by Ali Alizadeh
27 August
Having seen the world-famous Maid inspect that place the previous day, the Burgundians dispatch a force to secure the windmill. I did not wait for Raymond to help me don my armour. She places a light, open-faced helmet on her head, takes her shield and draws her sword. Leads the charge on foot. She’s confident of victory and, truth be told, she feels invincible. They fight the Burgundians hand-to-hand. I used my favourite sword. The sword retrieved from behind the altar of the Church of Saint Catherine. She wounds one enemy soldier by tearing off his right arm, charges another. I was filled with hope. The hope of finally being with you after completing my mission. I admit I enjoyed fighting on that day, Piéronne. The Burgundian knight she has attacked wears a hefty suit of armour, and Jeanne feels lithe in her plain tunic and leggings. I struck my sword on his helmet so hard he lost balance. The Maid presses her boot on the fallen man’s chest and he lets go of his weapon and shield. She announces him her prisoner, and orders him to take off his armour. She has Raymond donate the captive’s equipment to the local church as her gift to the town of Saint-Denis.
28 August – 7 September
Disheartening news. King Charles of France and his grand chamberlain have agreed on an armistice with the loathsome Duke of Burgundy. The French cannot retake Paris or make war on Burgundy anywhere until Christmas. And one of Paris’s stonecutters alone makes over a thousand cannonballs in one week for defence against the Harlot’s eventual attack. The Maid is enraged and forces Duke d’Alençon to go to the king and make him see sense. We’d begun to construct siege engines, siege ladders. We’d cut down the branches of all the nearby trees for arrows and faggots to fill the moats below the walls of Paris. I was certain the city would be mine. D’Alençon convinces the king that if they don’t attack now the king may never retrieve his ancient capital. He reassures the newly crowned ruler that, according to his informants, the majority of the city’s residents desire nothing more than return to the kingdom of France. And the Duke of Burgundy only has three thousand fighters for keeping the French from taking back what is theirs. The king considers all this. He agrees to break the armistice.
8 September
I led the first wave of the assault myself. My page Raymond was carrying my standard. The French army’s decision to not only break the truce but to attack Paris on the Feast of Nativity provides the Burgundians and the English with further proof of the horrible woman’s hatred of decency and Christianity. The scholars of the University of Paris denounce her actions. I clenched my teeth, ran on the bundles of wood we had thrown into the moat. I climbed a small hill. With her company the Maid attacks the Gate of Saint-Honoré. She’s heard to be screaming at the city – like a bawdy whore and a diabolical creature in the shape of a woman, in the words of one Burgundian chronicler.
Surrender to the king of France!
Sprays of crossbow bolts and molten metal and heated bullets. Nothing will stop her soldiers. Under a cover of shields and their own archers’ arrows, they rush forth with scaling ladders. The walls of Paris are to be climbed and breached. The English flags, the crosses of Saint George are to be toppled and replaced with the lilies of France. The Hundred Years’ War is to be ended. Today. And I could not stop to feel pity for my falling men. The great shattering of the facade of the enemy’s position by our cannons. She begins to descend from the hill to join the French soldiers struggling to raise the ladders against the towering walls.
The city is ours! It belongs to God. Paris belongs to France. By Saint Denis –
Die, you fucking minx!
I felt a horrible pain somewhere in my body. The Burgundian crossbowmen reload and call her something crude again – bloody tart, according to an eyewitness. She’s still alive and does not want to stop. I was fighting for us, Piéronne. I was at the foot of the wall, at one of our ladders. I knew I was bleeding. A body collides into her shield, a dead defender or a dead attacker. She slips before she can secure a foothold on a rung. An explosion. I was battered by rocks falling from the walls. She tries to stand back up but she’s in great agony. The Burgundians shower her with more arrows, more rocks. She crawls behind a mound of writhing bodies. She sees the stem of a crossbow bolt in the punctured metal on her thigh. And she sees her pageboy Raymond, with her muddied flag in his grasp. On the ground, his eyes open, still. An arrow in his neck. The Holy Maid of Lorraine howls. She’s helped away by two of her soldiers. Irritably agrees with d’Alençon to sound a retreat.
