The Last Days of Jeanne d'Arc

by Ali Alizadeh

  Of court’s ladies she was the loveliest

  But when she reached the age of discretion

  There began a most evil affliction

  Vicious Attila the Hun, scourge of God

  And his savage hordes ravaged like a flood

  And the unstoppable gangs of killers

  Pillaged the helpless farmers and millers

  Our ailing and possessed king, Charles the Great

  Called upon his fair daughter, Belissant

  He cried and told her of his decision

  That she must help to heal the attrition

  That she must marry Attila the Hun

  To persuade him to end his savage run Belissant

  felt a great sadness within

  And so she wept and prayed to Saint Catherine

  But just then she heard the enchanted cry

  Of a shrill melody rattle the sky

  It was the sound of the ivory horn

  Of Roland, the bravest knight ever known

  Belissant was Count Roland’s cousin and

  They had grown up together, hand in hand

  The princess left the castle following

  The great knightly horn’s urgent calling

  She travelled south over the tall mountains

  To where knight Roland had fought the Saracens

  Her gorgeous eyes welled with glowing tears

  When she saw Roland’s corpse filled with spears

  Princess Belissant sat beside the body

  Of the count and those of his company

  And by the handsome knight’s serene carcass

  She spotted a thing’s shining brilliance

  It was Durendal, Roland’s famous sword

  Covered in the godless enemy’s blood

  Belissant took the sword by its jewelled hilt

  And cleaned the steel of the pungent red silt

  La Rousse stops, senses the dryness of her lips. She motions for Jeanne to pass her the bottle of brandy. Has her clumsy amalgam of romance narrative, mythology and early history bored her listener? Is there too much violence in this story? No. Jeanne is a child of war. She listens comprehendingly. She understands the world, her place in it.

  She then returned to Charlemagne’s castle

  And put on an exquisite blue mantle

  She hid the invincible French weapon

  Beneath the soft gown, a sharpened talon

  That night she carefully approached the tents

  Of the enemy’s massive battlements

  She asked the guards to tell their cruel leader

  That she had come to be his new lover

  The barbarian spearmen grinned and took her

  To Attila the Hun’s darkened bedchamber

  In the fearsome boudoir, the princess saw

  The glint of Attila’s eyes, fierce and raw

  She stood at the centre of the torchlit room

  Facing the throne of her menacing groom

  The drunken tyrant viewed her clothed figure

  Licking his slimy beast’s lips with vigour

  He told the soldiers to leave his lodgement

  And ordered her to remove her garment

  She smiled and told him that she’d get undressed

  If she wasn’t feeling shy and modest

  She said: ‘My Lord, close your eyes for a while’

  And he agreed, ignorant of her guile

  And as soon as his bloodshot eyes were closed

  She swiftly unleashed the battle-worn sword

  The famous blade sliced through the tyrant’s head

  And fountains of blood sprang and soaked his bed

  That’s how the infamous fiend, Attila

  Was killed by a girl brave as Camilla

  Like the Amazon queen Pentheselia

  And the goddess of hunting, Diana

  Belissant was a female warrior

  Who ended a despot’s reign of terror

  And as were the ancient heroines virgins

  So was our Belissant an armed maiden

  La Rousse pauses to finish what remains in her bottle, and notices Jeanne’s eyes – darker than coal, brighter than moonstone. Fierce. The girl’s face is paler, harder than marble. La Rousse continues.

  And I’ve heard it said in a prophecy

  That’s been carried on through posterity That

  if France is attacked by enemies

  And scorched in the fires of calamities

  There’ll come a girl, according to prophecy

  Who, like Belissant, will bring us victory

  And she’ll save the defenceless from the wars

  And she’ll heal the embattled earth’s scars

  And this prophecy belongs to Merlin

  The wizard of Brittany, the fairies’ kin

  Who foretold of a great malevolence

  Engulfing the fields of beautiful France

  And it’s said that the balm for such horror

  Will be a warrior maiden’s valour

  And this warrior’s name is la Pucelle

  The Maid, she’ll send the horrible to hell

  So remember, my dear, Merlin’s promise

  That the Maid of Lorraine will bring us peace

  She’ll rescue the good kingdom from terror

  She’ll give us hope for happiness ever after.

