The Language of Fire, page 7
The French people believe that I,
La Pucelle of the old prophecy,
who is sent by God,
will do just that,
restore our mighty nation.
They brick a fortress
of love and support around me
that fortifies
my will and my heart.
What They Determine
Perhaps the council
has seen that the French people
follow me into the cathedral,
embrace more pious beliefs,
and praise God, as I do,
in every moment.
Perhaps the priests see
how the people adore the Maid
and need to believe in her.
Like starving troops
who have long lacked nourishment,
the people now find their bellies
are satiated with hope.
Perhaps the robed men also witness
how the soldiers in Poitiers
accept me as one of their own.
The commission of clerics concludes
that no evil is to be found in me,
only goodness, humility,
virginity, devotion,
honesty, and simplicity.
They tell the dauphin
he should give me an army.
Gathering Troops
April 6, 1429
Who will follow me?
The commoners have not
the weapons or skill
to take the battlefield.
It is the nobility
who must support me.
And thankfully, they do.
Noblemen arrive in Chinon
like bees swarming a hive.
Some of these men
join an army for the first time.
Steel fused by fire,
the loyal Frenchmen
band together
for a righteous cause.
The question then becomes whether
the other commanders
will trust a peasant girl to lead them.
Unfortunately, God
does not reveal the answer to me.
He just urges me to combat.
My small entourage rides to Tours,
five miles northeast of Chinon.
The king entrusts Jean de Metz
with his purse.
Jean pays well the dozen commanders
with whom I am supposed to wage war
in the hope that this will encourage them
to support me fully.
With the dauphin’s blessing,
we are all eager to fight the English.
But first we require
a few more preparations.
Looking the Part
This is not a question
of a doublet and tunic
versus a dress.
It is about
forging armor that fits me.
I have never been more excited
about what covers my body
than I am when I receive
my custom-made, silver-white,
gleaming suit of armor.
Beneath it I wear
a stuffed doublet
and chain mail to protect
the parts of my body
not encased in steel.
Although this gear
weighs nearly forty pounds,
I move in it
as if I wear only my skin.
I commission
a twelve-foot standard
out of white linen fringed in silk.
I then ask that two angels
flanking the world
be painted on the banner
and that it bear the words Jhesus Maria.
With the dauphin’s permission,
royal fleurs-de-lis
are sewn into my standard.
They promise victory.
The banner is more beautiful
than a wedding gown
and more crucial
than a sword or shield.
Still, I must carry a sword.
The voice reveals to me
that I should send for one
that lies in the church
of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois,
buried behind the altar.
The sword belonged
first to Charles Martel
and was used
over seven hundred years ago
to slay infidels
for the first king of the Franks.
When they recover the sword,
though it is heavily rusted
the tarnish rubs away
as if it were merely rainwater.
The blade is etched with five crosses
as I foretold it would be.
Some say it is a miracle
for me to find this sword.
But I see it only,
like everything else I do
and shall do,
as following the will of God.
The Importance of a French Victory
In my seventeen years
the French have known nothing
but defeat in major battles.
Weary and broken
like a cart without wheels,
we have struggled
just to maneuver through the mud.
Burgundian and English leaders
conquered Normandy from west to east.
They seized the French capital of Paris
and forced the dauphin to flee
his rightful home
as if a fire raged at his heels.
The English kings declare themselves
kings of France, whether or not
they have been consecrated by God,
whether or not it is right or wrong.
Our enemy presses ever south
with the desire to rule
all of France.
Defeating Orléans
will insure they succeed.
But the city,
like a fortress of armor,
has held.
Lifting the siege
on Orléans may provide
but one small victory
in what has been a long
and brutal war,
but we need this win
as surely as a man
drowning in a sinkhole
requires a rope.
Another defeat would be
deadly,
whereas a victory
could turn the tides.
This burden presses on my heart
and haunts my sleep.
Dream of Fire
Again, English torches
ignite our barn in Domrémy,
and I am trapped inside.
However, in last night’s reverie
when I call for help
someone answers back,
yells for my assistance.
But I cannot see who it is,
and worse, I cannot help him or her.
Flames circle higher and higher,
like spires in a cathedral,
as someone cries out in pain.
It is more terrifying
than being alone.
Only when I wake
do I realize
that the voice
calling back to me
was none other
than my own.
My Confession
I clasp the hands
of Father Pasquerel
as I unburden my heart.
Nothing I say to him
can be revealed to another.
That is the blessing and purpose
of holy confession.
