by Donald Spoto
Others urged the king to take Joan very seriously indeed. Jacques Gélu held the ancient and prestigious archbishopric of Embrun, located in the High Alps about fifteen miles from the Italian border. Learned, cautious and devout, he urged Charles to take care lest he be tricked by Joan, an ignorant peasant girl; still, he recommended that she be treated with the utmost courtesy and that her claims be earnestly considered. Later, Gélu called her the “instrument” through which the marvelous liberation of Orléans had occurred. From that time he never wavered in his support of her and recommended that the king consult her in matters spiritual as well as temporal.
Furthermore, one of the greatest theologians of the time, Jean Gerson, wrote a spirited defense of Joan when the king asked for his reaction to the Poitiers examinations. Gerson’s treatise was widely circulated in Europe in 1429, and it has survived. The Maid did not subscribe to sorcery or witchcraft, Gerson wrote, and she sought no advantage for herself—only for the honor of God and the survival of France. Willing to risk personal danger to expel the English from France, Joan was entirely justified in wearing male clothing and short hair, he added: it was the only sensible style for her and only one of the elements indicating that her mission may be presumed to enjoy divine approval.*
JOAN’S OPENNESS TO God, in other words, had practical consequences that could be understood only with the passing of time—precisely the way every person discovers a meaning and purpose in life. In Joan’s case fidelity to God’s summons came to mean a commitment to alleviate human suffering by lifting the siege of Orléans. For now that was the essential meaning of “saving France”—not a political act but a humanitarian one. As for the crowning of Charles at Reims, it seems that this goal became clear only later, as a sort of coda after the successes at Orléans and elsewhere in the Loire Valley.
Saints are generally regarded as people who experienced a dramatic moment of illumination that forestalled any further doubt or darkness and forever sweetened pain or suffering. But this is a skewed vision of sainthood; it is also terribly wrongheaded spirituality. For one thing, it implies that God plays favorites—that some people are selected for a gift that warms and leavens all of life while the rest of us stumble along, deprived of some mechanism that could make life so much easier. But making life easier for oneself, like “feeling good about oneself,” has nothing to do with authentic faith, nor is a relationship with God something about which one reaches final clarity. Holiness lies in a process of becoming more fully human.
In the Christian tradition, for example, the only model for faith is Jesus of Nazareth. His proclamation, one observes in the New Testament, was not particularly religious: he spoke of God, certainly, but only in relation to ordinary human life with its quotidian struggle and suffering. Nor did he speak or preach in especially religious or sectarian terms; in fact, it may be said that Jesus came to set the world free from enslavement to and obsession with mere (humanly made) religion. “He went about doing good” is the biblical summary of his life and mission, and no words are more moving or provocative.
In the life of Jesus we find no pattern of instant illumination and perfect understanding. To the contrary, he came only in stages to understand the contours of his mission to proclaim God’s unfathomable and unimaginable love for all humankind and to reach out to people as healer and comforter. He entered adulthood as a disciple of John the Baptist; he then gathered a few followers when John was arrested and could preach no more; and finally he went out on his own only when John was executed, to take up where John had left off. It is certainly a misreading of the New Testament to say that everything was clear to Jesus from the start; to assert the contrary would be, for one thing, to deny the truth of his full humanity.
All of this is singularly important in any consideration of Joan of Arc. Gradually disclosed and discovered, her purpose and meaning were not specifically religious as we ordinarily use that word: they were not sectarian and did not use the props of religion. Hence for those who revere her as a saint, there has always been something slightly embarrassing and difficult to explain: her voices did not direct her into a convent or to found a hospital or a schoolroom; to the contrary, they sent her onto a battlefield. We need to recognize, however, that the battlefield was secondary: her mission was to alleviate the suffering of her compatriots, who were being starved out by the English. Only after mustering the troops and inspiring them to victory was she used in the coronation of Charles, which (as one scholar has written) “became part of her mission only in the course of the lengthy debates on strategy that took place between the princes of the blood and the king’s military commanders in the aftermath of Orléans.” The interrogation of Joan at Poitiers concluded with another kind of examination. To confirm that Joan was no liar when she called herself la Pucelle, “the Maid,” a group of women, under the supervision of the king’s mother-in-law, was asked to confirm that Joan was indeed a virgin. The examination was performed; she was a virgin. Had the women determined otherwise, she would have been dismissed at once as a liar, and her entire claim and mission would have been rejected.
