dropped her bowl of porridge on the floor when she saw them. A cold rush shot through her bowels. "Father!" cried Thérèse, jumping up. "What an honor!" But Jehanne knew it was no honor they'd come to do her.
Jehanne knew the curate. She'd confessed to him every morning for the last two months. She knew his thick, pale hands with the swollen red knuckles, knew the sight of them placing the wafer,
Body of Christ,
on her tongue, holding the silver communion cup as she drank,
Blood of Christ,
wiping the rim with the white linen cloth afterward. But the curate did not seem to know her now. He looked at her with cold, righteous eyes. As if he were looking down upon her from a very great distance. As if he had never seen her before in his life.
"We have business with Jehanne," Sir Robert said to Thérèse. "Leave us, this is private."
The curate turned to the boy, spoke quietly, words she could not hear. The boy set his sack down on the table and took out a gold bowl wrapped in flannel and a small glass bottle of water. He set the bowl down on the table, poured some water into it, and lifted it toward the curate with both hands.
Jehanne stood up. "Don't do that. I won't be part of it."
Metz had warned her that an exorcism was likely, but she had not believed it.
They wouldn't,
she thought.
Not to me.
But the curate was walking toward her now, holding the bowl out in front of him, murmuring Latin. "
Ecce Crucem Domini, fugite partes adversae ...
"
Jehanne stepped backward. "Father, do not do this," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"Can't be sending a witch to meet the King, can we?" said Sir Robert.
Her pride rose up then, a spiky black animal waking inside her, screeching. That they could think she was from the Devil, that anyone might imagine her a witch ... she started toward the priest. "You know I'm not a witch, Father. I've confessed to you every day for the last two months."
"Witches are often excellent liars," said Sir Robert.
The curate continued. "I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God—"
"Please, Father," said Jehanne, kneeling down at the curate's feet, pressing her face against his shins, her heart roaring in her chest. "You know there is no unclean spirit in me."
But the curate was in a trance, chanting his holy words. "By the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign of your name, and the day and hour of your departure. I command you, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who am minister of God despite my unworthiness—"
"Father!"
"... nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions."
She was clutching the curate's legs now, sobbing as she looked up at him. She knew what happened to those who were exorcised. Whether they found you to be a witch or not didn't matter. You were marked for life. A freak. An outcast. "I beg you."
Sir Robert stood with his lips pursed, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest. "Throw some water on her, Father. See what happens."
The curate lifted the gold bowl and dipped his fingers in the water. "We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders ..." He lifted his hand and flicked the water onto Jehanne. All eyes in the room, watching, waiting for her to go up in smoke.
But she did not go up in smoke. She only wept. "Oh, Jesus," she cried. "Help me, Jesus."
"Thus cursed dragon and you, diabolical legions—"
"All right, that's enough," said Sir Robert. "She's not a witch."
48
"I began to fear the Church that day," she says to Massieu in the monstrous darkness of the tower. "I still loved it, but I began to fear it too." A shadow went over her heart when she thought of it. The curate coming toward her in his
Jehanne knew the curate. She'd confessed to him every morning for the last two months. She knew his thick, pale hands with the swollen red knuckles, knew the sight of them placing the wafer,
Body of Christ,
on her tongue, holding the silver communion cup as she drank,
Blood of Christ,
wiping the rim with the white linen cloth afterward. But the curate did not seem to know her now. He looked at her with cold, righteous eyes. As if he were looking down upon her from a very great distance. As if he had never seen her before in his life.
"We have business with Jehanne," Sir Robert said to Thérèse. "Leave us, this is private."
The curate turned to the boy, spoke quietly, words she could not hear. The boy set his sack down on the table and took out a gold bowl wrapped in flannel and a small glass bottle of water. He set the bowl down on the table, poured some water into it, and lifted it toward the curate with both hands.
Jehanne stood up. "Don't do that. I won't be part of it."
Metz had warned her that an exorcism was likely, but she had not believed it.
They wouldn't,
she thought.
Not to me.
But the curate was walking toward her now, holding the bowl out in front of him, murmuring Latin. "
Ecce Crucem Domini, fugite partes adversae ...
"
Jehanne stepped backward. "Father, do not do this," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"Can't be sending a witch to meet the King, can we?" said Sir Robert.
Her pride rose up then, a spiky black animal waking inside her, screeching. That they could think she was from the Devil, that anyone might imagine her a witch ... she started toward the priest. "You know I'm not a witch, Father. I've confessed to you every day for the last two months."
"Witches are often excellent liars," said Sir Robert.
The curate continued. "I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God—"
"Please, Father," said Jehanne, kneeling down at the curate's feet, pressing her face against his shins, her heart roaring in her chest. "You know there is no unclean spirit in me."
But the curate was in a trance, chanting his holy words. "By the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign of your name, and the day and hour of your departure. I command you, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who am minister of God despite my unworthiness—"
"Father!"
"... nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions."
She was clutching the curate's legs now, sobbing as she looked up at him. She knew what happened to those who were exorcised. Whether they found you to be a witch or not didn't matter. You were marked for life. A freak. An outcast. "I beg you."
Sir Robert stood with his lips pursed, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest. "Throw some water on her, Father. See what happens."
The curate lifted the gold bowl and dipped his fingers in the water. "We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders ..." He lifted his hand and flicked the water onto Jehanne. All eyes in the room, watching, waiting for her to go up in smoke.
But she did not go up in smoke. She only wept. "Oh, Jesus," she cried. "Help me, Jesus."
"Thus cursed dragon and you, diabolical legions—"
"All right, that's enough," said Sir Robert. "She's not a witch."
48
"I began to fear the Church that day," she says to Massieu in the monstrous darkness of the tower. "I still loved it, but I began to fear it too." A shadow went over her heart when she thought of it. The curate coming toward her in his
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