Eight priests came in with Cauchon the next day. None of them had been there since last Thursday, and they all stopped short, even Cauchon, when they saw her. The Dominican friar Isambart de la Pierre turned away in tears.
She put her hand to her face gingerly. She knew it was bad.
Cauchon cleared his throat. “You are in men’s clothing.”
She: “Yes, I took them recently.”
Cauchon: “Who made you do it?”
She: “No one. I took them willingly, without any constraint.”
Cauchon: “Why?”
She: “I like them better.”
Cauchon: “You swore not to take them.”
She: “You swore to put me in a Church prison. But it is more licit that I wear men’s clothes here, among men.”
Cauchon: “Have you heard your so-called voices since Thursday, when you abjured them?”
A question both leading and fatal, and they all knew it. There was a pause, and then she said, “Yes.”
Cauchon breathed. “What did they say?”
She: “They brought me God’s pity for the treason I committed to save my life. But Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret have told me that I damn my soul this way.”
The priests looked up. It was done now. The scribe wrote “RESPONSIO MORTIFERA”—fatal response—in big letters in the margin. She watched the quill: Yes, write. I don’t read, but I don’t have to.
She: “They told me to be brave, and answer boldly, for the preacher that day was a false one, and when he said that I hadn’t been sent by God, that was a lie, for God sent me. I was damning my soul, and my saints came, and told me to confess my sin, for they understood that I did it all from fear of the fire.”
Cauchon: “Yet you denied your saints on the scaffold.”
She: “It was because I saw the executioner there, with his cart. I didn’t know, after that, what I was doing, but now I know I’d rather die once than suffer any more in here. And I’ll never deny God or my saints again.”
Joan of Arc stood before them, radiant again.
Liar, said Girl X to her silently.
Maybe, said Joan of Arc, maybe at first.
The priests stood, silent. No one moved, or even seemed to breathe.
“Well?” Cauchon said finally to them. “Anything to say?”
But there was nothing. “Then let us go.”
Still, they didn’t move. They stood there, like choirboys, like newborn babes. Isambart looked like he was going to be sick.
Cauchon wanted to kick him, all of them. “We have our work.” Idiots! He nodded to one of the guards, and the brute let them out at once, with no unpleasantness. Good. These days, one no longer knew.
Cauchon didn’t look back at Joan of Arc as he left. Why look back, when he was looking forward? Soon he would be archbishop of Rouen, with all this behind him. Winchester had promised.
He walked out of the castle and spied Warwick there, waiting.
“Be of good cheer!” called Cauchon, loud enough for everyone to hear, as he crossed the few steps to his English colleague. “We’ve got her!”
Warwick gave the barest nod. Everyone knew that the girl was back in pants. The question now was how much longer these Frenchmen could dither. “When?” asked Warwick.
Right away, said Cauchon. There was one small formality that they’d take care of tomorrow, Tuesday, and they could burn her the next day. Wednesday. First thing.
Warwick didn’t smile at his former friend, but he dispatched a military escort to see him home. Cauchon was relieved. They all knew the streets wouldn’t be safe until after the burning. A group of his priests had been chased to the Seine and nearly drowned by English soldiers. Several had already fled Rouen.
“Farowelle!” Cauchon called gaily now, in English to Warwick. Bad English—Massieu, who was lingering there outside the castle, looked up.
“Farowelle, my lord!” Yes, Cauchon’s lord, thought Massieu.
“It’s done now! Be happy!” called Cauchon.
Is there a God? Massieu wondered, as Cauchon hurried off with his military escort.