The Language of Fire, page 6
An hour later, however,
the man stops laughing,
stops breathing.
He falls into the moat
and drowns,
as I predicted he would.
A Short Prayer
Before we enter
the dauphin’s chamber,
I fall to my knees.
Here begins my real task.
I am seventeen,
a small girl wearing boy’s clothes
entering a room of royalty.
Inside, I tremble like a child
abandoned in the wilderness.
I hear a bear growling
in the darkness
but know not where
it hides.
Please, God,
grant me the strength
to never wander from my path,
to accomplish my goals,
and to conceal my fears.
Meeting the Dauphin
March 1429
I traipse past
the splendor of royalty—
heads adorned with tall conical hennins,
bejeweled necks, arms, and hands,
garments more fetching than peacock feathers.
The court regards
my dusty black doublet,
coarse tunic, and short black hair
as though I reek of manure.
Yet these are the finest clothes
I have ever worn.
Undaunted,
I seek the dauphin.
I have a message for him
and no other.
But the dauphin’s councillors
aim to trick me,
want me to stumble in my boots
and be shown as a fraud.
For although I have never seen
the son who will be king,
I know that the man
who wears the royal crest,
introduces himself as Charles,
and bids me kiss his ring
is not the dauphin.
I spin around until I spot,
dressed in the clothes
of a lesser courtier,
the dauphin crouching in a corner
of the chamber.
I kiss Charles’s feet and exclaim,
“Most noble Lord Dauphin,
I have come and am sent by God
to help you and your kingdom.”
A Sign
The dauphin recoils from me,
sharp as a whip.
Even though I plucked
him like a needle
among the hay,
he does not believe
that I am heaven-sent.
Somehow, I must earn
his confidence.
I mute the tumult around us.
Charles alone matters.
“Please, gentle Dauphin,
let us retire to a private chamber,
and I will prove to you
that I am sent by God.”
But Charles does not shift.
Only after his mother-in-law,
Yolande of Aragon,
whispers into his ear
does Charles motion
for me to follow him.
I close the chapel door
and gaze up
at the beautiful golden altar
where my dauphin must pray daily.
I have heard that the dauphin
is almost as pious as I am.
I motion for Charles
to kneel with me
and pray that God
will provide him a sign
so the dauphin will know
that I speak the truth.
He falls reverently
to his knees before the cross,
closes his eyes,
and recites the Paternoster.
I whisper,
“Dearest Dauphin,
you prayed that
if you are indeed the heir
to the kingdom of France,
God would protect you.
I am sent to assure you
that you will be crowned king.”
Charles remains
fixated on the altar.
“Sweet Dauphin,
I was born a lowly peasant girl.
I would never leave my home
to take up arms
solely by my own volition.”
Charles looks me
squarely in the eyes
for the first time.
“I did pray for God’s
guidance and protection,
but anyone might have
guessed that.
I am not yet convinced you are
who you say you are.”
I clasp my hands
and look to heaven.
What can I say
to make him believe me?
Miraculously, these words
escape my lips:
“I know, Royal Dauphin,
that you humbly asked our Lord
to help you escape
to the court of either
Spain or Scotland.”
Charles’s cheeks turn
a shade of red deeper
than his bulbous nose.
“How could you know that?”
“Sire, I am sent by God.”
Charles bows his head
toward the altar
as a great light fills the room
and a sign appears.
“Is that a golden crown?”
he asks, more awestruck
than a man standing
before the gates of heaven.
“Yes, and it belongs upon
my dauphin’s head.”
Charles clasps my hands.
“I believe it is true.
You are La Pucelle
sent by God.”
Conviction
I am a girl who has never
seen war, who has never
witnessed one man kill another.
I march forward and speak
with the surety of a queen,
but what if I reach the battlefield
and freeze at the horror
of blood and loss?
What if even with God’s aid
my humanness, my femininity,
somehow defeat me?
Are there not moments
in the middle of the night
when I wonder
if I really can lift
the siege from Orléans?
If I fail to deliver
all that I promise,
I let down my family,
my country, my king,
myself, and God.
I will be exiled.
I will have no home,
not on earth or in heaven.
I will belong nowhere,
to no one.
That cannot be God’s will,
and it certainly is not mine.
I must be the girl who saves France.
My Examination
March 1429
Although Charles believes in me,
his advisers remain wary
as a drizzling rain.
They convince the dauphin
that I should be tested
by men of the church
to make sure I am not
a child of the devil.
I have faced questioning before
in Vaucouleurs.
I convinced the dauphin
of my mission.
God tells me
I should fear nothing
but delay.
We travel to Poitiers,
the home of Parliament
in Armagnac France.
My first test:
I am examined by la dauphine,
Charles’s wife, and her ladies
to see if my maidenhood is intact.
This is not a comfortable test,
being poked and prodded
in the most private of areas.
But despite riding a warhorse
across rivers and valleys,
I am found to be
a clear and true virgin
without corruption or violation.
My second test:
Eighteen clerics
interrogate me
and probe my soul,
as if they wish to trap me
with a cage of words.
“Do you believe in God?”
one man asks.
“Yes, more than you do,”
I answer.
Laughter bursts
from the flock of priests.
I explain that I have been sent
by the King of Heaven
for two reasons:
to lift the siege on Orléans
and to lead the king to Reims
for his anointing and coronation.
Eyebrows rise and lips smirk,
as if the clerics taste something sour.
“What language
does your voice speak?”
a cleric from Languedoc
who speaks in a rural dialect
asks me.
“A better tongue than you do,”
I tell him with a smile.
The holy men snicker,
amused by my quick wit.
Still their skepticism remains,
thicker than clay.
The clerics assert that if God wishes
to deliver the people of France
from their present calamities,
He could do so without my aid.
