The Language of Fire, page 4
How will Mother and I
do all the laundry, tend the garden,
and cook every meal
without my sister’s aid?
I want to beg Catherine to stay,
to delay leaving home,
to remain here,
to help distract everyone
from my comings and goings,
to be my unwitting ally
and great support.
I have training to complete,
God’s work to do.
How will I be La Pucelle
and my parents’ only daughter?
Learning to Ride
We raise sheep, cattle, pigs,
have chickens, an ox,
two dogs, and a cat.
But we do not own a horse.
Knights grow up with saddles and steeds,
grip reins almost
as soon as they can walk.
Only one family in the village
has a horse,
but they are rumored to be
of Burgundian blood.
Father would surely whip me
like a bowl of cream
if I set a boot on their property.
So it is imperative that I not get caught.
With less than an hour
before my family will note my absence,
I loiter at the edge of Monsieur Le Mans’s property.
The farmstead is as desolate
as an overcast sky.
Their mare grazes
alone in the pasture.
Her brown coat gleams
like she’s been dipped in bronze.
I hook my legs over the fence
and extend a handful of carrots.
“Here, girl, I won’t hurt you.”
The horse approaches me slowly,
trying to judge whether I mean her harm.
She glares at me with suspicious eyes,
then halts ten feet away.
I toss her the carrots,
but she refuses to touch them
until I hop down from the fence
and back away.
After a week of my tossing her carrots,
the horse trusts me enough
to eat from my hand.
She even allows me to stroke her neck.
The day the mare nuzzles my chin,
I draw up enough courage
to climb the fence,
hitch up my skirt,
and sling my legs around her back.
She jostles and rears
as if attacked by angry hornets,
and I nearly plummet to the ground.
But she soon returns to calmness,
and with gentle prodding,
she trots me along the fence.
Three days later, when I approach
with my hair tucked up under my garden hat,
wearing a pair of Pierre’s trousers
that I stole from the mending basket,
the horse fails to recognize me.
After long sniffing of my hand and neck,
she realizes who I am
and allows me to mount
and straddle her.
The difference between
riding in trousers
and riding in a skirt
is like boating across the lake
instead of swimming.
Outfitted like a man,
I can steady myself
to the rhythm
of her movement.
As we pick up speed,
I spot Monsieur Le Mans
heading toward me with a pitchfork.
“Get off my horse, boy!”
he yells.
I dismount and run
as fast as my legs will permit
across meadow and stream,
never once looking back,
until I stand well within
the safety of the woods.
Only then does it strike me:
Monsieur believed I was a boy.
The next day the mare
is not out to pasture,
nor the next,
nor the day after that.
My riding lessons
swiftly
end.
Swordsman
Because I can no longer develop
equestrian skills,
I teach myself to handle a sword.
I slice through the air
with my family’s ax.
But whacking at a tree trunk
lacks the nuances of a swordfight.
In less than ten minutes
wielding an ax grows more exasperating
than a day pulling the plow.
So I bind a kitchen knife
to a stick, then fasten a twig
crosswise to create a handle,
and my sword is born.
Far in the fields
I slay withering stalks.
As if they are a row of soldiers
I whirl and surprise
them with my steel.
But crops and men of hay
do not scream or bleed or die.
I cannot imagine harming
an actual soldier.
Murder is the gravest of sins.
I hope I am never
forced to kill.
Who Am I?
Soon I must convince others
that I am La Pucelle.
But just because I do not wish
to be someone’s wife
does not mean I hoped to be
a soldier.
I feel as awkward
as a three-legged horse
around the boys of my village.
How will I survive in an army of men?
People believed me odd before;
imagine what they will think
when they see me
brandish a sword and shield.
And if I am La Pucelle,
what becomes of
Jehanne of Domrémy,
the daughter, the sister, the girl?
Is she swallowed
like the sun
into the vast darkness of night?
Part Two
Gathering Fuel for the Fire
A First Attempt
Spring 1428
Sixteen now,
I can no longer play at soldier.
