The Death Of Joan Of Arc by Michael Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

time he thought of the condemned girl, he was reminded of her.
    In the distance, close to the edge of the forest, birds fluttered up into the morning sky, circled and then disappeared south.
    William stared straight ahead, remaining perfectly still. Every archer knew that peripheral vision often revealed things that were otherwise missed. Something had startled the birds, something unusual—otherwise they would have settled back into the trees.
    The big man turned his face slowly. The wind from the south was warm, scented with the rich growth of the forest, the hint of exotic flowers, the suggestion of vines. Closing his mouth and his eyes, he breathed in. If there were men massed under the distant trees, he should be able to smell their rank odor: a mixture of sweat, stinking clothes, rusting armor and horseflesh. There was nothing.
    William relaxed his shoulders. If there was anyone there—and he was beginning to doubt it now—then it was a small force or a few individuals. They were no threat. He rubbed his hands down the length of his longbow. He had been an archer all his life and he could fire between ten and twelve shots in a minute and hit everything he aimed at. There were thirty arrows in the quiver on his hip and at least a dozen archers on the wall behind him. They could lay down a withering rain of arrows. Nothing would survive.
    Behind him he heard the crowd start to chant. “Witch … witch … witch …”
    William shivered. Dying in battle was a hazard every soldier faced, and this young woman, this Joan, had fought gallantly. She deserved to die a soldier’s death, not to meet this terrible end she’d been condemned to suffer.
    From the corner of his eye, William caught the flicker of motion. In one fluid movement, he drew an arrow and nocked it to the bowstring. “Someone’s coming!” he shouted. Behind him, he heard the two guards scramble into position.
    “I don’t see anyone …,” the Dutch guard began.
    “There!” Thomas said.
    “I see it,” another guard, high on the wall, shouted. “A single rider, moving fast …”
    William’s eyesight had always been excellent. He could see the most distant objects with absolute clarity, though his close vision was often blurry. He turned to look at the shape. It was a single rider wearing unusual black and white armor that had gone out of fashion decades ago. The lone rider, who looked slender even beneath the metal and leather armor, was sitting astride a huge black horse. Metal plates, the same color as the knight’s armor, protected the horse, so that it was difficult to distinguish between the rider and the animal.
    “How many?” he called up to the guard on the wall.
    “One. Just one.”
    “No one follows?”
    “No one.”
    “Any banners or flags?”
    “None.”
    William raised his bow and drew back the bowstring and waited for the rider to draw a little closer. He would loose the arrow in an arc that would direct it right into the center of the knight’s chest. The arrow’s heavy metal bodkin tip was designed to punch through a knight’s metal armor.
    “Is it an attack?” the Dutchman asked, coming out from the gate to stand beside the English archer. “It cannot be an attack. There is just one,” he said, answering his own question. Then he leaned forward and shaded his eyes with his hands. “Is that a girl?”
    “It is a girl,” William whispered. He had just come to the same conclusion. Initially, he’d thought it might be a cape or a scarf, but now that the rider had drawn closer, he saw the mane of fiery red hair that streamed out behind her. Squinting against the light, he saw that she was not carrying a shield, nor was she holding the reins. She was clutching a long, slightly curved sword in each hand.
    William raised his bow, drew the string back to his chin and loosed the arrow in one elegant movement. He didn’t care who the rider was—but she was galloping toward him on a heavily armored horse, so she