Page 314 of Historical Hotties
BEAST
A Medieval Romance
By Kathryn Le Veque
PROLOGUE
Year of Our Lord 1431
The Month of May
Rouen, France
It smelled likerot.
Rot, bodies, men who were in the throes of the last of their lives, with nothing left to live for and nothing to give. It smelled of all things surrendered, of honor destroyed, and of defeat. Whenever he smelled this scent, that rotten, moist scent that seemed to bleed from the very walls, it always smelled of death to him. It smelled of hopelessness.
The tower was part of Rouen Castle, a massive and rambling structure that was the predominant feature of the sprawling, dirty town of Rouen. This particular tower had been just another tower housing prisoners from the ongoing wars between France and England, although this particular castle belonged to the English as their stronghold. Therefore, the prisoners were French, but this tower held one special prisoner in particular. It had for six months. The three-storied tower had never really had a name before that time but now it had a very identifying name:Tour de la Pucelle.
Tower of the Maid.
The knight stood just inside the entry to the tower, gazing at the semi-spiral staircase that hugged the wall to his right, leading to the floors above. She was up there and he could feel a palpable sense of dread in his heart. He didn’t want to be here yet he couldn’t stay away. He had been there when the English had paid the Burgundians for their very special prisoner,Jehanne la Pucelle. And it was he, at the Duke of Bedford’s instruction, who had ultimately taken the rather short, skinny woman dressed in rags into custody. In fact, as he’d gotten a good look at her, he could hardly believe this was the same woman who had been leading the dauphin’s men against the English and largely succeeding. She was small and thin, and looked like a boy with her short-cropped hair. But behind those dark eyes were the heart, mind, and soul of a lion.
He had seen her roar. He’d spent the past six months watching her roar, watching this illiterate farm girl debate religion with men who considered themselves highly educated and highly clever. She had roared, for certain, but her roar had taken the shape of a brilliant statement or a calm debate that had left the arrogant clergy speechless. The big knight, the biggest and most powerful knight in the stable of the man who hated the Maid the most, the Duke of Bedford, had been at every proceeding, watching these religious fools try to tear down the young woman who had steadfastly stood by her statement that God spoke to her through St. Michael, St. Catherine, and St. Mary. She had never wavered, not once, even when men who thought they knew better than she did tried to trap her. But they never could trap the lion.
So they’d shamed her, tormented her, illegally denied her what the law said was her right. The knight knew because he had stood by and watched it all, losing more respect for his liege by the day. Bedford was crafty. God, the man was crafty, and he hadan unnatural hatred for the Maid. The mind games, the deceit, went on for months and in the end, the ecclesiastical court coerced the Maid into signing a confession in exchange for life in prison, but that wasn’t good enough for Bedford. He wanted the witch dead. But there was a problem with that wish.
The knight, who had been Bedford’s right hand through all of his campaign for Henry VI’s rights in France, had begun to show distinct signs of sympathy towards the Maid. Every man in the English army was afraid of this knight, the man called the Beast, up to and including Bedford. Sir Bastian de Russe had virtually kept England’s army going against the onslaught from the Maid and her supporters, so it wouldn’t do well to anger de Russe or even let him know that you were thinking anything other than kind thoughts about him. De Russe had the power to make it so one no longer existed. He’d been known to wipe out entire families that displeased him. Therefore, it was unwise to enrage the man. He would simply quash you.
But de Russe had shown definite symptoms of compassion towards the Maid over the past few months, even going so far as to kill three guards accused of attempting to rape her. One of the conditions of her confession had been to resume wearing women’s clothing in prison. Wearing men’s clothing was an offense to God and she had avoided the heresy charge by agreeing to wear women’s clothing (and no longer the chain mail or clothing she wore in battle against the English). Bedford knew the only solution to his troubles would be to get the woman back into men’s clothing. He could then declare she had gone back on her word. It would negate her signed confession. She would be charged with heresy, condemned to die, and his problem would be solved.
