The Last Days of Jeanne d'Arc Read online

  Signed in presence of witnesses,

  Jeanne +

  She saves her life. As a repentant captive she must now renounce her sinful ways. Must resume the attire becoming to her sex. In her foul, murky cell, coagulated blood encrusts her nostrils, the corners of her lips. After two years of appearing like a male fighter, now back in female attire – grubby white gown – deprived of the threadbare leggings. Leggings that have so far sealed, protected her famed virginity.

  4

  She creeps into the corner furthest from the cell’s door. Closer to the only window. Sits with knees pressed together. Chains stretch from her feet to the room’s centre. The unforgiving cobbles of the floor. Obscure noise of distant activity from the city. The murmur of soldiers’ exchanges from the corridor adjacent to the cell.

  They become silent. Jeanne notices. Keys clink and turn. The iron grill moves on squeaky hinges. Obtrusive orange glow, a flame. Jeanne looks on with apprehension. An anxious pageboy with a torch. Bows and steps aside, making way for another entrant. A tall woman in ornate, fashionable attire. Lace veil flowing from an ermine cap, embroidered vest on a shimmering gown. Walks with immaculate grace to the middle of the room, and faces the cornered prisoner.

  A noblewoman. Her eyes enlarge as she takes in the image of the prisoner. Jeanne, a fidgeting creature whose eyes glisten from a grimy face. Won’t get up to greet the visitor. The pageboy coughs and announces in English.

  My Lady Isabel le Despenser, Countess of Worcester and Warwick.

  The countess’s whitened, expressionless visage. But eyes expand below plucked eyebrows. Either enthusiasm or indignation. Jeanne’s lips press unremittingly. The countess speaks in painstakingly eloquent French.

  We are the wife of our lord and husband the Earl of Warwick. You be Jeanne from Lorraine, who call yourself the Maid?

  Jeanne stares at the stranger, can’t bring herself to react. Strained nerves, uncertainty and fear.

  Our lord and husband is not informed of this visitation.

  The countess drifts closer to the French girl, the skirt of her gown a gentle caress on the stony floor. She smiles at the captive.

  We have come to occasion acquaintance with the famous Maid of France. We have…

  She stops. Blurts something to the pageboy, in English. He yells at the guards outside. Fast footsteps drum the corridor’s floor. One enters with a chair, bows before the countess, and leaves. The countess lowers her rear onto the chair with the utmost elegance.

  I have come to speak to you as a friend, as a woman. I have heard of your exploits. What an extraordinary tale your life has entailed, mademoiselle. We have…I have read the latest poem by your renowned poetess, Madame Christine de Pisan. Have you read it, Joan? You are its heroine, of course.

  Somewhat surprised by the Englishwoman’s growing warmth and informality. But not ready to engage with the wife of the captain in charge of her trial and punishment. Jeanne shakes her head.

  Well of course, as a peasant woman you do not know how to read. Would you like me to read the poem to you? How incredible that a mere farmer’s daughter from a remote region should find herself in the highest levels of power and esteem in Christendom. Our clergy and men perceive you as a dangerous witch, of course. Until today, at any rate. It is most fortunate that you have renounced your sins. We now see you as simply a liar and deceiver and, truth be told, my lord and husband the earl wishes that you had been proven a witch so that…Well, I should like to confess that I and many other English ladies of noble birth and sophistication view you, mademoiselle, with great interest.

  Jeanne is breathing with some calmness. She listens.

  I am so delighted that you chose to save your life today. Although your hatred of our rule in France is truly regrettable, your ability to lead your men into battle has been nothing short of spellbinding. A mere damsel fighting like Richard the Lionheart. Such courage and strength is unheard of amongst our sex. At first I and many others, mademoiselle, were in no doubt about your ambitions. Surely a common woman seeking association with the highest ranks of her society could have no design other than marrying above her station. But, is it not true, Jeanne, that you have remained a virgin, hence your self-chosen title? I know of your having ordered the death of one of your own men for speaking lewdly –

  I’ve never executed anyone.

  The countess pauses. Jeanne’s abrupt interruption is a curiosity.

