The Last Days of Jeanne d'Arc

by Ali Alizadeh

  3

  Hear me, my love.

  They find each other on the way to Reims, after Jeanne has freed Orléans from the siege. After she has changed world history. After so much killing. I found you then, my love. The woman promised to me by the saints in my childhood. Now that the English have done their worst to her, she has only this left. Piéronne. My memories of you, and my love for you.

  8 June 1429

  Kneeling with clasped hands, mumbling to herself. The crypt of a church, the glow of a single, reticent candle. Head bowed, hair a shimmering hemisphere of trimmed blackness. Closed eyes, eyes that see the shining of the Voice.

  they wish to burn you

  they who call you a witch

  enemies of France, enemies of love

  daughter of God, Jeanne

  listen

  she awaits you

  after the Eve of Saint Jean the Baptist

  when the enemies have been forever vanquished

  when your king is made the king of France

  lovers unite, and burn with passion

  This war, Sister, it’s horrible. I was nearly killed last month. And God wants me to continue fighting the English?

  courage, Jeanne

  is not courage

  if it pleases, if it pleasures

  listen

  revulsion, violence

  the darkness of hate

  lead to love’s luminescence

  the agony of sacrifice, of giving and taking life

  gives us the glory

  of love, of justice, of peace

  will give you the joy

  of her countenance, Jeanne

  of her caress

  Caress? She shivers, smiles. Then stops smiling. She crosses herself and rises to her feet. Legs enveloped in pallid metal greaves. Sword in a new scabbard, fastened to her waist. Her armour has been repaired, burnished. Her weapons repaired, sharpened. The arrow wound has healed, soon to be forgotten. Three thousand fighters expect her outside the church. To be led by her standard. The flag of the brave Maid of Heaven who ended the siege of Orléans. King Charles has had a golden dove added to the design of the flag. To inspire the French to follow their marvellous saviour, the heroic girl who bears the message of Heaven. The very same day: four thousand English soldiers leave Paris under the command of Sir John Fastolf. Fastolf, described by one of his own servants as cruel, without pity and mercy. His mission: to reconquer the city of Orléans, to crush the resurgent forces of the French king, to find and exterminate his dubious peasant helper, the enchantress concubine, demonic harlot, terror-ridden bitch, Joan of Arc.

  9 June

  The French council of war. One captain wants to attack the English in the north, another to build fortifications around Orléans. The Maid studies the maps, quietly. The king’s handsome, feeble cousin, Duke d’Alençon, and the foul-mouthed commoner, Captain La Hire. They despise each other. La Hire’s moniker is the French take on what the English call him, the Ire. The duke wants Jeanne to lead the king’s army – its size swelling by the day, with all those who join every hour to fight for the Holy Maid of Lorraine – to liberate Normandy. La Hire objects, knowing the duke’s sole aim is to reclaim land the English have taken from him. He calls the duke a self-serving effeminate twat. Jeanne hates it when he speaks this way, but she has to agree. She addresses the king. Rather anxious, the king is relieved to have God’s agent dictate their plan.

  My Voices have told me we must have you crowned in the Cathedral of Reims. As the true ruler of the realm.

  What about Fastolf’s army, good Maid?

  We must stop them from crossing the river, fair duke. These bridges – she points at three places on the largest map – must become ours again. We’ll then go to the north of France, and we’ll face Fastolf’s great army.

  La Hire claps. Duke d’Alençon whines.

  Alas, good Maid, Fastolf’s army outnumbers us, and he has John Talbot and his elite longbowmen. Do you not know what happened to our army in Azincourt, when we engaged the English in open combat, when our noble knights were mowed down –

  Fuck Azincourt. We have Jeanne now. She’s more of a man than you, fairy duke.

  Jeanne frowns at La Hire; he winks at her.

  My Voices have told me, fair duke, that after Saint Jean the Baptist’s day there’ll be nothing left of the English army. None of their men, be they mighty or brave, will be left anywhere in the heart of France. They’ll flee from us, or surrender. Our road to Reims and to my king’s crown will be open.

