Page 316 of Historical Hotties
He took a long, deep breath. “I am fearful of standing before God and telling him that I did not do all I could to help you, as a servant of God,” he said. “I have done many things in my life that would warrant me a prime place in Hell, but this… if I do not try to help you in your final hour, I fear that even Hell will not be good enough for me.”
The Maid shook her head firmly. “De Russe, listen to me,” she said. “Tomorrow, I will meet God and I will tell him how good you have been to me. He will know of your grace, I swear it. But you must understand that I was never meant to live a long and good life. I am like a shooting star, quick to flare brightly and strongly, and quick to burn away. Soon, I will burn away. As for you going to Hell, I can assure you that is not the case. God has great things in store for you, my friend, happiness such as you cannot imagine. You have been a good and true servant, de Russe, and you have been kind to me when you did not have to be. You will be rewarded.”
He grunted. “Is that a hope or a prediction?”
“It is a promise,” she assured him softly. “Will you do something for me, then?”
De Russe sighed heavily. “You know I will.”
The Maid’s expression tightened somewhat, belying her fear of what was to come no matter how she tried to convince him otherwise. “Tomorrow when I meet God,” she whispered. “Will you be there?”
De Russe hung his head. He found he couldn’t look at her any longer. He could hear the terror in her voice and it hit him in the gut, squarely, like a punch. He could hardly breathe, knowing what pain this gentle, pious girl would suffer on the morrow.
“Aye,” he mumbled.
“Good,” she replied, struggling to brighten. “Then I have nothing to fear. I… I want your face to be the last one I see upon this earth. Will you do this for me? Will you let me see you?”
He closed his eyes tightly, briefly, struggling against great rage and sorrow at the injustice of it all. “Aye,” he replied quietly. “If you wish it.”
The Maid struggled to move off the bed. She wasn’t eating these days and was very weak, but she managed to climb off the bed. Stiffly, she moved towards de Russe, a skinny slip of a girl who had once carried the hopes of a country upon those skinny shoulders. As she went to stand before de Russe, barely coming up to his chest in height, she put a small, cold hand on his forearm.
“St. Michael told me once that he would bring someone to help me in my need,” she said. “He never told me who, or where, but I believe he meant you. Do you not understand, de Russe? God has sent you here to be with me in my final hours and bring me comfort. Moreover, you must do something else for me.”
De Russe gazed down at that dark little head. “You only need ask.”
The Maid looked up at him with her dark, hollow eyes, but there was fire there. Fire that could have only come from a heavenly source.
“You must take whatever remains of me and transport it with you to England,” she said softly. “St. Michael says I am to be buried in Hampshire at Winchester Cathedral because it is Beaufort’s church. Do you know it?”
She was speaking of Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, who had been one of her chief inquisitors. The man had been brutal and unfair. Not coincidentally, he was also half-brother to the Duke of Bedford and the Duke of Gloucester. De Russe pondered her question for a moment.
“I do,” he finally said. “Winchester is a great cathedral.”
“Will you take me there?”
He stared at her, rather perplexed. “You have never even been to England,” he said. “Why must you be buried there?”
The Maid’s expression lightened and her pale cheeks seemed to take on some color. “Because God has made a promise to me,” she said. “He said that I was meant to become a martyr for France. You must take me to Winchester and before Michaelmas, I shall make my presence known to the English, in death as I once did in life. Before St. Michael’s holy feast day I shall reveal myself to those who condemned me to die.”
De Russe was looking at her with a mixture of doubt and confusion. “Are you to be resurrected, then?”
The Maid shook her head. “Nay,” she replied. “Not resurrected. That shall never be. But St. Michael said I should know my vindication only after death.”
“Before Michaelmas?”
The Maid nodded, eyeing de Russe with a faintly amused expression. “You do not believe me?” she asked. Then, she shrugged. “I knew no one would. Why do you think I did not tell the ecclesiastical court this? But I will tell you because I know you will trust me even if you do not believe me. Whatever is left of me, de Russe, you must make sure it is taken to Winchester.”
De Russe continued to look at her, that small woman who had thrown two countries into turmoil. He was pensive in his response. “If I do this,” he said quietly, “I could be considered a traitor. Bedford already knows I am sympathetic towards you but he has no grounds to act against me. If I do this for you… it will give him grounds. Surely you realize that.”
The Maid nodded. “I do,” she said. “But you only just offered to let me escape again. Would that not be the same thing? Giving Bedford grounds to act against you?”
He shook his head. “That would be different,” he said. “Turning my back and allowing you to run off does not meanthat I have physically helped you to escape. I did not carry you out of here to take you somewhere. It would merely be aiding your cause by lack of action, which would be less difficult to prove. But if I were to carry your remains to Winchester… that, demoiselle, would indeed be physically aiding you.”
She cocked her head, thoughtfully. “And you do not want to be a traitor to your country much as I would not want to be a traitor to mine?”
“Something like that.”
The Maid nodded her head. “I do understand that, truly,” she said. “But I would not ask this of you if it was not important.”