TWO DAYS BEFORE she left Poitiers to return to Chinon, Joan dictated a letter to be sent to the English commanders at Orléans. Dated Tuesday of Holy Week—March 22, 1429—the letter has survived:
To the King of England, and you, Duke of Bedford, who call yourself the regent of the kingdom of France; to William de la Pole, earl of Suffolk; to John, Lord Talbot; and to you, Thomas, Lord Scales, who call yourselves Bedford’s lieutenants:
Do right by the King of Heaven. Hand over to the king—who is sent here by God, the King of heaven—the keys to all the towns you have taken and plundered in France. The Maid is quite prepared to make peace, if you are willing to do right, so long as you give up France and make amends for occupying it.
And you, archers, soldiers noble and otherwise, who are around the town of Orléans, in God’s name, go back to your own lands. If you will not do so, beware: the Maid will come to see you very soon, to your great misfortune…. If you do not believe the tidings sent by God and the Maid, we will strike against you harshly, and we will see who will have the better right, God or you.
By this time the report from Poitiers had reached Charles; however lacking in enthusiasm for Joan, the king’s counselors saw that things had become so desperate for the Valois that the Maid could at least be given a chance to prove herself at Orléans. If she was even mildly successful, the fortunes of France just might improve; in any case, things could hardly be worse.
It is important to recall that the idea of a woman skilled in military matters was not unknown in the Middle Ages. As Joan’s contemporary, Christine de Pisan, wrote in her Book of the Three Virtues (1406), it was expected that a noble Frenchwoman would know how to defend the family estate in her husband’s absence:
She should have a man’s heart, which means that she should know the laws of warfare and all things pertaining to them, so that she will be prepared to command her men if there is need of it, knowing how to assault and defend, if the situation requires it…. She should try out her defenders and ascertain the quality of their courage and determination before putting too much trust in them, to see what strength and help she can count on in case of need; she should make sure of this and not put her trust in vain or feeble promises. She must give special attention to what resources she would have until her husband could get there.
On Thursday, March 24, Joan was back in Chinon. According to Simon Charles, master of the court of requests, the king gave her some troops, bestowed on her some military prerogatives, and gave her a place in the army. Her role became more important with each month, but it was not clearly specified in advance, nor was it the same every day of her campaigns. She encouraged the troops in a new and effective discipline and saw that their spiritual needs were met; she conferred with the military chieftains on strategy; and she led the men to victory in the most important battles. Joan’s influence and activity were of surpassing importance,
but she was neither the sole commander of operations nor a chef de guerre, unless we understand that the phrase was used imprecisely and could connote a flexible responsibility. Because of Joan’s enormous and historic influence, it would help to see precisely where she stood in the military hierarchy of Charles VII’s reign. But such formal distinctions did not exist, and so she cannot be placed at a specific rank. Of course, the general commander of all forces was the king, but the practical supervisory task was assigned to the connétable or constable of France, who necessarily parceled out tasks to chieftains in various locations. In specific battles the officer was often chosen on the spot, on the basis of his wisdom, achievement, wealth, and influence (and, it was presumed, at least some military expertise). The command of the militia, in other words, was flexible and often improvised.
More clear was the hierarchy of the nobility. After the king came dukes, counts, viscounts, barons and lords (some of whom were not noblemen). By Joan’s time the chivalric levels, mostly ordered by the Church, no longer had the symbolic role of earlier times. The chivalry, as it was called, consisted of knights, then squires (who aspired to be knights), and pages (who aspired to be squires).
