The Last Days of Jeanne d'Arc

by Ali Alizadeh

  Jeanne nods.

  Your Majesty, my Voices have confirmed to me that you are the true heir. That is why we must have you crowned in Reims. Your mother, gentle prince, lied under pressure from the English, as everyone knows.

  He smiles momentarily and it’s a sad, melancholy smile.

  Truly. Does your mother love you, Jeanne?

  Her chest tightens. I could not answer him.

  Do forgive me, my good friend. I should not enquire about your family life. I am certain that any mother would be tremendously proud of an exemplary daughter such as you.

  No, prince. It is a fair question. And the answer is that, I’m sorry…but…

  I was so embarrassed, suddenly tearful. Had anyone ever loved me? Jeanne the Maid reaches for the kerchief in her saddle. The king watches his heroic fighter blow her nose, visibly uneasy, perhaps shocked by the young female champion’s uncouth commoner’s manners. He rides away from her, raises his voice authoritatively.

  It is at least another ten days’ journey to Reims. And in this damn heat we cannot expect to march any faster. I am assigning you with sending a message to Troyes. Tell them that they should not fear reprisals for their past misdeeds. Address them as Frenchmen, not as Burgundians.

  The Maid and her household camp in the small village of Saint-Phal, and she dictates a letter for the soldiers of the hostile city.

  Loyal Frenchmen,

  Come to greet King Charles and do so without fail and fear not for your lives and your homes. And know that we shall have to make war on you if you do not accept us and that we will enter your city, and God will help us for yours is a city in the kingdom given by God to my king, and that I have been sent by Him to end the war and create lasting peace. Hence I implore you to be with God, and God will be with you if you do as I have asked. Reply to me immediately.

  Jeanne the Maid

  She awaits the city’s response with trepidation. The king will permit the other captains to storm the city in the event of an unfavourable reply. Innocent people will be looted and many would be put to sword. And is it not possible, Piéronne, that I also somehow knew that there was a woman in this unfriendly city, a woman whom I needed to protect from my men, a woman with the gentlest, smoothest lips?

  7

  Delegates have arrived from the city.

  She is awake when her squire enters the tent with this news. The Maid is of course pleased that the citizens of Troyes have chosen to respond to her letter so soon after receiving it. But she is discomforted by the character leading the party that has come to parley with the French. I remember I was brushing the mane of my warhorse outside the fortress of Saint-Phal. She sees the dark, cloaked figure of a man approaching her. He walks in a strange fashion, taking fast strides for a few steps, then stopping to observe the famed young woman in her notoriously masculine black tunic and leggings. He takes a step back, then steps forward briskly. I was intrigued, but when he was closer, I could look into his eyes. Something troubled, perhaps sinister.

  When I told you about my first encounter with Brother Richard, you said most people misunderstand him. You said he is, despite his frightening views, a kind soul. The friar is not particularly kind towards Jeanne upon her initial meeting with him. The Maid of France stops grooming her horse and introduces herself with utmost decorum. She waits for him to speak. It is unexpected that the citizens of Troyes should have sent a clergyman to address the Maid on their behalf. The brother does not speak at first, he instead reaches into the pocket of his habit and reveals a small glass jar. He uncorks it – to the apprehension of Jean d’Aulon, Jeanne the Maid’s squire, on watch for English and Burgundian assassins – and then the brother shakes the small bottle, sprinkling colourless liquid in the Maid’s direction.

  D’Aulon makes to unsheathe his sword, but the Maid stops him. I had heard about exorcism rituals from the nuns at the Hermitage of Our Lady of Bermont when I was a little girl. The brother is ensuring that the famous martial woman, who claims to be in contact with God and His saints, is not in fact a thing of the Devil. I found this absurd, and nearly laughed. If she were a demon disguised as a human she would disclose her true substance – by growing horns, tail, wings and so on – upon contact with drops of holy water.

  Don’t fear me, Brother. I won’t fly away.