If I am to help save France,
I need an army.
God instructs me to ask
Sir Robert de Baudricourt for one.
He’s a captain of the dauphin Charles,
who heaven decrees with my aid
will be crowned king of France.
Captain Baudricourt
dwells in Vaucouleurs,
ten miles from our village,
ten miles farther than I dare
venture on my own.
For years,
I have pretended
that I have no purpose
beyond crops and prayers.
But today a gate opens.
Uncle Laxart visits.
Along with his sacks of grain
I ride back in Uncle’s cart
to Burey, a hamlet
on the edge of Vaucouleurs.
•✦•
Safe in Burey and without fear
that my immediate family
will try to hinder or silence me.
My uncle is the first person
I tell about my mission.
When I ask him to introduce me
to Sir Robert Baudricourt,
he pounds the table.
“I will not take you to see him. Non!
Tu es complètement folle, Jehanne!”
“Please, Uncle.
God has chosen me
to save France,
and I need your help.
If not by God’s will,
I should have no desire
to enter battle.”
I argue until my uncle
looks as if he has traveled
three days in a blinding storm
and wonders whether
I am sent by God
or the devil himself.
He covers his ears,
as if the sound of my voice
drives him mad.
His eyelids droop
with exhaustion.
Uncle shakes his head and sighs.
Finally, he agrees.
•✦•
Uncle Laxart removes
his cap, bows his head,
and introduces me to Sir Robert.
Before my uncle can
replace his woolen hat,
I step forward and announce
to Captain Baudricourt,
“The King of Heaven
demands that you supply me
an army so that
I can liberate France.”
Sir Robert’s laughter sounds
like a murder of crows
nesting in his throat.
“This is the daughter of Jacques d’Arc?
Why, she’s mad!
Give her a good slapping, Laxart,
and return her to her father!”
My uncle grabs me by the elbow,
but I turn back to Sir Robert,
not a waver to my words.
“I am La Pucelle, the Maid!
I am sent by God
to crown the dauphin king
and to save France.
And you will
deliver me an army, sir!”
Captain Baudricourt’s slanted eyes
weigh whether I’m insulting or amusing.
He smiles. “I might deliver you
to the army, girl, and see how long
La Pucelle remains a virgin there.”
Everyone in the room
rocks with laughter,
but I am not shaken.
I open my mouth to respond.
But before I can,
Uncle Laxart yanks me
out of the room.
He raises no hand to me.
Still, my uncle’s words sting like a whip.
“Jehanne, you foolish girl!
You have humiliated us all.”
I remain silent as the stars
during the long ride home.
It is not my intention
to bring shame to my family,
only to follow God’s command.
But perhaps my speech was too bold.
Perhaps my tongue
should have been coated with honey,
not brine.
If it would spare my family embarrassment,
I might alter the timbre of my voice,
but I will never abandon
my mission
or my words.
Catherine’s Good News
As returning birds chirp
the beginning of spring,
my sister announces
that a baby grows within her.
Since she married
she has twice been pregnant,
but before she felt either baby kick
the little one was lost.
This time Catherine
rounds like a pumpkin.
Mother feels confident
this child will survive.
I never thought my father
cared much for infants,
but he struts around,
heralds this news
as if he won a prize
for raising the largest pig.
He clearly glories in the idea
of becoming a grandfather.
At least one of his daughters
acts respectably,
understands her place and duty.
And then there is me.
Second Retreat to Neufchâteau
July 1428
No one in my family
speaks of my visit to Vaucouleurs,
though all know what happened.
Mother becomes
more silent than steam.
Like owls lurking in the night,
my brothers monitor my every step.
My father fumes
as if I poison his house
with the malodor
of a feral cat in heat.
I am marked with the scent
of impertinence and disobedience.
I have dishonored him.
The implicit threat of punishment
dangles around my neck.
I had best not attempt
another ploy like Vaucouleurs.
