He knew that whatever she did, motivated them to do better. What man wanted to be outdone by a strip of a girl who looked all of fourteen, if that?
Yet that same girl, plain and sturdy, had a quality about her, one that must come from God, for somehow she knew what they needed and gave it to them. In its own way, it was genius, and bestowed on a girl who’d been confirmed to be only seventeen. It had to be divinely inspired.
She didn’t leave them time to be afraid, to think about what was happening.
She let them believe in prophecy, in God’s grace, in themselves. She was a spark of hope in their simple minds. But it was what they needed. Simple people needed simple things they could understand.
The people were, first and foremost, Frenchmen, no matter how simple the Dauphin and his mother-in-law, Yolande of Aragon, thought them. And these peasants and townsmen were tired of having their country stolen from them, whether it was one cow, one sheep, or one coin at a time, or all at once as Isabeau, the Whore Queen had sold so much of France to the English.
None of them were saints. Not the Dauphin. Not Yolande, and not the Duke of Alençon either. Despite their support of Jehanne, her cause was not theirs. She was something to be used for as long as it served them. Jean had been at Court long enough to know how things truly worked.
His gaze fell upon Jehanne’s banner, propped up in the corner by the bed. No longer white, it was gray with soot and stained with blood, its edges frayed and heavy with mud.
Her spark, her divine purpose had pulled him in as well. And he liked who he was in her presence. Dared he hope that it lasted beyond the victory that she craved?
“Crown the king,” Jehanne murmured.
Always the same words, even now.
Jean swirled the wine in his cup, looking into it as if it held images of his future. It returned only his reflection—a tired man with the pain lines on his face the most prominent of his features. He drained the cup and threw it into the hearth.
It shattered into a hundred pieces. Flames leapt for the shards and consumed them.
And somewhere in the back of Jean’s mind, a human sacrifice screamed as she burned.
* * *
May 23, 1430
“How long has it been?” Jehanne asked.
“Three-hundred-and-ten-days, la Pucelle,” Poton said.
Jehanne shivered, despite the warmth of the night, the sweat-soaked linens under her armor, the black, hooded-cloak over it to make them blend into the night.
Her gaze lingered on the silhouette of his face. Her ears and cheeks burned hot, and she was glad that he could not see her face. On that night when she’d taken an arrow to her chest, when she’d woken to him keeping vigil over her, when he’d blushed at the sight of her, something had woken up inside her. No matter how much she prayed to be relieved of it, her blood stirred at the sound of his voice, at his scent, at his mere presence. Yet not once had he touched her. Nor she him.
“Less than a year, yes?” she asked.
“Ten months and a week,” Poton said. “Yes, less than a year.”
She offered him a grateful smile. He’d tried to teach her to count, and she had done her best to learn, but the numbers brought her no comfort. To her, each day felt like a lifetime.
The voices had ceased the day that Charles got his crown.
It had been a glorious July day in Reims. After the crowning ceremony, she’d knelt before Charles and called him king for the first time. Joy had filled her. Tears had streamed down her face.
After, she had gone to the chapel to thank God and pray, hoping that the king would join her as had been his custom, but he hadn’t, opting instead to celebrate.
At first, she didn’t think anything about the silence of the voices. The saints didn’t come when called. Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, Saint Margaret, all made themselves known in their own way, in their own time.
So she’d continued as she had before. Praying. Fighting. Fighting less and less as the king relied more and more on like-minded peers.
The twinge in her thigh where an arrow from a cross-bow had pierced it, reminded her that Paris and September hadn’t been that long ago. Even then, the voices had been silent, but she’d not given in to despair. She continued to pray. She’d even confronted the king for not sending her the support he’d promised.
He’d looked at her with contempt and asked her what her counsel—her voices—had been saying, and her face had burned hot with shame. He had been the only one to whom she’d conveyed God’s divine message.
Her silence had told him everything he needed to know. The sneer on his face had softened however. In October he’d sent her to Saint-Pierre-le-Moûtier. His army had initially retreated from the heavily fortified town. She’d led a second assault, doing what she always did—urging them on, making them believe that they could not be defeated.
The voices remained silent. Still, she prayed for their counsel.
The following month, the king had sent her to La-Charité-sur-Loire, but again, he’d not sent the support she needed. She’d had to abandon the siege and return, defeated.
After Christmas—despite La-Charité-sur-Loire—Charles VII, had ennobled her and her family, naming them Du Lys. Her family and the people of Domrémy, now exempt from taxation, had rejoiced.
And still, the voices were silent. She prayed for guidance, asking if she’d made a mistake by accepting such Earthly honors. To refuse these honors would insult the king. She’d been at Court long enough now to know that much. And the king did not take insults lightly. Surely, insulting the king she’d just helped crown was not God’s plan. It would undo them both—Charles and her.
For the first time since she was thirteen years old, she felt alone and abandoned. The truce with England left her with little to do and life at Court did not suit her.
When the truce ended she thought the voices would return. They were silent on the way to Compiègne.
They were silent today when she attacked the Burgundian camp just north of Compiègne.
And they were silent now as she and her men retreated as part of the rear guard. The men were silent too, disheartened by another defeat.