Before I go to war,
even though God has assured
me I will not die in Orléans,
I need to clear my soul
of all I do not easily admit.
I bow my head, cross myself,
and admit that I fear
I may be leading my country
to great destruction.
I confess that I am afraid
to enter battle,
that I fear the sight
of men butchering men;
and I worry that
if I do not kill our enemy,
and I cannot kill anyone,
my soldiers will abandon me.
What if I reach the battlefield,
scream like a child,
and run away in fear?
What if I fall off my horse?
There are moments
I still fear that I am merely a girl,
and not La Pucelle,
that there is no La Pucelle,
and I may fail to do
what God asks of me.
I ask forgiveness
for my sins and doubts
and pray that with God’s aid
I may persevere.
Preparing for Battle
Outfitted for battle,
I move the twenty-five hundred men
who have amassed to fight beside me
to the town of Blois,
which lies halfway
between Tours and Orléans.
A large, boisterous commander La Hire,
whom the soldiers call the Hedgehog
because of his prickly
temperament, greets me.
“So, you are the Maid?”
He picks food out of his teeth
and spits it on the ground.
“My men and I are ready
to fight with you.”
The camp is littered
with plunder and ungodliness.
Everywhere filth.
I try, but fail, to mask my horror.
His men are not ready to fight.
La Hire’s laughter makes him cough.
“I see you have never lived
among men-at-arms, La Pucelle.
My men are as good as soldiers get.
The Goddoms1 are the filthy shits.
But by our swords their foul blood
will soon be splattered on our tunics.”
Father Pasquerel, who has accompanied me
since the day I first arrived in Chinon,
kisses La Hire on each cheek.
The Hedgehog flinches.
He prefers punches to kisses.
Father explains,
“The Maid wants your troops
to be confessed and free of sin.”
La Hire does not appear
to understand what the priest means.
It is as if the man
has never gone to church.
I explain with a smile,
“All who follow me into battle,
I must be assured
I will see again in heaven.”
La Hire snorts.
“This is not the way
of most warriors,
but then you are not
an average soldier,
are you, Little Lady?”
I am the head commander,
not a little lady.
But I do not let his words
intimidate me.
I straighten my back.
“Try it
and see what victory comes.”
The Hedgehog does not recoil
into a bristly ball or stick
his thorny needles in me.
He raises his eyebrows,
then yells with a voice
brusque enough to crack
apart the ground,
“Gather the men!
Damn if this won’t be
an odd battle,
but I’ll follow you
through heaven or hell
if it means that for once
the French shall be victors.”
I cover my ears
to escape further profanity.
Perhaps the first confession
Father Pasquerel should hear
is Monsieur La Hire’s.
Part Four
Where First Comes Smoke, Next Comes Fire
A Message to the English Rulers
April 25, 1429
We send the English a warning
as fierce as ten thousand arrows
launched into the air.
I doubt they will surrender.
Nevertheless, we offer them the chance.
I ask the English commanders
to surrender the keys of all the good towns
they have taken
and laid to waste in France.
For if they do not,
they should expect that La Pucelle
will shortly come upon them.
The English cannot withhold
the kingdom of France
from God.
King Charles will possess it.
I warn them not to bring themselves
to destruction
and demand that they answer me,
if they desire peace
in the city of Orléans.
If not, I promise
they and their men
will soon suffer great hurt.
The English Reaction
The enemy returns only
one of the two messengers
I dispatched with my letter.
I am told they laid tinder
beneath the stake
of the unlawfully held other
and are debating
whether to light it.
Further, the English captain Talbot
shows me no respect.
He delivers his reply to La Hire,
as if a woman can hold no authority.
Talbot writes to La Hire:
Tell the Armagnac whore
she’d best go home before
I catch her and burn her.
Once again, I am called names
aimed to rupture my spirit,
but today I let the insult
blow past me
like a puff of smoke.
I send my herald back to the enemy
bearing a new message:
Tell Talbot that
if he takes up arms,
we shall do likewise.
And let him burn me
if he can catch me.
The Enemy
As a child I imagined
an enemy was a fiend
with horns and gnarled teeth
hiding under my bed.
But now I understand
that an enemy
can look like a neighbor,
friend, or brother.
I ask Jean de Metz
how he lifts his sword
to strike down
another man
when he so resembles
the one fighting
beside him.
He tells me
the instinct to survive
runs even deeper in the soul
than does the conscience.
If an ax flies
toward your head,
you will lift your shield,
then, before taking a breath,
engage your sword
to remove all chance
of a secondly deadly blow.
