The Language of Fire, page 5
to desert the southern capital of Chinon,
to desert France entirely.
No one knows what to do—
Except me.
Childbirth
A sorrow greater
than I have ever known
rivers through my veins.
Last night my sister
lost her baby,
then her life.
How can Catherine
be gone from us
faster than the break of day?
At night
below the chirp of crickets,
muffled sobs
echo through the house.
Mother wails and weeps,
has little use for her bed.
She circles the kitchen,
constantly searching
for something she cannot find.
Jean forfeits all desire to order
Pierre and me around.
He works tirelessly in the fields,
then prays beside me in church.
Pierre drifts away,
quiet and often alone.
He retreats to the stables,
to the cows,
his energy vanquished.
Surely God has a reason
for calling Catherine and her baby
to his side.
But even with that consolation,
my family aches as though our bones
have been crushed under a mountain.
Last year when my feet
stretched beyond my shoes,
Catherine gifted me her new boots,
boots she scrimped and saved to buy.
She smiled and said how lucky she was
that her old ones still fit.
I wish that the first person
I shared my mission with,
my calling from God,
had been my sister.
Catherine would have believed
and supported me.
She always did.
Now I truly am
my parents’ only daughter.
And a grave disappointment
at that.
But perhaps
it will change.
Back to Baudricourt
December 1428
The air has altered
since I last came to Vaucouleurs.
It carries a scent
desperate as a graveyard.
People hunger for hope.
When winds blow around
tales of a young maid
who is sent by God
to save France,
many feel as if sun breaks
through the gloom.
I am welcomed by
the well-respected Le Royers
to stay at their home inside the city.
A crowd gathers outside the door
to gawk at the Maid
from the old prophecy, La Pucelle.
In my homespun russet-red dress,
they wonder: How can I,
a slim sixteen-year-old girl,
be France’s savior?
And yet they long to believe.
We all need to believe
in something right now,
myself included.
A knight in the city garrison,
Jean de Metz, taunts me,
“What are you doing here, girl?
Is it not fated that the dauphin
shall be driven from his kingdom,
and we shall all turn English?”
Even though he is ten years
my senior, I stare the man down.
“Before mid-Lent
I must be with the king,
even if I must wear my legs
down to the knees.
God has ordained
the salvation of France,
and for this purpose
I was born.”
Jean de Metz stares hazily at me,
as though he has been struck
with a steel rod by my words.
I expect him to mock
or question me further,
because so far
all I have met with
is resistance and rejection,
but he does not.
Instead it is as though he too
follows a divine order.
The good knight kneels
in chivalry
and pledges allegiance
to me and my cause.
Jean miraculously
accepts and believes
that all I say and do
is willed by God.
And astoundingly, he is not
the only soldier to follow me.
Another nobleman and knight,
Bertrand de Poulengy,
also vows to support La Pucelle.
Perhaps with these knights beside me,
I no longer need Sir Robert
to reach the dauphin.
Perhaps our small band
can go it alone.
Impatience Is Not a Virtue
The next day
I lead a small party of supporters
nearly one-fourth the distance
I must travel to Chinon
to see the dauphin.
But then I turn my company around.
I cannot be led by impatience.
God assured me
that Captain Baudricourt
will give me an audience
and what I require
if I endure
like the snow iris
and hibernate through winter’s end,
rather than burst prematurely
from the soil.
In truth, I need
Sir Robert’s personal introduction
if I wish to meet the dauphin.
Otherwise I may never
be admitted to court.
Waiting to Bloom
For nearly a month
I wait at the Le Royers’ home
while Sir Robert fiddles his thumbs,
unsure what to do with me.
He sends a priest
to exorcise any demons
I might possess.
The priest douses me with holy water
and cries, “Vade retro me satana!”
Were I harboring evil,
I would convulse
and fall to the ground
as devilish spirits left my body.
But I stand, unmoved,
and smile. I ask the father,
“Now that is done,
might you hear my confession?”
The priest agrees.
We pray the Paternoster together,
and le prêtre reports back
to Sir Robert
that my motives appear pure
and that my calling seems divine.
But still Baudricourt remains as frozen
as the February ground.
So I continue to wait,
patient as la fleur.
I use the delay
to train with the local garrison.
My time with Monsieur Le Mans’s mare
prepared me better than I expected.
I shock myself and more importantly
Jean de Metz and his fellow knights
when I ride a destrier, a warhorse,
with immediate ease.
They marvel at how
I wield a lance and shield
as if I have been conditioning
to be a soldier all my life.
As the town watches
a small girl from Domrémy
transform into a soldier,
more and more people believe
that I am La Pucelle.
Like My Eldest Brother
Jean de Metz arrives each morning
to accompany me to the arena
where we ride and train.
He scouts the road ahead
as if he searches out sinkholes,
then clears away rats, debris—
anything or anyone
who might cause me harm.
He reminds me of Jacquemin,
my protective brother, always suspicious
that danger may lie ahead.
The difference
is that Jean de Metz
treats me more like
a younger brother
instead of a little sister.
He arms me with a sword,
then lunges full speed
at my chest.
My shield blocks his steel,
but this just encourages
Jean de Metz to strike again
with greater force.
He trusts that in battle
I will fight as does
any knight,
that in the arena
I can protect myself.
Even though I wear a dress,
he never acts like
I am a girl.
Thoughts of Home
I am told Father
no longer allows my name
to be uttered in his presence,
that he wishes to wash away
all memory of me
as one desires to rid oneself
of the taste of turned milk.
Likewise, when visions
of my father’s farm
sneak into my dreams,
I light them on fire,
try to sear them from my brain.
I cannot be held back
by what I used to be.
