The Language of Fire, page 8
I survey the great river before us.
“So we must pass over the Loire
to reach Orléans?”
The man nods.
“But unfortunately, the winds blow
in the wrong direction today,
and our ships cannot cross the river.
So we must wait.”
Why did Dunois neglect to tell me
we were not headed for battle
after all my prayers
and preparation last night?
God told me to fight today.
And surely, He knows more
than any of Dunois’s wisest captains.
Dunois smiles.
“I do apologize, dear Maid.”
I am not sure I believe him.
I clasp my hands,
look up to heaven,
and pray hard
to the one leader
I will always abide.
A Change of Wind
April 29, 1429
I cross myself and say,
“Let us be on our way.”
Dunois gestures to the river.
“Our boats cannot sail to Orléans
because of the wind.”
I pat him on the arm.
“Do not worry about the wind.”
As soon as these words
depart my lips, the wind switches
direction so that the ships
can move across the river.
Dunois falls to his knees
and kisses my hand.
“Please come with me into Orléans.
My people will rejoice
to meet La Pucelle.”
I protest that I should
remain with my men.
But this man argues
almost as well as I do.
He implores me again
to enter his city,
as Orléans has been besieged
for over six months,
and the people
will be strengthened
for the fight ahead
if they can behold the miracle
that is the Maid.
I eventually acquiesce
but vow not to stay long
in Orléans,
for there is war to wage.
I do not want my courage
or that of my troops
to wither or wane.
For momentum can be lost
faster than the sun
vanishes before a storm.
Orléans
Perched on the right bank of the Loire,
Orléans is a well-fortified city
with sturdy, thus far impenetrable walls
upon which twenty-one cannons mount.
It remains a bastion of hope for southern France.
Like chain mail under armor,
the city stands as our last line of defense.
Outside, towers, gates, and moats
were constructed to protect Orléans,
but just as the English stole our harvests
and set aflame our crops,
the ramparts have been sieged or destroyed.
Now all the bastilles are controlled
by the enemy.
The twenty thousand citizens of Orléans
harbored within her walls
have grown desperate
with starvation and fear.
But not today.
How the eyes of children
light up like torch fire
when wagons of grain
and wine and livestock
enter the city.
How they gaze
upon my countenance
as if they behold
the face of God.
I do not deserve
such a reception.
I have done nothing
to merit their love
yet.
Before the Battle of Orléans
I feel like a fatted calf in this city.
Spoiled and pampered,
I sleep in a soft child’s bed
while my men tent outside the gates.
Confined, I put myself to task.
For three long days
I scope our enemy from the outer wall,
size up the English strongholds,
and seek out holes in their armor.
Because the English greatly outnumber us,
we will have several days of fighting
to reclaim Orléans.
So I develop a plan.
Before the battles begin,
I am asked to parade
through the streets of Orléans
on my white horse
in full armor,
bearing my standard.
The townspeople mistake me
for an angel.
They stroke my steed
and reach for my hand,
as though to touch me
is to feel something divine.
But really, I am
no different than them.
I may be sent by God,
but I am flesh and blood.
Underneath my armor
I am just a girl.
Captains
Every day I offer the English
a chance to lay down their arms.
But they just laugh
and call me whore,
a name they know hurts me most.
None of our male commanders
endures insult or harassment,
but tears often stain my pillow at night.
I do not understand why I alone
must be slandered.
•✦•
All the captains stand
when I enter,
as they would for a noble lady.
But clearly, I have been excluded
from a portion of their meeting
in Dunois’s castle.
I must be viewed
as an unnecessary mascot in this war,
or worse, as a hefty chain
burdening their ankles.
I do my best to camouflage
any hurt or anger I feel
over having been left out,
especially because this mission
was initiated by me
and would not otherwise exist.
I might have expected
that Dunois and the captains we paid
would scheme behind my back,
but La Hire and the Duke of Alençon
also sit at the table.
To feel betrayed
by one’s friends
is both unexpected and painful,
like falling on your back
so hard you lose your breath.
Count Dunois acts as though
I have missed nothing of import.
He informs everyone
that the English have called in
reinforcements.
Still a day’s march from Orléans,
they are led by the dreaded Fastolf,
the English captain
who commanded the crushing defeat
of the French army at Verneuil.