I pulled out the bolt, had my wound dressed. I cried. Desperately. Poor Raymond. I was very angry with myself. I had let you down too, Piéronne. More than five hundred French fighters have died in one day. Jeanne the Maid’s worst day on the battlefield. But perhaps the Burgundians, having seen her resolve to defeat them, will now surrender, open the gates to her and end the war? Mere optimism. She won’t seek her Voices’ counsel. I knew Saint Catherine would be upset with me.
9 September
Not having received any conciliatory messages from the city, the wounded Maid of Heaven arms and tells d’Alençon to sound the trumpets for a fresh assault before noon. But at that precise moment, an emissary from the king – the Count of Clermont, if Jeanne remembers it correctly – arrives and informs the French captains that the king, who has camped at Saint-Denis, wishes to address them. Immediately. The king speaks to the Maid in the presence of the other captains.
Our dear Maid. It ails us to hear of your injury.
It’s nothing, Your Royal Highness.
Be that as it may, we do not fancy losing our brave chief of war. We have had word from the Duke of Burgundy that he is prepared to return to negotiations on our terms. Many true congratulations to you all for successfully intimidating our foe. We shall now desist from further assaulting the city and return to the south for the winter. We are hopeful that an effective accord will be reached after Christmas and in the meantime let us pray for the souls of the valiant Frenchmen who died yesterday for our –
You can’t possibly expect me to take Paris in one day, sire. By God, gentle king, give me more time.
The king is clearly displeased with the Maid’s interruption. But he is, as always, far too refined to display his displeasure publicly. He lauds her some more for her courage and stamina, and then dismisses the council. Jeanne stays behind to speak to him privately, as they have done after councils of war in the past. King Charles turns his back and strides out of the room with the other captains. He leaves the girl standing alone in her full suit of armour. I was furious. The urge to draw her sword and attack the nearest wall. She storms out of the castle and rides alone to where her soldiers are awaiting orders. I missed you so much then, Piéronne. It pains the Maid to have no one to protest to about the king’s maddening, incomprehensible decision.
I needed the solace of your company, Piéronne. I truly did. The injured, exasperated warrior desires the comfort she would receive in the other’s arms. She is running out of patience, tired of pining. She has never been physically intimate with another person, not truly intimate, but she desires the warmth of Piéronne’s body. I wanted you, Piéronne. Now. I wanted the king to let me fight to end the war. I was burning, Piéronne, with desire. With resentment.
And it is on the ride back to camp that the Maid chances upon a gang of camp followers. Instead of feeling pity for these unfortunate women, the frustrated female hero fumes at them. She tells them to go to Hell. She assumes that these women are to blame for the soldiers’ lack of vigour and virtue. I called them many terrible things. I heard myself repeat what I’d heard Brother Richard and my mother say about prostitutes. And when one of these women speaks back to the Maid and calls her an ugly sanctimonious tomboy or something to that effect, the valiant knight loses control. She draws her sword.
The women scream and scamper. The soreness in her thigh intensifies and swells. Spurs plunge into her horse. The horse shrieks, lurches and throws her off. More pain. I burst into tears.
There was no one there to he
lp me up. My pageboy was dead. I had frightened off those poor women with my anger. She has to slowly unbuckle the heaviest pieces of armour to be able to stand back up by herself. And when she does rise up she sees her beloved sword, the one she believes has been a gift from Saint Catherine, on the dusty track next to her horse’s hooves, its blade broken.
12
The following months are agonisingly uneventful. A legendary warrior, humbled. The royal army of France has been more or less disbanded. The knights and the dukes take their companies and pursue their disparate ambitions. Now that King Charles VII has been crowned and faces no immediate threats from either England or Burgundy. He may even endeavour to seduce a consort in earnest. French noble families again indulge in internecine factionalism.
