Philippa Gregory - The Lady of the Rivers

By the same author

The Cousins War

The White Queen

The Red Queen

History

The Women of the Cousins War:
The Duchess, the Queen and the Kings Mother

The Tudor Court Novels
The Constant Princess
The Other Boleyn Girl
The Boleyn Inheritance
The Queens Fool
The Virgins Lover
The Other Queen

Historical Novels
The Wise Woman
Fallen Skies
A Respectable Trade

The Wideacre Trilogy
Wideacre
The Favoured Child
Meridon

Civil War Novels
Earthly Joys
Virgin Earth

Modern Novels
Mrs Hartley and the Growth Centre
Perfectly Correct
The Little House
Zeldas Cut

Short Stories
Bread and Chocolate

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2011
A CBS COMPANY

Copyright Philippa Gregory, 2011 This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
and 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved. The right of Philippa Gregory to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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WC1X 8HB www.simonandschuster.co.uk Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library. ISBN HB 978-1-84737-459-2
ISBN TPB 978-1-84737-460-8
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85720-430-1 Typeset by M Rules
Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

For Victoria

THE
LADY OF THE
RIVERS

CONTENTS

CASTLE OF BEAUREVOIR, NEAR ARRAS,
FRANCE, SUMMERWINTER 1430

She sits, this odd trophy of war, as neat as an obedient child, on a small stool in the corner of her cell. At her feet are the remains of her dinner on a pewter platter, laid on the straw. I notice that my uncle has sent good slices of meat, and even the white bread from his own table; but she has eaten little. I find I am staring at her, from her boys riding boots to the mans bonnet crammed on her brown cropped hair, as if she were some exotic animal, trapped for our amusement, as if someone had sent a lion cub all the way from Ethiopia to entertain the great family of Luxembourg, for us to keep in our collection. A lady behind me crosses herself and whispers, Is this a witch?

I dont know. How does one ever know?

This is ridiculous, my great-aunt says boldly. Who has ordered the poor girl to be chained? Open the door at once.

There is a confused muttering of men trying to shift the responsibility, and then someone turns the big key in the cell door and my great-aunt stalks in. The girl she must be about seventeen or eighteen, only a few years older than me looks up from under her jagged fringe of hair as my great-aunt stands before her, and then slowly she rises to her feet, doffs her cap, and gives an awkward little bow.

I am the Lady Jehanne, the Demoiselle of Luxembourg, my great-aunt says. This is the castle of Lord John of Luxem bourg. She gestures to my aunt: This is his wife, the lady of the castle, Jehanne of Bethune, and this is my great-niece Jacquetta.

The girl looks steadily at all of us and gives a nod of her head to each. As she looks at me I feel a little tap-tap for my attention, as palpable as the brush of a fingertip on the nape of my neck, a whisper of magic. I wonder if standing behind her there are indeed two accompanying angels, as she claims, and it is their presence that I sense.

Can you speak, Maid? my great-aunt asks, when the girl says nothing.

Oh yes, my lady, the girl replies in the hard accent of the Champagne region. I realise that it is true what they say about her: she is no more than a peasant girl, though she has led an army and crowned a king.

Will you give me your word not to escape if I have these chains taken off your legs?

She hesitates, as if she were in any position to choose. No, I cant.

My great-aunt smiles. you understand the offer of parole? I can release you to live with us here in my nephews castle; but you have to promise not to run away.

The girl turns her head, frowning. It is almost as if she is listening for advice, then she shakes her head. I know this parole. It is when one knight makes a promise to another. They have rules as if they were jousting. Im not like that. My words are real, not like a troubadours poem. And this is no game for me.

Maid: parole is not a game! Aunt Jehanne interrupts.

The girl looks at her. Oh, but it is, my lady. The noblemen are not serious about these matters. Not serious like me. They play at war and make up rules. They ride out and lay waste to good peoples farms and laugh as the thatched roofs burn. Besides, I cannot make promises. I am promised already.

To the one who wrongly calls himself the King of France?

To the King of Heaven.

My great-aunt pauses for a moments thought. I will tell them to take the chains off you and guard you so that you do not escape; and then you can come and sit with us in my rooms. I think what you have done for your country and for your prince has been very great, Joan, though mistaken. And I will not see you here, under my roof, a captive in chains.

Will you tell your nephew to set me free?

My great-aunt hesitates. I cannot order him; but I will do everything I can to send you back to your home. At any event, I wont let him release you to the English.

At the very word the girl shudders and makes the sign of the cross, thumping her head and her chest in the most ridiculous way, as a peasant might cross himself at the name of Old Hob. I have to choke back a laugh. This draws the girls dark gaze to me.

They are only mortal men, I explain to her. The English have no powers beyond that of mortal men. You need not fear them so. You need not cross yourself at their name.

I dont fear them. I am not such a fool as to fear that they have powers. Its not that. Its that they know that I have powers. Thats what makes them such a danger. They are mad with fear of me. They fear me so much that they will destroy me the moment I fall into their hands. I am their terror. I am their fear that walks by night.

While I live, they wont have you, my great-aunt assures her; and at once, unmistakably, Joan looks straight at me, a hard dark gaze as if to see that I too have heard, in this sincere assertion, the ring of an utterly empty promise.

My great-aunt believes that if she can bring Joan into our company, talk with her, cool her religious fervour, perhaps educate her, then the girl will be led, in time, to wear the dress of a young woman, and the fighting youth who was dragged off the white horse at Compigne will be transformed, like Mass reversed, from strong wine into water, and she will become a young woman who can be seated among waiting women, who will answer to a command and not to the ringing church bells, and will then, perhaps, be overlooked by the English, who are demanding that we surrender the hermaphrodite murderous witch to the we have nothing to offer them but a remorseful obedient maid in waiting, perhaps they will be satisfied and go on their violent way.

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