The Last Days of Jeanne d'Arc

by Ali Alizadeh

  And the shriek of the agitated babe in the woman’s arms.

  The Maid is saddened. So the person Brother Richard alluded to in their first conversation is much more interested in her own career than in Jeanne. A mere opportunist. I had imagined that she admired me, that she imitated my male attire. But this is not the case. The Maid tries to conceal her disappointment, asks about the child, politely. What a lovely girl. A boy, in fact, and he’s not the bumptious soothsayer’s – I am far too busy communicating with Heaven to have babies – and has been separated from his mother. To be presented to the Maid by the renowned mystical lady and be baptised in the presence of the king’s trusted companion. Catherine de la Rochelle smiles graciously and offers the Maid the gift of naming the child as she wishes. I felt disgusted.

  Return him to his mother, Madame. At once.

  Oh, but the child’s mother also loves you, O brave Maid, and we all love you here in this city, and we all wish to be known as King Charles’s loyal –

  Madame, could you please feed the king’s soldiers? My men are very hungry. Good day to you.

  The Maid distances herself from the wretched Catherine, Brother Richard, and the bundle of anger and noise. She kneels before the altar. She places her standard on the floor, clasps her hands and closes her eyes. I prayed and asked Saint Catherine to forgive me for yearning to meet an imaginary woman who did not exist. Perhaps you did not exist in this world. I asked to be forgiven for my unnatural wish. I promised to dedicate myself to forgetting my longings, to leading the mission of having the king crowned in Reims. It was my duty to end the war. I told my Voices that in the future I would care for nothing other than this duty.

  Jeanne rises to her feet and gives alms. The tenebrous friar and his overbearing disciple again try to engross her in their sycophancy, but the Maid is utterly disinterested. She tells them that she needs to supervise the exchange of prisoners with the Burgundians. She walks out of the cathedral, towards the boy minding her horse. I find some children pleasant. She ruffles his head and gives him a coin. He beams and sprints away. Jeanne spurs the horse gently to ride away from the cathedral. And then I heard a new voice, an unknown, oddly familiar voice, from the direction of the cathedral. She pulls the reins and turns around.

  And what I saw was not unlike an otherworldly vision. Jeanne’s fingers tremble and her lips part.

  Gentle Maid! Wait. You left your flag behind.

  And the person running towards her over the cobbled street, hoisting her beloved standard, is a youth. Perhaps as short as Jeanne, in a green hooded tunic and brown leggings, a thick leather belt and leather boots, the attire of a pageboy. And his face is pale and freckled and his eyes are unbelievably large and very, very blue. And his hair is long, in an ambiguous, rich shade of gold, flowing over his shoulders and his chest. And when this person catches up with the Maid of France, out of breath, and stands beside her and lifts the flagpole, Jeanne too is out of breath.

  For this person’s voice was unmistakably the voice of a woman, and now that Jeanne can look at the person’s face closely, she can see that the fine eyebrows and long eyelashes and the small nose and lips are also undoubtedly those of a woman, a woman as young as Jeanne.

  Jeanne takes the standard, fastens it to her saddle, and struggles to summon the voice to speak to this other young woman in masculine attire.

  God bless you, sister. My standard is precious to me. I can’t believe I left it behind.

  She smiles and an extraordinary scarlet hue brushes her cheeks. She stepped closer to me and lowered her voice.

  I don’t blame you, mademoiselle. Madame de la Rochelle and Brother Richard can be unrelenting. We were in Paris before coming to Troyes and people there thought the brother was mad, that’s why we had to leave and come here. And I heard you say that you need to feed your troops. Well, we grow our own beans here. It’s actually a funny story. Do you want to hear it?

  The confidence or zeal with which this stranger speaks to the Maid of France. I could but sit dumbfounded on the saddle and smile like a fool. I nodded.

  Well, mademoiselle, a while ago, Brother Richard had this idea that the Antichrist would appear sooner than he had predicted, so he gave a sermon to us and said that we needed to prepare by sowing plenty of beans. Now, I don’t know much about theology and allegory, but knowing the brother and the confusing way he often speaks, I knew that he wasn’t talking about actual beans, and I asked Madame Catherine later and she confirmed that by beans the good brother was referring to good deeds. Alas, some of the other followers thought that real beans would ward off Satan, and so now we have more legumes than we know what to do with. I know a good recipe of fried beans, with onion and garlic. Would your soldiers like that? With fresh bread?