  10

  We have all been impressionable, influenced, indoctrinated; but who amongst us has become an icon of universal emancipation?

  Her judges, the vile clergymen employed by the English, will accuse her of immoral behaviour during her stay at the inn in Neufchâteau. They depict La Rousse as a brothel keeper, Jeanne as her keen disciple. Men who later try to sentence Jeanne to death for heresy suggest that in La Rousse’s inn she consorts with soldiers and learns to ride a warhorse. And could it not be here that she first hears the legend of the Maid of Lorraine? And if it’s La Rousse who tells Jeanne about the myth, and if the myth is to become her reality, what does she think about it all? Is she ready?

  Well, what do you think, Jeanne?

  I’m not dimwitted, La Rousse. I’ve heard men talk about the battles. The English are more powerful than us, they have stronger weapons. I’ve never even touched a sword.

  I know very little about warfare myself, my darling, but listen. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m simply vain, superstitious, and lonely. Maybe I simply need a friend to listen to me. Tell me, do you like my poetry?

  No. Stop it, La Rousse. You wish to compel me. To do what? Become a knight, lead an army? Me, a peasant girl who knows nothing about fighting or riding a warhorse?

  Look my lass, you have an amazing life ahead of you. And we need justice in this world. You’ve achieved the improbable already, you, a lowly common creature, have faced off a judge all by yourself. You’ve defied your family. I thought you might appreciate the story of a heroic girl, that it might inspire you to live as you choose from here on.

  Live as I choose?

  You can do so much, my darling, with your precious life. More than complaining about your parents and wasting away daydreaming in a poor backward village. I knew from the moment you set foot inside my kitchen you were nothing like I’d set eyes on before. You can do unimaginable things, Jeanne. You are an exception. Mark my words, lass, you can change the world.

  Why me?

  Because you know people have lost hope, Jeanne. How much more misery, hunger, how much more rape, how much more pain do we have to endure, lass? Has France not suffered enough? It is time for justice. Are you afraid?

  Yes. I could be weak and stupid. I may be sinful. I don’t want to become a martyr. La Rousse, maybe all I want is to stay with you, here at your inn.

  No, my dear. I have no need for another maidservant.

  I could stay to be with you.

  Be with me? What an idea, my girl. Do you realise what you’re saying?

  I do.

  Well, my darling, I am most certainly not suitable. I’m clearly damaged goods. And I�
�m not of that nature, not of the nature you have in mind, sweetheart.

  What nature is that, La Rousse?

  You know full well, Jeanne, and so do I. God knows I have seen all kinds, and I begrudge none. But my inn is no home for you, my darling. It is no home for your brave and beautiful heart.

  Where is my home, then?

  Somewhere in this wide world. Out there, in France, Jeanne. Away from the crass cowherds of Lorraine…No, please don’t cry, my lovely lass.

  That’s…fine. I’m fine. I won’t cry any more. Thank you. Thank you, La Rousse.

  Why are you thanking me, lass?

  For your story. For your poetry, for the prophecy. It all makes sense, you know. You’re right about the legend. This is what my Voices have always wanted me to do. Did you say I should dress as a man?

  Yes, but one thing at a time, my young friend. For now, take this. Look, I’ve had the skirt shortened for you. Red would look lovely on you.

  What am I to do with it?

  Wear it! And wear it when you have reason to make use of men.

  The way to a man’s heart is through his…well, what exactly do you call it here in Lorraine? They will listen to you if you please the eye.

  Fine. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. My Voices, I think they tell me I must go to Orléans, to stop the English destroying what’s left of France. They say the king will listen to me. Where am I to find a sword? Can a girl carry one?

