Voices

by David Elliott

should have no fear. I was sent here

  to protect him. Thanks to my saints,

  the weaker counsel did not infect

  him. In the budding month of June

  we began our appointed journey:

  the king, his court, my army, and

  at the head of the procession,

  me, mounted on my charger. He

  was larger than other horses

  and in possession of a wild

  and fearless temperament. That we

  belonged together was evident

  from my first time on his back, me

  commanding in my armor, him,

  proud and shining black.

  HO had given you this horse?”

  Joan: “My King, or his people, from the King’s money.”

  * * *

  Trial of Condemnation

  The Warhorse

  Not for me the slow life of the field and the plow

  and the farm and the farmer’s dull monotone

  as he harvests and rakes while the sweat of his brow

  drops to the soil like the seeds he has sown.

  * * *

  I was bred for the babel; I was bred for the how

  and the why of the fight and the withering groan.

  Not for me the slow life of the field and the plow

  and the farm and the farmer’s dull monotone.

  * * *

  I was bred for the knight and his bellicose vow

  to enter the fray. Muscled loin, strong of bone,

  firm of heart, wild of eye. Who would dare disavow

  the bond of my breeding, the courage I’ve shown?

  * * *

  Not for me the slow life of the field and the plow.

  * * *

  And she was like me and so we were one.

  We were the wind, untamed, unafraid

  of the enemy’s grit; we were fierce renegades,

  unflagging, unyielding, until we had done

  * * *

  what we set out to do. There was none

  who could check us; though she was a maid,

  she was like me and so we were one

  when we were the wind, untamed, unafraid.

  * * *

  Many a knight had been cowed and outdone

  by my spirit, left broken, unseated, unmade.

  But she understood. Unbridled blood runs

  molten and wild, unrestrained, unsurveyed.

  * * *

  And she was like me and so we were one.

  Joan

  The shuffling of the soldiers’ feet

  raised a tremendous cloud of dust

  that could be seen from a great distance.

  It gave the captains of the towns

  the time to know if they should continue

  their resistance or come to a

  more peaceable decision. Would

  they recognize their rightful king

  and enjoy his supervision?

  Or would they fight? One after another

  they stepped out of English darkness

  and came back to the French light.

  Cravant, Bonny, Lavau, all welcomed

  us, and Saint-Fargeau fell without

  a fuss, not a single arrow

  in the air. And so it was with

  Coulanges, Brinon, Saint-Florentin,

  Auxerre. I always rode ahead

  to let them know the Maid was at

  their door, foolish to oppose, at

  their great peril to ignore. And

  in the wind, the banner Charles

  made for me—white, depicting

  angels, and golden fleur-de-lis.

  HICH did you care for most, your banner or your sword?”

  Joan: “Better, forty times better, my banner than my sword.”

  * * *

  Trial of Condemnation

  The Banner

  Above her head the sparrows huddle in the trees. Above her

  head they listen with increasing dread. The phantoms

  of her enemies are wailing in the morning

  breeze above her head. Above her head

  I scream a terrifying prayer. Above her head,

  a warning from the newly dead to not resist for who

  would dare to fight the angels singing there above her head?

  Joan

  Reims, too, was in English hands but,

  before a sword had left its sheath,

  it gave in to my demands. Not a

  halberd thrown or a single word

  of coarse debate. The residents

  opened wide their city’s gates as

  the frightened English soldiers fled.

  All of Reims bowed its head when Charles

  rode through its cobbled streets. Word of

  my military feats had also

  reached their ears. I saw their suffering

  faces wet with tears of unchecked joy

  and raw relief. But to my eventual

  sorrow and certain grief, in the

  young king’s retinue there were those

  who, because I was not a man

  but in men’s clothes, thought I was a

  blasphemer and a troublesome

  disgrace. They resented my place

  in the royal court and worked behind

  my back to thwart my influence

  with the king. I did nothing to

  stop their gossip, their intimations,

  or their tricks. My place was with my

  king. I did not stoop to politics.

  Instead, I attended to the

  coronation. There is no apt

  description nor sufficient explanation

  for what occurred in the cathedral

  there. The very air felt sanctified.