  I had heard myself laugh while listening to your story.

  Yes. They certainly would.

  Your smile spread.

  I’ll get started and we’ll have it ready for supper. And what about you, mademoiselle? Are you hungry? You must be. My name is Piéronne. They call me Perrinaïc where I come from, but you can call me Piéronne. That’s if you have any reason to address me at some point. You must have so many important things to do. I must let you be.

  And you curtsied and disappeared into the crowd.

  Have I remembered our first encounter well? It wasn’t an encounter. It was a revelation. So you did exist after all. And now that I’m a prisoner in the hands of rapists and killers, now that I have nothing left but my memories of you, Piéronne, I wonder if you still exist, and where are you now, my love? Piéronne. Why do I feel you’re with me in this cell?

  Piéronne, what happened to us?

  9

  She retires to her tent on the outskirts of the city after performing the role of the devout and steely Maid of France. The wealthier citizens of Troyes have thrown a banquet in honour of her king, but the royal army must continue the march to Reims the following day, and the Maid wishes to have a good evening’s rest. I had to be alone. I had to calm my feelings. She makes sure that the cords of the opening to her tent are knotted tightly. She takes off her boots and kneels to seek the council of her Voices.

  Saint Catherine. Years ago in the chapel of the church in my village you told me something. You said I would one day be loved, by a woman. A woman with radiant blue eyes and red hair.

  The saint does not speak to Jeanne.

  Why are you silent? Listen, Sister. I need to know why the Bible declares love between women a horrible sin. Maybe the nuns and priests have lied to me about what the Holy Book tells us. Have they?

  Jeanne squeezes her eyelids shut, concentrates. The saint is quiet tonight. And perhaps your hair had not been reddish after all. Perhaps you were simply a blonde. How could anyone ever love me? Has she not been rejected by those she has been drawn to in the past? Was her affection for another anything but unacceptable, immoral?

  Her squire Jean d’Aulon’s voice creeps in through the cuts in the tent’s canvas. Mademoiselle Jeanne. A young man named Pierre seeks audience with you. And a lively, buoyant voice annulled the need for Jeanne to wonder about the visitor’s identity.

  My name is Piéronne. I returned the Maid’s flag to her earlier today. I have brought her some food. I did not see her eat anything at the banquet. Could I leave the dish with you, good squire, if the Maid doesn’t wish to see me?

  I felt a little dizzy. Jeanne stands up immediately, unties the strings that separate her from the outside world. She tells d’Aulon not to search her guest for concealed weapons, and motions for Piéronne to enter the tent. I tied the strings behind us. I could hardly believe you were there, beautiful Piéronne, in my private quarters. You had entered my world. Jeanne most certainly tries assiduously to hide her pleasure.

  Good evening, good sister.

  O Maid, I didn’t wish to disturb you. You must be very tired after everything you’ve done today. Should I leave?

  Please sit down. Is that for me, Piéronne?

  Piéro
nne sits on the edge of Jeanne’s makeshift bed – a flattened pile of hay covered with a rough blanket – and Jeanne sits next to her. You quickly uncovered the plate that you held on your lap. A stack of very thin circles of bread or cake, some kind of pastry. You smiled and hoisted the plate towards me.

  I made this for you, mademoiselle. It’s the special dish of my country.

  I felt so terrified, unworthy of receiving such a precious gift. What if this was a dream? Would I rupture this lovely moment by reaching for the cakes, realising that they were not real and that you were not there in the tent with me? You must have sensed my hesitation. You broke off some of the soft pastry and rolled it into the shape of a tiny scroll between your fingers, moved it towards my face.

  I promise you it’s not poisoned, mademoiselle Jeanne. It’s called a crêpe. I made it just for you.