  Legally? Be patient, my couragous friend. You can’t simply flee your family. Your father spoke to me this morning, telling me the raiding parties have passed through your village. It is safe for your people to return home, to what hasn’t been burnt down. But come visit me as soon as you can, Jeanne, for I have male friends, guests who can teach you to ride military horses.

  I won’t be living in the village for much longer, La Rousse. I know I must see Captain Robert. My Voices want me to go to his fortress.

  A very good idea, lass. But you’ll need a male companion.

  My uncle Durand will help me. He’s the only man who’s ever been kind to me. My Voices say I could be the girl of your prophecy, La Rousse. They say I can be the Maid. They say the captain will send me to see the king.

  What else have your Voices told you?

  That my life is like no other woman’s. That I’m like no ordinary woman. And that I will be loved, one day. And that I will end the war.

  I agree with them, lass. Come here. It is getting late. Give me an embrace before you leave, my heroic little Maid of Lorraine.

  Thank you, La Rousse.

  Go on now, my Maid. You go on and speak to powerful men, and fight our enemy. You end the misery of France, and you find love and happiness there. You make the English pay for what they’ve done to us. For what they did to me.

  Goodbye, La Rousse.

  Part III

  1

  And two years later, in the prison. The prisoner remembers, in the paleness of what passes for light in her cell. She recalls her entry into history.

  The end of her childhood, the birth of her legend. A farmer’s daughter in a memorable red dress at the gates of a fortress, and French soldiers mistook her for a would-be camp follower. What brings you here, honey? Not long after returning to Domrémy and finding the family house and the village church burnt by the enemy. What exactly did she tell Captain Robert’s men? And finally when he agreed to see her, and she told him that he must send her into France to make war on the English. She quoted the prophecy. The impact of one decision.

  The captive remembers as best as she can. The stone bricks of her cell have not changed, but the room has a softer air. She remembers the captain dismissed her as a lunatic, joked about sending her back to her father for a good beating. What changed his mind? Historians have far too many theories. Jeanne nearly smiles. The captain had ogled her. She even considers eating some of the gruel the guards gave her earlier today.

  Continues to remember. When at last it was agreed that she could be of use to the king, at long last free to appear as she pleased. Turned into a boy for safe passage from Lorraine to the king’s castle in Chinon. Unruly hair finally shortened and shaped, a round pageboy’s soup-cup do. Tight hosen instead of skirt, thick doublet instead of bodice. How natural to ride with a leg on either side of the saddle, boots fastened into stirrups. She would never again ride side-saddle. She looks down at her prison gown, missing her real garments, which she is not allowed to wear. But she does feel safer than yesterday, knowing that the earl rebuked the guards after last night’s violence. Is it possible to grow accustomed to life in a dungeon? Could she actually befriend the English countess? Notable French prisoners are allowed some liberties. Perhaps she will endure.

  And does it still matter, after all these years, that La Rousse would not be with her? And as for that other one, the one with shimmering blue eyes. Jeanne sits back down on the floor of her cell, notices that the bruises on her face are still sore. She negates the name and its image. Where is she now, she who broke the heart of a virgin warrior? Never mind, Jeanne. Today is almost done and tomorrow she will ask for a blanket. Life must go on. Perhaps the earl will allow her to be free of the manacles for an hour, even to stroll in the yard. There will be trees there. She turns to the window and is saddened to see the sky’s colours so dim. She yawns. So little sleep, maybe no sleep whatsoever, over the last week.

  Hears the vesper bells. The guards in the corridor are subdued and one of them can be seen napping. Is it safe to sleep tonight? And what thoughts and pictures will she dream? Not her, please, Saint Catherine and Saint Marguerite, keep her from my soul. Jeanne is resigned to loneliness until she dies. She is, despite the Inquisitor’s accusations and odious charges, nothing if not a very good Catholic. Blames herself for her obscure, sinful longings, and forgives the one whose name she won’t invoke. She is an inmate chained in a box made of mortar and bluestone bricks. The least she can do is deny the urge to torture herself with needless memories. Perhaps there will be a future. Maybe King Charles will one day pay for her release. Or perhaps the countess will take her into her household. How difficult would it be to learn English?

