The Maid

by Kimberly Cutter

  Late in the night she awoke to a moaning. Low and ragged like a cow's. For a moment she was very frightened. None of the shapes in the room were familiar to her. She could not remember where she was. "Oh," said a voice. A woman's voice. "Oh God."

  Then she knew. Lifting her chin slightly, she looked out beyond the featherbed across the room to her uncle's bed. She could see the dark shape of him, on his knees behind his wife. Their shadows thrown on the wall behind them, monstrous in the firelight. "Yes. Oh God. Durand."

  The deer had lifted its head and was watching the couple, its black eyes shining in the firelight, its face calm, impassive. Jehanne, face afire, watched too. Was fascinated in spite of herself. She could see Durand's hands on his wife's waist, her long curtain of hair swaying in the firelight, her face lifted to the ceiling, mouth slack, eyes closed. And it seemed to Jehanne that these were two people she'd never seen before—a secret Durand and Marie, kept hidden from the world. Hidden from everyone but each other.

  "Oh," she groaned, long and low. "Oh."

  He lifted the dark curtain of her hair and twisted it in a knot around his hand. "Say you're sorry for earlier."

  She tried to pull away from him then.

  "Ah," she said as he yanked her hair back, her profile rising clearly in the firelight. "Ah, God," she said, her voice cracking. She groaned and rose up, her back arching, her swollen belly and breasts in cameo against the flickering wall.

  "Say it."

  "Forgive me," she said at last, and then the man clasped her breasts and pulled her to him, burying his face in her neck.

  Afterward they lay collapsed together in the dark, stroking each other, saying love words. Jehanne thought she had never heard people speak so tenderly to each other. And she lay there watching the dying fire, wondering what she'd given up.

  30

  Vaucouleurs was like nothing Jehanne had ever seen. A tall stone city on a hill, circled by a high, thick wall and crowned with towers and turrets, its flags and banners snapping in the wind. "Bit different from Domrémy, eh?" Durand said as they approached in the wagon. Another bitter cold day out, but this one was sunny too—the harsh, clear sunlight of winter. From a distance Vaucouleurs looked like a thing out of a fairy tale. Only when they drew closer did she see that it was a ruined thing too. The city had been besieged by the Burgundians over the summer, and everywhere there were red tiled rooftops caved in by cannonballs and walls streaked black with smoke. Windows with big, star-shaped holes in their centers, and great piles of rubble that had once been houses. Filthy Goddons, she thought as they rode among the ruins. They'll pay for this.

  It was market day in Vaucouleurs. The air quivering with the hot buzz of commerce. Crowds of people packed into the winding cobblestone streets and the main square. More people than Jehanne had ever seen, shouting and jostling with their carts of goats and pigs, strings of rabbits hung up by their soft white feet, and sad-eyed trout still wet from the river. She watched as they passed baskets of brown, hay-flecked eggs and carrots with their frothing green hair, great wheels of cheese taller than she was and golden flats of honey glistening in the comb. People too—a squat, pink-skinned woman shouting with a tray of dried sardines that flashed silver in the light, a bony, blue-jawed man yanking a goat on a string, and the pock-marked farmer behind him, frowning at the small pile of coins in his hand.

  An anxious hunger she saw carved into the faces in Vaucouleurs. A look you did not see in the country. Three dark lines across the brow, one carved into either side of the mouth as if by a knife. And a kind of theatre about it—the onion man's wide, desperate smile, the pale noblewoman with a hat like the sailing ship she'd seen in one of Claude's books sneering at Jehanne as she and Durand rode past in their cart. Suddenly Jehanne was aware of her greasy hair and dirty face, the red linen rag of her dress with its ripped seams and too-short sleeves, her boots with the soles worn through ... She looked down at the black crescents of grime under her fingernails and tucked her hands into her lap. Then she went on looking, drinking in the hot, jostling energy, the spectacle. Things get done here, she thought. Things can happen.

  31

  The guards at Sir Robert's château laughed at her. Laughed like hyenas, their faces red and toothy, cruel. "A magic virgin?" said one with a long knobby nose and a leering grin. "Whyn't you come over here and work some magic on my cock, eh, darlin'?"

