The Language of Fire, page 15
Somewhere along the path
I must have stepped
beyond God’s plan.
Why else would I
fall into English hands?
Or has that always been my fate?
I am no longer sure
whether I have succeeded
or failed in my mission.
I suppose only time will tell.
A Creep of Clerics
March 12, 1431
It is earlier than yesterday
when the Burgundian churchmen
enter my cell this morning.
I have just returned from the latrine.
Some of the inquisitors
have changed, although
it is rather hard to tell.
Robed clerics and masters of theology
look very similar.
With slumped shoulders
and squatty frames,
many of them shuffle around
with no sense of urgency,
slow as a bale of turtles.
They even look a bit like turtles
with their wrinkled necks
and heavy eyelids.
I have one time or another
been asked all their questions already.
The days and my responses
are beginning to meld
into a sludge of sameness.
But perhaps that is the point—
to question me until I contradict myself,
to conduct the examination
in my cell, not the courtroom,
so I have no place to retreat.
In essence, they want to break me down.
Three hours of inquiry this morning
focused on my male attire.
Who exactly does
my wearing hosen harm,
except perhaps it hinders
the ruffian guards who wish to rape me?
Who says I am a daughter of God
only if I wear a dress?
God does not.
These turtles wear robes.
Are robes so unlike dresses?
Men of the church wear garments
that wrap around them
like ill-fitting peasant gowns
and nobody accuses them of heresy.
Tired and Bored
My eyelids sag
heavy as the chains at my feet.
Exhaustion becomes
a cough rusted in my throat,
a dull pain cinching my gut.
For the last two weeks,
as soon as I drift into dream,
the guards holler
and bang their swords
to shake me from slumber.
Even if I scream and protest,
they persist in their torment.
Even more miserable—
beyond sleeping
there is nothing to do
in this cell.
I have counted the bricks,
memorized the number
of links in my chain,
recited every prayer I know.
To relieve the tedium
I even resorted to singing
with my voice of a horse.
The guards swiftly threatened
to cut out my tongue.
I have never relished idleness.
On the farm, work never ceased.
And battle is preparation
followed by action.
I almost look forward
to the clerics visiting my cell.
I prefer questioning to silence.
At least I have something
to do.
Breaking Down and Giving In
March 13, 1431
A cleric of more significance
named Brother Jean Le Maistre
accompanies Bishop Cauchon
and participates in my interrogation.
Like a child who will do anything
to attract his parents’ attention,
including jumping up and down
and howling like a beast,
Bishop Cauchon tries hard to impress
Brother Jean Le Maistre.
Cauchon and Le Maistre are keen
to discuss the sign I gave to my king.
Weary of this question,
I give in and tell them the sign
was an angel bringing a gold crown
to King Charles and assuring the king
that through my labors
and with the help of God,
the kingdom of France
would be restored to him.
“Why did God send you
and not someone else
a sign for your king?”
How do they expect me to know this?
It must have pleased God
to drive back the king’s enemies
through a simple maid.
My throat feels like someone
has fed me dirt.
“Might I have some water?”
“When we are finished with our questions
you can have water,” Cauchon tells me.
He then says to his secretary,
“Do not record that last part
in today’s transcript.”
Jean Le Maistre turns his head side to side,
examining my cell for mandrakes and potions,
then sniffs the air with a foul expression.
He asks me, “Did the crown have a pleasing smell?”
I have no memory of this.
I try to swallow saliva to relieve
the pain of my scratchy throat.
“Did you go to Paris
because you were counseled
to do so by your voice?”
“No, I went at the request of nobles
who wanted to make an assault.”
My voice sounds as parched
as a field gone months without rain.
Still I am not given water.
“Did you have a revelation
that you would be captured?”
At this point my voice
is the crunchy whisper of an old hag.
“After I had a revelation
that I would be captured, I turned over
most of the conduct of war to the captains.
But I did not tell the captains
I would be captured.”
The clerics seem satisfied for the day
and do not return in the afternoon.
I am not given water
until my evening meal.
Stay Strong and Remember Your Purpose
I recall a day
not long after I first heard God’s voice.
I had finished my field work
and before the midday bells,
before the sun reached its summit,
I waded far into the meadow.
I was like a shipwrecked sailor,
so deeply alone
no person could hear me
if I sang or screamed.
I felt scared and incapable
of my calling.
Tears streamed from my eyes
as if they might never end.
I tried to empty my mind
of the world.
I knelt and waited
to hear God’s voice.
The field’s absolute stillness
shuddered through my bones.
Above me clouds gathered
like a simmering stew.
I cried aloud,
“Why me?
I am no one.
Maybe You want
one of my brothers instead?”
The caw of a bird,
a great rustle of wind
and the sky shone brilliant
like the clouds were made of sun,
and God said:
It is you I call, Jehanne.
I understood in that moment
that no matter what I had been taught
or seen or thought I knew,
a girl could and would save France.
Repetition
March 14, 1431
No hesitancy today,
but right to my examination.
The clerics seem as eager to attack
me with questions
as a butcher is to slaughter
his fattened calf on Martinmas.
Why did you leap from
the tower at Beaurevoir?
When you leaped, did you believe
you were killing yourself,
which is a mortal sin?
Two or three days after your leap,
did you curse or deny God?
We have evidence that you cursed God.
Would you like to refer to it?
I shake my head.
Why would I listen
to the words of my captors
or these men intent on my guilt?
Enduring day after day of interrogation,
I grow as tired as an old woman
who must carry all her wares on her back.
Even though some of these questions are new,
I want to avoid being asked the same things
should my trial be moved to Paris,
as is rumored might happen next.
