by Bryan Davis
“Ah. I see.” Francine nodded. “We wouldn’t want that to happen.”
“At least not until she’s ready to go. And I hope she confirms my alibi with Marc. She’s the one who taught me how to stitch his wound.”
“She did? Well, she is a helpful one, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I assume she had a lot of practice on the battlefield.”
“That’s to be expected.” Francine leaned closer again and whispered, “Why is Joan here?”
I kept my voice normal. It seemed odd to whisper with no one else around, though I had been the first to lower my voice. “That’s a long story that’s even more unbelievable than her presence.”
“Really?” Francine braced her hands on the grass at her sides, angling her body to catch more sunlight. “I have time. It would be better to arrive home dry and not have to explain why I took a spill in the brook.”
“If you say so.” I took in a deep breath and began the story, starting from Madame Noël’s slap and providing every detail I could recall. Throughout the tale, I kept my gaze locked on Francine. Her eyes never shifted from mine, though her mouth dropped open from time to time, and she gasped at the most shocking events, including when Siobhan collected the little-girl version of Jacqueline Noël.
When I finished with a tired sigh, she leaned close once again and slid her hand into mine. “Justin, you suffered unbelievable turmoil. I wish I could help you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t see how. If you tell Marc or the inspector my story, they’ll think I’m insane. I wouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t seen our ghostly visitors yourself.”
“I understand.” She touched my bare finger. “The ring would help them believe.”
“But Joan needs it or she’ll—”
“I know. I know. But wouldn’t she want to leave now that her mission here is complete? Who would want to stay here if she can go to heaven?”
“You’re right, but she seems content for now.”
“Maybe that won’t last. Just be ready to collect the ring when she tires of this war-torn, sin-sick world.” Francine wrapped both of my hands in hers. “Think of it, Justin. The ring will help confirm your alibi, at least that you were with Joan in the library. You won’t be a suspect, and we can find the real killer. Not only that, we’ll have a powerful ring that can protect us from harm.”
“Us? When Joan leaves, won’t it be yours?”
She straightened. “Well … yes … of course … but …” She looked up as if searching for the right words, then gazed at me again, our hands still clasped. “Justin, I know I was rude to you earlier. I was wrong to suspect you of murder.”
“I understand. The evidence pointed straight at me.”
“But now I know better, so I would like to renew our relationship, that is, if you still have feelings for me.”
Heat rose into my cheeks. “Of course I do. I was worried that your feelings for me were gone.”
“Gone? Hardly. You’re a man of high character, dashing, courteous. Any woman would be flattered by your attention.”
I fidgeted. “Are you flattered?”
“More than flattered.” She edged closer, her voice again low. “Justin, the reason I said the ring would protect us is that I hoped to someday be your wife.”
“My wife? Francine, are you proposing to me? Isn’t that … well …”
“Unusual? Scandalous?” She laughed. “Since when have I cared about that?”
“Well … then I accept. Marrying you would be a dream come true. I have loved you from afar for ever so long.”
She slid her hands away and presented her ring finger. “Then shall we seal our engagement with Joan’s ring? When she is pleased to leave the earth, bring it to me, and we’ll tell the world about our plans. I think she’ll decide soon.”
“You’re probably right.” I lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Until then, Francine.”
She leaned even closer and kissed me on the lips. When she drew back, she whispered, “Until then.”
Chapter Sixteen
Francine rose and walked toward the city center. Her damp trousers clung to her legs and hips, outlining a sleek form. She seemed to accentuate her assets with a swagger, evidence of her words in plain sight. Surely a woman of her standing who wore trousers in public cared nothing about scandal.
I forced my eyes to look away. My heart thudded, and my breaths grew shallow and rapid. Although she had kissed me once before, this touch meant so much more. It was a promise, a covenant. All I had to do was prove my innocence with Joan’s ring, thereby ending the law’s pursuit, which would allow me to join Francine forever. After all, who would want to be engaged to a murder suspect?
Soon, Francine disappeared in the distance. I jumped up and waded across the brook, soaking my clothes again. Yet that didn’t matter. I needed to ask Joan about her future plans, but I had to do so without a hint of persuasion. This was her life, her ring, her eternity.
Within a few minutes, I arrived again in the catacombs school room. Joan still sat where she was before with a lantern near her feet. Michael and Jean had left.
Joan smiled, though her eyes gave away lingering sadness. “Have you been swimming?”
I suppressed a shiver. “I had to cross the brook. The bridge is out.” I sat next to her, close enough for our knees to touch. “What will you do now, Joan? Your mission here is complete.”
“I have been thinking about that.” She twirled the ring around her thumb. “Since you are in danger of arrest and execution, I should do something to help you.”
“I could present the ring as evidence that you were really in the library,” I said. “The inspector in the case is an intelligent man. He’ll understand its uniqueness.”
Joan laughed. “Nonsense, Justin. Did the cold water addle your brain?”
“What do you mean?”
“A mere ring will prove nothing. You found it in a wall of bones, a lucky discovery your persecutors will say. Trust me. I know the wiles of those who seek the blood of the innocent.”