  "How dare you!" said Jehanne, blushing. But that only made them laugh harder. "Tell them I am the daughter of Jacques d'Arc from Domrémy. Sir Robert knows him. I demand that you take my message to him right away." But even as she said it, she knew that was wrong too. Now they will make you wait even longer.

  It was true. For four hours they made Jehanne and Durand wait in the freezing stone antechamber of the château. Their hands gray with cold, their breath coming out in great white plumes around them. Durand wondering what the hell he'd been thinking, agreeing to bring her there. But when at last he walked with Jehanne toward Sir Robert's chambers later that afternoon, passing knots of richly dressed knights and noblewomen in the public rooms, his heart swelled up once more. "We'll show them," he whispered to Jehanne. "Sometimes God visits His miracles on us peasants too."

  Jehanne could not stop thinking about the guards. Their ugly red faces. Their loud, barking laughter. It was the first time she'd spoken of her mission to strangers, and as soon as she'd heard the words come out of her mouth, she'd known it was wrong. She'd done it all wrong. The words sounded hollow and unsure—not at all the way they felt inside of her. As she looked at the men's leering faces, she saw that they thought she was mad. A lunatic. A fool.

  If she'd been rich, maybe, or a nun, educated and proper, they would not have laughed at her. Everyone knew and respected the visions of Colette de Corbie and Marie Robine of Avignon. Marie, who'd prophesized that a virgin from Lorraine would appear on horseback and bear arms to deliver France from its enemies. But they were learned holy women, friends of the aristocracy. Not a dirty unlearned peasant from the cow pastures of Domrémy.

  Now, as she stood before Sir Robert in the pale stone grandeur of his receiving room, Jehanne's fear grew—a cold gargoyle hunched in her heart. She looked up at the corpulent bull stuffed into a blue satin tunic that was Sir Robert de Baudricourt, saw his elegantly carved oak chair and his oddly small, delicate feet turned out like a dancer's on the bearskin rug. The gargoyle hissed, Fool. He'll never believe you. If you're not careful, he'll throw you in prison for blasphemy. Burn you at the stake. She opened her mouth to speak, but Jehanne found that no words would come out. Her cheeks and ears burned hot. The gargoyle had jumped to his feet and was shouting Fool! Fool! You might as well just kill yourself, you stupid, stupid fool!

  At last Durand stepped forward and said, "My cousin, Mademoiselle Jehanne d'Arc. Daughter of Jacques d'Arc, the representative from Domrémy whom your grace met with over the troubles there last year."

  Sir Robert licked his lips and peered down at Jehanne. "Come closer, girl, I can't see you," he said.

  Jehanne could not move.

  "Go on," Durand whispered, nudging her.

  Eventually she took a few stiff steps toward the governor's chair. It was a fight to make her legs move. She felt as if she were wading through sand.

  "Closer," said the man, until at last she stood directly in front of him, smiling stupidly. "Now, what is it that you want?"

  Once more the words froze like rocks in her mouth.

  "Well?"

  "I know this will sound crazy," she burst out at last. "But I'm sent by our Lord. He wants you to write a letter to the Dauphin, reporting that God will send him help before mid-Lent."

  One of Sir Robert's eyebrows shot up, as if pulled by a string. "And what lord is this?"

  Another pause.

  "God."

  Sir Robert laughed for a long time, and when he was finished laughing, he lowered his purple eyelids and said, "You can't be serious."

  Jehanne did not answer. She simply gazed a
t him, willing him to see what was in her heart. See that this is not a jest ... see that the future of France depends on me ...

  Abruptly Sir Robert's eyes went cold. "You've got a cheek, girl. You've got one hell of a cheek."

  Jehanne blinked. Fought the urge to run. She felt the Godself rise inside of her, felt the bold heat fill her, climbing up from her belly into her heart. "That I do," she said at last in a voice that sounded strange to her—a voice stronger and clearer than her own. "Mark my words, sir, I won't leave Vaucouleurs until I have that letter."

  Sir Robert stared at her. Then he stared at her uncle who stood behind her, clutching his hat, his face as red as the sun. "Take this chit home and tell her father to give her a good beating," he said. "Girl like that needs to be hit."