  10 June

  The divine Maid’s audacious plan is adopted. The royal army of France marches out of Orléans. Their first target: the stone bridge guarded by the 600-man-strong English garrison in the town of Jargeau. She speeds past columns of foot soldiers and riders over the narrow clearings of wooded hills. These fighters of the vanguard, whose hearts palpitate, whose eyes moisten when they see the unbelievable girl for themselves, they see her steering a gigantic black warhorse, they see her in her immaculate suit of armour, galloping with poise, such self-assurance, with her firm gaze and strong eyebrows, she’s so beautiful, so implausible, she who’ll lead them to victory over the ancient enemy, who will redeem them of the curse of past defeats, who will guide them to triumph, to a celestial destination. They will die and kill for her. They reach the fortified town, see the suburbs occupied by the enemy. Walls of stone, ramparts, built in front of robust towers. The ramparts are occupied by far too many battle-ready English men-at-arms, the towers are fitted with cannons and mortars. Duke d’Alençon brushes dust off his horse’s mane, orders the army to halt. Jeanne rides forth to him.

  We’ll attack now, fair duke.

  He sighs and wonders how to begin to explain to this impetuous, illiterate (albeit strangely attractive) female adolescent the elementary rules of siege warfare, when Jeanne shouts. She’s demanding her battle flag. Her squire rides forth, hands her the large, unfurled, unmistakable white standard of the Maid of France. She waves the pole with one hand, pulls the reins with the other. Shouts louder.

  Be brave, men! Be of good heart. Follow me!

  Her call is echoed in hundreds of men’s cries. They’ve forced their heads into helmets, bared their swords and axes, are rushing after her, horsed, unhorsed, some hobbling on legs injured in past battles. The duke can’t stop these crude, common fanatics. Do they think she’s a messiah? Her explosive eyes. God was with us that day, He was with me. The English see the Satanic Whore of France, some see flames, smell sulphur. They shoot their arrows, reload, fire, but the Maid’s men are fierce, nimble, running and riding so fast, with an unprecedented, devilish momentum, never seen in men or beasts. Nothing could stop us. Now English bodies are within range of French crossbows and culverins. Bullets and bolts surge. Screams of pain, of death, the walls of defensive ramparts littered with red-coated corpses of doomed, stunned Englishmen. Men with blue tunics worn over suits of chain mail climb ladders and assume the fortifications denuded of their guards. By nightfall the suburbs are the Maid’s.

  11 June

  The French main body arrives and cannons and projectiles are positioned among the outbuildings stormed the previous day. They bombard the English towers and one tower collapses, burying alive countless English defenders in smoke, stone and rubble. But even Jeanne knows the remaining towers cannot be scaled, yet: a hulking rampart remains in English hands, defends the walls of the battered English stronghold. The French who assail it are shot down with arrows and pellets. Jeanne dismounts, crawls, takes shelter behind a heap of smashed bricks. She raises her head warily, spots the long barrel of a handheld cannon, a breech-loader, pointing at her from a murder hole in one of the English turrets. She quickly lowers her head. Hears Duke d’Alençon speak flamboyantly, not far from her. Turns around, sees him, on his horse, perfectly positioned in the breech-loader’s line of fire.

  Move, duke! Or you’ll be shot.

  He moves, unwillingly, dismissively. Less than a minute later, anot
her haughty French nobleman, uninterested in Jeanne’s warning, situated in the exact same place as the duke, has his carelessly unhelmeted face ripped apart. The sight sickens Jeanne. She withdraws, says a prayer for the dead aristocrat. Duke d’Alençon is astonished: You knew, Holy Maid, that I would be dead had I stayed where I was. God told you so, did he not? It was a prophecy. I shall revere thee from here on, sacred Jeanne of Lorraine. But the glorious Maid is restless, irate, pushes him away. She walks back towards the enemy, dangerously close to the untaken rampart. She howls.

  Surrender the town to the king of Heaven, Englishmen! Give it back to the king of France. Or you shall be very, very sorry.