I felt disheartened. Jeanne wishes – but represses the wish – to send word to her confidante Piéronne the Breton, to invite her to the opulent château of the grand chamberlain were the Maid has been given luxurious accommodation. Saint Catherine would neither give nor deny me permission to see you again. And Jeanne does not wish to make the Heavenly Father more irate. I knew He was angry with me for not winning the war. And I was scared of you too, Piéronne. I thought you would be disappointed with me, that you may no longer wish to be close to me. How could a pale, skinny creature with sinful yearnings and shortened hair wish to be loved by a woman as wonderful and beautiful as you?
The Maid is still a celebrated figure, despite the defeat at Paris. Common people, poor peasants of the realm, remain in awe of her, calling her l’Angélique, the Angelic One. She is expected to socialise with aristocracy and clergymen and smile and respond to their wit and sophistry. The king wishes for her to feel appreciated – or in fact placated – and he has the royal blacksmith forge a new sword for her, identical to the one she broke at the siege of Paris. The king ennobles all members of her family. He exempts her village from paying taxes.
The grand chamberlain, he wants me to lead an assault against one of his rivals’ castles. A warlord, who sympathises with the Duke of Burgundy. Should I take on the job, Sister? You don’t think I should go back to Domrémy, do you, Saint Catherine?
the misery of France
continues
daughter of God
the English, their allies
keep Paris
the war
has not ended
I know, Sister. And I’ll stay in France. But I’m so sick of this war. And why won’t you speak to me about her any longer? Sister, did you not tell me that I’d be loved by a woman like her?
The saint does not speak to Jeanne.
Is she thinking about me? Shall I send her a message? Would I frighten her with my…Sister, please speak to me. Am I a sinner? Tell me if you want me to forget about her. Tell me something, Sister. Please.
Jeanne the Maid accepts a commission to lead a campaign for the grand chamberlain against one of his enemies. Autumn has already arrived and it is terribly cold. In the muddy trenches below the assailed castle’s walls, her squire d’Aulon takes an arrow in the heel. The Maid puts him on the back of her horse, then leads her very small number of troops to build a bridge over the moat and storms the castle. Her second siege for the grand chamberlain is not successful. A month waiting to receive money from the king to pay her mercenaries, and she has to abandon the siege.
After fighting as a freelancer – although she prefers to think of her work for the grand chamberlain as the continuation of her quest to strengthen France, and she becomes angry if anyone suggests that she has become a mercenary captain – she is approached by an older woman, a widow of one of the king’s courtiers, who seems quite interested to become close to her. She asks Jeanne if it’s true that she does not fear fighting, despite her feminine nature, because God has promised her that she shall not be killed in battle. Jeanne replies that she has no such guarantee from God, that she is as vulnerable as any other soldier. The woman’s name is Marguerite, and something about her, perhaps her blonde hair, also reminds Jeanne of that other Marguerite, her girlhood friend. Marguerite is fascinated by the Maid. She invites Jeanne to stay with her in her castle in the city of Bourges, and when the Maid is there, towards the end of her three-week stay, this Marguerite suggests that they go to the public baths together.
And now that I’m a forgotten prisoner in a place of darkness and horror, speaking to an absent person, Piéronne, I confess to you I truly wished you were there next to me, in the bath, in the hot-room, naked as me. I wanted you there, to touch me. But she resists the temptation to look at the undressed women around her, and she does not welcome the way her host Marguerite casts glances at her body and at her private parts. She asked me later if it was true that I was a virgin, if I desired men at all. Jeanne frowns, doesn’t respond. She returns to the grand chamberlain’s castle of Sully-sur-Loire earlier than anticipated. And then one day, upon riding over the drawbridge into the castle, I saw you.
Was it truly you, Piéronne? With your flowing orange hair, in a beautiful blue dress with wide hanging sleeves and double lacing, standing under the arched portico in the courtyard. I was amazed. I dismounted, left my horse with a stableboy, and I couldn’t stop myself from running to you. Your smile was a verifiable miracle.
You look so beautiful, Piéronne.
They embrace. Piéronne’s hands remain on Jeanne’s back for as long and with as much firmness as Jeanne’s hands on Piéronne’s. And your lips gave off such warmth when they brushed my cheeks. I felt weak and blessed and lively and embarrassed.