  Be that as it may, mademoiselle, you did not take advantage of your opportunity to exploit your acquaintance with your social betters. And it defies belief that your liege entrusted you with his men-at-arms, you, a young, inexperienced, unknown member of the fairer sex. I wonder how you succeeded in convincing the bastard prince of Valois to make you the captain of his forces. Have you killed a man in battle, with your own sword, in hand-to-hand combat?

  Jeanne hesitates, shakes her head. Speaks reticently.

  I’m only a soldier.

  The noblewoman leans forward, becomes more animated.

  Oh, but you are so much more than that, dear Joan. Our most hardened warriors have lived in abject fear of your powers since you first defeated our forces. My own lord and husband who can be somewhat superstitious at times believed, until very recently, that you were capable of stealing men’s private parts with a wicked spell. I am most interested to know how you have been able to influence so many people. I assume your youth has been helpful, and although I am no longer young, I do recall men’s attentiveness to my charms as a young woman. Many of my gossips are envious of my lord and husband and I being in charge of such an illustrious, beguiling prisoner. They shall come to visit you sometime. I can arrange for your cell to be made more habitable. Would you like a table? A vase? You must promise not to use these as weapons against our guards. It is said that soon after your capture you overpowered one of your guards, before attempting to escape by climbing out a window. Is that true?

  I can’t remember.

  I have heard it said, by one of our other French prisoners who met you early in your career, that you declared to have been visited by an angel. I understand, mademoiselle, that you cannot repeat these assertions, for doing so would amount to a breach of the conditions of abjuration. But I have had strange experiences of my own, and have often believed in the presence of apparitions. Is it true that you saw the angel in your native village? Is it true that you can foretell the future? I have heard it said that you once predicted that a certain soldier had very little of his life left, and that the next day he was found dead.

  It’s not true. He was a drunk and fell into a well.

  Oh, but you are so modest. One of our spies informed my lord and husband that when crossing the Loire with your army, you prayed and then the direction of the wind changed to favour your sailing boats. You see, mademoiselle, I know a lot about you. I know that before setting out for your first battle, you were asked to select a weapon and you had knowledge of a secret sword buried behind the altar of a faraway church. And is it not true that you once prayed for the soul of a dead child, and then the dead child came back to life?

  Not true. The baby died a few hours later.

  Jeanne’s voice grates. She turns her face from the countess.

  Well, I see. I do not wish to arouse my lord and husband’s suspicion. He would not approve of my being here. Astonishing as I find your prowess and inconceivable military adventures, I cannot but wonder if these made you happy as a woman. Did you never yearn for the company and affection of a lover? Have you never desired the blissful pleasures of motherhood? Have you ever wondered how it would have been to love and be loved by another?

  Jeanne’s breathing intensifies. She presses her lips and aims to resume silence. But this is her only chance.

  Countess of Warwick. Have me moved to a prison without soldiers. Put me in custody of nuns, or monks.

  The countess smiles.

  You do not like it here? I thought you would be grateful that we did burn you at the stake. Do you
find the guards uncouth? They are lower class and vulgar, but you are not noble by birth yourself, are you, dear Joan. And I do wish to have you stay here, to visit you again with my guests from England. Are you not pleased to be the subject of so much attention? Would you like a prettier dress, or a headscarf to cover that awful hair? The guards will not dare disobey my lord and husband by violating you. I could ask them to allow you visitors from time to time, although we have had no requests for visits. It seems, dear mademoiselle, that you are very lonely. I shall teach you some English so that you can converse with my friends. I will read to you from The Canterbury Tales. One episode features an Amazon princess, a female warrior, and I am sure you will appreciate –

  Please, countess. I’m not safe in here.

  Oh come now, dear. Life in a prison cannot be worse than death by burning, can it?

  The older woman seems bored, stands up. The pageboy follows his mistress out with the torch and the chair.

  The door is slammed, locked. Jeanne closes her eyes. Motionless for a time. Then cries. In absolute loneliness. And how little the countess or anyone else knows about the truth of Jeanne’s life. About the great love, the unspeakable love, clutching the heart of the loneliest woman in all of Christendom. About the sky-blue eyes and games of chess. The forsaken warrior virgin destined to die in complete solitude. No one suspects that she has known love. She knows the immensity of her loss. She who fought to end the longest war in the history of humanity, the Hundred Years’ War.

