Free The Poet Prince by Kathleen McGowan

tortured his sleepless nights since that wretched day in May of 1431 when Jeanne had been burned alive for the crime of hearing the voices of saints and angels too clearly.
    If René was truly honest with himself, with his brethren in the Order, and with his God, it was his courage that had ultimately failed him—with a fair amount of help from his ego and his love of worldly comforts. He blamed his youth for this ultimate failing; he had only been twenty-two at the time, just three years older than Jeanne. He
had been young enough to falter under such a weighty burden. He had not been willing to risk everything he had, everything he was, to try to save the girl he loved more than a sister, the prophetess who had been an angelic being in a girl’s body. He knew she had been both conceived and raised to be the Daughter of God, and yet he had allowed her to die through his absolute passivity when she most needed him to save her.
    Good King René now lived in a self-imposed hell every day of his life. He would not wish that on the innocent child who would be born into this terrible prophecy.
    René cleared his throat. “Tell this future grandchild . . . that he musthave the courage of ten thousand lions, and most of all he must not fear Rome and their threats. The angels and the innocents who live among us must be protected at all costs.” René grew silent for a moment remembering his own failure once again. “As you know, the Magi say that more angelic beings and special ones are coming now as the time returns. They must be cared for. Your young prince will be born to lead them, and he must never waiver in what he knows to be right action, for one misstep can be the ruination of all that is in God’s greatest plans. I have seen that.
    “For while God provides us with the outline of our destiny . . .”
    Cosimo finished the sentence, a tenet of the Order’s teachings, “. . . he also gives us the free will to fulfill that destiny—or not.”
    As his old friend continued, Cosimo listened carefully, committing it all to his sharp memory. He saw the deep lines etched in René’s face, once a place where only laughter and witticisms reigned. But eleven years of terrible regret had aged him brutally and prematurely.
    “I buckled under the pressures of the jackals in Rome, Cosimo, and to their henchmen priests in Paris. I despised their corruption, recognized it for all that it was and always has been, but in the end I feared their power more.” His voice cracked as he spoke, safe in the presence of one of his oldest friends, and a man with whom all shared secrets were sacrosanct. “I . . . I could have saved her. I . . .”
    He could not continue. The years of guilt and agony came out in a flood as the king of Naples and Jerusalem buried his head in his hands and wept openly. Cosimo remained silent and waited with respect for his friend, his cousin of blood and spirit, to move through his pain.
    René raised his head after another minute, wiping his eyes while he spoke. “I failed her, I failed the Order, and I failed God. Fra Francesco says that I have already been forgiven. But I do not accept that, for I have yet to forgive myself. You can help me to make amends for my failings, old friend, by raising this child to be the true Poet Prince of our prophecy. Let him learn from my mistakes and vow that he will not repeat them. And as my gift to all that he can become, I will leave him with a great legacy of treasure, including our most sacred LibroRosso, for it belongs in the hands of the worthy. And I want him to have
this.”
    René reached behind his neck to unfasten the clasp of a long silver chain that hung out of sight and beneath his clothes. As he removed the necklace, Cosimo could see that it was a pendant, a small reliquary locket made of silver. René rose from his chair to place it in Cosimo’s hand, then paced the room as he explained.
    “It was Jeanne’s,” he said simply, allowing the import of