My dear Jeanne. I came as soon as Brother Richard agreed for me to come here. I was so upset when I heard you were wounded in Paris. Where were you hit? I’m so glad you like my dress. I was worried you’d expect me to always wear a man’s attire like you, but I wanted to, well, you think it’s pretty, don’t you?
Jeanne nods and forces herself to let go of the other’s hands.
Yes. Listen, I’m tired of being looked upon by prying eyes. The woods beyond the castle are beautiful, and we could go for a ride. To speak freely. Would you like that?
Jeanne retrieves her horse. She rides with Piéronne sitting side-saddle behind her. They ignore the stableboy’s palpable curiosity at seeing two women ride so intimately. They ride off the track into the forest of oak trees. The winter has shorn the trees’ massive canopies of their leaves, but they are still majestic. Jeanne helps Piéronne dismount and ties the reins to one of the trees. And once she has looked about to make sure that they are alone, Jeanne steps towards Piéronne, hesitates, steps away and sits under a tree. You sat next to me.
I’m so sorry, Piéronne.
What for?
For failing to defeat the English, for failing to take Paris, for failing to end this horrible war. The king wouldn’t let me. I’m sorry I didn’t send you a message.
None of that matters now, Jeanne. There’s a truce between us and the Burgundians, isn’t there, and the English are stuck in Normandy. So we’re all safe here, at least for now. And we can spend Christmas together. Isn’t that lovely?
Jeanne smiles, but her eyes keep their sadness.
Yes, very lovely. But I need to end the war before we…It’s my Voices, Piéronne. They’re not happy with me.
You looked away from me but inched your body closer to mine. Their backs are pressed against the trunk of the same tree. I could sense the heat of your body, even though we were not touching. I did not dare let my hands cross the chasm between us.
What about your own Voice, Piéronne? What does he tell you?
I felt you take a great breath of cold air.
He tells me to be careful, Jeanne.
Of what?
Piéronne huddles her knees in her arms and stares into Jeanne’s eyes.
You know of what, Jeanne.
We did not speak for a while. The wind whistles between the branches of the solemn trees.
God wants me to bring peace and justice to France. Now that you’re here, Piéronne…Maybe I’ve done enoug
h. Maybe I can now live my life as I choose. With whom I choose.
Piéronne listens to Jeanne’s words intently and furrows her brow.
Jeanne, Brother Richard is eccentric and says all those bizarre things about the end times, but I get really scared when he talks about lustful people with unnatural desires. I don’t really know what the Church does to women who are, you know, unusual. But I saw a burning in Paris, of an idolatress, and it was so horrible, Jeanne. It was…the look, Jeanne. The look on her face.
Jeanne is silent.
The lungs burst with hot smoke, that’s how they burn people to death. Before the body is incinerated. That’s how they kill people. The poor woman, Jeanne, she coughed until her face was a hideous, contorted mask. And there was dark liquid, dark blood coming out of her mouth and her nostrils. Jeanne, that’s a horrible, horrible way to die.
We’re not heretics. We’re not idolatresses, Piéronne.
I know that, Jeanne, but what if others find out?
Find out what, Piéronne?
A soft plume of mist flows from Piéronne’s lips.
About how we feel about each other, Jeanne.
I was calmed, moved, wordless. Then I was excited, agitated. The coldness of winter disappeared.
Jeanne, we need to be much more discreet. I loved hearing you tell me that I’m beautiful in the castle, but I was also terrified to think that someone might hear you say that. You know, I couldn’t prevent Brother Richard and Madame Catherine from coming here with me, because as you’ve said they don’t lose any opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the royal house, but, Jeanne, I’m really scared that Catherine is already getting suspicious.
She has nothing to be suspicious of, Piéronne. We haven’t done anything. We haven’t even had one…
I could not utter the word kiss. Jeanne has never kissed anyone and the thought of kissing another woman is too powerful and unspeakable. But you were not just another woman. You were the angel with blue eyes and red hair whom I had been destined to love, the girl who also cross-dressed and who also heard a divine Voice.