Important at court were the so-called Grand Officers of the Crown—chamberlain, chancellor, constable, marshals, an admiral and the masters of crossbowmen and of the artillery. Perhaps most quaintly amusing to modern ears are the titles of those who worked in the royal household: the great wine waiter, the master baker, the master of the kitchen, the master of the horse, of the house, of the falcons, and finally the master of rivers and forests. Cupbearers, cellarers, and huntsmen were found in more or less profusion, depending on both season and need.
FROM APRIL 6 to 21, Joan was at Tours, where she was outfitted with a sword, armor, a new standard and a small staff or military household, which was typical for all captains; in her case the items and personnel provided her with both an honorary retinue and an added measure of security. Now she would be accompanied by a master of horse or squire, two pages, two heralds, and two chaplains.
At her trial Joan said that her voices had told her to send for an ancient and venerated sword, long buried at Saint-Catherine-de-Fier-bois; messengers indeed found it, buried in an obscure location just as she had said. Contrary to pious legend, it is not necessary to see this as evidence of Joan’s second sight or clairvoyance. The directions her voices provided to find the sword was perhaps Joan’s way of recalling a sudden inspiration to have this particular one found and brought to her, since it came from a place with the hallowed connection to Saint Catherine. Joan had stopped at Fierbois, after all, and it is not unlikely that the story of the famous, mystical sword circulated among townspeople she met.
As for her full suit of armor, it was about sixty pounds of plates—a neckpiece of five or six overlapping sections, a kind of clasped steel blouson, plates covering the hips, a steel skirt and more steel pieces hinged for the elbows, knees, legs and feet. Her helmet most likely had a steel band at the chin and a visor that protected her face. Over all this was a woolen cloak. The royal treasury paid for the armor as well as for that supplied to her brothers Pierre and Jean, who had come to join her militia.* Joan’s new standard, painted by a Scots mercenary, was made of white satin, with an image of a dove holding the legend De par le Roy du Ciel, “On behalf of the King of Heaven.” In addition she had a larger personal standard or pennon: Christ flanked by angels and surrounded by gold fleur-de-lis and the names of Jesus and Mary. The standard and pennon were not merely decorative but practical: because she would be completely enclosed in armor, a distinguishing sign was required, both to rally the troops and to identify her whereabouts.
Joan’s household was formed quickly. Jean d’Aulon was sent from the dauphin’s service at Chinon to serve as her squire, or master of horse; he did so until her capture the following year. Her two pages were Louis de Coutes and another teenager named Raymond, who was Joan’s standard-bearer. These young men aspired to knighthood and served variously as servants-at-arms and general assistants.
Joan was honored with not one (as usual) but two pursuivants, or apprentice heralds, named Ambleville and Guyenne. Heralds were messengers, and as such they had a kind of immunity, for the chivalric code strictly forbade killing the messenger. Only high-ranking nobles had full-status heralds; Joan’s were almost certainly pursuivants.
Jean Pasquerel, an Augustinian monk, was Joan’s primary chaplain. He had apparently met her parents on a pilgrimage and was introduced to Joan through them, after they had received her letter of apology and been reconciled to their daughter. “Joan’s parents had come [to Tours] to see her,” Pasquerel recalled, “and they knew me and brought me to her, saying, ‘Joan, we have brought you this good Father; if you knew him well, you would love him very much.’” He remained with her as confessor and spiritual director from that day until her capture the following year.
At Tours the chaplain saw that Joan was growing more anxious each day. “She had not been pleased with all the interrogations, which had prevented her from accomplishing the work for which she was sent. She said that the need and the right time to act had arrived.” At Joan’s request, Pasquerel had a banner made with an image of the crucifixion; this was carried by a procession of clergy on the march to Orléans. The second chaplain was Nicolas de Vouthon, a relative of her mother; a third cleric, Mathelin Rouel, had no spiritual duties but kept the household accounts.
