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      Vigil of the Feast of St Michael

      In the first year of the reign of Richard II

      (Wednesday 28th September 1379)

      The Black Prince’s victory at Poitiers had crippled French pride and determination. Not only had the cursed English ground French pride into the mud, but King John had been captured, and the flower of French nobility had been lost to either the arrows of English longbowmen or the ransom demands of English nobles.

      And then, out of all of this calamity, God in His boundless goodness sent hope to the virtuous French in the sweet form of the miraculous virgin, Joan, and judgement to the vile English in the simultaneous deaths of both Edward III and his warrior son, the Black Prince.

      At the darkest day, when the French were stricken with defeat, God had opened the door for a Gallic triumph.

      Now, Isabeau de Bavière was determined to slam it shut in His face.

      “And so, my darling boy,” Isabeau said, enjoying every moment, “I did so sign away your heritage and your throne. It was but truth, and I was bound to speak it some day. Here,” and she held out the copy of the Treaty of Westminster to Charles, who stared at it pallid-faced and tormented.

      Isabeau stood there with her arm extended just long enough to make the moment intensely uncomfortable, then she let the treaty flutter to the floor.

      “Well,” she said, “no matter.”

      She stepped past her son and smiled maliciously at the gathering standing behind Charles in the hall of la Roche-Guyon. “Why the surprise over all your faces? Have you not called me the harlot and whore behind my back for decades? Well, now I confess it.” Isabeau threw apart her arms in a dramatic gesture. “I am so the whore and harlot! ‘Twas indeed the Master of Hawks—oh, how I wish I could remember his name!—who put Charles inside me with his peasantish vigour and odious onion breath. And … see!”

      Isabeau clasped her hands together before her face, and turned back to Charles as if enthralled by the very sight of him. “Has my son not inherited his father’s penchant for the stables? I swear before God he’d be far more comfortable atop a dung heap than standing in this grand hall. And … see!”

      Now Isabeau whipped about and stared at the girl, Joan, standing thick and dark in men’s clothing to one side.

      “Has he not also inherited his father’s taste for peasant company? His companion betrays him, for my son prefers the stench of peasants to the sweet spice of nobility.”

      Charles’ face was now so white that he looked as if he might faint. In contrast to bloodless cheeks, his pale blue eyes were brilliant, brimming with tears of mortification.

      His mother, his hateful mother, had never so publicly, nor so successfully, humiliated him. All those whispered rumours now being flung into his face with a devastating, ruthless candour.

      He was the son of a peasant—how could anyone now gainsay it?

      His eyes jerked to the treaty lying on the floor. All France—and England!—must be laughing at him. He trembled, and started to wring his hands. Every argument Joan had used to sustain his courage was lying on the floor along with that treaty … lying on the floor with his whore-dam’s laughter washing over it!

      “Madam,” Joan said, glancing at Charles as she stepped forth. Her face was serene, but her demeanour was that of the stern judge. “It is you, not your noble son, who produces the stench in this hall. You lie for profit, and to further your own ambitions. Before God, you know it was Louis who fathered Charles on you. Admit it, or damn your soul.”

      Isabeau’s haughty expression froze on her face. Her eyes widened, her mouth pinched, and her hands clenched at her sides.

      She tried to stare Joan down, but the girl’s serene, confident gaze did not waver, and eventually it was Isabeau who looked away.

      She saw that Charles was gazing at Joan with an expression almost of fear.

      Useless, hopeless man, Isabeau thought. He wants nothing less than to believe me, not Joan. To believe Joan would mean he might actually have to do something about regaining his realm. No doubt he thought it would never go this far.

      “Look at him,” said Isabeau softly. “How can anyone here believe he was sired by a noble father? He is the very image of wretchedness. How can you want him as your king?”

      Having regained some of her courage, Isabeau looked back to Joan, who she saw was still wrapped in her damned self-righteous serenity.

      “I swear to God, Joan,” Isabeau said, “that he must give you good satisfaction in your bedsport, for I cannot imagine why else you champion the cause of such a dullard.”

      Joan smiled very slightly, very derisively, but it was Charles who finally found some voice.

      “I have not touched her, madam!” he said, his voice horribly shrill. “Her flesh is sacred … I … I would not dare to touch her.”

      “Are you telling me you haven’t slept with her?” Isabeau said, arching one of her eyebrows. “What ails you, boy?”

      Charles’s hitherto wan cheeks now mottled with colour, his flush deepening as he saw every eye in the hall upon him.

      His mother’s mouth curled mockingly.

      “You must surely be weary after your journey,” Charles stammered, desperate to get her out of his presence. “Perhaps you should rest before our evening meal. Philip!”

      Philip, King of Navarre, stepped forth from the huddle of nobles who had stood and watched open-mouthed through the entire scene. His dark, handsome face was reflective, but he smiled and bowed before Isabeau with the utmost courtesy.

      “Perhaps you could provide my mother with escort to her chamber,” Charles said, and Philip smiled, and offered Isabeau his arm.

      “Gladly,” he said.

      As they left the hall Joan turned to Charles. “My very good lord,” she whispered urgently, “you must not believe what she says.”

      “I am the get of a peasant,” he mumbled miserably, then looked around. “See? They all believe it!”

      “The Lord our God says that you are the get of kings!” Joan said, exasperated with the witless man.

      “I am worthless … worthless …”

      Joan laid her hand on his arm—an unheard of familiarity, and not missed by some who watched—and leaned close. “You are the man who will lead France to victory against the cursed English,” she said, her tone low and compelling. “Believe it.”

      Charles sniffed, staring at her, then looked about the hall.

      One of the nobles stepped forth—Gilles de Noyes. “You are our very dear lord,” he said, and made a sweeping bow, “and we will follow you wherever you go. We know that your mother lies, for does not the saint by your side tell us so?”

      One by one the others stepped forward and made