The Last Days of Jeanne d'Arc Read online

  Jeanne frowns, stiffens. I didn’t want to go back.

  Please. Can I sleep here tonight?

  La Rousse licks the last drops of brandy from her tulip glass.

  No, you can’t, young lady. And make sure to be here early tomorrow morning.

  The next night, after all has been cleaned and the guests are put to bed and torches in the tavern and the guest hall have been extinguished, La Rousse leads Jeanne on. Up the stairway, to the second floor of the inn. One of the expensive guestrooms. La Rousse says this is her own bedchamber, a very rare thing in the abode of a commoner.

  She pours two snifters of brandy. In the warm light of tallow candles, she slowly shows the awe-struck peasant girl an array of dazzling things: an embroidered veil with laced fringe, a plumed velvet cap worn by noblewomen for hawking expeditions, Spanish earrings, Moorish bracelets, and an exquisite Parisian tailored dress of dark red satin.

  You should try this dress on, Jeanne. I was much thinner when it was made for me, obviously. I could shorten it for you if you like.

  I touched the lovely material. Jeanne’s fingers are losing their timidity, take in the pleasure of the fabric’s delicacy.

  Are these all gifts from important friends, La Rousse?

  She laughs at Jeanne, without offending the beguiled adolescent. I trusted her so much, this woman I’d known for only two days.

  Gifts? More as payments, lass.

  Payments for what, La Rousse?

  Here, have another drink, lass.

  The liquor was no longer pungent. I could taste the hidden sweetness, and there was a thing I needed to know. Jeanne has prepared herself for this question.

  Why are you not married, La Rousse? You are so very beautiful and lovely.

  La Rousse grins, shakes her head.

  Is that how you see me, lass? What about you, then? You could look quite attractive, if you did something to your hair. And your eyebrows are a little too thick. Can I pluck them for you?

  I’m sorry, but no. I don’t want to look attractive.

  That’s a pity. You have gorgeous big brown eyes. And why are you not married, lass? Is it not the tradition for girls in the country to be married off as soon as they can bear children? How old are you?

  Maybe it was the effect of the brandy. I told her my secret.

  I have taken a vow of celibacy.

  La Rousse appears amused, but there is a seriousness – even a purpose – to her curiosity.

  Have you now? Are you entering a nunnery?

  No. I have promised to remain a virgin. To my Voices.

  Jeanne’s firmness could be misconstrued as rudeness. Not by La Rousse.

  Your Voices?!

  Yes. And I will not marry that idiot Michel Lebuin. I’d rather run away and live like a pauper than fornicate with him.

  Mama can’t make me marry him.

  La Rousse thinks, strokes Jeanne’s shaggy hair, then stops. She has become pensive.

  Well, you are out of the ordinary, aren’t you, my lass? I’m sorry, there probably isn’t much you can do if your parents have already arranged to marry you off to this man. I once heard a tale from a merchant who had been to a godforsaken heathen place where women who don’t wish to wed men give up their feminine attire, cut their hair and dress as men. But that would be wicked and sacrilegious in a Christian land, would it?

  I didn’t know how to respond. Jeanne reflects, knits her black brows.

  But you never had to marry anyone, La Rousse, did you?

  As I said last night, Jeanne, that’s a very long and troubled story. I’ll tell you about that another time, not now, maybe tomorrow night, if you really want to know. If you pledge secrecy. Now, tell me. Do you like this necklace?

  Jeanne’s left hand reaches to La Rousse’s right knee. I wanted her to know she could trust me. I’d never touched another like this.

  La Rousse, I don’t really care about your jewellery and finery. I want to know your story. I care about you, La Rousse.

  I heard myself say that I cared for her. I was so embarrassed, and frightened. Jeanne retrieves her hand.

  La Rousse looks at the teenager suspiciously, and her green eyes move. There was something in them that I needed to understand. Sadness, perhaps. But was I only imagining it, wishing it, hoping that she too wished to be understood by me?

  You care about me, lass? Is that the truth? You are a strange one, Jeanne.