I ask if I may have a copy
of these questions and my answers
to give to my next examiners.
Perhaps all this repetition can be avoided.
Seeing Flames
There has been no direct mention
of fire during my hearing.
Even my guards
have stopped tormenting me
with talk about a stake
in the courtyard,
about how the flames
melt flesh before one burns.
But my dreams
are not unburdened.
I swear that I not only
see the flames,
I feel the sharp knife
of their heat.
So severe are my night terrors
that I sleep like one
with a fatal fever.
I scream out for help,
scream out for release.
I wake to find
it was just another dream.
But I do not feel safe or secure.
The flames feel too close,
as if they circle my bed,
licking my body,
ready to consume me
like the jowls of a hungry bear.
Speech and Silence
For the greater part of my life,
I feared that if I opened my mouth
I might unleash a fire
I would not be able to control.
Trapped in a tower of silence,
I believed the thoughts in my head
would cause me harm
and disapproval.
All that I say in court
is being recorded for posterity.
I know that speaking the truth
may lead to my condemnation,
but I will not be silent
out of fear.
I hope and pray
for God to save me,
to free me from my captivity.
But perhaps I am not
the one meant to be saved.
Maybe my mission
is not yet complete.
Perhaps instead of saving France
I am meant to save something
or someone else.
Verification
March 24, 1431
Today follows
a new protocol.
I am read all the questions
I have been asked
and my answers to them.
They want me to confirm
that the record they have kept
reflects what I actually said,
and they seek my verification
of my words.
I find corrections need be made
only thrice, and the issues
are of minor consequence.
The scribe is quite capable.
I take heart in this.
I ask the man who escorted
me to the courtroom,
Reverend Jean Massieu,
if this means
the trial is finally
coming to a conclusion.
“No, La Pucelle.
On the contrary,
it is just about to begin.”
Part Seven
Burn
Ordinary Trial
March 27, 1431
I thought I might
never again see the sky,
that I might be confined
to my cell evermore,
but this morning
Jean Massieu escorts me
down the corridor
and outside to Rouen Castle.
It smells like spring,
like budding leaves and grass.
The sky croaks with morning birds
busily gathering twigs and straw
for their nests.
I pretend it requires great effort
to haul my chains
so that I can linger
extra moments in the sun.
Inside the castle’s great chamber,
the robed men stare at me
with faces as serious as the pox.
Jean d’Estivet, the prosecutor,
reads a petition to me in French
which declares that I must answer
all questions regarding my trial
or face excommunication from the church.
If excommunicated,
I would then be handed over to the state.
D’Estivet clears his throat
with a prolonged cough.
“The men gathered here
are learned churchmen
who seek not revenge
or corporal punishment,
but your return to the path
of truth and salvation.”
Seventy Articles
The prosecutor stands to accuse me
of seventy articles of crimes
against the church.
Some of these articles
contain numerous accounts
of my indiscretions and sins.
By midday break
I weary from the sound
of quills scraping across parchment
as the secretaries mark down
my every response.
The robed crows
clearly wish to peck out my eyes,
not save me from myself.
But I remain firm.
Let them prod and strike
and enumerate their articles.
I cannot be blinded
from the light of God.
I will serve up the righteous truth
with or without eyes.
By evening
at least half the men gathered
have nodded off
during some point in the proceedings,
for nothing new is revealed.
D’Estivet accuses me.
Then over and again
I reject the accusation.
I claim innocence
seventy separate times.
Easter
No one talks of my death,
but I feel it in the room
creeping toward me
like a poisonous fog.
The walls of my cell
close in on me today,
as if I will soon be snuffed out.
It is a day to rejoice,
the day Christ is risen
from the dead.
I wonder if my parents celebrate.
Do they know how I suffer?
Can they find peace
with their daughter behind bars,
pleading for her innocence,
for her life?
I hope the king enjoys this Easter,
feasts in the light of the Lord
for both of us.
I hope he thanks God for his freedom.
I hope he sheds no tears
for La Pucelle.
I cry plenty enough for myself.
I want to be jubilant,
to chirp with the birds
and praise this life.
This may be my final Easter,
my nineteenth year.
I am not ready to die
but want to live fully.
I want to praise God in church
and on the battlefield,
to praise God in all that I do.
I clasp my hands
and pray that God deliver me
from this cell.
I thank Him for his mercy
and trust that He knows best
what shall become of me.
Reduction
April 5, 1431
My long list of crimes
and sins against man and church
shrink like steamed spinach
from seventy to
twelve. The articles are read
aloud in legal
language. Dressed up to
sound fair and factual as
two plus two equals
four. But this trial
is no simple equation,
and the priests know it.
The Essence of the Articles: 1-6
One:
When I was thirteen
I first heard the call of God
in my father’s garden
among the onions and daisies
and it frightened and disoriented me
like a boulder had dropped on my head.
But because I came to understand my mission,
followed words in the clouds and my heart
that these learned men could not hear,
and because I will submit myself
to the scrutiny of God alone,
these churchmen on earth say I have sinned.
Two:
In Chinon appeared, like the star of Bethlehem,
a gold crown to prove to King Charles
that I am La Pucelle sent by God.
These men in robes did not see
the crown with their own eyes,
so they accuse me of lying.
Three:
Why would God choose
to speak to a lowly peasant girl?
If I knew this answer,
would I not be divine myself?
There are mysteries that God
alone understands,
but these learned men fail
to comprehend that,
or perhaps they just cannot accept
that God speaks to a girl.
Four:
I have accomplished many feats
through revelation:
found a sword buried beneath an altar,
recognized King Charles
without knowing his face.
Like a prophet,
I have been given foreknowledge,
but instead of seeing this as heaven-sent,