  He does not appreciate the Maid’s humour, but he appears mostly satisfied that she is not demonic. No doubt he has been told, like others in the parts of the country ruled by the perfidious Burgundians and the English, that the heavenly champion of the French royal army is a satanic being. And you, Piéronne, you said you had known my goodness from the moment you heard about me. But is that true?

  The Maid finds the intensity of Brother Richard’s conversation unpleasant, although also a little amusing. He wants her to prove to him that she has indeed heard the voices of saints, and that, if so, could she perform a miracle for him? She suppresses the urge to mock the foolish man. My Voices and their truths are my own reality, not a thing for others to verify. Jeanne reminds the brother that she is speaking to him as a French captain. She is the chief of war of her king’s army. She is interested in the city of Troyes accepting her liege Charles VII as the true heir. She does not wish to waste time on spiritual matters which do not concern the brother.

  It is only the ignorant and the misguided who claim God is not present in all things. It is they, the ignorant and the sinful, who have angered the Lord, and hence the end is upon us. The arrival of the Antichrist.

  Is that so, good Brother?

  At the Last Judgement, apostates and Jews and Mohammedans and sodomites and Hussites and the greedy and the lustful and the vainglorious shall burn. They shall be annihilated most cruelly. Do you not believe me, girl?

  I believe what my Voices tell me.

  The end is nigh, girl.

  Indeed, good Brother?

  The brother grins, then looks up to the sky.

  Next year of our Lord, the year 1430. This be the final year of mankind’s dissolute and immoral existence. Men and women have indulged in innumerable travesties and mortal sins. Be you devout and modest, girl?

  After months of observing the king and his courtiers, Jeanne has learnt the art of appearing diplomatic. She responds politely, but sincerely.

  I do hope so, but it’s not for me to say. I’m only a soldier.

  A soldier of God? Will you lead a Crusade against the Turk?

  I’m a soldier of my king, Charles de Valois. I’m at war with the English.

  Brother Richard continues to sermonise about Hell and damnation and so on until midday, until he has exhausted his bile. They may at last address the question of the city’s political allegiance. The Maid informs the friar that she has six thousand men with her and his city only six hundred. She shall ask the king to let the city’s defenders leave peacefully, should the city’s doyens open the gates to the French. She enquires to know how the ordinary citizens of Troyes, cloth-factory workers and other dwellers, view the king of France and his quest to drive out the English and reclaim his rightful crown at the Cathedral of Reims.

  We have all heard about you, girl. Some even admire you. There is a woman in my own company, a chaste and pure and religious woman, a visionary to whom God speaks, who has taken to imitating you. She dresses as you, in the garb of a man.

  Jeanne the Maid seems alarmed. My heart missed a beat, I’m sure of it.

  The friar is harsh, but not uncompromising.

  The Bible forbids this, of course. Androgyny is a perversion, but I despise women who wear ostentatious attire, sinful garish attire with elaborate headpieces that breach God-given feminine modesty, with wicked skirts and long, serpentine trains. Women who display their bodies as desirable things for men to lust after. I hence accept this girl wearing the simple clothes of a lowly male.

  And does your city accept the king of France, Brother?

  I shall report to our leaders that you are not a limb of the Devil, girl.

  The Ma
id has to be satisfied with this outcome. She bids the brother and his companions farewell. But does that suffice? I spoke to Saint Catherine. Sister, I want the city to surrender to me. And she spoke to me:

  this woman

  she too rejects

  feminine beauty

  trapped in the city

  she adores you already

  this woman

  who emulates you

  I’m uncomfortable with much of what the brother said, Saint Catherine. He’s so full of hatred. But his follower, could she… I should like to meet her, Sister.

  when the war ends

  when gates open

  swords rest, guns are cold

  Jeanne

  she will love you

  then

  Jeanne the Maid has met far too many naïve, superstitious French people who praise her, revere her and perceive her as a living saint. It is reported that she has made a demanding – albeit very rich – noblewoman cry by refusing to kiss the latter’s ring. The pestiferous duchess wanted her ring blessed by the lips of a divine damsel. I told her to kiss the ring herself. Much to the king’s dismay, who had wished to induce the duchess to donate money to the royal army. You later told me that I had been too unsympathetic. Are you still so compassionate, Piéronne, even for insufferable beings like that woman? Do you still care for me?

