all to see. She was still recognizable, chained to the stake, most of her flesh charred away. This final indignity revealed, as one observer noted, “all that belonged to a woman.” Important since many had believed she was a man. When they’d seen enough, the executioner poured oil, charcoal, and sulfur on the carcass and set it afire again. It burned for hours, past nightfall, reducing the flesh and bone to ash.
The executioner had been ordered to toss all of the remains into the river so as to discourage any relic hunters. But the man had been greatly affected by the death, proclaiming that “we have burned a saint.” He was not diligent in returning and fulfilling his duties. So under the cover of darkness three women gathered the warm ashes from the pyre and stole them away. What was eventually thrown into the water were the ashes from three sheep that had been butchered and burned by those women a few days earlier.
Those three women had not been ordinary. Like Joan herself, they possessed a deep resolve and an unwavering commitment, each bound by oath. They were maidens. As was Joan. All of them part of a group that carried an ancient name. One bestowed on them out of respect and fear.
Les Vautours.
The Vultures.
Apt because, like their namesake, they never killed.
Joan herself had come to the maidens only a few months before the voices started in her head. She’d left the motherhouse and ventured north, throwing herself into the Hundred Years’ War. Her impetuousness and stubbornness had generated success, but eventually they both led to her death.
At a mere nineteen years old.
But other maidens had risked their life to make sure that her remains were brought back to hallowed ground.
Claire had always drawn strength from thinking about those past maidens, especially Joan. Extraordinary women who pledged themselves to an extraordinary mission, one that had never been in favor with the Roman Catholic Church. Quite the contrary, in fact. So much so that, during the Albigensian Crusade, an effort had been made to locate and eradicate les Vautours along with the Cathars.
Which failed.
The one saving grace of tonight was that no public announcement had come revealing that the original Just Judges had been found. For whatever reason cathedral authorities had not, as yet, released that information. Perhaps they had been waiting to see if the laptop could be retrieved, as it was the only evidence to back up their claims. The idea had been to destroy the panel and retrieve the electronic images before any announcement ever happened. Half that goal had been accomplished. They needed to finish the job. Because once the world was told about what had actually been destroyed, the Vatican would know les Vautours had struck.