On April 21 Joan and her retinue set out for Blois, about thirty miles northeast of Tours and halfway to Orléans. There food supplies were loaded into caravans and the troops were assembled to meet her and to make plans for the journey and the onslaught against the enemy siege. Of the thousand warriors, half were men-at-arms and the rest bowmen.
“That company of men had great confidence in her,” Louis de Coutes recalled. “She continually exhorted the soldiers to trust God completely.” His impression was supported by her soldiers: “In the conduct and disposition of the army,” according to Thiband d’Armagnac, whose assessment was typical, “and in the matter of warfare, in drawing up the order of troops in battle, and in the task of encouraging the men, Joan acted like an experienced, shrewd captain—as if all her life had been spent learning about war.” To her great pleasure, Joan found the men quite ready to be inspired by the possibility of liberating Orléans and by her conviction that it could and would indeed be accomplished, but only by God’s help.
The necessary artillery had also arrived—crossbows, longbows, lances, swords, maces and cannons. Longbowmen could dispatch up to eight arrows in one minute. Crossbowmen had a mechanical weapon that reached from great distances. Foot soldiers carried lethal poleaxes. Halberders were named for their halberd, an ax blade topped by a thick spike that could decapitate or sever limbs with a single blow. Other warriors carried light but deadly scythes. And handgunners were equipped with culverins, which predated rifles; they were among the first weapons to benefit from the invention of gunpowder. On the ground rather than on horseback, ramparts or ladders, the coutillers carried a broad, double-edged blade for their grisly task: to cut the throats of wounded men who could not pay a ransom and so could not be taken prisoner. As Joan would see to her horror, war was a dreadful and dehumanizing enterprise.
At Blois she was joined by important men loyal to the king, of whom two deserve an introduction. Étienne de Vignolles had also come from Orléans to meet the Maid and to return with the troops under her leadership. A crude man with a short temper, he loved battle but had no taste for culture; he was, however, faithful and true to Joan’s leadership. Vignolles was given the nickname La Hire, which was perhaps related to the Latin ira, meaning “anger”; experienced in the military, he was renowned for his salty language and an irrepressible inclination toward banditry, which were suppressed during his expeditions with Joan. Rough though he was, La Hire became one of her most trusted allies. His prayer, remarkable in its bold confidence, has survived: “O God, please do for La Hire what you
would like La Hire to do for you—if you were La Hire and La Hire were God.”
And then there was Gilles de Laval, the wealthy twenty-five-year-old Baron de Rais. He accompanied Joan as one of her most ardent and loyal supporters from Blois to Paris and distinguished himself on and off the battlefield. But a few years after he left her company, something went very wrong. He squandered one of the most enormous fortunes in France and then turned to a life of appalling degeneracy: de Rais and several henchmen have the doubtful distinction of being named among the world’s first serial killers. They captured, raped, and tortured to death about two hundred boys between the ages of six and eighteen, and finally, after lengthy and difficult trials, Gilles de Rais was executed at the age of thirty-six. But in 1429 none of this could have been imagined as the future of this learned and sophisticated soldier, so reliable was he in his duties and service to Joan.
Also in her caravan were Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulengy, the first acting as treasurer for the group, the second as a squire.
THE M AID’S FIRST order of business during their meetings at Blois had to do with soldiers’ conduct. She encouraged her men to receive the Eucharist from their chaplains and to refrain from foul language and any inappropriate use of holy names. Jean d’Aulon kept clear memories of the profoundly religious atmosphere Joan created: “Twice a day, morning and evening, she assembled the priests, with whom she sang anthems and hymns, and she invited the soldiers to go to one of them for private confession. When we were on the march to Orléans, we were led by our clergy with the banner [of the crucifixion].”