It was not so easy to do that, however, with de Russe seeing to it that the Maid was fairly treated. Bedford had even asked him, once, why he was ensuring the enemy’s fair treatment andde Russe had given him such a look that Bedford had gone off, running. They all wanted the Maid dead except for de Russe. He was not only fair to her, he was even kind, which was completely out of his character. The more time passed, the more Bedford was convinced the Maid had either seduced him or bewitched him. In either case, he needed to get de Russe away from the woman. As the middle of the month of May drew near, Bedford had a plan.
Bedford’s wife, the Lady Anne, had been at Rouen but was slated to return to England, so Bedford assigned de Russe to escort his lady wife to Calais so she could return home. De Russe did his duty and escorted the wife to Calais, but while he was gone, Bedford had the soldiers guarding the Maid take away her feminine clothing and replace it with men’s hose and tunic. Having nothing else to wear despite her protests, the Maid donned the clothing and was immediately declared a relapsed heretic by reneging on her confession. Death by burning was scheduled and Bedford had his final victory.
All these thoughts were rolling through de Russe’s mind as he stood in the doorway of the tower, looking at the guards at the base of the stairs, guards who had forced a young girl into signing her own death warrant. Bedford had been unapologetic when he had told de Russe of the turn of events and de Russe, in his normal style, accepted Bedford’s words without argument. He wasn’t in the habit of disputing his liege, even if the man was a betrayer and a fool. Sentence had been passed by the ecclesiastical court and there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was visit the Maid and beg her forgiveness for not having been at Rouen to prevent Bedford from carrying out his terrible scheme. Anything more than that and he might look like a traitor, something he did not want to do. Even de Russe had his limits.
The guards at the base of the stairs refused to look at him. In fact, when they saw de Russe appear, they all moved well away from him, all of them armed, refusing to meet the man’s eye. They all knew that the Maid had somehow seduced him and they feared the devil in the man, so they gathered as far away as they could from him as he stood there.
“Give me the key,” de Russe commanded in his cold, raspy voice.
One of the guards produced a key and reluctantly handed it to him. Then he scooted back over to his companions, away from the Beast. Key in hand, de Russe took the steps two at a time, making his way to the second floor.
There was one chamber on this level. A massive oak and iron door was in place with a small, bolted slot in it to pass food through. Putting the key in the elaborate iron lock, he turned the key, shifted the bolt, and pulled it back. Then he yanked on the door to open it. The panel had always been known to stick.
It was sunset and the colors from the west were creating prisms of light on the wall to his right. The chamber, normally dull and cold, was actually rather well lit. His gaze moved across the straw on the floor, the crude bucket used for a toilet, and a small three-legged stool next to it. He could smell the urine from the bucket and the general filth and dampness from the straw, which told him it hadn’t been changed since he’d left on his errand with Lady Anne two weeks ago. When he was in charge, it was changed daily.
As his gaze moved across the chamber with its stone walls and dirty floor, it finally came to rest on the Maid as she sat on her rope and wood bed, the one she was chained to every night. Or, at least she had been until de Russe had put a stop to that practice. He suspected the practice had resumed during his absence. The Maid was looking at him, her narrow face paleand her dark eyes sunken. But she smiled at him when their eyes met, her yellowed teeth revealed.
“De Russe,” she said softly. “Vous êtes de retour.”You have returned.
De Russe nodded his head, entering the chamber. “I have,” he replied in French. “I have come to see how you have fared during my absence.”
The Maid’s smile faded. “I am sure you have heard of my troubles,” she said quietly, weakly. The woman had little strength these days in great contrast to the robust little soldier they had known. “It will not be long now. Tomorrow, isn’t it?”
De Russe stood there, looking at her, before sighing faintly. He ignored her question. “I have heard of your troubles,” he said. “But I was told that your gowns were taken from you and you were given male clothing to wear. You were forced to break your promise and recant your confession because of it. Is this true?”
The Maid lowered her gaze. “Who has told you this?”