  Jeanne takes the piece of food from Piéronne, and puts it in her mouth. Unbelievably succulent. Jeanne chews and swallows so eagerly that Piéronne, happy that the Maid has finally rediscovered her appetite, tears off more pieces and joins her in eating. The plate is soon empty without them realising how quickly they have devoured their food. Piéronne puts the plate on the floor and remains on Jeanne’s bed. I could not remember feeling so sated at any other point in my life. I found myself lazing on the bed, very close to you. Your eyelids glistened golden in the candlelight, and your smile was playful, magical.

  Did you like that, noble Maid?

  The Maid’s well-known stern face has softened and no one has seen her smile so freely, so openly.

  Call me Jeanne, Piéronne. Tell me where you’re from, and what you’re doing here with that deranged friar and that other woman, what’s her name again?

  Oh, you mean Madame Catherine de la Rochelle. Well, it’s a long story. Are you sure you wish to hear it, Jeanne?

  I would love to know your story, Piéronne.

  You told me you were born in the duchy of Brittany, in the westernmost point of my king’s realm. You came from a part of the duchy called Penn ar Bed, the End of the Earth. I knew there were French people who did not speak our language by birth. You told me your father was a beer brewer in the town of Kemper, which you said us French call Quimper. Brittany had been neutral in the war, but times were tough and trade suffered because of the conflict between France and England. Your father decided that he would need to marry you off when you were fourteen or fifteen to have one less mouth to feed.

  But I didn’t want to be touched by a man. I loved being on my own and praying in our great cathedral of Saint Corentin, looking at the lovely colours of the stained-glass windows in the chapel. I’m sorry, Jeanne, but does that make me sound strange?

  No, Piéronne. Not to me.

  Well, when I told my father that I didn’t want to get married and instead wanted to brew beer like him, he became very angry. He hit me. He said that I had to get married and bear him grandchildren. I ran away from home and hid in the cathedral for a night, and that night, I swear to you, Jeanne, I heard a Voice. I knew it was God, speaking to me like a friend, telling me to be strong and protect my virginity. And then I saw, with my own eyes, Him or an angel, in a long white robe, appearing before me. Why are you looking at me like that, Jeanne?

  It’s all so familiar, your story. So similar to my own story.

  Well, when my father found me in the cathedral, he took me back home, and beat me some more. A week later, I ran away again. This time I hid in a smaller church, and it was there that one morning I was woken by a gracious lady, a traveller from the city of La Rochelle, who fed me and told me that she had had mystical revelations of her own. I know Madame Catherine can be pushy and that upsets people, but she’s also very generous. She told me that she had left her husband and children to pursue life as a visionary, and that she would take me with her. We left Brittany for France and a few years later we were in Paris. Madame Catherine can tell the fortunes of noblewomen, and the Duchess of Burgundy herself paid us money to foretell the future of her husband’s allegiance with the English. But the duke was not at all pleased with what Madame Catherine had prophesied, so we had to find a new patron and then we met Brother Richard. I’m sorry, am I boring you, Jeanne?

  The Maid’s smile has weakened.

  It does not please me to hear that you and Catherine have served Burgundy. The enemies of France.

  Your voice became emotive, your accent more noticeable.

  I’m sorry, Jeanne, I don’t understand anything about politics. If I had stayed in Brittany I would’ve been married to some drunkard who’d impregnate me once a year and beat me when I wasn’t breastfeeding his children or cleaning their rears. I would’ve probably killed myself, and that would have been a terrible sin. But thanks to Madame Catherine and Brother Richard, I could travel and be free and see so much of France. And we are now all subjects loyal to King Charles. I promise you, Jeanne, that from now on I will only do what you think is right. I won’t serve your enemies anymore. Do you forgive me, Jeanne, for my past errors?

  I looked at you and stared into your eyes. The Maid’s smile returns, stays.

  Of course, Piéronne.

  And will you take us with you, Jeanne, me and Brother Richard and others, with you and the king and the royal army, to Reims, to attend the coronation?

  Would you like that, to come with me?

  Oh yes, Jeanne! I would really like that. I would love to hear about your famous Voices. Is it true that you’ve seen Archangel Michel? I could teach you how to make crêpes. And we could play backgammon. You’ve never played backgammon? It’s an oriental game and Brother Richard detests it, he says it could lead to gambling and it’s the Devil’s own pastime but I have secretly learnt it and can teach you and crêpes are so easy to make and we can pray together and fast for Lent together and I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind me saying these things, do you?

