The Last Days of Jeanne d'Arc

by Ali Alizadeh

  Early April

  Many marvel at the girl’s stamina, integrity. News spreads: Charles has been seen laughing, attending mass with the boyish, unmarried peasant – who calls herself la Pucelle, the Maid – and his cousin, experienced captain Duke Jean d’Alençon, assigned the role of assisting the girl with – in fact commanding – the French army assembled for the urgent relief of the besieged city. Jeanne is subjected to examinations. Piety, sanity and virginity, absolutely indispensable traits of the Holy Maid of France. In between sessions of inspection, certification of her intact hymen by three noblewomen and interrogation by scholars and theologians, she is taught to canter her horse, wield a lance. She’s encouraged to learn to sign her name. She’s fit and agile, exceptionally good with the sword. The king’s canon lawyers conclude: No evil has been found in the girl.

  Strange, supernatural events circulate: a drunk soldier who calls her an appealing piece of arse and says, The Maid, is she? Give me a night with her, then we’ll see, ha ha! is found floating, dead in a well. Days later, the story of how the Maid has revealed the secret whereabouts of an enchanted sword, buried behind the altar in the church of Saint Catherine de Fierbois. Incredulous noblemen are slowly swayed by the king’s advisors that the masses, if bewitched by all this, will follow the girl into battle. The English may be pushed back or at least intimidated. To some seasoned fighters, this remains a preposterous gamble. The grand chamberlain argues: A flag-bearer, a mascot. The Saracen heretic Mohammed’s wife Aysha, a young, attractive woman not unlike our Jeanne, carried the flag of Islam, astride a white camel, led the forces in battle. We shall put her in our vanguard with the arms of the royal house of France, the fleur-de-lys, and, say, an image of God or an angel or something sacred for effect, to rouse our men, boost their morale, increase recruitment. Are we all with His Majesty the king on this?

  Mid April

  She’s vigorous and confident, if also taciturn, aloof. And the knights are quite impressed by her wielding of the long-sword, her ability to fire a crossbow after only weeks of training. The master armourer of Chinon, paid a hundred livres tournois – royal currency – to take Jeanne’s measurements and fashion a suit of armour. His apprentices at the workshop hammer and mould a sheet of metal into the shape of her back, roll plates of steel into cylinders for arms, wrists, thighs and calves. A spherical breastplate, a cuirass, for her torso. Sequenced metallic skirt, a fauld, for her waist and buttocks. Iron spikes screwed into the joins of the engraved shoulder-guards, and gauntlets, metal gloves. For the helmet, a lightweight, elegant design: a bascinet, open-faced, conical model with additional ventilated visor to protect her eyes, nose and cheeks. To the court ladies’ surprise, all this metal becomes her.

  Charles is pleased. He gives twenty-five livres tournois to an artist called Hauves Polinoir for Jeanne’s battle flag, her standard. On a large rectangle of primed white canvas, a lavish pattern of dark blue fleurs-de-lys, the French king’s insignia, and, on top on one side, a brown circle representing the world, with two golden angels. Meaning: Jeanne’s forces are universally holy. In bold, black Gothic on the other side: Jesus and Maria. The king gives Jeanne two courser warhorses and four trotting ponies. Almost completely broke, he spends the remainder of his mother-in-law’s loan (3,759 livres tournois) on recruiting and arming soldiers and mercenaries. His army now numbers about three thousand, comprising horsemen, men-at-arms, crossbowmen, hand-gunners, and one armoured, flag-bearing female knight.

  26 April

  Glistening in her suit of armour, kneeling before the king inside a tent in the surrounds of the town of Blois. She’s dubbed Chevalière Jeanne la Pucelle, ennobled. The scrupulous king decides to change her common family name – Darc – into the quasi-noble ‘De Arc’ by inserting an apostrophe between ‘D’ and ‘arc’. So now called Jeanne d’Arc in the chronicles and records (Joan of Arc to the wicked English), she rises to her feet, receives the ceremonial staff of office from the king, and then her sheathed sword and then her standard. Then she mounts her black steed and rides towards the main body of her army, accompanied by her entourage of a squire, Jean d’Aulon, an additional page, Raymond, two heralds, Ambleville and Guyenne and a monk, Brother Pasquerel, as scribe and personal confessor. The chef-de-guerre – chief of war – of the army of France, her unfurled godly flag flapping above her head, canters past the columns of reverent soldiers. Amid the fanfare of trumpets, drums and friars chanting Veni Creator Spiritus, the would-be liberators of Orléans march with carts of wheat, columns of cows and swine, food for the brutalised city.