  And if the copper-haired innkeeper and Jacque Darc’s strange daughter did meet and speak privately, did their talk not transform the girl? It is known that Jeanne spends time at this inn. It is known that she helps this woman. The following night La Rousse turns her back to her ardent companion. Jeanne is sitting next to her on the bed. La Rousse takes a swig from the darkened bottle, breathes deeply.

  I was born in Rouen. An only daughter, as with you. You are an only daughter, are you not, my dear?

  I nodded. I was tense with desire. The desire to know the truth of La Rousse’s life.

  When I was about your age, or thereabouts, a young man named Roland, a gorgeous lad with velvety black curls and gentle eyes, saw me at the markets and followed me from a distance. He was there on the morrow, and three months and two weeks and four days later, Jeanne, he asked for my hand in marriage.

  La Rousse thought she was a fairytale princess and he Roland the Paladin, his legendary namesake. Jeanne does not know about the Carolingian song cycles, the tales of la Matière de France. How La Rousse loved these stories when she was young, and she even composed a few ditties of her own. She was one of the very few literate girls in her quarter, thanks to her grandfather teaching her to read and write.

  And then they came. The English devils. I saw with my own eyes, Jeanne, a burgher’s little toddler, his poor face smashed, pulped by a cannonball, on the day they began the siege of Rouen. It was horrific. I couldn’t sleep for a week, I saw what was left of the poor child’s face every time I closed my eyes. Roland promised to take us away from the city. He promised me, my valiant knight of legends. Such a cunning, determined young lad. He stole money from his uncle’s coffers, and one night we bribed the guards, paddled a raft across the moat and, oh God, Jeanne, we then saw something straight out of Hell. Piles and piles of corpses, thousands of people slaughtered. Pitiful animals. Bodies of the city’s poor, expelled by our mayor because we were running out of victuals, and then massacred by the English.

  She wanted to scream but Roland pressed his hand on her mouth. He kissed her until she was calm and comforted. Jeanne does not know how it feels to be kissed. The young couple could see the barbicans of the English at a short distance. They picked their way quietly through the rotting bodies. La Rousse would never forget the stench.

  Roland, my lovely Roland. He kept reassuring me that safety was at hand, my very own paladin. We began our journey to Paris, the greatest city in Europe, and he promised to show me the Cathedral of Notre-Dame there. He told me we’d get married there, lass. I did get to see the famous building eventually, and, to be honest, it’s not as grand as all that, not as majestic as our own Cathedral of Notre-Dame of Rouen. But that was so many years later, and by then my prince was no longer with me.

  It was a chilly winter morning when we reached the road for Paris. I remember Roland had his arms around me, Jeanne, I’m sure of it. He said we would steal or buy a horse as soon as we spotted a village. And I can still hear him tell me: We’ll have hot broth and a warm bed. I can still feel the tenderness of his voice, Jeanne, and then I heard a sound, a spiky sound. Like the flapping of a bird’s wings, the wings of a falcon.

  My Roland’s arms became limp. He moaned, Jeanne. He fell.

  La Rousse tried to pull the arrows out of Roland’s body and she tried to stop his bleeding, but he was already dead. She cannot remember if she panicked for herself. She was kissing her dead lover’s face and shrieking when she became aware of a sinister noise. The depraved laughter of men. She cannot remember how many men had circled her on the road
, but they were a large gang, all wearing helmets and red surcoats with black crosses on their chests. She had never been face to face with English bowmen. She thinks they kicked her in the head. She blacked out.

  Jeanne is feeling slightly unwell. I was feeling unwell, I think. Maybe I wanted La Rousse to stop talking. She was crying now. I asked her if I could help.

  I’m fine, lass. Pass me my kerchief. Are you sure you wish to hear more about my life? Are you in no doubt?

  Jeanne has her hand on the weeping storyteller’s knee, now strokes the other’s soft coppery hair. It didn’t feel strange, it was necessary. I didn’t know if I was capable of comforting another. I knew I had to hear the rest of her story.

  I woke up in a church, Jeanne, maybe the chapel of a convent. I was lying on the altar floor, with a number of other women. My face was hurting, but I was happy to be in a holy place, among women. I asked a nun where we were. She ignored me, kept clasping her amulet and murmuring prayers to herself. I became uneasy. I looked around. I saw the statue of Saint Denis. France’s poor patron saint, toppled and broken into pieces on the floor.