Thought factors little
on the battlefield.
The body works
beyond the mind.
La Hire listens
to us prick-eared
as a rabbit.
He snorts, shakes his head,
and thunders that
what my friend the knight
fails to mention
is the thrill
that is battle.
La Hire says
I will know my enemy
by the loathing in his eye
and the rage of his tongue.
The high-and-mighty
English captain Talbot:
to knock him from his horse
will send a rush
through my veins
that nothing can equal.
To stand soldier to soldier
knowing one of you
will die
engages more than instinct;
you learn
what it truly means
to be alive.
We Are an Army of God
We leave for Orléans at dawn.
I feel assured
we will triumph
when we encounter
our enemy tomorrow.
No longer do any men
in my retinue swear,
gamble, or behave without valor.
They understand
we must be virtuous
if we are to be victorious.
Even though for the first time
I am surrounded entirely by men
all hours of day and night,
I never fear for my safety in the camp.
These men will protect me
as would my father.
They care for me
as does my mother.
I love them as my family,
and in some ways even more.
Meeting the Bastard
I know this mission to lift the siege
of Orléans will establish
my credibility should I succeed,
or end my days in armor
should I fail.
I try not to let the mounting pressure
rattle my boots,
but my stomach sputters
and I nearly retch my fears
onto the ground.
Five miles east of Orléans,
my convoy meets Count Dunois,
the Bastard of Orléans.
He governs the city
now under siege,
because his half brother,
the Duke of Orléans,
remains a prisoner of the English.
Dunois seems pleased to see us.
He marvels at the size of my army
and the great commanders
who stand beside me.
I am eager to fight,
to unburden the weight
of my first-ever battle,
but I see no enemy.
The evil man Talbot
I was told we came to fight
must be hiding like a coward
beneath his mother’s skirt.
Dunois reads the puzzlement
in my eyes.
He explains that I was made
to approach his city from the east
so that the much-needed supplies
I have brought
might enter Orléans
by the one gate
not controlled by the English.
This was not the plan
my men and I agreed to.
We came to wage war,
not transport supplies.
Is this Dunois
an ally
or a boulder blocking our path?
The Bastard smiles as if he has
done me a favor.
“I and others,
who are even wiser than I,
advised you to take this route,
believing it was the safest passage.”
La Pucelle of the old prophecy,
who is sent by God,
will do just that,
restore our mighty nation.
They brick a fortress
of love and support around me
that fortifies
my will and my heart.
What They Determine
Perhaps the council
has seen that the French people
follow me into the cathedral,
embrace more pious beliefs,
and praise God, as I do,
in every moment.
Perhaps the priests see
how the people adore the Maid
and need to believe in her.
Like starving troops
who have long lacked nourishment,
the people now find their bellies
are satiated with hope.
Perhaps the robed men also witness
how the soldiers in Poitiers
accept me as one of their own.
The commission of clerics concludes
that no evil is to be found in me,
only goodness, humility,
virginity, devotion,
honesty, and simplicity.
They tell the dauphin
he should give me an army.
Gathering Troops
April 6, 1429
Who will follow me?
The commoners have not
the weapons or skill
to take the battlefield.
It is the nobility
who must support me.
And thankfully, they do.
Noblemen arrive in Chinon
like bees swarming a hive.
Some of these men
join an army for the first time.
Steel fused by fire,
the loyal Frenchmen
band together
for a righteous cause.
The question then becomes whether
the other commanders
will trust a peasant girl to lead them.
Unfortunately, God
does not reveal the answer to me.
He just urges me to combat.
My small entourage rides to Tours,
five miles northeast of Chinon.
The king entrusts Jean de Metz
with his purse.
Jean pays well the dozen commanders
with whom I am supposed to wage war
in the hope that this will encourage them
to support me fully.
With the dauphin’s blessing,
we are all eager to fight the English.
But first we require
a few more preparations.
Looking the Part
This is not a question
of a doublet and tunic
versus a dress.
It is about
forging armor that fits me.
I have never been more excited
about what covers my body
than I am when I receive
my custom-made, silver-white,
gleaming suit of armor.
Beneath it I wear
a stuffed doublet
and chain mail to protect
the parts of my body
not encased in steel.
Although this gear
weighs nearly forty pounds,
I move in it
as if I wear only my skin.
I commission
a twelve-foot standard
out of white linen fringed in silk.
I then ask that two angels
flanking the world
be painted on the banner
and that it bear the words Jhesus Maria.
