The Saintess (3): A Bow Cannot Beat a Gun
A bow cannot beat a gun. In speed, range, destructive power, and rate of fire, guns overwhelm bows in every aspect. And above all….
Battlefield aura detected.
Napoleon's Rifle is unlocking its trait.
Grape Shot General Napoleon
Accuracy +60%
In my hands was a Unique-grade artifact.
Bang—!
The Napoleon's Rifle, its accuracy boosted by sixty percent, shot down the arrow aimed at Joan of Arc. The startled archer quickly nocked another, but—
Bang—!
The bullet punched straight through his forehead, sending him plummeting from the battlements.
In the time it took to draw a seventy-kilogram bow, I could have fired ten rounds from the rifle.
Bang—! Bang—! Bang—!
I eliminated every archer who posed a threat to Joan of Arc. Of course, arrows weren’t the only things targeting her.
“The saintess is over there!”
“Catch the saintess!”
The English army, realizing they couldn’t win without removing her, abandoned the walls entirely and charged straight at Joan of Arc. That wasn’t my concern, however. She had outstanding holy knights guarding her.
“Sir Gilles de Rais.”
“Worry not.”
A holy knight with a pale complexion stepped forward. Gilles de Rais—Joan of Arc’s most trusted knight and the tragic figure who would later fall into black magic after suffering unbearable mental shock at her execution as a witch. But right now, he was one of the finest holy knights alive.
Beside him stood the Duke of Alençon, Jean de Dunois, La Hire, and the rest. The heroes of the Hundred Years’ War had gathered around Joan of Arc. They became an unbreakable iron wall, holding back the English onslaught.
Joan of Arc’s survival wasn’t solely due to her own brilliance. It was made possible by the devoted sacrifice of these magnificent knights.
And so—
“The Tourelles gate is open!”
“Advance!”
Joan of Arc had overcome her first death.
Even after surpassing that first death, Joan of Arc continued to face countless threats. Arrows flew at her, assassins came in the night, poisoned gifts were delivered. An unnatural number of dangers lay in the young girl’s path. Yet none of them managed to drag her into death’s embrace.
It wasn’t because of any saintly miracle. It was because someone who knew the future stood at her side.
“Jeanne, you must wear your helmet today.”
“I understand.”
Clang—!
The catapult stone aimed at the girl’s head bounced harmlessly off Yi Sun-sin’s helmet.
Bang—!
The arrow flying toward her knee was shattered by a bullet.
Thud—!
Joan of Arc’s own banner smashed into the head of the soldier trying to shove her off the battlements.
Death. Death. Death.
The three deaths recorded in history passed her by. The girl overcame every one of them—not through miracles, but through her own strength and my assistance.
And now, only her final death remained. The one that would complete the saintess’s epic.
Her burning at the stake.
At dusk, countless wounded knights and soldiers lay along the banks of the Loire. They were English and Burgundian prisoners captured by the French.
Hiss—!
“Ugh… thank you, Saintess.”
Joan of Arc tended to the injured from the battle. Among those she treated were both her own soldiers and the captured English prisoners. She made no distinction between friend and foe, caring for every wounded man she could reach. From early morning when the sun rose until evening when the river ran red with sunset, she worked without rest, her hands and clothes stained with blood.
Hiss—!
“Hngh… th-thank you.”
When she poured holy water onto a knee that wouldn’t stop bleeding, the English prisoner offered his gratitude. Color returned to the man’s deathly pale face. In a single day she had already saved over two hundred people this way.
“That’s enough, Jeanne.”
Someone approached Joan of Arc as she treated the man. It was a kind-looking middle-aged priest—Bishop Cambrai. He smiled gently and raised his hand. At his signal, the knight accompanying him drove a spear into the chest of the man she had been healing.
Shunk—!
The man died without a sound. Joan of Arc’s eyes trembled.
“Why…”
“We received no ransom for the prisoners.”
Bishop Cambrai offered her a sorrowful look as if to console her.
“It is unfortunate, but unavoidable, Jeanne. Since we cannot collect the ransom, we have no choice but to grant them a merciful death.”
“……”
“I am certain they have gone peacefully to the Lord’s side.”
His words sounded cruel, yet they were not entirely wrong. The modern perspective that killing prisoners is a barbaric act had only emerged within the last century. The first Geneva Convention on humane treatment of prisoners appeared in 1864, and the full human-rights version only came after World War II in 1949. Before then, prisoners were considered the property of the victor, to be disposed of however the victor saw fit.
Even so, Bishop Cambrai’s decision could only be viewed as cruel.
“You must send them as mercifully as possible so they do not suffer.”
“As you command, Your Grace.”
Bishop Cambrai had wrapped the justification for massacre in the pretty word “mercy.” That day, the banks of the Loire ran red with the blood of thousands of corpses. It was the moment the rumor that Joan of Arc was a “witch” began to spread.
“You need not concern yourself with idle gossip, Jeanne.”
I changed the bandages over her stigmata and tried to comfort her. Thanks to her achievements, the French army had successfully reclaimed Paris, yet rumors branding her a witch had begun to circulate. The massacre on the Loire had spread to both French and English sides. What started as “The French army killed the prisoners” had been exaggerated and reproduced until it became “The saintess massacred the prisoners.” Despite the fact that Joan of Arc had tirelessly treated the captives, the truth was buried beneath the lies. Even among the citizens of France, some had begun to fear her as a witch.