  I was filled with joy and pride as

  Charles VII, king of France, was

  coronated and anointed.

  I stood beside him—not behind.

  And appointed in my finest

  armor, I reminded myself

  that I, the daughter of a lowly

  farmer, had brought this holy day about.

  I still can hear the people shout . . .

  Or is that the throng in front of

  me calling me a slut and witch,

  their faces warped in anger, their

  din a frenzied pitch?

  Fire

  I’m near I’m near I’m near my darling

  I’m near I’m near I’m near

  I roar I roar I roar my darling

  I roar I roar I roar

  I soar I soar I soar my darling

  I soar I soar I soar

  I will I will I will my darling

  I il l I will I w ll

  thr I ill I thr my d rl ng

  I thr I ri I

  Joan

  But my king could save me still. If

  he has the will, he could ransom

  me. The price would be handsome, but

  he could set me free. Everything

  I did for France—he won’t forget.

  Charles is God’s chosen king:

  I know he’ll save me yet.

  Charles VII

  What an embarrassment to me—

  this peasant wench dressed in men’s clothes!

  To appear before me! Royalty!

  In tunic! Doublet! And in hose!

  * * *

  A reprehensible affront that goes

  against all laws of propriety!

  She says she is unschooled. It shows!

  What an embarrassment to me!

  Joan

  There was so much more to do after

  the victory at Reims. Henry

  still held a large expanse of French

  land, and Paris, too, was in his

  grip. Though my voices did not tell

  me to, with the approval and

  companionship of my men and

  the king, I set my sights on that

  great city. There wou
ld be no mercy

  and no solace, no pity for

  the false French who there resisted,

  whose loyalties had been so grossly

  twisted that they would dare defy

  me. I needed Charles to stand

  beside me, but for seven long

  weeks he reveled in his coronation

  and stopped at every town that

  welcomed him for drink and celebration.

  By the time we reached the city

  gates, our fates were set and firmly

  sealed, for the English had prepared

  themselves and concealed weapons and

  ammunition around and on

  the city walls—stones, crossbows,

  cannonballs ready to be fired.

  My men were eager and inspired,

  their courage hot and high, but an

  archer caught me in the thigh, and

  the aide who held my banner also

  fell, and with it our offense. My

  army lost its confidence. When

  I was carried from the field, Charles

  ordered a withdrawal and my men

  were forced to yield.

  ID you not say before Paris, ‘Surrender this town by the order of Jesus’?”

  Joan: “No, but I said, ‘Surrender it to the King of France.’”

  * * *

  Trial of Condemnation

  The Crossbow

  Joan

  The king seemed to retreat from me

  after my defeat at Paris.

  It was the ferrous tongues of my

  detractors that caused this change in

  his opinion. Among his minions

  at the royal court, bad actors

  undermined the king’s support by

  telling him my character and

  comportment would taint his

  reputation as a good and

  Christian king. I was, they said, an

  aberration. A girl who dressed

  and acted like a man was a

  sinful, monstrous thing he should no

  longer tolerate. I’d served my

  usefulness, they said. He should remain

  aloof. They said I’d been abandoned

  by my saints, and Paris was the

  proof. My saints, too, which had always

  come to me unbidden, remained

  distant and silent, hidden unless

  I called on them to ask for their

  advice. I did this once or sometimes

  twice a day. They never turned away

  from me but they no longer charged

  me with specific tasks as they

  had at Orléans and Reims, and

  I began to ask myself if

  I’d fulfilled my duty to

  my king and to my country, France.

  But how could I return to

  Domrémy, its drudging tasks and

  dreary obligations? The military

  life had its deprivations, but

  it was what I loved and wanted.

  I would not be shunted back to

  the barn and field, not allow my

  current life to be repealed by

  the domestic rut I hated,

  to be betrothed, wed and mated,

  like all the girls I used to know.

  * * *

  A kind of fearful loneliness

  began to germinate and grow.

  I felt abandoned, almost ill,

  and shaken and so I became

  bolder still and started to take

  risks I ought not to have taken.