  The French do not have an official response from the city for the remainder of the day. Within Troyes’s walls, the people are profoundly and predictably divided between those loyal to the Duke of Burgundy and those desiring to receive the triumphant king of France and his famed female warrior. The king’s spies inform the French captains that the fanatical friar Brother Richard has been speaking publicly for their cause, but the textile factory owners do not wish to anger the English merchants. In the French council of war, some advocate bombarding the city, others advise the king to circumvent Troyes and make way to Châlons. The king fidgets in his seat, asks the Maid to address the council.

  Noble king. If we must lay siege to Troyes, then place me in charge. I will take you into the city. I promise. With God’s help. I will take the city without bloodshed.

  Some of the captains baulk. They boast about their own past experiences in reducing enemy strongholds to rubble. What would a peasant girl, whatever her demonstrated ability to embolden soldiers in an assault, know about the mechanics of staging a medieval siege, about onagers, siege towers and trebuchets? The king sighs, rubs his furrowed brow. He declares that the Maid will lead the siege on the morrow. I was certain, Piéronne, it was my destiny to enter Troyes. Peacefully.

  In the morning, Jeanne the Maid says her prayers with her confessor. She has her pageboy Raymond arm her for battle. The Maid believes an unambiguous display of force will suffice to intimidate and compel the city to surrender to King Charles. Believe me, I had no plan to kill a single one of your city’s dwellers.

  She mounts her warhorse and Raymond hands her the glowing standard and a lance. She rides towards the city’s moat. The enemy sentries do not shoot arrows at the Maid. She is free to survey and select the sites where she will install her artillery. The captains are wrong about her incompetence at siege warfare. She has watched them closely in past battles. I have always been a swift learner. When she was a little girl, it had taken her only a day to learn to hold the spindle and turn the wheel to spin wool. You laughed when I told you I don’t fear any woman in my village when it comes to spinning wool. You found it funny that a warrior should be proud of such a thing. I found your laugh so beautiful.

  Jeanne the Maid has formed the guns and other projectiles across from the city’s gatehouse towers. The other captains concede to the king that her weapons’ blasts could indeed obliterate the enemy’s turrets. But I had no intention of firing at your city. She works all evening to move troops into position along the moat, to cut down trees and tie pieces of wood together to build siege ladders, to sharpen axes and spearheads for the first wave of attack.

  And in the morning she wakes early. She asks d’Aulon time and again if they have had a message from the city. The Maid remains convinced that the people of Troyes will surrender without a fight now that they have witnessed her resolve to conquer their city. But the city does not dispatch heralds of peace. At midday, she retires to her tent, alone, and weeps. I did not want to make war on civilians. Her soldiers are becoming restless, sweating in the heat in their chain mail and helmets of steel. She cannot disappoint her king. She cannot seem indecisive.

  She walks out of her tent and asks Raymond to strap the breastplate on her chest. She hesitates in deciding which helmet to wear. Raymond caps her with a barrel helm, which will offer good protection should the defenders shoot pellets. She grunts at him that she can hardly breathe in this helmet. I wanted to give your fighters more time to lay down their weapons. Eventually, the king’s herald rides down to the French fighting party’s encampment. He enquires about the state of the operation. The Maid tells him that she is terribly hot and they will make a more energetic, less laborious attack in the afternoon.

  The tense chorus of the cicadas that infest the moat. There has been no communication of any kind from the city today. She would sound dinner if her soldiers and she had anything to dine on. I so wished I could delay the attack longer, Piéronne. I don’t know if I had Saint Catherine’s approval in my ears. She signals to the soldiers to move forward the massive bundles of branches and sticks. She hesitates one last time, before issuing the order.

  Fill the moats. By Saint Denis. Fill the moats.