  5

  The year 1329, eighty-three years before Jeanne’s birth.

  Edward III, the new king of England, an aggressive seventeen-year-old, already as tall as his grandfather, Edward Longshanks. His father, another Edward, murdered in captivity so that the boy could claim the throne. Murdered by having a red-hot blade forced into his anus, apparently. So the towering young ruler has reason to be consumed with shame, self-loathing, brutality, hatred. He has been summoned to France. To pay homage to the king of France, the overlord of Edward’s ancestral territory. The duchy of Aquitaine. Not English territory as such. Has the status of vassalage. It can be called semi-autonomous. Situated within France and with obligations to the French crown. So its new owner, the severe young king of England, must act the part of a dutiful vassal towards the king of France. He must approach the king of France unarmed, humble, at the ceremonial meeting. But his grandfather was the menace who expanded England. Who conquered Wales and Scotland. Known as the Hammer of the Scots. He who captured and killed William Wallace. At the ceremony, his young grandson approaches the French monarch with a sword fastened to his belt. With a crown on his own head. A calculated, irreversible symbol of disobedience. An unambiguous break with feudal tradition. Presaging war and terror.

  1337

  Philip VI of France calls Edward III of England contumacious and annexes the duchy of Aquitaine. Edward responds by declaring Philip an illegitimate ruler. Edward announces that the entire kingdom of France belongs to the English crown. How? Edward cites his own lineage, tinged with the blood of French princesses married into English royal households. So the royal arms of France, the fleur-de-lys, are snatched, incorporated into the arms of England. Three sadistically grinning, Anglo-Saxon lions flash their claws at the lilies of France. And there is the need to expand England’s wool trade. French sheep farmers pose unhealthy competition and French galleys obstruct England’s hallowed right to free trade with the Continent. English lords and wealthy merchants hate French regulations. Italian bankers back the English. Edward raises an army of twelve thousand men. The Flemish bourgeoisie look on with interest. The English land in France.

  1346

  The English forces in Normandy. Their first target is the city of Caen. With just over a thousand defenders. Home to the tomb of Guillaume – William the Conqueror – the French duke who had once taken England. History is reversed. The English sack the city, slaughter half its civilian population. The hatred with which these Englishmen rape and decapitate French men and women. Terrifyingly good archers, terrifically good with their longbows. French children, used for target practice. And then a mass grave for the thousands dead in the ruins of the city. Why won’t the king of France defend his subjects? He’s on his way to Normandy, with twenty thousand men. He’s furious and restless. Patience is not his virtue. He pursues the invaders, catches up with them in the hills of Crécy. The French king’s Genoese crossbowmen advance upon the English longbowmen. The crossbows’ range is very short – no more than seventy metres at the most – compared to the longbows’ 400-metre range. Corpses of Genoese shooters pile up. Haughty French knights, angered by the crossbowmen’s failure, charge the English positions. By now England’s longbowmen have developed a taste for blood. Their arrows – five fired per minute – obliterate the heavily armoured horsemen. Steel breastplates and helmets are penetrated by unstoppable shafts. Four thousand French warriors die and the English celebrate. A most shocking victory.

  1356

  After the outbreak of the Black Death in Europe, an unavoidable cessation in the bloodshed. Then, from Aquitaine, the English launch chevauchées – attacks by bands of horsed raiders – to annihilate the French forces’ sources of food and additional men. French villages are burnt and towns razed. A scorched-earth policy of unimaginable brutality. Doesn’t the medieval period have a body for ensuring humane treatment of humans? The Church, on the verge of a ‘great’ schism. Soon the English will abide by one pope, the French by another. Venal monks and bribed bishops don’t broker peace between warring god-fearing Catholics. The new French king, Jean II – dubbed the Good – launches an attack to push back the bloodthirsty English raiders. Once again a hasty charge by an overconfident French cavalry, this time near the west-central city of Poitiers. Once again a blizzard of arrows from the English bowmen. Over two thousand dead and the king of France himself captured by the English. A humiliating treaty imposed upon France: the English increase their territories in Aquitaine, and the French have to pay a gargantuan ransom of three million crowns to retrieve their captured king. He dies in captivity in London.