  She stood in the long blue shadow of the château, facing her uncle, her jaw clenched. The temperature had dropped steeply while they were inside; a polar wind swiped at her ears and cheeks. The bones in her skull ached. Suddenly she felt very tired.

  "Filthy pig," said Durand, shaking his head. "What does he know?"

  "I'm not leaving," Jehanne said, clutching the tops of her arms to keep warm.

  Durand smiled sadly. "That's very noble of you, dear, but how are you going to get him to change his mind?"

  "God will tell me." She looked down at the ground, studied the clear frozen puddle, inside of which a red leaf lay trapped. "You can leave if you want to, but I'm staying."

  32

  It was in Vaucouleurs that I became the virgin. La Pucelle. Whatever was left of Jehannette, the cowardly daughter of Jacques d'Arc, died during those long winter months of waiting for Sir Robert's support. Slipped away and fell to the ground in a little pile of dead skin at my feet. And I became something else altogether. Something not quite human. For a virgin is not quite human. A virgin can walk through doors the others cannot. Her hand is a skeleton key.

  Day after day in Vaucouleurs I let the voices tell me of the creature I must become. A symbol, pure and fierce. Simple as a blade of grass. Braver than a lion. A marvel of conviction and rage and faith. The Maid of Lorraine. Believe that you are the Maid of Lorraine, the voices said. Know that you have always been the Maid of Lorraine.

  33

  When he saw that Jehanne would not be convinced to return to Domrémy, Durand took her to stay with his boyhood friend, Henri Le Royer, and his wife, Thérèse, in Vaucouleurs. Thérèse the Doubter, Jehanne thinks, remembering.

  She doesn't know what Durand said to convince them to let her stay. It must have been something about the voices. The mission. But she doesn't know. He made her wait, shivering in the wagon, blowing on her hands, while he spoke to them. An hour later they all came out of the house together, smiling very politely.

  At first Thérèse had seemed pleased, even excited to have Jehanne in her home. Only later did she show her true colors ... like so many. Throwing daisies and gold coins at my feet while the sun was shining, but running for the hills at the first sign of thunder.

  The Le Royers lived in a pretty, orderly, half-timber house with painted red beams down at the end of a lane near the Porte de France. It delighted her at first, with its smells of wood shavings and bubbling stew, Henri and Thérèse smiling and waving from the doorway as Durand helped Jehanne down out of the wagon. Their faces fascinated and slightly terrified—as if she were a unicorn they'd spotted in the forest.

  Henri was a wheelwright, and there were dozens of wheels propped up neatly against the house like a thicket of wooden suns. As she made her way across the frozen yard toward the door, it comforted Jehanne to think of herself staying in a house surrounded by suns. A good sign, she thought, for her heart was still trembling from the terrible audience with Sir Robert. As they'd passed through the shadows of a covered bridge on the way to the Le Royers' house, she'd been seized by the desire to run away, run back to Domrémy forever and throw herself at her father's feet, crying Forgive me! I'm a fool! I'm not special at all! Take me back! I'll do whatever you like, only let me stay!

  But she knew it was impossible. He'd kill me before the snow melts, she thought. He'd laugh as they put me in the ground.

  Thérèse came forward first. Smiling and exclaiming. A plump, snub-nosed brunette with meaty brown cheeks and a deep, freckled bosom. "Welcome!" she cried, embracing Jehanne, looking her over with her sharp green eyes as Durand and Henri looked on. "We are so happy to have you with us."

  Thérèse's voice was high and stagey, her eyes so bright and hard with excitement they made Jehanne nervous, left her with the vague feeling that Thérèse had not seen her at all, but was instead seeing some idea of Jehanne that she'd created in her own mind. But just as quickly, Jehanne forgot about it, for she was tired and grateful for the welcome, the outpouring of cheerfulness and warmth. She did not want to question it.

  Inside the main room of the house, near the hearth, stood a thin, yellow-skinned young woman with dark straight hair, a narrow, slot-like mouth, and a sharp, quivering chin. She was sweeping furiously. "My sister-in-law, Letice," Henri said to Jehanne as she stamped her slush-caked boots by the door. The young woman sent a swirling cloud of gray dust into the air and nodded without looking at Jehanne.

  "A pleasure," said Jehanne.