  Her men begin to heave the masses of faggots on the ground towards the city, to seal the moat and render it fit for crossing. She raises her standard, waves at the bugles. And then I finally heard what I had so wanted to hear. The howl of Message! from the guard towers of the city’s gatehouse. She has her archers desist from shooting, and the drawbridge descends upon the moat. A lonely figure in the vibrant tabard of a herald creeps out of the city. I did not need to wait to hear the message read to me. I knew I had won peace. She removes the heavy, suffocating cylinder from her head and calls for Brother Pasquerel. She kneels with him to offer a prayer. It was God’s decision – wouldn’t you agree, Piéronne? – for our battle to end before it started, for your city to open its gates to me. For me to find you.

  8

  I remember that day so clearly, Piéronne. How could I not?

  They enter the city with some pomp and a little fanfare. I rode next to the king. Charles the Victorious is wearing his royal jewels, and amongst the hundreds of citizens who have swarmed the streets, many make crosses and wave blue flags bearing golden fleurs-de-lys. Jeanne the Maid is not armed, garbed in a simple outfit of tunic, vest and leggings. She holds her celebrated standard. The king has insisted that she be identifiable as the renowned heroine. The spectators need to see with their own eyes that God’s messenger is by his side.

  They ride slowly. Behind them follows a small convoy of French knights. The enemy is exiting through the city’s other gate as King Charles and the Maid proceed towards the City Hall. Duke d’Alençon has posted archers along their route to ensure their safe process. The radiance of relief and gratitude on the faces of women and men who have come forth to greet them. I knew we need not fear assassins.

  The crowds part outside the city’s great cathedral. The king and his cohort are approached by their zealous supporter, the Franciscan friar, Richard. The Maid introduces him to the king. The friar grins, bows, kisses the king’s hand. He implores the monarch to dismount and enter the cathedral to be received by the worshippers. The king intends to meet the city’s political powers to negotiate the terms of their allegiance to the French royal house. He is not at all impressed by either the friar’s insistence or by his rancid breath. He looks at Jeanne the Maid pleadingly; his commander is not unhappy to oblige. I will not deny it. I was curious to meet Brother Richard’s follower, the woman who is said to admire me. The king and his entourage leave the Maid with the monk.

>   The Maid of France dismounts. She hands the reins of her horse to an urchin who is staring at her excitedly. The brother is disappointed that the king will not be visiting his congregation. He leads Jeanne over the stone steps into the nave of the cathedral. He loses no time in accosting her. We must make France a good, Christian nation. You must assist me, girl, to have access to the king and to make the court more godly. The world shall end next year, I must be promoted to the role of religious advisor to His Majesty to prepare us for the coming of the Lord. To pre-empt the Beast’s wicked stratagem…

  Beggars kneel before the Maid and touch her boots under the cathedral’s carved arches. I was not listening to the brother. I sought a person I knew I had to meet. Jeanne’s eyes scan those of reverent women and hatless men who have crowded into the august place. They blush, some clasp their hands and twiddle rosaries at the sight of the realm’s most talked about woman. The Maid would have normally found such attention overwhelming. She tries to smile at the people. Brother Richard’s voice becomes louder – we must outlaw adultery and punish those who do not fast during Lent – but he is interrupted by a woman who is now standing behind Jeanne.

  Good Brother, please have me meet the Holy Maid of Lorraine.

  I turned around and faced a woman, much older than myself, in a habit similar to that of a nun, holding a very small baby in her arms. Brother Richard inserts himself between the two women. He introduces her as Catherine de la Rochelle – one of my most pious followers and spiritual daughters – who interrupts the friar by insisting that she speak for herself.

  I am indeed Catherine de la Rochelle, the much-loved prophetess. You have no doubt heard of me. Like you I have powerful and celestial visions. A divine spirit visits me regularly, every night, and she has bestowed upon me the power of divination. Such powers! I can predict events and I have advised many people of noble blood on important matters of family and finance. I have excellent references. I would very much like to meet the king and the queen of France to offer my services, for a modest –