Chapter Text
7 July 1456 Notre Dame Cathedral
Among the crowds outside the cathedral, one person hung someway back. Her eyes were hidden twice behind both the veil that hung off her fashionable conical headdress and her dark eyeglasses. Her dress was cut in the Burgundian cotehardie fashion, glossy, black brocade slashed to reveal a blood red kirtle beneath it. She looked like she was some kind of aristocrat, perhaps the lesser daughter of one of King Charles’ many affairs. As many people were aware, her most of all, looks could be deceiving; she was not illegitimate French royalty, she was not even French at all.
The demon, Crowley, scanned the crowds from behind her veil and eyeglasses. She knew she shouldn’t be there, knew that if anyone knew she was here she would have to cause some trouble, enough that it may ruin this momentous day. She could even hear it now, Isabelle Romée’s desperation to have justice for her daughter. She would slither up to her and ask “Is this really justice? The men who killed her still walk free.” But she was not here for her work. She was here to see Aziraphale’s triumph. She knew she owed that much to him, at least.
The Archbishop of Rheims exited the cathedral to find a crowd of thousands waiting for him. He had delivered sermons to as many, and to people of far greater importance that the peasants of Paris, but somehow, by some miracle, he had a sense of the importance of what he was doing. He looked out at the people of Paris and understood, for just a moment, what Jeanne d’Arc had meant to them, how a young country girl from a town nobody had even heard of had somehow restored their King and kicked the English out of France. Jeanne d’Arc had given them back their homeland, had rid them of the fear that a soldier could breach their city at any time and take their lives for no reason other than the royal political game. The Archbishop extended his arms and spoke.
“In consideration of the request of the d'Arc family against the Bishop of Beauvais, the promoter of criminal proceedings, and the inquisitor of Rouen . . .” He began.
Crowley stepped forward, in search of Aziraphale, meandering her way through the crowd with casual arrogance. But there was not yet a glimpse of white in the crowd, no sign of the angel.
“We, in session of our court and having God only before our eyes, say, pronounce, decree and declare that the said trial and sentence, being tainted with fraud, calumny, iniquity, and contradiction, and manifest errors of fact and of law . . .” The Archbishop continued.
There! Crowley’s eye was caught by a flash of white in the doorway of Notre Dame, Aziraphale!
“. . . to have been and to be null, invalid, worthless, without effect, and annihilated.” The Archbishop had to raise his voice to be heard over the celebrations of the crowd.
Crowley moved with more purpose now, her strides long and fast, like a cobra preparing to strike.
“We proclaim that Jeanne did not contract any taint of infamy and that she shall be and is washed clean of such!” The cheers that erupted from the crowd were a cacophony of joy. This was not a place for Hell, nor demons, but still Crowley moved, weaving her way through the crowds to Aziraphale.
“I do hope he’s alright,” Aziraphale was saying to the deacon beside him, “he really ought to see a doctor about his back and get out of the bell tower sometime.”
The deacon just nodded absently, it was not the first time he had heard this, so he wondered off, probably to discuss the best way to write the letter ‘s’ on biblical manuscripts. Thus far, the preference had been to write them not unlike the letter ‘f’, but with the advent of the printing press in recent years, they were looking for ways to differentiate themselves.
“Congratulations, angel,” came a hiss in Aziraphale’s ear.
“Crowley!” he said with badly concealed delight, that is, to say, that he was pleased to see her in a completely ordinary and reasonable way, “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I couldn’t miss your moment of triumph now, could I? I mean you spent what? 150 years working on her town? And now everyone has decided that she was fantastic.”
“Well, erm, thank you,” said Aziraphale, peering up at Crowley (did she have to wear heels when she was already so tall?). Ordinarily, he would feel the touch of kindness and he would give thanks to Her for blessing humans with such a capacity for love. But this was Crowley, a demon, he wasn’t supposed to be kind, or to have any capacity to love, so this had to be something else, something that – Aziraphale suspected – was exclusive to Crowley and Crowley alone.Her
“I mean really, what’s so bad about changing your look up every once in a while?” Crowley said, gesturing to her own clothing.
“Well, nothing really,” said Aziraphale, who had always been rather impressed by Crowley’s ability to wrap gender around her little finger and still come out looking fabulous every time. He suspected the sin of Pride had always helped and had make a mental note to ask about it someday (mental notes of this variety had been piling up for quite some time). “But humans don’t really like it when people erm, deviate from what’s supposed to be normal, do they? I suppose they just all got a bit carried away.”
“It’s Leviticus all over again, isn’t it?” She leaned towards Aziraphale, grabbing his billowy sleeves and gracefully weaving the two of them through the crowds. People were dispersing away from the cathedral now, and the streets of Paris were so full of people you could barely make out the cobblestones beneath their feat. Miraculously, Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves in a sweet little boulangerie that had somehow escaped the notice of the crowds.
Aziraphale offered Crowley a smile as he tore into a piece of fresh brioche, so recently out of the oven that steam wafted from the bun as he did so. Crowley quietly stored the smile for later pursual.
“So, have they gotten over the whole . . .” She gestured in the vague direction of England.
“Not quite, I think I have to make sure the legacy of Jeanne d’Arc lasts, as well as the acquittal for her crimes,” Aziraphale said between mouthfuls, the brioche really was terribly delicious. He paused and looked at Crowley, he was not going to ask for help, no, there was far too much at stake, even after last time. Besides, Aziraphale was not the one who did Tempting. Is anyone was going to ask it would be Crowley, even if it would be easier to just say something.
Fortunately, Crowley got the message, she pulled a coin from the purse that hung from her girdle. “Toss you for it?” She said, her expression unreadable.
“Tails.” Aziraphale watched the coin with care, as though he were expecting Crowley to cheat, but she didn’t, the coin never disappeared from view.
“Heads,” Crowley said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you with this one. I’ve got orders to head to Spain anyway,”
“Oh,” said Aziraphale, realising that Crowley truly had only come to Paris to see him, it left an odd taste in his mouth that seemed to pitter down into his stomach.
“And I fancy a nap,” Crowley continued, “So if you need anything, you may have to come by in person.”
“Of course,” said Aziraphale, still distracted by his thoughts.
“So, I guess this is goodbye. For now.” She said, adjusting her veil.
“Yes, erm, goodbye.” Said Aziraphale, not sure how he should feel about this at all.
“Goodbye, angel.” And with that she was gone, Leaving Aziraphale to his brioche and the sounds of the city.