  2

  She ignores the possibility of rats, yawns. Curls up in a corner of the dungeon and drifts. The sanctuary of sleep. She dreams. The soothing sensation of a fairytale, the melodious voice of her godmother from a childhood in Domrémy. Talking donkeys and cats in plumed hats. An enchanted frog that wants to be kissed. In the shade of the Fairies’ Tree, holding Marguerite’s hand. The opaque beauty of the moonlight over the valley, the dazzling figure in the sun when she heard the Voice. There once lived a poor farmer who had a magical goose. Marguerite points at a unicorn. Don’t be dim, sister, that’s only pagan superstition.

  And now the charming music of one of the king’s lute players. Knights in lustrous armour joust with lances couched, and courtly ladies cheer and admire from vermilion tents and golden pavilions. A banquet of roe deer and parma tarts and squirrels with wild sauce. Christmas Eve in the castle of the king’s grand chamberlain. In the lavish guest hall, walls covered in tapestries and their floral motifs are alive in the seductive glow of the splendid fireplace. Only the two of us, there. She knows I’ve drunk a full goblet of mulled wine. Don’t be frightened of me, Piéronne. I’m like you. We are of the same nature. Don’t cry, Piéronne. No, no. Don’t bleed. Why are you in pain, I never hurt you oh God why this pain I’m dying this – Her eyes break open. The brutal darkness of her cell. A hard sting, can’t move her arms or legs. O Lord O Saviour. A hand crushing her neck. Pinned down by a fierce weight. Pain stabs between her legs. Are the guards killing her? Opens her mouth but the attacker’s fingers block her throat. Breathe to live, Jeanne, just breathe. The monster’s mass hammers her into the floor. Her wrists and shanks hardened, unmoveable. He huffs and breathes on her face. And it can’t be seen, the atrocity in the pitch-black prison room. And no one would want to see it. Let this grotesquery end. A grunt and she feels, as much as she c
an feel anything now, sharp metal on her neck. Hands release her. Her body is lifeless. The voice of the Earl of Warwick in her ear.

  Cry now, bitch of France. Cry.

  Knife or sword slips from her skin. A number of feet are heard. The cell’s door is closed and locked again. Time passes. She begins to feel her body again. Flips the gown back over her legs. Pressing crumpled fabric between her thighs. The warm liquid comes from her body. She shudders and, of course, weeps. Will she bleed to death? Can this please be a nightmare? Hits herself and yes she is awake and this did happen. Howls. A crass English reply from the corridor, then one in French.

  Shut your mouth or we kill you. Go to sleep.

  Shudders and weeps. There is a shackle missing from one of her feet. An eternity until the pain is absorbed by her body. Saint Catherine, why? Disbelief gives way to anguish. Shouldn’t have fallen asleep, I shouldn’t have. Why, Saint Marguerite? Her limbs twitch. I shouldn’t be here, I should’ve died in battle. She slowly touches the walls, fingers seek the hollow where the mortar joins the stones. Pulls herself up, her back pressed against the wall.

  Why did you have me leave my village, God? To be brutalised in this evil place? Shouldn’t, I shouldn’t have attacked Compiègne. I begged you to make my death quick. But I didn’t care for anything anymore. Not after what you told me. In my tent. That horrible night. Yes, you.

  You. The pain is constant but her heart feels past the terror. It’s the thought of her. It’s the thought of you. You who took my heart and then broke it. You, the woman with blue eyes and red hair. It was because of you, Piéronne, that I went on to be captured. It was because of you that I attacked an unbeatable army. It is because of you that I’m here. It is because of you they’ve caged me. It’s because of you they’ve…

  And if she was here in the black void of the cell with Jeanne, would Jeanne denounce the mysterious beloved, or would the defiled girl seek solace in the other’s arms? If I could speak to you, my love, would I blame you or beseech you to care for my wounded body? And where are you now? If only you could be here to see what they’ve done to me. If only I could speak to you. If only you could hear me, Piéronne. My love.