“Then how can you help?”
“I will bear witness of the truth myself.” She rose to her feet and extended a hand down to me. “Come. Escort me to your inspector. I will have a word with him.”
“But …” I took her hand and let her help me rise. “But how can you prove that you’re who you say you are?”
“With the ring, exactly as we discussed. And since I’m a witness to your presence in the library, what does it matter who I am? A witness is a witness.”
“Yes, that’s true, but—”
“You are quite fond of your buts.” She spread her arms. “I am ready to help you. Tell me what to do.”
I gazed at her open stance. Wearing her traditional battle armor, she looked little like the woman who recently pranced away in a swaggering gait. Yet, Joan’s insistence matched Francine’s perfectly. I couldn’t say no to such an offer. “Let’s go to Francine’s house. We’ll discuss the situation with her and Marc before speaking to Inspector Fortier.”
Joan nodded. “Excellent. I wasn’t able to talk to Francine earlier. I tried to find an appropriate place to interject a word, but I never saw an opening.”
“I apologize for that. She and I dominated the conversation. What did you want to say?”
“I wanted to ask her a question about her costume at the masquerade party. I saw her in the library that evening, but she was praying, so I had no opportunity then.”
“You were close enough to hear that she was praying?”
Joan nodded. “She said, ‘Mary, Mother of God, drive the demons away from me now, and purge my own demons as I pursue the path set before me.’ ”
“I had no idea she was so tormented.”
“Indeed, which is why I left quietly.”
“What did you want to ask about her costume?”
“I was stunned by how similar her battledress was to my own. Yet, I noticed one difference that intrigued me. The rivets i
n her armor were metal, while mine are wooden. Hers seemed far sturdier, so I hoped to learn more about them.”
“Interesting, but if you had spoken to her, you might have frightened her.”
“Yes, I understand that now. I’m glad I let her be.”
“Well, maybe you’ll have another chance to meet her.” I picked up the lantern but decided to leave my bag and the food behind, though hunger burned in my belly. Hauling it up would be a toilsome chore. “Let’s go.”
After climbing the ladder, Joan and I walked to the river’s edge. I paused, not anxious to again suffer another round of wet shivers.
Joan set a foot in the water, then drew it back. “The chill won’t hurt me, but you will catch your death if you keep wading across.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much choice.”
“Of course you do. We can fashion a temporary bridge until a more permanent one can be constructed.”
“Do you have the skill to do that? I certainly don’t.”
“My men and I built countless bridges during our campaigns. We merely need to find suitable materials.” She looked at the school building and nodded. “Yes, I think we can do this.”
We collected some of the school’s rubble, such as roof pieces and scorched timber, and began working. Joan not only issued orders like a seasoned general, she also added considerable muscle to the tasks, matching my strength as we carried and placed heavy objects. How the ghost of a young female could do that remains a mystery to this day.
When we finished and crossed the bridge, we walked side by side into the city. As I looked at her, her face smeared with dirt, sweat glistening on her forehead, and grime marring her battledress, reality hit hard. Her appearance would raise questions, too many questions. And my clothes were not yet dry, which would add to the mystery. I would have to invent a tale.
Soon, we reached the outskirts of the city’s center. As expected, many people stopped and stared. Even a fiacre driver reined in his horses and stopped.
I hurried past, but the driver called out, “Monsieur? Aren’t you the gentleman who saved the inspector?”
I stopped and turned. The carriage driver who had transported me earlier stared from his perch. I gave him a genial nod. “Yes, my good man. It is I.”
He gestured toward his passenger seat. “Do you need a ride? No charge for you.”
“Certainly. I would like that.”
When we climbed aboard, I told him our destination. As the horse trotted along, he called without looking back at us. “I gave you a ride not only because you’re a hero. Everyone was staring at you. I thought you’d like to avoid that.”
I laughed. “Thank you, but you might recall that I’m an actor. I’m accustomed to being stared at.”
“I remember, but the clothing is—”
“Props for a play. A battle scene.”
“A sea battle?”
I laughed again. “I got wet crossing the brook near the burned school building. The bridge is out. Even the temporary bridge failed.”
“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at anything an actor decides to do, but I wouldn’t parade in the streets looking like that.”
“Which makes your gesture that much more appreciated.”
While the driver switched the subject to cooking and began a long discourse about his achievements as a chef, Joan stayed quiet, taking in the sights and sounds of the busy Sunday afternoon in Paris. Although she had likely seen some of the sights before, being burdened with Pierre as they hurried from place to place probably made enjoying her outings impossible.
When we arrived at the Noëls’ house, I thanked the driver and walked to the front door, followed closely by Joan. She called with a hiss. “Justin. Your trousers.”
I looked back. Strings of weeds hung from my waistband across my buttocks. No wonder the driver asked about a sea battle. Maybe most of the people were staring at me instead of Joan.
I pulled the weeds off and slung them to the side. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I only wish I had seen it earlier.”