Her brother, Pierre, rode at her side, uncharacteristically quiet. Only the horses seemed to have anything to say as they huffed their way through the darkness of a new moon.
Warning snaked through her belly.
The whoosh of an arrow cut the still night air. It was followed by another.
La Hire cursed.
D’Aulon pulled his horse in front of hers and raised his bow. He sent two arrows flying into the darkness before Jehanne had a chance to draw her sword.
Poton’s voice rose through the cacophony of panicking horses and men. He urged them forward. Their horses passed her and disappeared into the night. Swords clashed. Groans and screams followed.
Sword held high, Jehanne urged her horse to follow. She brought her sword down, aiming for a Burgundian’s thigh. It met its mark, followed by a scream that receded in the darkness. Blood dripped down the sword, snaking into the seams of her armor.
She struck wildly at anyone that came at her. It was like fighting shadows, but her sword struck flesh and metal as often as it missed and cut through air.
Time slowed, muting the clash of metal, the protesting voices of horses, the sickening sounds of arrows and lances piercing flesh. The air filled with the reek of blood and viler things.
Pain bloomed in her hand. Her sword spiraled out of her grip, spinning out of reach. It fell slowly, as if in a dream, disappearing into the dark.
A harsh tug on her hooded cloak pulled her off-balance. Her back hit the ground, jamming her armor into her flesh.
Mounted shadows swarmed around her as hooves stomped.
“Help!” she shouted as she rolled over and pushed up.
“No one left to answer your call,” a voice from the dark said.
“Show yourself,” Jehanne answered, going for her dagger.
Sh
e held her blade high.
Torches flared to life around her. She blinked. Two of the Burgundian horsemen opened up a space to let another rider through. He wore the red lion of the Luxembourgs.
“Surrender or die,” the voice said.
His tone clearly said he’d rather she not surrender. But why not just kill her then? Why pretend she had a choice?
Her breath was coming in rasps, her hand shaking around the dagger still held aloft.
Saint Michael, help me…
Silence. It was like a wall around her. Worse than a wall. An oubliette rising around her, brick by brick. She looked up at the cloud-shrouded sky as it pulled away from her, rising out of her reach.
Someone pulled her helmet off. She ducked a punching fist. And then another. One caught on her left temple. The world tilted wildly around her, the oubliette reforming as someone used her voice to whisper, “I surrender.”
* * *
December 5, 1430
The golden light of dawn crawled through one of the slits in the walls of Jehanne’s cell. It crawled over the stone and mortar, and flowed over the threshes. She closed her eyes.
Light touched her cheek, warm and soothing. It slid down her neck and chest, coming to rest over her heart.
It spoke to her about her service to God. She knew him instantly. Saint Michael. He who was like God. The longer he spoke, about her service, her purpose, the more the light filled her. It spread to her belly until she burned with a fire that did not consume her, but left her feeling like she had been in the terrible presence of God.
She didn’t know how long Saint Michael was with her. Time seemed to have no meaning, for while a moment may have passed in her cell, it seemed like she had been basking in his saintly presence for hours.
She opened her eyes. The cell was like a tomb, devoid of color. There was no serenity in this shade of a world. She waited for light and life to return to what everyone else called reality. Slowly, it solidified around her, snatching her back to the here and now which was terrible in the exact opposite of God’s terrible presence.
There was a reason she never spoke of her visions, except to the king. And now not even to him. He had not ransomed her. He had abandoned her to a reality made up of a metal bars, chains, and cold stone covered by rotting straw.
A reality made of iron cuffs that bit into her raw wrists and the oozing sores on her ankles.
She scratched at her shaved head and pulled the rough burlap dress farther over her knees. Now that the Saint was gone, the cold of winter slipped under her skin, bit into her flesh, and burrowed into her bones.
The door swung open to admit Sister Marie Mengette. One of the two nuns that de Luxembourg had assigned to guard her, the middle-aged woman had kind blue eyes. She carried a tray with two bowls.
Steam rose from one. Jehanne’s mouth watered.
Sister Marie passed the bowl of broth between the bars and carefully slid it toward Jehanne so that it would not spill.
Together, they prayed, thanking God for providing sustenance, for de Luxembourg’s mercy, and for deliverance.
“Sister Marie, do you have any word?” Jehanne asked as she brought the bowl of broth to her lips. Bits of pork and carrot floated in the mixture. Her stomach made a loud noise, protesting the slow pace with which it was being fed.
Sister Marie looked over her shoulder. De Luxembourg may be merciful, but he was not stupid. While the nuns had the only key to the door, they did not have the key to her cell. No one but the nuns were allowed into the room, but a guard was always posted just outside, listening.
“No, child. I’m sorry.”
Jehanne set the bowl down on the floor.
“You have to eat, child,” Sister Marie insisted. She pulled a crust of bread from the folds in her robe and put her hand through the bars.
Jehanne took it and tore off a small piece. She chewed on the burned, stale morsel without tasting it, wishing it was communion bread instead. At least then it would have a purpose.
“My brother, Pierre?” Jehanne asked.
Sister Marie shook her head and said, “You should eat more.”