  La Rousse had no idea places like this existed in this world. Neither does Jeanne, until now. Is there a name for such a place? Nothing like a whorehouse, La Rousse can assure Jeanne. But she cannot tell Jeanne what the English did to her in that place of horror. And it matters not how she survived, until she was fancied by an English captain who was a touch less evil than the rest. She endured what she could to become his mistress, and she will not tell Jeanne about those things. About their vile hands, their boots and whips. She finally left that monstrous place when the captain took her to Paris with him. In Paris, after running away from the captain’s quarters, she became a Burgundian lord’s consort, then another nobleman’s mistress, and so on and on.

  Jeanne is shaken. Her hands have withdrawn from La Rousse to cover her own face. She closes her eyes and sees it. The truth of the war. Our great misery. What Burgundian nobles and English devils were doing to us. Taking, violating, burning our crops and homes and bodies. My own village was being burnt. Our people, us people, us the poorest and the peasants, us common women and men, raided and raped every day. My father and mother and brothers driven to madness. The lovely church next to our house, and the statue of Saint Catherine, being burnt. And what they did to my beautiful friend, to my La Rousse.

  Jeanne is weeping. La Rousse offers her kerchief, continues when she’s less emotional, more distant, thoughtful.

  When I met a knight from faraway Lorraine, Jeanne, I paid him to help me get away from the English, from Burgundians, from rapists, from lechers. I assumed the name La Rousse here, lass, and why does it matter what my birth name is? Do you still see me as beautiful and worthy? I have survived and maybe we Normans are made hardy, we, descendents of heroic Vikings. At any rate, lass, I am not someone for you to admire and emulate. I cannot show you how to avoid marriage and live on your own. I have nothing to offer you. Only the terrible story of my life. Go on now, go back to your family. Stop crying, Jeanne. I wish to be alone.

  9

  Historians don’t dwell on the woman La Rousse. A very marginal figure in the tale of one of history’s crucial women. But can one ignore the incidental? Is it loneliness that has drawn them together, or the temptations of outlawed sexual attraction? Perhaps La Rousse is the unknowing agent of history. Jeanne is learning the ways of becoming that unique subject. She for whom the worldly, the political, becomes personal. I know I desired her. (I desire you so much more.) But what did she see in me?

  Wide awake, agitated, calm. Jeanne cleans her face, walks out of the inn, back in the stable. Her mother is not yet asleep, tells her about Michel Lebuin. He’s also taking refuge in Neufchâteau, has visited them and requested that the Darcs make good on their promise of giving him their daughter for bride. Jeanne remains silent, undaunted. Isabelle tells her that Lebuin will accuse her of breaching a promise of marriage, and he even consents to a small dowry. But if she does not submit to her parents’ wish. Listen, Jeannette. Listen very well. She will be called before a jury. And you’ll be on your own, Jeannette. Completely on your own. Mama meant what she said, and I understood her. Jeanne nods, remains unresponsive.

  Two days later in the city of Toul. She stands in a cavernous room in front of a cloaked man slumped behind a writing table. A perplexed notary.

  I have made no promise of marriage to anyone. Has he proof that I have?

  Listen, child. Your good parents wish –

  But it is not my wish. What proof has the accuser of my promise to marry him?

  The notary mumbles: As you wish, and signs a register. The case is dismissed. That evening, upon returning to the stable of the inn in Neufchâteau, Jeanne notices the foul stench of animal faeces for the first time. Jeanne faces these people, her family. Jacques and his sons feign sleep. Isabelle sees with utmost clarity that her daughter has been victorious. My first victory. My mother’s rage, this woman’s rage, I no longer felt it. Has Isabelle Darc, known as Romée, finally been worn down by her daughter’s resistance? No. The woman has been defeated, has been overcome. She cannot admonish, belittle or threaten the girl anymore. Because I wasn’t a girl anymore, and I wasn’t her or my father’s girl anymore.