  12 June – Morning

  Jeanne is on foot, clutching her flag with both hands. Behind her, rows of men with scaling ladders. She nods to the duke. He signals for the fanfare, trumpets blare. She runs at the walls of the unbeaten rampart. Wearing a wide-rimmed steel helmet. Bounces up the rungs of an upright ladder. Her battle-cry is lost in the roar of English guns. A cannonball strikes her head. She falls. French soldiers scream with horror. But she stands back up, with her head intact. The cannonball has ripped off only her helmet. The heavenly Maid is indeed invincible. God is on France’s side, absolutely. Assured of divine protection, enlivened, the French erect more ladders, storm the rampart. Now the town is theirs to besiege, theirs to pound with their heaviest bombards. The walls of the towers are punctured and French fighters pour in through the holes. The surviving English try to flee over the long bridge, to the northern bank of the Loire. Their leader, the Earl of Suffolk, lays down his sword. Enthusiastic French witnesses report that the valiant Maid has captured the earl personally, which is not true. Jeanne, her head hurting from the impact of the shot that nearly decapitated her. She’s kneeling under a tree away from others, speaking to her Voices, weeping in gratitude for another great victory. I begged her for an end to all this. She trusts the other French captains will see to the imprisonment of English captives, and returns to Orléans. The three hundred disarmed English soldiers are mostly commoners, worth nothing in ransom. La Hire and Duke d’Alençon are in agreement about what to do with them. Soon, three hundred corpses are left in the ruins of the liberated town of Jargeau.

  4

  13–14 June 1429

  The Maid is incensed. She did not wish for the prisoners to be put to the sword. La Hire is blunt: If they’d lived they’d have joined Fastolf, the dogs. Jeanne feels nauseous. She recalls that thousands of English are advancing directly towards her. She concentrates on the maps. Fastolf will reach the river in less than a week, poised to recapture central France. She reminds herself that war is horrid, that the remaining two bridges over the Loire must be secured, that the entire English force must be defeated by Saint Jean the Baptist’s feast day – about ten days from now. The king scratches his chin. He, his mother-in-law Queen Yolande and the grand chamberlain have handed out grants to politically favourable artists and poets for sculpting effigies, painting portraits and composing prayers of and about the godly, miraculous Maid. To be delivered to, displayed at and sung in cathedrals and churches across the country. Aesthetics, faith and politics meet, so that the ignorant perceive God’s alignment with France.

  15–16 June

  The French army exits Orléans and marches south along the river to the stone bridge outside the town of Meung. French artillery bombards the English positions on the southern bank, and receives the blasts of English guns in return. Battered, outnumbered, the English take flight across the river upon setting eyes on the flag of the abominable, unbeatable Witch of France. They hide in a fortress, under the command of their much-loved, much-propagandised captain, Sir John Talbot, known as the English Achilles. Shakespeare will later dub him, quite unreasonably, valiant. This morning he breathes heavily, sweats and peeks from the window of the fortress at the columns of the French. They circumvent his position. Jeanne has asked Duke d’Alençon to post a garrison at the northern entrance to the stone bridge, and is leading her forces to take the last bridge, outside the town of Beaugency. A picturesque place of vineyards and gardens, with a daunting, cubic citadel at its centre. Brutal hand-to-hand combat, and what’s left of the English scamper to the citadel. The French seize the bridge, but have no time to recuperate – sentries report a great army within hours of approaching them.

  Duke d’Alençon, panic-stricken, misses his wife, begs Jeanne to ask God to protect him. Captain La Hire scoffs at the noble weakling, recites his own battle prayer, boisterously: God. Do for me in battle what I’d do for you if you were a soldier like La Hire and if I were a god like you.

  17 June

  As Jeanne knows, the approaching forces could not be Fastolf’s English. They would be at least a day away. The thousand fighters are from the duchy of Brittany. Formerly neutral in the war between France and England, now mesmerised by the tales of heroism and holiness to do with the famous Maid. They’ve come to join her in the campaign against the English. Duke d’Alençon despises the Bretons’ leader, Constable Arthur de Richemont, out of rivalry, jealousy and so on. The duke threatens to withdraw from fighting and end the operation if the constable is allowed to join them. Jeanne stares the duke in the eyes.

  We shall stand together, fair duke. Together against the English.

