Femme de Ménage

Her chestnut locks whipped around her rather masculine face as she fought to keep

her composure. She knew that her people were in trouble. In dire need of saving from

that horrible tyrant. Black death -- scorched Earth, laying to ruins the country that she so

loved. To have escaped from the clutches of one mad man only to be thrust into the

arms of an amoral cretin was too much for her to bear. She simply had to do something.

She couldn’t just sit idly by while her people starved. How could she call herself a proud

French Nationalist if she just did nothing?

They think her insipid and dull. It is true that she cannot read nor write, but she is

capable of independent thoughts. Farmers are not as simple as the bourgeoisie would

have you believe. Would Saints choose to show themselves to a dullard? She was special.

Saint Michel, Sainte Catherine, and Sainte Marguerite didn’t have time to waste on fools

who could not get the job done. Charles was what the country needed, and she was the

only one who could get him where he needed to be.

A Valkyrie riding into battle, commanding men some older, some wiser, but none

as brave or as valiant as she. She would forever be held in the hearts of her people as a

martyr for a cause that they held so dear -- the idea of France. As she sits in her cell, tried

and convicted of a crime that is as outrageous as her claims were. Sitting in a dank,

dreary pit of despair. She is bereft with the notion that she has not only failed her people,

she has also failed her country. She meant to do so much more to help, but in the end,

she just wasn’t as strong as they thought she was. She once believed that she could be the

saviour that they so desperately needed -- now she wasn’t sure if she was capable of even

saving herself.

Her belief was so steadfast in the fact that she was doing God’s work had made her

so certain that she would prevail. However, it turned out that Lucifer was strong in the

hearts of her opponents. She was ashamed to say that he turned out to be stronger here

than God’s will. No, she took that back -- God’s will would prevail, but for that to

happen she had to be made an example of. If Christ could endure all of that suffering for

his people to live, then surely, she could do the same. She was no son of God, but she

was one of his pupils, and she would do this one small thing that He asked of her. Just as

she was about to fall into the sleep that only one who had made peace with their fate

could be capable of, she heard the whisperings of an Angel.

“Mademoiselle.”

Her ears pricked up at the breeze that she thought called to her. Unremarkable eyes

attempting to adjust to the dim light that was beginning to grow dimmer as the sun

began to set on the night before her execution. No, she must have misheard. As she lay

herself down upon a hard cot, she could hear the unmistakable footfalls of another

human being make their fruitive way down the prison corridors.

“Who’s there?” She attempted to sound as if she weren’t terrified. No words cried

out to her in the dark hallway, only the sure-footed steps of a man possessed by the

certainty that they were about to do something significant in the history of mankind. She

was chilled by this realization. She was chilled by the cold fact that she was to meet her

doom by the rising of the sun, and there was nothing that could be done to alter that fact

of this she was sure.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, it is true what they say! You are in fact resigned to this dismal

fate that they would lead you to!” An amused rather plain faced man’s eyes twinkled

down at her through her prison. His voice sounded rather familiar, but she could not

place it. However, something told her to trust it.

“And why would I have reason to feel otherwise, Monsieur?” She averted his steel-

eyed gaze at once. He grimaced at the reasonableness of her statement, but only

elaborated on why he had come to visit her on a night where surely, she deserved to be

afforded some time alone in contemplation.

“We must act in haste, or at least I shall be permitted to speak plainly as for you to

understand the urgency of the matter at hand.” His words had her hoping that she was

not entirely lost.

“Désolé Monsieur, but have we met?”

“No, not strictly speaking. But I am a friend of Gilles.” He caught that look of

relief and clarity flash in her otherwise dull haggard eyes. He knew that mentioning his

mentor’s name would have the desired effect. She must be saved, at all costs. If he were

to burn in her place, then… That would have to be the price he would have to pay. It

was not too steep a price to pay to ensure the prosperity of France.

“Then we must act quickly!” A fire seemed to have been lit from within her. She

was at once revived in her initial unwavering purpose. He could see it flush up in her

face, and he was at once relieved to witness it. It meant that hope had once again been

restored. He nodded. He whispered his plan through the oppressive bars that held within

them the saviour of their people. When she would look back on this day, (and she often

would with the fondness one reserves for such treasured moments as the birth of a child)

she could not help but think of that earnest young man and all that he was willing to

sacrifice.

Their plan had worked like a charm. It had the desired effect, the powers that be

thought she had perished along with France’s dreams of a better future where all men

were truly treated with respect and dignity no matter their station in life. It was so simple

when one stopped to think about it. Her only regret had been that she was made to lay

in the shadows and pull the strings from afar. She kept reminding herself that she had

not survived to be recognized and congratulated, for her triumphs were seen in the eyes

of the poor and down trodden.

Her eyes were sufficiently wild and remorseful as they led her to what would be her

final stand.

“Burn her!”

“Let the Witch burn! She is no saviour to us!”

It hurt her to no end to hear those words spewed from the mouths of those who she had

sworn to protect. As she smiled at them through their insults, she was consumed by the

notion that she would get through this. She had faith. He had told her to let go. Let go

of all the fear. Let go of all the doubt. Trust in Him. These were the thoughts – the

emotions that were fluttering through her head as she let the crowd’s hate wash over her.

Their hate was a living breathing thing. However, it was not all hate that was emanating

from the crowd. She also felt fear and anguish. She felt sorrow and remorse.

‘Forgive them Lord, for they know not what they do,’ she thought. Those words

spoken by an honest, God fearing, forgiving man brought her tranquility.

“Any last words, Witch?” He spat as he sneered the last word. She smiled down at

the people of France who had come to witness her demise.

“L’espoir est eternal!” Her words brought tears to the eyes of some disgusted

guffaws from others. As the spark was lit her body convulsed in anticipation. She waited

to be engulfed in flame. As the fires consumed her, crackling. She remembered to writhe

in pain and put on a show of anguish and torture. Her torturous cries made even the

hardest of hearts turn into mush. It was a show, for she did not feel anything, but peace.

As the smoke surrounded her, she could not be seen by the mob any longer. She looked

up at the smiling face of the Angel Gabriel and was at once surrounded by the

knowledge that everything was going to be okay.

August 1432

The sun shone down on the little cathedral, bringing with it not only heat, but also

happiness. The plump little hand that the woman held in hers was sticky with sweat. He

wriggled in her grasp, the heat making him sleepy. He pulled at his tie.

“Why do I have to wear this dumb thing!” He bemoaned. The woman,

(presumably his mother) gave him a look that was meant to silence him. When he

opined his undeserved fate once more at a higher decibel, she audibly shushed him. This

made the young lady sitting behind them take notice.

“Awww, the little monsieur has a point there madame. God doesn’t care how you

dress when you are in His house to pray in His name.” The young haggard mother

sighed in defeat.

“I guess you are right mademoiselle.”

“We not need be so formal call me Joan.”