Of course, it was a rumor that could be ignored. The number of people who truly believed she was a witch was still tiny.
“Everyone knows you are not a witch, Jeanne.”
It was nothing more than a malicious rumor deliberately spread by the English. Joan of Arc was still the saintess. I wrapped fresh bandages around her back and gently brushed her bright golden hair.
“Have a safe trip to the coronation, Jeanne.”
“Won’t you come with me, Sir Seojun?”
“No. I am not a person of this land.”
The French crown prince, Charles VII, had officially declared himself king. His coronation was to be held in Paris, and Joan of Arc was scheduled to receive a noble title there.
“It will be fine if you come with me.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I will wait for you here.”
I entrusted Joan of Arc to Gilles de Rais, who was waiting outside the door.
“Sir Gilles de Rais, please take good care of the saintess.”
In the end, Joan of Arc left with a disappointed expression. I smiled bitterly, but there was nothing I could do. I was not someone who would remain here forever. Since I would eventually have to leave, I needed to keep as much distance from her as possible. The more affection that grew between us, the harder the farewell would be.
And so Joan of Arc departed for Paris to attend the coronation.
She never returned.
Days passed after the coronation, yet Joan of Arc did not come back. In that time Charles VII had declared himself king, and the English army had abandoned Paris and withdrawn.
“She’s a little late.”
I was growing suspicious about her delayed return when—
Boom—!
The door to the quarters I had been assigned burst open as someone rushed inside. It was Gilles de Rais, the knight who had accompanied Joan of Arc to Paris. His face was filled with rage. The moment I saw his expression I knew something had gone terribly wrong and rose from my seat.
“What happened, Sir Gilles?”
“The saintess… Jeanne has been captured by the English bastards!”
“What? What are you saying?”
I asked again in shock. Joan of Arc was not supposed to be taken by the English yet. There was still a long time before Charles VII, now king of France, would betray her.
“Bishop Cambrai! That bastard handed Jeanne over to the English church!”
From Gilles de Rais’s furious words I was able to piece together the situation. The rumor that Joan of Arc was a witch had spread, and Bishop Cambrai was using it to put her on trial for heresy.
So they’re trying to end the war.
The Hundred Years’ War would end with the noble sacrifice of the saintess known as Joan of Arc. Both the French king, who had grown wary of her ever-increasing fame, and the English, who feared her, had reached an agreement.
Burning at the stake.
Only the process had changed. History was repeating itself.
I immediately mounted a horse and rode for Paris, where Joan of Arc’s heresy trial was being held. Her execution by fire was a fixed point in history, but I had not expected it to happen this way. I could not accept the current situation unfolding exactly as Bishop Cambrai intended. In vulgar terms, it was fucking disgusting. The man who always stayed in the shadows with his hypocritical, benevolent smile, the one who had sacrificed Jeanne again and again, was tormenting her until the very end. Even if that was what history demanded.
But I could not enter the cathedral district where the trial was taking place.
“I am sorry, but you may not enter.”
“Why not?”
No matter how I asked, the holy knight guarding the cathedral would not step aside.
“The bishop has ordered that anyone who accompanied Joan of Arc is not to be allowed inside due to the risk of an escape attempt.”
Barred from entry at the gate, I briefly considered knocking the knight unconscious and forcing my way in. Just as I was about to act on that thought, a familiar face emerged from inside the cathedral. A priest with a kind face and a perpetually gentle smile at the corners of his mouth.
“What seems to be the matter?”
It was Bishop Cambrai. After hearing the situation from the knight, he turned to me.
“Please, come inside.”
As if he were bestowing mercy.
“I will guide you to Jeanne.”
Bishop Cambrai led me through the cloisters of the cathedral. The place we arrived at was a vast chapel used for Mass.
“This is not the courtroom.”
“If you wait here, you will be able to see Jeanne.”
“Your Grace.”
“Speak, my brother.”
“Why did you hand Jeanne over to the Church?”
I asked while looking at Bishop Cambrai’s benevolent smile.
“You know better than anyone that Jeanne is not a witch.”
The massacre on the Loire had been carried out by Bishop Cambrai, not Joan of Arc. She had in fact treated the prisoners. Yet the reason she now faced a heresy trial was the “witch” rumor born from that very massacre.
“It is to end the long war that has continued for a hundred years.”
“……”
“Far too many people have died and been wounded over the past century.”
Bishop Cambrai spoke his honest heart with a sorrowful expression.
“Jeanne’s sacrifice is truly heartbreaking, but if one person’s noble death can save many others, I will gladly choose that path.”
“……”
“Even if it means I must fall into hell myself.”
It was the face of a true saint, someone willing to throw himself into hell for his beliefs. I stared directly at that conviction-filled face and asked.
“Your Grace.”
“Speak.”
“How many times is this?”
“What do you mean?”
“How many saints has Jeanne been? How many have you killed?”
“……”
“Answer me, you piece of trash. How many people have you killed?”
The expression vanished from Bishop Cambrai’s face.