  She rides out to greet the Bretons and finds their leader indeed as pompous as she had expected. Constable Richemont does not dismount; he looks her up and down, grunts: My men think you’re from God. That means naught to me, mademoiselle. I do not fear you, and I would fear you even less if you were from Satan. Jeanne reassures him that she has nothing to do with the Devil, tells him that he’s welcome in her king’s army. She accompanies the constable to the French council of war. Despite their mutual hostilities, French captains concur on a central point: a great battle is imminent. They concede: their campaign is at its climax. They shall be face-to-face with Fastolf’s army tomorrow. The king motions for the male captains to be silent, asks the Maid for direction. She has not had the opportunity to speak to her Voices, rest or even eat anything like a good meal for the last few days. She gazes at the maps, speaks quietly, firmly.

  We need good spurs.

  Spurs?! To ride fast? Are you suggesting, mademoiselle, we must turn around and flee with haste from the English?

  No, fair constable. It is the English who will flee from us, and we will chase them.

  But why would they take flight, good Maid? Has Fastolf not come from Paris to fight us? He has four to five thousand men.

  The English have no reason to attack us now, fair duke. We have taken all of the bridges. They will camp in a walled town and wait for us to leave for the king’s crowning in Reims. They’ll then attack to retake the Loire Valley, in our absence.

  I say she’s right. And the dogs think she’s an evil sorceress, they’ll run away from us like a clowder of fucking pussies. Where do you think they’ll retreat to, Jeanne?

  Please don’t swear, Captain La Hire. Maybe they’ll retreat to here – she points at a name on the map marked with a red flag – and they’ll be joined by Talbot and his bowmen. Could you tell me what this says, fair duke?

  Janville. So you’re saying, good Maid, that if the English retreat then we must pursue them. But could it not be a trap? What if they have time to position their archers and bowmen, and we ride into a blizzard of arrows –

  Not if we pursue them with full speed, fair duke. Not if we catch them before they reach Janville. Not if we feed our horses and wear our best spurs.

  The king presides over his captains’ silence. Are they prepared to follow the Maid’s risky tactic? To attack the feared English longbows head on? La Hire huffs: Fuck it. He volunteers to lead the charge. The king accepts, and forbids the Maid from joining the attack. It will be too dangerous, and casualties will be very heavy. France cannot risk losing her heavenly champion.

  18 June – Morning

  The thousands of English, having only just arrived from Paris, turn around.
They begin to retreat north. Hundreds more abandon the fortresses of Meung and Beaugency, under the command of Talbot, quickly join Fastolf’s great army. Mostly on foot, pushing cannons and carts of ammunition, disciplined, prepared for enacting Fastolf’s cunning strategy. This is in fact a tactical retreat. Trusting that the wicked Joan of Arc is as brazen, inexperienced and thoughtless as he expects her to be, Fastolf is baiting her. Unlike the commoners – bowmen and men-at-arms – Sir John does not perceive the French girl as a powerful satanic being. She’s nothing more than a charismatic schemer with luck on her side, an uneducated peasant woman who knows nothing of the French cavalry’s historic defeats at the hands of England’s unbeatable archers. He’ll feign a full withdrawal, the wench will have her men follow him. He’ll then assemble his infantry, including Talbot’s elite archers, in the planes beyond the thickly wooded hills of the Loire Valley. Outside the village of Patay. There the English will quickly form their celebrated lines of bowmen. They shall use a harrow formation: they shall plant thousands of sharpened poles of wood for impaling the horses of the oncoming French, and shower the trapped riders with wave after wave of arrows from behind the stakes. It is Sir John’s preference that the irritating slut is not killed in combat. That she’s captured and put on trial for misleading gullible Frenchmen, for enchanting them with religious claptrap, and for being a deranged pervert who – if reports are true – wears the clothes of a man and lives, and no doubt regularly fornicates, with randy soldiers.

  And what if I’m wrong, Saint Catherine? What if the English ambush us?

  in the name of God, the Father

  who has chosen you,

  his daughter

  to lead France to victory

  to lead your heart to love’s glory

  Jeanne, listen

  don’t be afraid

  even though there be

  much bloodshed

  far too much agony

  in the fields of today’s battle