And after the loss of Catherine,
the happiness and security
of my home shattered
like an egg upon the ground,
the shell fractured,
the insides seeping
into dirt and grave.
I am grateful
to look forward,
to follow God’s mission,
to have purpose,
not to swim in sorrow,
not to drown in a lake
of loss.
The Brotherhood of Knights
Jean de Metz sharpens his sword
as he explains that
he has a family outside
the one into which he was born.
All good knights do.
For he has brothers
not bound by name or place
who will lay down
their lives to save his own.
Brothers who share something deeper
than the blood coursing
through their veins,
for they have shed blood together.
He tells me
I will be a part
of this family.
My eyes glaze with tears
as I brush off my skirt.
I wonder if that
will truly be.
No More Dress
Is it proper to visit the king
in the same dress
one wears to slop pigs?
The citizens of Vaucouleurs
think not.
They want me to resemble the army
I will lead.
So no more dress.
They gift me tailor-made
men’s clothes of the finest fabrics
I have ever worn,
for it will be safer if I travel
the three hundred fifty miles
through enemy territory
in the costume of a man.
I crop my hair
to complete my disguise.
Even though his people
support me, only the hand of God
stirs Baudricourt from his torpor.
What finally persuades
Sir Robert to grant me
six of his men, a formal letter
of introduction to the king,
and a black steed for my journey,
some consider a miracle.
I inform Sir Robert,
on the very day it occurs,
and far before any news of the battle
could reach Vaucouleurs,
that the French
suffer a great loss
outside Orléans, near Rouvray.
When a courier confirms
my premonition,
Sir Robert nearly falls off his chair.
I implore him on bended knee,
“Please, I must be away
before it is too late!”
Sir Robert has no choice
except to grant my request.
He rolls his eyes
and waves me off with the words
“Go, and come what may.”
The Journey to Chinon
February 1429
We move
through the night
like bandits,
waiting until dusk
before venturing
beyond the gates of Vaucouleurs.
Chinon lies a world away,
three hundred fifty miles to the west,
a rigorous ride
through Burgundian territory.
But God promises our safety.
He decrees:
You and your party shall
reach Chinon in eleven days.
To do this I must
cast my gaze
like a beast with three eyes:
one eye ahead and one behind,
and a third focused on my own men.
Sent by Baudricourt to accompany me
are the two noble knights
Jean de Metz and Bertrand Poulengy;
a servant of Poulengy, Julien;
a messenger for the dauphin and royal family
called Colet de Vienne; Richard the Archer;
and Jean de Honecourt, who serves
both Colet and Richard.
But only the good knights
champion my cause.
The four other men
refuse to believe
that I am sent by God
and do not enjoy being bridled
to a peasant girl.
I overhear these men plot
to strip me of my purity
like a pack of feral hounds.
On the second night
they ambush me,
muffle my screams of protest,
and hold me down
to do their dirty deed.
Overpowered
and helpless as a snared rabbit,
I tremble in terror.
But to the men’s great shock,
they can feel no lust for me.
All four soldiers
fall soft with impotence.
Baudricourt’s men
lace tight their trousers,
convinced immediately
that I must be heavenly sent,
for what else could have prevented them
from ravaging me?
From this point forward
all six of my escorts pledge
undying devotion.
Unified in our mission,
we race through the countryside.
Only when dawn
wrestles free from darkness
do we halt to sleep.
Though our party travels
under the cover of night,
we might still attract attention.
So we avoid all roads
and wade through forest and glen.
No enemy, no raider,
no river or storm
ever impedes our progress.
I pray many times each day.
But without a church in which
to confess and hear mass,
I feel as if an arrow pierces my heart.
A day’s ride from Chinon,
my tension uncoils.
Even though we are still
inside enemy territory,
we attend a mass in Auxerre.
I pray so intensely
that tears flood my face
like a river swelling its banks.
I alone understand
that the siege must be lifted
from Orléans forthwith.
I have scarce little time
to see the dauphin crowned.
For as I kneel before His altar,
God tells me:
Before you reach twenty years,
you will die.
Part Three
Kindling
Take Me to the Dauphin
I cannot think about my fate,
but only move forward.
A bird in flight,
I never stop flapping my wings,
never look down,
and thereby forget my impending fall.
I send a letter to the dauphin
requesting an audience with him
and wait in Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois
like a faithful child.
I go to mass
as often as the priests do
and pray on tireless knees
in Saint Catherine’s shrine.
My entrance into the city of Chinon
requires the dauphin’s permission.
Until Charles bids me come,
I remain barred from the castle
as if I am an enemy.
Banging swords clamor
over what should be done with me.
Some want to welcome me at once.
Other advisers whisper
into Charles’s ear
that I do the devil’s bidding.
But the dauphin,
whom I must help crown
the next king of France,
will see me for who I am.
Dead Man’s Shoes
Two long days pass
before I am invited to court.
Chinon’s castle sits above the city,
an eagle’s nest perched so high
it appears to scrape the clouds.
White stone turrets strung
with the dauphin’s coat of arms
stand like guards.
Flanked with the support
of my two knights,
I ride toward the castle.
A priest, Jean Pasquerel,
joins our retinue.
He offers me
daily confession and counsel.
I am beyond grateful for his company.
As we mount the stairs
leading to the king’s quarters,
a soldier roughly cries out,
“Is that not the Maid there?
I swear to God
if I had her for a night
she would be a virgin no more!”
Hot tears brim my eyes.
Why are so many men
insistent on stripping me
of my purity?
Are they so threatened
by a girl with an ounce of freedom
and control?
I holler back to the man,
“Why do you take
the name of the Lord in vain
when you are so close
to your own death?
Do you not wish to see heaven?”
The soldier holds his belly
as laughter rumbles through him.