  The siege of Orléans, now in its seventh horrific month. Duke John of Bedford, the regent of the French portion of the kingdom of England, and Sir William Glasdale, the captain in charge of the English siege forces encircling Orléans, receive identical letters delivered by French heralds:

  Jesus and Maria

  You king of England, who call yourself the king of France; you John of Bedford who call yourself the regent of the kingdom of France; you John Talbot and Thomas of Scales, who call yourselves the lieutenants of regency in France; you William Glasdale who call yourself the captain of the forces laying siege to Orléans in France; and all you English soldiers who have invaded the kingdom of France.

  Hear the orders of the king of Heaven. Return the keys of all the good towns that you have violated in France to the Maid. She has been sent by Heaven to champion the true heir, Charles de Valois. She is ready to make peace if you do what is right, leave France and pay for all that you have damaged.

  Further on:

  Go back to your island. If you do not do so you can expect the Maid. She shall make you suffer greatly. She will make your soldiers leave France whether they like it or not. And if they do not leave, they shall all be slain. I have been sent by God to drive you out of France.

  If you do not believe me I will strike your armies wherever I find them and I shall raise a war cry that has not been heard in France for a thousand years. Heaven will give me strength.

  Jeanne the Maid

  9

  29 April

  In resplendent armour, dazzling flag unfurled. Jeanne the Maid, galloping ahead of the columns of France’s army. Glittering spurs prod the flanks of her charger. Hooves smash, bounce, are seen to fly. Jeanne’s large dark eyes glint like the pommel of steel on the hilt of her sword. She pulls the reins atop a summit overlooking the Loire. The scene of her imminent confrontation: the lush valley, and the grey, walled city of Orléans across the wide river. She discerns the robust forts, the towers outside the city on both sides of the river. Decked with white flags emblazoned with red crosses and golden lions: the arms of England.

  4:05 p.m.

  The vanguard of her army, ferried across the river thanks to a favourable south-westerly – another of her miracles? – disembark on the northern bank of the Loire at the ford of Chécy. Advancing past the ominous English towards the beleaguered city.

  8:13 p.m.

  The Maid cautiously enters through the eastern gate of Orléans, Porte Bourgogne. Inside the famous city, once the jewel of the Loire Valley: timber-framed houses, cracked, crumbling, some gutted by English cannonballs. Countless civilians rush, cram into the street, block the parade of her troops, throw themselves at the fetlocks of her horse on the muddy pavement: Our saviour. Save us from the English. Holy girl. Save us from their guns. Noble, gentle, commoner, filthy, manic, they crowd, nearly crush Jeanne, one accidentally sets fire to her flag with a torch. She calmly squeezes out the flame with her fist. Her hands, encased in metal gloves.

  30 April

  The city’s decrepit Hôtel de Ville, the town hall, swarmed by desperate masses. They seek a glimpse of their heavenly warrior damsel. Soldiers push them back. Inside, French captains argue, curse, threaten each other. As usual. Jeanne tries to look over the men’s shoulders at the military maps on the table. Mademoiselle. Leave this to us. Deliver an inspirational speech to the crowds, or some such. Go on, girl. Dismayed, she leaves the town
hall to tour the city. Multitudes of adoring spectators. She is led to view the English positions from a safe distance. Crouching behind a wooden barbican on the demolished bridge that used to link the city to the southern bank of the river, before the siege. Jeanne raises her head cautiously to countenance the gigantic English fortification. The Turrets. She has never been so close to the fearsome English. Clears her throat.

  You Englishmen! I want to talk to your captain, William Glasdale. Are you there? I am Jeanne. The Maid. I want you to stop this war. I want –

  DIE you WHORE of France Satan’s slut Go back to your village WITCH milk a fucking cow

  Jeanne cowers.