  You had spoken eagerly, quickly. You were a little out of breath. I wanted to reach out and hold your hand. I wanted to touch your hair.

  Of course I don’t, Piéronne.

  You know, Jeanne, after I approached you earlier today with your banner, one of your men asked me if I was Madame d’Or, the famous jester of the Duke of Burgundy. Does it not annoy you too that some people find our wearing masculine clothes comical? Anyway, I’ve actually seen Madame d’Or. She has long blonde hair, and my hair is red. It looks paler in summer but it gets quite reddish in winter. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m talking so much. I’m sorry. Do you want me to leave now?

  You were stunning, my love. I was frankly astonished by you. Jeanne is not familiar with the sensations caused by Piéronne’s words and presence. I felt blessed, embarrassed, and very happy.

  Stay awhile, Piéronne. And yes, of course I’ll take you with me. I’ll take you with me to the coronation.

  17 July

  In the Notre-Dame Cathedral of Reims: Charles VII is (indirectly) granted God’s final, indisputable suffrage. After a night of wakefulness courtesy of implacable monks chanting psalms – in the spirit of keeping vigil and contemplating the magnitude of what is to be bestowed upon him – Charles VII, in an ostentatiously simple white robe (to denote the purity of his spirit) is led to the altar of the monumental cathedral at nine in the morning. Calculating, sceptical and sleepy, he lacks some of the accoutrements necessary for the ceremony. The traditional regalia of the French monarchs are in the Church of Saint-Denis, in English-occupied Paris (although a crown of sorts has been hastily forged for the occasion). This urgent ceremony is to unite the secular and the sacred. France and Christianity shall become one. Luckily for the king, the holy ampulla – a rather dirty ancient glass vial – has some holy oil left in it. The Archbishop of Reims smears the king’s forehead with the slimy substance. Charles has taken part in the most hallowed rite of French kingship. By the grace of God. The coronation lasts for five hours.

  There is only one woman among the clergymen and noblemen who take part in the ritual. Jeanne the Maid, in full armou
r, stands beside the king. Holding her unfurled standard. God’s sponsoring of this event, via the presence of His messenger, is to be constant. My legs were a little sore from standing still for so many hours. But discomfort is meaningless. This was the most important day of my life. The glorious peak of her unbelievable story. Now the rebellious Duke of Burgundy will have to renounce the English and become a vassal of the sanctified king of France. I was sure the English would now leave us, and the war would end. Truth and justice have triumphed. She is extremely proud, and overjoyed. This colossal success is not the only source of her joy. Neither is the presence of so many people from her village – here to remind the realm’s most prominent woman that she was once one of them, that she owes them her gratitude, that she must publicly acknowledge them, and so on. The Maid’s smile lasts for the duration of the painfully slow ceremony. Because you were in the audience. The woman with red hair whose blue eyes were upon me. Because Saint Catherine had promised you to me. Because I had now given God what He had wanted from me. A resurrected France, free of the misery of war. Because I knew our oppression would end. And because I knew you had been given to me.

  10

  The power of prophecy, what the saints told her before she left her village. I had expected you. And when you finally came, my love, expectations failed to live up to your reality. Feelings can conquer the mind. Every time they meet and speak, or when they accidently cross paths in the corridors of a castle or in between the pews of a prayer hall, the most fleeting, intangible glance from Piéronne assails Jeanne the Maid’s self-possession. Is love a sort of delusion, madness or malady?

  Piéronne, you know I believe in destiny. But there is the obvious warmth and softness of the beloved’s skin just below the ears, where the jawline gently merges with the neck. It counters faith and certainty. When they kneel and pray together. Blessed, dangerous occasions. The urge to unclasp her own hands and the desire to touch the other’s and the fantasy of planting her lips on that part of Piéronne’s neck. I had seen other people kiss. You made my mind lose its firmness. Jeanne feels as she had in the presence of the angel when she was visited by Heaven in her parents’ garden. This unbelievable need, the need to be absolutely close to you.