•✦•
We learn that once again
Burgundian soldiers
approach our village.
Toothless, bedraggled,
and slathered in grime,
this band of marauders
smells worse than rotten fish.
My family packs up
our most valuable possessions
and heads south, as before,
to the safety of Neufchâteau.
We lodge at the inn of
the widow Madame la Rousse.
I help our hostess in the kitchen,
where I hear many stories
from French soldiers
who visit the inn—
how they stormed fortresses,
fought sword to sword against the enemy,
and waged a night attack
to free prisoners from English cells.
It’s a great joy to meet men-at-arms
I admire, but I’m careful
never to be alone around the soldiers,
for I understand that I must remain,
without question, the Virgin Maid,
for La Pucelle means just that.
My virtue is more precious to me
than a thousand gold coins.
Madame la Rousse
speaks a more proper French
than one hears in Domrémy.
I practice the lilt of her l,
the roll of her r
and learn not to run my words together
like unblotted ink.
But after a month at the inn,
Father announces
that we cannot hide
from the conflict forever,
and we return to Domrémy.
•✦•
The Burgundian soldiers
left behind their stench
and little else.
They torched everything,
burned down the Saint-Rémy church,
a consecrated house,
as if it were nothing more
than a toolshed.
As I rummage through
the charred remnants of my town,
I know something must be done,
and soon.
A Marriage for Jehanne
Father must have hustled about
Neufchâteau busier than a squirrel.
As a consequence of my behavior
in Vaucouleurs,
he arranged a marriage for me
without my consent
to a man I have never met,
a farmer’s son from Burey.
Father does not understand
that I cannot marry,
for it is against God’s will,
and my own.
He refuses to hear about
or accept my mission.
Few girls possess the courage
to stand up to their fathers,
and yet like a soldier
facing her first battle,
I summon the nerve.
To stop my marriage
from occurring
and annul the betrothal,
I must travel to Toul,
the county seat.
I walk fifteen miles
alone as a ship lost at sea
and plead my case in court.
I implore the judge,
“I never pledged to marry
any boy. I should not be forced
into matrimony.
My virtue must remain
unsullied and indisputable.”
The judge scratches his head,
as if I am a greater puzzlement
than snowflakes in August.
“You are not property, Jehanne,
so if you did not enter
into the engagement
of your own free will,
you need not marry this man.”
I lift my chin and smile.
“I agreed to nothing.”
I win my case,
but I set myself at further odds
with my father.
Sickened by the sight of me,
whenever I enter the house
or barn or field,
he exits.
I fear it is time for me
to leave home
and never return.
Oh, Brothers
Jean frustrated me before,
snoring under his hat
while Pierre and I toiled
until our arms ached,
but now my brother forgoes his nap
to drive and direct me
like I am the mule
who pulls our plow.
Jean gazes at the sun
and comments that
it is nearly midday
and I have not
swept out the stalls,
nor begun gathering kindling,
chopping firewood,
or tending Mother’s herbs.
When I open my mouth to protest,
Pierre, who used to side with me
against Jean’s autocracy,
holds his finger to his lips,
then balls his fist.
I spoke in court.
I spoke to Sir Robert.
I would be wise to say
nothing now.
I close my eyes
and pray for strength.
The Siege of Orléans
October 1428
When we learn that the English
surround the city of Orléans,
my village buzzes
with as much fear and fury
as birds fluttering
inside a chimney.
On the Loire River
at the intersection
of several major trade routes,
the walled city
stands as France’s last bastion
against the enemy.
Orléans is the heart
inside my country’s chest.
We cannot survive
without it.
Hungry wolves lurking
outside the wall,
our enemies
want to overtake Orléans
more than anywhere else.
English troops built bastilles,
towers that house their weapons and men,
at the city’s gates
to prevent French reinforcements,
food, and supplies
from entering the city.
We are told
that the citizens of Orléans despair.
It is rumored
that the frightened dauphin
plans to exile himself
to a foreign country,