  1370

  The new king of France, Charles V – the Wise – breaks the treaty and renews the war to expel the English. An unusual reversal of fortune for the French in the Hundred Years’ War: the new leader of the French army, Bertrand du Guesclin, avoids engaging the English in pitched battles. Proud French knights, desirous of heroic battles, are sidelined by the cunning du Guesclin. He wages low-intensity skirmishes that wear down the English occupiers. They begin to leave France. The deaths of the ruthless English king and his feared son, the Prince of Wales, leave the English throne to a child called Richard. England descends into political chaos, France has a brief revival. The French king’s opulent castle in Paris, the Louvre, becomes host to one of Europe’s greatest libraries. Works by ancient Greek philosophers are translated into French. Could the war have ended then?

  6

  The year 1392, twenty years before Jeanne’s birth.

  The new ruler of France, King Charles VI – soon to assume the fitting sobriquet the Mad – of the Valois Dynasty, son of Charles the Wise. He perspires profusely, feels hot, breathes heavily. Halts his horse during a ride through the forests of Le Mans in Brittany. Then the accident of one of his men hitting a shield with a lance. The high-pitched noise startles the feverish monarch: Traitors! They wish to deliver me to my foes! His rattled Royal Highness unleashes his sword and murders two of his own pageboys before being detained and declared officially, undeniably insane. His German wife, Queen Isabeau of Bavaria, is announced regent of France. Young, susceptible to the influence of various French nobles, and apparently sexually promiscuous. Duke Louis of Orléans and Duke Jean of Burgundy, the region’s mightiest feudal lords, compete for the queen’s affections. The Valois dynasty is clearly disintegrating, producing unhinged figures instead of grand patriarchs. The two dukes see their own families as France’s future masters.

  1407

 
; Charismatic and notorious womaniser the Duke of Orléans, rumoured to have seduced the queen, is set upon by fifteen masked men. Then left in a murky alleyway in Paris, in the gutter, with his head split open and his right hand cut off. His rival, the preposterously rich Duke of Burgundy, publicly accepts responsibility. Justification for the assassination: tyrannicide, for the good of the kingdom, to protect the court from the dead duke’s satanic charms. Hence the outbreak of clashes between the men-at-arms of the Duke of Burgundy and those of the slain nobleman. The queen panics. She’s frightened of thunder. And further deterioration of the king’s sanity – Charles the Mad now thinks he’s made of glass and won’t let anyone near him – and no one can prevent the eruption of a civil war between Burgundians and Orléanists. Atrocities, castles set on fire, children kidnapped. Many criticise the queen’s cowardice, blame her infidelities, her foreignness, her weight, her femininity. Most renowned writer and feminist Christine de Pisan’s quill races across reams of paper. She documents, challenges, bemoans the misery of France.

  1413

  In England, Henry V succeeds his father, the Lancastrian usurper of the English throne. Twenty-seven years old, a grotesquely scarred face. An extremely devout Christian, not at all the fun-loving, riotous youth of Shakespeare’s future play. Severe and frankly soulless. Muscular. Possibly a psychopath, probably a war criminal. Is never seen to smile. Must prove himself to the English nobility as their new ruler, as a real, mighty man. Or else his dynasty may be toppled just like the dynasty that his father toppled. Is keenly aware of the turmoils in France. Decides that the time has come to renew the claim to the throne of France. Raises an army of ten thousand men and assembles a fleet of 150 ships for the journey across the channel. Declares his benign intention to come to the rescue of my beloved France. English and Welsh nobles, gentlemen and peasants have been promised property in Normandy. The beautiful France has Europe’s most fertile soil and best wine. Its women are already the subject of Englishmen’s sordid fantasies. These men have never been more excited for any other mission. And King Henry is genuinely convinced that God is on England’s side. The Hundred Years’ War resumes.