With the dauphin’s permission,
royal fleurs-de-lis
are sewn into my standard.
They promise victory.
The banner is more beautiful
than a wedding gown
and more crucial
than a sword or shield.
Still, I must carry a sword.
The voice reveals to me
that I should send for one
that lies in the church
of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois,
buried behind the altar.
The sword belonged
first to Charles Martel
and was used
over seven hundred years ago
to slay infidels
for the first king of the Franks.
When they recover the sword,
though it is heavily rusted
the tarnish rubs away
as if it were merely rainwater.
The blade is etched with five crosses
as I foretold it would be.
Some say it is a miracle
for me to find this sword.
But I see it only,
like everything else I do
and shall do,
as following the will of God.
The Importance of a French Victory
In my seventeen years
the French have known nothing
but defeat in major battles.
Weary and broken
like a cart without wheels,
we have struggled
just to maneuver through the mud.
Burgundian and English leaders
conquered Normandy from west to east.
They seized the French capital of Paris
and forced the dauphin to flee
his rightful home
as if a fire raged at his heels.
The English kings declare themselves
kings of France, whether or not
they have been consecrated by God,
whether or not it is right or wrong.
Our enemy presses ever south
with the desire to rule
all of France.
Defeating Orléans
will insure they succeed.
But the city,
like a fortress of armor,
has held.
Lifting the siege
on Orléans may provide
but one small victory
in what has been a long
and brutal war,
but we need this win
as surely as a man
drowning in a sinkhole
requires a rope.
Another defeat would be
deadly,
whereas a victory
could turn the tides.
This burden presses on my heart
and haunts my sleep.
Dream of Fire
Again, English torches
ignite our barn in Domrémy,
and I am trapped inside.
However, in last night’s reverie
when I call for help
someone answers back,
yells for my assistance.
But I cannot see who it is,
and worse, I cannot help him or her.
Flames circle higher and higher,
like spires in a cathedral,
as someone cries out in pain.
It is more terrifying
than being alone.
Only when I wake
do I realize
that the voice
calling back to me
was none other
than my own.
My Confession
I clasp the hands
of Father Pasquerel
as I unburden my heart.
Nothing I say to him
can be revealed to another.
That is the blessing and purpose
of holy confession.
Before I go to war,
even though God has assured
me I will not die in Orléans,
I need to clear my soul
of all I do not easily admit.
I bow my head, cross myself,
and admit that I fear
I may be leading my country
to great destruction.
I confess that I am afraid
to enter battle,
that I fear the sight
of men butchering men;
and I worry that
if I do not kill our enemy,
and I cannot kill anyone,
my soldiers will abandon me.
What if I reach the battlefield,
scream like a child,
and run away in fear?
What if I fall off my horse?
There are moments
I still fear that I am merely a girl,
and not La Pucelle,
that there is no La Pucelle,
and I may fail to do
what God asks of me.
I ask forgiveness
for my sins and doubts
and pray that with God’s aid
I may persevere.
Preparing for Battle
Outfitted for battle,
I move the twenty-five hundred men
who have amassed to fight beside me
to the town of Blois,
which lies halfway
between Tours and Orléans.
A large, boisterous commander La Hire,
whom the soldiers call the Hedgehog
because of his prickly
temperament, greets me.
“So, you are the Maid?”
He picks food out of his teeth
and spits it on the ground.
“My men and I are ready
to fight with you.”
The camp is littered
with plunder and ungodliness.
Everywhere filth.
I try, but fail, to mask my horror.
His men are not ready to fight.
La Hire’s laughter makes him cough.
“I see you have never lived
among men-at-arms, La Pucelle.
My men are as good as soldiers get.
The Goddoms1 are the filthy shits.
But by our swords their foul blood
will soon be splattered on our tunics.”
Father Pasquerel, who has accompanied me
since the day I first arrived in Chinon,
kisses La Hire on each cheek.
The Hedgehog flinches.
He prefers punches to kisses.
Father explains,
“The Maid wants your troops
to be confessed and free of sin.”
La Hire does not appear
to understand what the priest means.
It is as if the man
has never gone to church.
I explain with a smile,
“All who follow me into battle,
I must be assured
I will see again in heaven.”
La Hire snorts.
“This is not the way
of most warriors,
but then you are not
an average soldier,
are you, Little Lady?”
I am the head commander,
not a little lady.
But I do not let his words
intimidate me.
I straighten my back.
“Try it
and see what victory comes.”
The Hedgehog does not recoil
into a bristly ball or stick
his thorny needles in me.