“This is not the sustenance I seek,” Jehanne said. One thing that de Luxembourg had not allowed was for her to see a priest. She wanted—needed—to confess. But no men were to be allowed into her prison.
Sister Marie let out a sigh. “You look like a starved dog.”
“I was never one for vanity,” Jehanne said.
“It’s not about vanity, child. But strength. You need your strength.”
They’d had this conversation before, almost word by word.
“D’Aulon?” Jehanne asked.
Another shake of the head. And with it, Sister Marie’s gaze went meaningfully to the bowl. Jehanne raised it to her lips, sipped, swallowed. One question, one bite or sip, depending on the meal. That was the unspoken deal between them.
“La Hire?”
“From what you told me of him, he’s too tough to kill,” she said and gestured to the bread.
Jehanne hid a sigh of relief. So La Hire was probably alive. She said a silent prayer as she chewed on the bread.
“Poton?” Jehanne could not keep the tremor out of her voice. It was Poton whose fate worried her the most. Guilt welled up in inside her. Her brother Pierre alone should have held that place of honor in her heart. Instead it was shared by Poton. Jean. She’d never said his given name. Never dared.
A puzzled frown formed on Sister Marie’s face, but she did not shake her head.
Jehanne finished her meal.
“Thank you, Sister,” she said, pushing the empty bowl towards the bars.
Sister Marie lifted the lid from the second bowl. A pungent scent wafted from it like smoke.
Jehanne’s chains made a scraping sound as she dragged them across the floor. If she pulled them taut and if Sister Marie wedged herself in between the bars, she could reach Jehanne’s sores.
The salve stung as the nun’s gentle fingers spread them atop the abused flesh.
“I asked for linens to bind them,” Sister Marie complained. “But they wouldn’t let me have them. Said you might use them to hang yourself.”
She turned Jehanne’s wrists over, pushing the metal cuffs up her arms. “I told them you would never commit such a sin.”
Their gazes met for an instant that lingered too long.
Finally, Jehanne shook her head. “I already know my fate, Sister. God has shown me.”
With a look of relief, Sister Marie crossed herself and returned to applying the salve.
“I will burn,” Jehanne said without emotion.
The nun’s shaking hands withdrew. Tears welled up in her eyes as she set the salve aside and covered it with the lid.
She took the rosary off her belt and they knelt in prayer.
Jehanne went along with it, just as she did every day and every night, she on one side of the bars, the nun on the other.
Yet it didn’t feel right, not like prayer used to, not like when Saint Michael came to whisper the word of God in her ear.
And while she had just felt his presence, and that of God, there had been no guidance, no counsel.
And Jehanne knew why.
She had let a man into her heart. She may still be la Pucelle in body, but not in mind nor spirit. And she didn’t know how she could banish Poton from her heart.
* * *
January 5, 1431
The inn outside Beaurevoir Castle had seen better days. Jean had been here once before, years ago. The food was just as bad, the ale just as watered down, but the war had taken its toll on the thatched roof, the door and windows, and the level of service.
He sat against the back wall, with his aching leg propped up on a stool, waiting for the tanned hide that now served as a door to part for his compatriot. Flurries of snow slipped under the gap every time the wind blew. Despite the fire blazing in the hearth, winter seeped in at every opportunity.
After Compiègne, they’d all
been ransomed. Jehanne’s brother, Pierre, had been sent back to Domrémy. He’d lost the use of his arm and was too ill to protest. Whether he’d made it back home alive was still unknown. La Hire had managed to come through the brief but bloody battle unscathed, merely adding to his collection of scars. D’Aulon, similarly, had survived, uninjured, and been summoned by the king.
When they’d heard that Jehanne had been taken prisoner but not ransomed, they’d raised seven thousand livres tournois themselves, given them to D’Aulon to give to the king.
They had yet to hear back. From D’Aulon, or the king, or even Yolande herself. The implications of treachery and political games turned Jean’s stomach.
He stared into the mug. A mouse had climbed to the table top and looked eagerly around. Jean took his dagger out, raised it, and brought its point down, pinning the mouse to the table. It didn’t even make a squeak.
Hands clapped.
Jean looked up. La Hire was standing in the half-light, wearing a long beard to make him harder to recognize and to hide the new scar he’d earned at Compiègne. It paired well with his scowl.
La Hire reached into the battered leather purse hanging from his belt.
“Get lost,” he said to the inn keeper as he tossed a coin at him. “And see we’re not disturbed.”
The man tucked the coin away and scurried through the makeshift door.
“What news?” Jean asked as he used his foot to shove the stool at La Hire.
The stool creaked as La Hire lowered his bulk onto it.
“She’s been moved. To Arras.”
Jean snatched the dagger from the back of the mouse’s neck, and used the flat of the blade to sweep the carcass to the floor. He used the edge of his cape to clean off the blood and held onto it to hide the shaking of his hands.
“Why? Has her ransom not been paid?”
“It seems that the English are willing to pay more.”
Jean swore under his breath. The seven thousand they’d sent with D’Aulon represented everything they’d been able to scrape together, not just from their own estates and relatives, but from the hundreds of men that had contributed what little they had to free la Pucelle.
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