  At Compiègne, I rode out among

  the English forces—their angry peasant

  footmen, their knights on armored horses—

  in a cloak of shining gold. I

  told myself that once they behold

  the Maid of Orléans, fierce and

  gleaming in her splendor, they would,

  like all the other towns, come to

  their senses and surrender. But

  the English there were not as

  easily impressed as I had

  thought. A common soldier grabbed the

  cloak. He pulled me from my horse, and

  I was captured, caught not only

  by a footman who had his eye

  on me, but also by my recklessness

  and the sin of vanity. I

  loved that cloak; it made me feel

  invincible and like a royal

  son. How confusing that I love

  it still, though through it I have been

  undone.

  AD not your Voices ever told you that you would be taken?”

  Joan: “Yes, many times and nearly every day. And I asked of my Voices that, when I should be taken, I might die soon, without long suffering in prison: and they said to me: ‘Be resigned to all—that it must be.’ But they did not tell me the time; and if I had known it, I should not have gone. Often I asked to know the hour: they never told me.”

  * * *

  Trial of Condemnation

  The Gold Cloak

  We were as splendid

  as the noonday sun,

  and in our glory would

  blind our staring enemy.

  But all stars fall when their

  time to shine is done. Our fame

  was known to everyone. Taken

  with our own mythology, as bright

  and splendid as the noonday sun, we

  fought our battles. One by one by one,

  singing, shouting, “Victory!” But all stars

  fall. When their time to shine is done they

  fade and disappear. None can escape that dull

  and awful certainty, though once they shined as

  splendid as the noonday sun. What we’d begun

  ended. Now it’s only history, like stars that fall when

  their time to shine is done. She wasn’t able to outrun her

  fate. Each of us has a destiny as sure and splendid as the

  noonday sun. But all stars fall when their time to shine is

  d o n e .

  Joan

  I was taken on the twenty-

  third of May, and the next day they

  brought me to Beaulieu les Fontaines.

  But when, in July, I nearly

  broke free, they improved their

  weak security and removed me

  to the tower at Beauvoir. It

  was a foul place; the air was sour

  but the windows lacked bars: My cell

  was seven stories high. Was it my

  intention, when I jumped, to enter

  Paradise and die? Or did I

  believe my blessèd saints would

  teach me how to fly?

  AVE you never done anything against their [her Voices’] command and will?”

  Joan: “All that I could and knew how to do I have done and accomplished to the best of my power. As to the matter of the fall [leap] at Beauvoir, I did it against their command; but I could not control myself. When my Voices saw my need, and that I neither knew how nor was able to control myself, they saved my life and kept me from killing myself.”

  * * *

  Trial of Condemnation

  The Tower

  In

  another life,

  I might have been

  a crimson dress made

  to inhibit and oppress, worn

  by women, cut and sewn. Now my

  skin is mortared stone made by men for

  war and strife. In another life

  she might have been a man,

  no more an anomaly than

  any other natural man. Not

  a danger. Not a threat. Then

  she and I would not have met.

  She might have been a far-

  mer’s wife in another life.

  Joan

  I still don’t understand why I

  did not die the afternoon I

  leapt. D
o my saints think this a better

  way? To be kept like a beast in

  a darkened cell? To never see

  the light of day? To be consumed

  by smoke and choking fire? Did I

  not do well in what they asked of

  me? In what way did I offend?

  Does my death require something that

  I cannot comprehend? Or might

  Saint Margaret save me still? The sun

  is nearly at its peak, but she

  has asked me to have faith. And so

  I will.

  Saint Margaret

  Faith isn’t for the faint of heart.

  Both courage and naïveté

  are required. To grasp its art,

  you must look the other way

  when all the omens seem to say

  you will not get what you desire,

  so, though it may be a cliché,

  I put my faith in fire.

  * * *

  Flames are devoted. Once they start

  their urgent work—some call it play—

  you may depend, they won’t depart

  until they’ve kept their word. Their way

  is not to waver; they obey

  a law more natural. As they grow higher

  they will not falter or betray.

  So put your faith in fire.

  * * *

  Fire will scorch and singe and smart;

  she cannot keep its pain at bay.

  It will destroy her, then depart,

  leaving ashes, cold and gray.

  Though she may beg and plead and pray,