He raises his eyebrows,
then yells with a voice
brusque enough to crack
apart the ground,
“Gather the men!
Damn if this won’t be
an odd battle,
but I’ll follow you
through heaven or hell
if it means that for once
the French shall be victors.”
I cover my ears
to escape further profanity.
Perhaps the first confession
Father Pasquerel should hear
is Monsieur La Hire’s.
Part Four
Where First Comes Smoke, Next Comes Fire
A Message to the English Rulers
April 25, 1429
We send the English a warning
as fierce as ten thousand arrows
launched into the air.
I doubt they will surrender.
Nevertheless, we offer them the chance.
I ask the English commanders
to surrender the keys of all the good towns
they have taken
and laid to waste in France.
For if they do not,
they should expect that La Pucelle
will shortly come upon them.
The English cannot withhold
the kingdom of France
from God.
King Charles will possess it.
I warn them not to bring themselves
to destruction
and demand that they answer me,
if they desire peace
in the city of Orléans.
If not, I promise
they and their men
will soon suffer great hurt.
The English Reaction
The enemy returns only
one of the two messengers
I dispatched with my letter.
I am told they laid tinder
beneath the stake
of the unlawfully held other
and are debating
whether to light it.
Further, the English captain Talbot
shows me no respect.
He delivers his reply to La Hire,
as if a woman can hold no authority.
Talbot writes to La Hire:
Tell the Armagnac whore
she’d best go home before
I catch her and burn her.
Once again, I am called names
aimed to rupture my spirit,
but today I let the insult
blow past me
like a puff of smoke.
I send my herald back to the enemy
bearing a new message:
Tell Talbot that
if he takes up arms,
we shall do likewise.
And let him burn me
if he can catch me.
The Enemy
As a child I imagined
an enemy was a fiend
with horns and gnarled teeth
hiding under my bed.
But now I understand
that an enemy
can look like a neighbor,
friend, or brother.
I ask Jean de Metz
how he lifts his sword
to strike down
another man
when he so resembles
the one fighting
beside him.
He tells me
the instinct to survive
runs even deeper in the soul
than does the conscience.
If an ax flies
toward your head,
you will lift your shield,
then, before taking a breath,
engage your sword
to remove all chance
of a secondly deadly blow.
Thought factors little
on the battlefield.
The body works
beyond the mind.
La Hire listens
to us prick-eared
as a rabbit.
He snorts, shakes his head,
and thunders that
what my friend the knight
fails to mention
is the thrill
that is battle.
La Hire says
I will know my enemy
by the loathing in his eye
and the rage of his tongue.
The high-and-mighty
English captain Talbot:
to knock him from his horse
will send a rush
through my veins
that nothing can equal.
To stand soldier to soldier
knowing one of you
will die
engages more than instinct;
you learn
what it truly means
to be alive.
We Are an Army of God
We leave for Orléans at dawn.
I feel assured
we will triumph
when we encounter
our enemy tomorrow.
No longer do any men
in my retinue swear,
gamble, or behave without valor.
They understand
we must be virtuous
if we are to be victorious.
Even though for the first time
I am surrounded entirely by men
all hours of day and night,
I never fear for my safety in the camp.
These men will protect me
as would my father.
They care for me
as does my mother.
I love them as my family,
and in some ways even more.
Meeting the Bastard
I know this mission to lift the siege
of Orléans will establish
my credibility should I succeed,
or end my days in armor
should I fail.
I try not to let the mounting pressure
rattle my boots,
but my stomach sputters
and I nearly retch my fears
onto the ground.
Five miles east of Orléans,
my convoy meets Count Dunois,
the Bastard of Orléans.
He governs the city
now under siege,
because his half brother,
the Duke of Orléans,
remains a prisoner of the English.
Dunois seems pleased to see us.
He marvels at the size of my army
and the great commanders
who stand beside me.
I am eager to fight,
to unburden the weight
of my first-ever battle,
but I see no enemy.
The evil man Talbot
I was told we came to fight
must be hiding like a coward
beneath his mother’s skirt.
Dunois reads the puzzlement
in my eyes.
He explains that I was made
to approach his city from the east
so that the much-needed supplies
I have brought
might enter Orléans
by the one gate
not controlled by the English.
This was not the plan
my men and I agreed to.
We came to wage war,
not transport supplies.
Is this Dunois
an ally
or a boulder blocking our path?
The Bastard smiles as if he has
done me a favor.
“I and others,
who are even wiser than I,
advised you to take this route,
believing it was the safest passage.”