  I remember this so well, my mother, Isabelle whispered this to me, her voice full of sadness and fear. And it is not the mother’s emotions that matter to Jeanne any longer. It is the literal meaning of her words that will be remembered by the young woman from a forgettable village on the periphery of medieval Lorraine, the sturdy young black-haired woman who will be remembered by history: Be a spinster if you wish. I leave you in God’s hands, and know this, Jeannette, that you will soon have to fend for yourself. There might be nothing left of our home. Our farm, our poor village. There’ll be nothing left once the English have passed through our village. And know this too, your father had a dream last night. He saw you carried off by soldiers, he saw you leaving with soldiers. He doesn’t know the meaning, but he was furious, heartbroken. He told me that if you were to leave without our permission, if you were to become a camp follower or a strumpet like so many unmarried women, he said he shall drown you in the river with his own hands, Jeannette. Or he will ask Pierre or Jean to do it.

  Jeanne has listened patiently. She does not react, her gaze is absolutely firm. And she intimidates Isabelle Darc. The woman lowers herself to crawl towards the tensed bodies of her sons and husband on the muddy floor. Jeanne will of course no longer follow or imitate her mother. She is standing upright, turns around, turns her back on her family. She walks out of the stable.

  She walks into the inn, past the guests in the guest hall and the tavern. She seeks La Rousse in the kitchen. A servant tells Jeanne that the innkeeper is ill, has been staying in her bedchamber since the morning. Jeanne walks up the stairs and enters La Rousse’s private room.

  I won. I will never be married.

  La Rousse’s hair is flame-like. And I knew Saint Catherine had told me of my destiny, a woman with red hair. But her eyes? La Rousse’s eyes shine with intimacy, even adoration. But there’s little seduction in them. La Rousse looks at Jeanne with intent, with recognition. Her eyes are not blue. La Rousse beams, spreads her arms.

  I’m so happy for you lass, so happy. Here, sit by my side.

  Are you not feeling well?

  Far from it. I’ve never been better. Telling you my story has unburdened me. I feel free. You are a true friend. And, Jeanne, I’ve been writing. I think I told you that I had once wanted to become a poetess. I have been composing something for you, my young friend.

  For me?

  La Rousse smiles and shows Jeanne her inky fingers. She then produces a bound volume of sheets of paper from under her bed.

  Jeanne, when I was a girl in Rouen, long before life decided to frown upon me, I heard a ballad at a feast. It was a story that moved me, and stayed with me. About a brave girl from Lorraine. And now that I have befriended such a brave girl from
Lorraine –

  I’m not brave, La Rousse. I’m only doing what I must. I have promised my virginity to my Voices.

  Jeanne is confused, frustrated. I didn’t care for poetry, I didn’t want her to celebrate me. What did I want? (Maybe I wanted her to be you, my love. And of course she wasn’t.) La Rousse has a message to impart.

  Yes, lass, you have already told me about your Voices, and they are extraordinary, and I think you’re extraordinary too, Jeanne. There’s a reason we have crossed paths in life, and after you were so kind as to let me relate my sad life story to you, I decided to present you with a gift. I must warn you I have not written a line of verse for many, many years until this morning. I’ve tried to recall all that I remember of that ballad, the prophecy of the virgin heroine of Lorraine, which some say is a real prophecy, and believe it to be true. I have tried to turn it into an agreeable ballad. Are you comfortable, lass? Here, have this cushion.

  I don’t want to hear a fairytale, La Rousse. I’m really not a child anymore.

  I know, lass. And that is why I’ve written this for you. Would you like some brandy?

  Jeanne shakes her head with annoyance. Did I really need to hear this? She does. She cannot disappoint La Rousse, takes a deep breath, attempts to relax and be attentive. She watches the other’s freckled face blush. La Rousse flicks through the sheets of her tome and settles on a particular page, and speaks: Here it goes. Her voice will be melodious, theatrical.

  ‘The Ballad of Belissant’, or the Prophecy of the Maid of Lorraine

  Once upon a time there lived a maiden

  Her hair black as the wings of a raven

  Her green eyes shone like dewy grass

  Her beauty no woman could surpass

  She was the daughter of King Charles the Great

  Princess of France, noblest Belissant

  She was pure in thought, kind and modest