  The woman regarded her with cold eyes. Said nothing. Then she turned back to her furious sweeping. Thérèse glanced at Jehanne and rolled her eyes.

  Henri coughed into his fist. "I'll just show you the room, then," he said.

  Jehanne followed Henri up a narrow stone staircase, its banister worn smooth as soap. The stairs were very steep, and Jehanne had to pull hard on the banister to get herself up them. She was panting when she reached the top.

  "We thought you girls could sleep together in here," he said in a nervous voice, ushering her into a clean, low-ceilinged room at the top of the stairs. "You're right above the fireplace, so it's the warmest room in the house." Inside the little room stood a big wooden four-poster bed with a straw mattress and a thick stack of gray woolen blankets laid neatly on top. There were long boughs of pine strewn across the floor, which made the room smell fresh and clean, and a pitcher of steaming water stood on a table by the window, beside a bowl. "In case you want to wash up," said Henri, blushing. He had a shy, warm smile and a habit of pressing his hands together as he spoke. "I hope this will be all right."

  Jehanne nodded. "It's very nice."

  Henri was staring at her with a strange, pent-up look on his face, as if he longed to ask her something. Jehanne waited politely, but he did not speak. After several moments he shook his head, as if coming out of a trance, and said, "Now don't mind Letice, you hear? Her nose is just a bit out of joint." He smiled and winked as he pulled the door closed behind him. "She's used to being the holy one in the house."

  Thérèse was more direct. As soon as they'd finished supper, she drew Jehanne down beside the hearth and handed her a cup of hot spiced wine. Durand had already started off for Burey. "I hate to do it, but Marie is waiting on me. The baby could come any time," he'd said gruffly as Jehanne hugged him and hid her sudden flood of tears in the scratchy wool of his cloak. "Be brave now," he'd whispered as he hugged her back. "Show 'em that fire the way you showed me back in Domrémy. They'll all fall at your feet." Now Jehanne took a sip of the wine and smiled politely at Thérèse, but before she could swallow, Thérèse grasped her hand tightly and was looking at her with hungry eyes. "Do you think you can help us, dear? We've had such a bad time here these last months. I can't tell you what a time."

  Thérèse's sixteen-year-old son, André, had been killed during the siege of Vaucouleurs. The siege that Sir Robert had only been able to end by promising the Burgundians that the army of Vaucouleurs would stay out of the rest of the war. "They shot him with a cannonball," Thérèse said, blinking and looking at the ceiling. "We can't keep letting them get away with this. It's just—" She shook her head, unable to finish her sentence.

  Jehanne was silent. Finally she said that she wanted badly to
help the people of Vaucouleurs, but that there was nothing she could do until she had won Sir Robert's support. "Judging from the way things went today, it could take a while."

  Thérèse squinted at her. "You've seen him already?"

  "Did Durand not tell you?"

  Thérèse shook her head, a puzzled look on her face. "He said it might be some time before Sir Robert would see you and that you needed a place to stay while you waited."

  Jehanne smiled and shook her head. "We saw him this afternoon," she said. "He told Durand that I should be taken home and beaten."

  Thérèse laughed, a high, slightly alarmed sound. "Goodness," she said. "That's not a very good start, is it?"

  Jehanne said that it was not. "I'll convince him though," she said. "I just need more time."

  Thérèse looked at her. Lowered her voice. "I hate to say this, but from what I hear, the only women Sir Robert listens to are the ones he's sleeping with."

  Jehanne's nostrils flared. "I can't do that."

  Thérèse blinked. "Of course not," she said hastily. "I didn't mean to suggest ..." Abruptly she smiled and clapped her hands against her thighs. Spoke in a bright, remote tone. "Well, it's wonderful to have you here. I know we're going to be great friends."

  34

  It was weeks before Sir Robert would see her again. Cold, endless weeks. Rain pouring down every day. Darkness falling right after the midday meal. Jehanne fought the darkness in her own heart, the voices that promised disaster if she did not make it to Chinon before mid-Lent.

  She spent most of her time in the church that sat beside Sir Robert's castle, praying. Up the long, steep cobbled hill she walked every day at dawn, her steps quick and intent, nimble as a goat. Come, my love, she thought. Lend me your strength.