The dauphin need not give soldiers
to a girl.
But God does not fight earthly battles.
Soldiers do.
What God does is decide
who wins the war.
The clerics pore over their papers
as if the parchment will speak aloud.
They finally retort
that God cannot wish them
to believe in me
unless he sends them a sign.
They refuse to advise the dauphin
to entrust me with soldiers
merely on my bare assertions.
I stare at the eighteen holy men
encircling me
and inhale slowly.
Then, with quiet passion, I repeat,
“Lead me to Orléans,
and I will show you
the signs I was sent to make.”
The room erupts into argument
as if a cannon just exploded
before the council.
The head examiner
bangs on his table,
demanding silence.
“We shall debate this further
without her who calls herself La Pucelle,
then present our assessment
to the dauphin.”
Brotherly Advice
Jean de Metz has traversed
the graveyard of many a battlefield.
Still he laughs and jokes
as if the world is full of good humor.
I ask him how he can be
lighthearted and patient
when we have so much to accomplish
and yet are denied boats,
forbidden to swim,
and forced to tread water.
We must endlessly wait
for others to understand our mission
and then provide us
with what God knows
we need and should have—
an army.
Jean de Metz smiles.
“Faith is largely patience,
is it not, La Pucelle?”
I reluctantly nod my head.
But if that is true,
why do I lose my patience,
yet never lose my faith?
Fitting In
I refuse to do nothing
but pray and wait.
When the soldiers in Poitiers
welcome me into their field,
intrigued noblemen gather
to watch me train.
Like gawking crows,
their jaws drop
when they see
that my skills rival
those of the knights around me.
For the first time
I do not wonder
how I fit in,
I just do.
I belong among
these men-at-arms
like water belongs
in the sea.
The Duke of Alençon
Today a duke
who bows, as I do,
to the dauphin
enters my training arena.
He eyes me as if
wings sprout
from my shoulder blades.
A growl hides
under my tongue.
I do not wish
to defend myself
to this nobleman.
I do not wish
to defend myself to anyone
today.
On a borrowed destrier
I charge across the track,
kick up rain clouds of dust.
Not to boast,
but with little practice,
I ride as expertly as the king’s guard.
Without instruction,
except from above,
I heave a lance
under one arm and charge,
fearless as a bull,
my horns set to attack.
When my steed halts
before him,
the Duke of Alençon laughs.
I slant my eyes.
“Why, sir, do you mock me?”
He removes his helmet,
props it on one hip.
“Are you La Pucelle,
the maid about whom
tales are being woven
faster than thread
spools on a wheel?”
I step toward him.
“I am she.”
Our eyes lock
like two swords clashing.
The duke holds my gaze.
He neither retreats nor escalates.
He looks at me as I have
never been regarded before,
as if we are of equal stature—
not a peasant beside royalty,
not a woman and a man.
He nods.
“Yes, I believe you are.”
An Ally
The duke cannot be
more than five years
my senior.
Tall in stature
with a ready smile,
a wit as nimble as his sword,
and pockets ever lined
with coins for the poor—
I believe him to be
the perfect knight.
I never expected anyone
of his position
to truly champion my cause.
But this duke teaches me
to charm nobility
as well as dismantle our enemy
with eyes more fearsome
than a dragon.
He extends a hand
of friendship,
and I grasp it tightly.
If the Duke of Alençon,
who is a cousin of the dauphin Charles,
can be persuaded
to stand by my side,
perhaps there is hope
that others of title and command
will follow me too.
Introductions
I may think highly
of the Duke of Alençon,
but will the first knight,
Jean de Metz,
who stood by my side
before anyone else dared,
agree?
My three brothers
often acted like goats,
clashing horns, butting heads,
to establish who would claim
the top of the hill.
I fear rivalry and bravado
may enter the brotherhood
of knights as well.
I invite both men to dinner,
expecting I will need to
smooth awkward silences
and disentangle challenging words.
But I am as wrong
as a flying frog.
“I fought beside your father
at Agincourt. He was a great
warrior and commander.”
Jean de Metz bows his head.
“And your reputation
precedes you, Jean.”
Compliments shoot across the table
like arrows striking bull’s-eyes.
Wine, laughter, and memories
flow heartily between the men.
If anyone teeters on the fringe
of the conversation,
it is me.
And I could not be
more pleased.
Because I Wear Armor
The Duke of Alençon
gives me a white destrier,
far grander than the one
Sir Robert provided.
But there is no greater gift
he can offer
than what he has already granted me—
his camaraderie.
Yet if I were not La Pucelle,
just Jehanne of Domrémy,
the duke and I
would never be in company.
I understand who I am now
riding a horse,
instead of leading it to pasture.
I am a soldier,
no longer a girl,
never to be a woman.
God has told me
my life will be short.
I will have no future time
for love or family.
Today
my heart seems to drown
in a never-ending storm
over this.
A part of me
feels as empty
as a bucket with a hole.
Never Show My Fear
Though storms may roil
through my stomach
and my pulse speed
faster than a blustering wind,
though my palms may sweat
as does sweltering August
and my legs tremble
like a fawn first learning to walk,
I must bundle my fears inside.
Because I am a girl,
it is even more important
that no one catch
a glimmer of doubt in my eyes,
nor see a hint of fright
cross my brow.
I can only reveal my trepidations
in solitude and prayer.
Pray
A crowd cheers
as I walk toward the cathedral.
The peasants rejoice in knowing
the King of Heaven can raise up
the smallest among us.
As I pray at the altar,
Father Pasquerel kneels beside me
and says, “It was the prophet Isaiah
who foretold that the smallest one
will become a thousand,
and the least create a mighty nation.”