“No harm done.” I knocked on the door. When Francine answered, I offered a head bow. “I brought Joan. May we come in?”
“Of course.” Francine looked past me and bowed her head. “Welcome, Joan. I am honored by your visit.”
“Thank you,” Joan said. “The honor is mine.”
Francine waited for us to enter and closed the door. Now wearing a lovely pink house dress, she looked at us and smiled. “You’re still wet. I’ll get some of Marc’s clothes for you. He’s out for a while.”
As she turned, I said, “Do you have something for Joan to wear? Her battle clothes are filthy. I’m sure you’re the same size.”
Francine pivoted back, her cheeks reddening. “Oh … yes … I can do that.” She turned again and walked down the hallway.
I guided Joan into the sitting room. The family tree still lay on the table in the same condition as before. I pointed out the relevant names to Joan and explained what I knew, finishing with, “I can’t believe that young Madame Noël could commit such a horrific murder. Marguerite never did anything to her.”
“I believe it,” Joan said. “When Pierre and I first began our time together, he was filled with rage. I had to prevent an act of violence several times each day. It took a week or more for him to settle.”
A moment later, Francine returned with an armful of clothes. She handed me a pair of trousers and a shirt, then unfolded a pretty green dress and let it hang from her fingers. “I hope this is suitable.”
Joan smiled. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”
Francine fidgeted. “Well … then … um … you know where the wash basin is.” Seemingly unsure of what to say next, Francine laid the dress over the table. “Marc is at a neighbor’s house. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you. I’ll get him.” She hurried to the front door and exited.
Joan looked at me with a confused aspect. “Is it customary in these times to leave an unmarried couple alone to change clothes?”
“No. Francine’s flustered. Having Joan of Arc as a guest is distracting her. I told you how famous you are.”
“Yes, I haven’t learned to accept that yet.”
“Do you like the dress she left for you?”
“It is lovely.” Joan ran a finger along the green material. “But if you want me to convince others that I am the general of the French army, the Maid of Orléans, then I should keep my battle clothes on.”
“You’re right, but you don’t have to look like you’re returning from battle. You should wash.”
She smiled. “I would like that.”
I showed her the washroom and gave her privacy while I returned the green dress to Francine’s room and laid it on her bed. Then I paced the floor, thinking about how I could explain all that I had seen. Yet, the barest of summaries seemed insane, even to myself.
When Joan finished, I took my turn and put on the fresh trousers and shirt. They were too big, of course, but not uncomfortably so. I returned with Joan to the sitting room, put my dirty clothes under a chair, and sat there while Joan chose the chair to my right. To my surprise, Francine had not yet returned with Marc. A neighbor’s house couldn’t be that far away. What might be keeping them so long?
The delay gave me an occasion to converse with Joan. She talked about her life as a child, how angels visited her, and the events surrounding her call to save France. As she spoke, I kept my gaze fixed on her lovely face—youthful and perfect in spite of the many years that had passed since her era. And with a freshly washed face and brushed hair, she looked quite beautiful.
Soon, Marc entered the front door, followed by Inspector Fortier and the bishop who had given the anti-reformers homily. Francine came in last and closed the door. She whispered to the bishop and gestured toward Joan. He nodded in a disagreeable manner.
A lump grew in my throat. No wonder she had taken so long. They had gathered others who were interested in meeting Joa
n, but for what reason?
The inspector wore the cloak I had seen him in earlier, though now with the hood down, while the bishop wore a white cassock with a black sash that hung around his neck. Both men trained their stares on me as they approached.
Joan whispered, “This is not a friendly council. It is an inquisition, and you are the target. I have seen prosecutorial eyes too many times to think otherwise.”
I gave her a calming hand signal and stayed quiet. Joan was right. The authority of the law and the Church had come to rain fire on me. It would be best to say as little as possible.
Francine found chairs for everyone and made a circle, her to my left, then Marc to her left, then the inspector across from me, and then the bishop to Joan’s right. The bishop continued staring at me, his expression unreadable.
The inspector cleared his throat. “If I may begin, Monsieur Trotter …”
“Yes.” I steeled my body to keep from trembling. “Please do.”
“Francine summoned the bishop and me because you made a rather incredible claim.”
“What claim, Inspector?”
“Well, let’s put it this way. You believe the real Joan of Arc is sitting next to you.”
I offered a disarming smile. “I know it’s hard to believe, Inspector, considering her apparent age, but she has proven to my satisfaction that she is, indeed, the true Joan of Arc.”
The bishop touched Joan’s chair arm. “What proof did she give you?”
His sharp stare blazed right past Joan, telling me that she was correct. This inquisition was aimed at me alone. They wouldn’t bother to ask her any questions. “She knows everything there is to know about her history. She is even wearing the ring her parents gave her for her first communion.” I gave Joan a nod. “Show them.”
She lifted her hand, making the ring easy to see. After a moment, she lowered her hand to her lap and whispered, “I don’t think they’re convinced.”
“We’ll know soon.” I smiled at the bishop. “If you have any further questions about the ring, I’m sure she’ll be willing to answer them.”