When you dare to commit to your deepest desires, your heart grows to accommodate the task at hand, no matter how daunting -The Archangel Michael For Joan of Arc, her challenge was surviving in a man's world of the fifteenth century. For Jane Archer, a twenty-first-century West Point cadet, not much has changed in nearly six centuries. When Joan pierces the fragile veil of time to share the wisdom she received from the Archangel Michael with Jane, both women embark on a mission that will change the course of history. With only eleven days left to live, Joan must take yet another leap of faith, surrender to the guidance of Archangel Michael, and set the record straight to ensure those in the future know the truth. She challenges Jane to find the courage she needs to expose a cultural crime that has been disempowering women for centuries. In the process, both must learn to trust their own inner guidance. As one of the greatest heroines of all time, Joan of Arc seeks to awaken the heroine in every woman.
Return of the Heroine
A NovelBy Kaye MichelleBalboa Press
Copyright © 2012 Kaye Michelle
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4525-6279-7Chapter One
Rouen, France MONDAY, MAY 20, 1431
My tattered silk cape, an extravagant gift from my king at a time when I held his favor, offered little protection against the biting cold. Tiny snowflakes swirled on the wind, seeming like they would never land, cloaking the town in a white shroud, and blew into the carriage in drifts. Each lacy flake, fragile, yet when massed with others of its kind could halt armies and kill without reservation.
I witnessed this snowfall from the deceptive protection of a covered carriage as it transported me to an English prison on French soil. I was at the mercy of an element more powerful and frightening—human fear.
By the time we rumbled across the drawbridge and pulled into the inner courtyard of Bouvreuil, the Earl of Warwick's castle, in Rouen, a layer of snow covered the roads, roofs, and the top of every exposed surface, including the heads and shoulders of the men who rode as guards beside my carriage.
The bishop's dry droning voice interrupted my memories of my last days breathing fresh air and pulled me reluctantly from the padded seat of the cold carriage back to the hard wood chair in the courtroom. Through the lattice mullioned windows behind the bishop, I watched a tree sway greenery back and forth. It was the middle of May, usually a time for hope and new opportunities.
I should have run back then. I would have made it to safety under the cover of the falling snow. For the hundredth time memories of the last few moments of relative freedom rolled around in my mind and served as an escape from the misery of the present moment. Experiencing a little cold and hunger then would have been preferable to the events of the subsequent five months in this prison.
"Jehanne d'Arc." Bishop Cauchon's voice boomed and echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "I command you to swear oath and relate the truth of all subjects asked of you."
Heat rushed to my face. Frustration simmered through my veins. I let my gaze rake around the castle's main chamber. Priests, monks, and learned clergy from the University of Paris, fifty or so of them, sat on platforms placed in a U-formation. Most were draped in the scarlet robes of the church, while a few wore humble brown garments of the monks. This wall of clergy appeared as daunting to me as the entire English army. Quill-armed scribes held their feathers aloft waiting to record my words.
I wondered if the bishop would allow my every word to be recorded, or if he, out of fear, had instructed the scribes to strike those truths opposing those of the superstitious and power-hungry clergy. It was more likely that they rewrote each word so that I would appear to be confessing to the church's manufactured claims, heresy being their main argument. I stood in the middle of the U-shaped sea of red, shackled at my wrists and ankles, guards to my left, right, and behind, and fully understood the enormity of this injustice. I attempted to keep emotion from my voice and answered, "I repeat, as far as my revelations are concerned, I will tell you nothing."
The bishop's voice rose with unchecked fury. "Swear to tell the truth."
"Watch what you, who claim to be my earthly judge, undertake, for you assume a terrible responsibility on yourself. You presume too far. I have taken the oath daily. That is enough," I bellowed and slammed my chained fist onto my thigh.
Bishop Cauchon won the politically prestigious task, appointed by the English and Burgundians, those Frenchmen loyal to the English, of giving me a full trial. My trial was overseen by the University of Paris, whose loyalty lay with the King of England, while its members tripped over each other to be recognized and given political and financial rewards. Bishop Cauchon himself would benefit by being given the honor of the highest bishopric and lands befitting his new office.
Cauchon's face turned as crimson as his robe, and he began to shake with fury. Several other priests and judges hurled threats at me. They could not comprehend that I was a woman claiming to communicate directly with God's agents, the angels. Their myopic view of the world held no room for a young woman capable of leading men into battle. And there was certainly no room in their limited minds for a young peasant woman, dressing as a man, to succeed at reviving the fading embers of hope within the hearts and minds of the people of France. Before I was captured, people would rush from their homes and line the streets to see me ride by on horseback. I must humbly say that it was their country and God they honored, not me. I hope God's record books will indicate that I acted only from my faith in the desires of my divine counsel and never did I act for personal gain. In fact, I did not feel at all comfortable with the pomp and parades. I would much rather remain in the shadows and lead a quiet farm life like my family did, but God had other plans for me, which I honored as best as I could.
Gesturing with his short arms in fur-trimmed sleeves, the bishop stormed, "You will suffer instant condemnation if you refuse to take the oath."
"All the clergy in France could not condemn me," I shouted back at him proudly; I would not be bullied or tormented by a priest. "I completed a mission authorized by God. My wish is to return to Him. I am finished here."
Bishop Beaupre, older and more austere than chubby, yellow-jowled Cauchon, interjected in an attempt to break up the battle between us. "When was your last meal?"
"Midday yesterday," I answered flatly. I was not sure why this sudden concern about my diet. They only wanted to keep me alive so that they could make a public spectacle of me and burn me in the market.
Bishop Beaupre cleared his throat, glanced at Cauchon, who nodded assent to him, and asked, "Do you think you are in a state of grace?"
The entire castle hall went quiet. Scribes held their quills at the ready.
I had not even a counselor assigned to assist me in this farcical trial. I realized that only a situation as absurd as this would be created by God for some reason beyond my simple understanding, so I honestly answered, "It is God's affair whether or not I am in a state of grace. With all humility, it is my wish to be in God's grace ... always. For I would be most unhappy if I were not." God's opinion of me was a serious matter. Nothing mattered more.
A great uproar broke out within the hall. A number of priests smiled at me, surprised, while others gesticulated vehemently and argued among themselves.
"She's a witch," one of the priests cried.
Archangel Michael, one of my three guardian angels, whispered in my ear, as he did frequently, offering counsel and instruction when I needed it. His presence, more important to me than bread and water, always offered an insight to the situation at hand. Dearest Jehanne, the question was a scholarly trap. According to church doctrine, no one could be certain of being in God's grace. If you answered yes, then you would have convicted yourself of heresy. If you answered no, then you would have confessed to your own guilt. Well said.
When the noise within the hall quieted, I added calmly, "Were my intentions not of a pure heart, I don't believe my heavenly voices would come to me." I paused, feeling emotion rise within me, then continued, "I wish that everyone could hear them—the voices—as well as I do myself." I added, "I have greater fear of failing my voices, in saying...