  I’m not a witch. I’m –

  We shall BURN YOU fucking whore you whore Devil’s whore

  Jeanne seethes, recoils, bursts into tears. Perhaps the French captains are right to exclude her from military discussions and action. She’s much better at appearing dashing and valiant than actually facing the enemy. No doubt useless in a battle. She’s too weak, so easily unnerved by English insults. She’s just a peasant girl.

  Wednesday 4 May

  7:04 a.m.

  Leading a thousand soldiers brought six days earlier under the Maid’s flag, male captains exit Orléans for a surprise attack on the minor English position blocking the trade route to the city’s east. The fortified church of Saint-Loup. Only three hundred English soldiers garrisoned there. An easy victory for the French to lift their confidence? In perfect order English archers man the bulwark in front of the church, form a line. They string their longbows, eject arrows from their quivers. The English field knight atop the church’s steeple focuses, lowers a red pennon. Torrents of three hundred shafts pound the oncoming French. Within an hour over a hundred French soldiers punctured, dead, wounded. The rest start to retreat. The English field knight decides to dispatch a herald to deliver the news of the latest victory to the siege headquarters at the Turrets.

  He then spots a star, a flame, a fireball – something bright just above the ground, speeding out of the city towards the battlefield.

  36 Minutes Earlier

  Jeanne is startled by the sound of trumpets and cannons. In a wonderfully soft bed in the city’s most luxuriant bedchamber. Her eyes snap open, dreadfully fierce, blackish brown. She throws herself out of the bed, kicks her pageboy, dozing on the floor.

  You fucking idiot! You didn’t wake me up for the battle!

  No one has heard her swear or yell before. Her squire and pageboys cringe. The ladies of the house have planned a day of visiting the wounded with the king’s favoured damsel and showing her some of their city’s finest tapestries. And they too are awakened and screamed at by the furious youth and ordered to fetch her horse, armour and weapons. Frightened and on the verge of tears, the young girls of the house nervously strap reverbrace arm-guards and genouillère iron knee-caps on their enraged guest. Her sword is girded to her burnished saddle. In the courtyard, she mounts her horse, fully armed. Shouts at everyone again.

  My flag. Someone get me my flag.

  The girls run up the stairs to the bedchamber, and pass Jeanne the standard through the room’s window. Jeanne’s frown momentarily softens. She smiles at the girls. Then glares and slams the visor over her hard face. Flagpole in one hand and reins in the other. She spurs her horse violently, gallops. Sparks on the cobblestones, stricken by her charger’s hooves.

  8:33 a.m.

  The English field knight squints. Makes out a rider, in full, gleaming armour. Who screams. A woman’s scream, in French.

  By God ATTACK. God will give you VICTORY. Attack!

  The English commander hears the rider’s high-pitched battle cry, grins, shouts at his men: It’s that Joan of Arc. She’s out of her fucking mind. Senseless bitch. Don’t kill her, I want the bounty. But the bowmen have not heard him. Immersed in the sight of the horsewoman who has only now joined the battle. They have never seen a female warrior. She leans her body forward, flat along the horse’s neck. Jumps over the piles of bleeding bodies. Beaten French throngs stop, watch the shining girl. Clutching her enormous, emblematic flag. Riding head-on at the English bulwark. Insane? Suicidal? Insanely, suicidally heroic.

  9:17 a.m.

  Like small streams that flow down a valley to combine and form a powerful river, the dispersed French converge behind the pull of their spellbinding Maid. Roused, mesmerised by the sheen of her armour. The utterly unexpected courage of a death-defying teenage girl. A flood of French foot soldiers and riders rushing, following her. The English bowmen are unsettled. Athletic young men hand-picked from archery contests across Britain, not known for their intelligence: terrified of witches and spooky sorceresses. The girl isn’t normal. They’ve never seen a woman like her. What in God’s name is this thing? Englishmen drop their bows, scamper back into the fortified church.

  9:46 a.m.

  Over a thousand French fighters invade the deserted English bulwark. Jeanne dismounts, takes off her helmet. She’s hot, out of breath. A battering ram wheeled up to smash in the church’s doors. French captains – now apologetic for starting the battle without her – order an additional cannon to pummel the fortified edifice. The steeple crumbles. The English field knight, fumbling with a crossbow, plummets to the ground. His head cracks open not far from Jeanne’s feet. She shivers. So much blood in a human head. A crash and the doors of the church are shattered by the steel-capped ram. French soldiers gush into the darkened nave to discover hundreds of cloaked men, presumably monks and priests, deep in prayer. The French knight Baron Gilles de Rais unsheathes his sharpened sword, lifts one of the worshippers by the hood of his habit. The monk stammers something pitiful in very bad French. The baron grins, swings his sword. The poorly disguised English soldier’s head tumbles, his neck a stump pumping blood. Duke d’Alençon comments on his comrade’s swordsmanship, has a petrified English youth kneel for him, and slices the boy’s head in half with a battleaxe. The French commander Jean the Bastard quickly joins his comrades and impales two disarmed boys with one lance. To avenge the injury inflicted on him in a previous combat.

  Early Afternoon

  Jeanne the Maid is seen to stagger out of the blood-soaked church. She throws up. France’s first victory against the siege: a massacre. Later, Baron de Rais laughs in the town hall, empties a goblet of dark red wine into his wide mouth. Jeanne glowers at him. Repeats her demand for the safety of the few remaining English prisoners. Outside, euphoric civilians crowd the streets of the wretched city, pray in the cathedral. Praise God for their first victory against the aggressors. For granting them an exceptional champion. But is God really, completely on their side? Will the evil siege be broken?

  Thursday 5 May

  And Jeanne clearly does not care for people’s adoration. She refuses to have her hands kissed. What has brought her here, to risk her life and take those of so many others? The day following her first battle, the Ascension Day feast, after singing mass, taking Eucharist, weeping for yesterday’s dead, confessing, giving alms to lepers and confessing again, she distances herself from others, returns to the barricade facing the main English stronghold across the river. Her squire shoots an arrow over the chasm in the bridge. It lands inside the English fortress, the Turrets. The letter rolled around the arrow:

  Englishmen,

  You have no right in this kingdom. Abandon your forts peacefully and return to your country so that no more of you have to die. Next time I’ll raise a war cry again that you won’t forget. Please. This I write to you for the second and last time. Not all your men were killed yesterday.

  Jeanne the Maid

  The English siege captain Sir William Glasdale urinates on the letter. He reminds his agitated soldiers that a powerful English army of five thousand men will arrive in less than three days to help them repel the Witch. In Normandy, Regent Bedford increases the bounty on the abominable Joan of Arc fivefold to five thousand gold pounds. He promulgates specific punishments for English soldiers who desert for fear of the Fre
nch sorceress.

  10

  Friday 6 May

  Now the French are sufficiently audacious to confront the enemy on the other side of the river. Their captains admit that Jeanne the Maid has what it takes to lead the assault. She is truly an oddity. (Baron Gilles de Rais wonders if she’s actually a pretty boy disguised as a woman who likes wearing men’s clothes. It excites him.) Sexism and elitism are temporarily suspended. She’s proven her worth in fomenting valour and extreme violence. Today she’s the first to cross the river to the islet of Toiles on a makeshift pontoon bridge, ahead of fifteen hundred soldiers. Astride her black horse, brandishing her grand flag. She canters through the reeds in the shallows between the islet and the southern bank. The English fortress, known as Saint-Jean-le-Blanc, has been abandoned. Have the invaders heeded her words, withdrawn, making more bloodshed avoidable?

  8:28 a.m.

  Scores of English soldiers appear from the fortified convent of Les Augustines, beyond Saint-Jean-le-Blanc. They howl, attack Jeanne. She doesn’t run away. She dismounts and plants her flag. Does she think she’s invincible? She unsheathes her sword. The sight of the heroic girl encircled by the menacing English stirs the French assembled on the islet. They won’t let the fucking English have her. They charge at the vicious dogs to protect their armoured girl. Steel slices flesh, stomachs spill, eyeballs are gouged. Jeanne grunts and lands her sword on an enemy figure. Feels a spasm in the blade of her weapon, the breaking of a bone. Red liquid squirts on her face. The English are ripped apart.