When the group disassembles,
I disclose to Dunois
that after days surveying
our enemy’s position,
I have devised
a plan of attack.
The Bastard smiles and thanks me,
promising to discuss
my strategy tomorrow.
But as I retire to sleep,
I cannot temper the feeling
that his words were merely
a pat on my head,
that Dunois sees me as a pet,
not an equal.
The First Battle
May 4, 1429
In my sleep, I smell smoke
so acrid my eyes water.
I believe I am dreaming
once again of the barn fire.
But when I snap awake,
the air tastes like gunpowder.
I hear cannons boom.
Somehow the fight began
without me this morning.
In my frenzy
to get to the battlefield,
I forget my standard.
It must be passed to me
through the bedroom window
while I sit astride my horse.
Why would Dunois wage war without me?
Why would he deceive me, again?
I gallop beyond the walls.
There is no battalion led by Fastolf,
just a small garrison of English soldiers
who struck out
from their stronghold at Saint-Loup
with an aim to run off my army
or kill my men,
whichever happens first.
As I join my troops,
La Hire hollers, “La Pucelle,
do you always arrive late
to the party?”
How can I be late
if no one invited
me to the battle today?
No one except God.
I raise my standard high.
“I am here now.”
The Duke of Alençon
lifts his visor.
“We are losing and badly.
Our men could use
the courage of the Maid.”
I gallop toward the fighting.
The ground smells of blood,
excrement, and death.
I feel sick to my stomach.
Nevertheless, I march into the fray.
When I appear beside our men,
the French soldiers
see my fearless banner
and begin to fight
with renewed strength.
The battle’s tide turns in our favor.
The English retreat into Saint-Loup,
a fort that used to be a monastery,
which they seized several months ago.
Ten long minutes of inaction.
Then a group of holy men,
without weapons or words,
stream out of Saint-Loup.
I command my men
not to harm the monks
and let them pass.
Within an hour, the English army
yields and deserts the rampart.
We reclaim Saint-Loup
and capture forty of their soldiers.
I count one hundred forty
dead Englishmen.
We have won our first battle;
still I weep for every lost soul.
When I learn later that
the monks I let escape unharmed
were just English soldiers
disguised in stolen monastic robes,
I swear to my men
that those blasphemous scoundrels
will not go free when next we meet.
On the Battlefield
I never felt at ease
in a kitchen,
in the stuffy confines
of house and hearth.
I have always been
a girl who needs air and sky,
who best sees heaven through
the trees and stars.
Although the brutality
of steel into flesh,
of men gasping for their last breath
and crying out in pain for God’s release
shatters my heart,
I find that part of me is exhilarated
by the strategic planning of battles,
and the valor of knights.
To encourage brave Frenchmen
to fight for our country
feels like kneeling in church.
I have finally discovered something
for which I possess talent
that suits my soul.
Strategize
Forgiveness
comes easily when
the duke and La Hire bend knees
and, with the remorse of children
caught telling their first lies,
apologize
for not demanding
that I be included
in the strategy meetings
or informed about the first battle.
What do I advise
we do next?
I pull out a map
of the English camps
surrounding Orléans
and architect
our plan.
Ascension Day
May 5, 1429
Today is Ascension Day,
a holy day that commemorates
the bodily rise of Christ into heaven.
We pray and fast and do not fight.
I dictate another letter to the English:
Men of England,
you have no right
to this Kingdom of France.
Abandon your strongholds
and go back to your country.
I am writing to you for the final time;
I will not write anything further.
P.S. I have sent my letters to you
in an honest manner,
but you are still holding my herald Guyenne.
If you are willing to send him back to me,
I will return you some of the men
captured at the fortress of Saint-Loup,
for they are not all dead.
I roll up the parchment and
pin it to an arrow.
An archer launches
the scroll to the English.
The English may act
as if because I am a woman
I am of no consequence,
a drop of rain easily ignored
amidst a violent storm,
but they read my words.
And they return my herald.
You Can Run, but You Cannot Hide
May 6, 1429
The signs from God
I promised the council in Poitiers
etch themselves victoriously
upon the ground
as each day we capture
another enemy stronghold.
This morning the English
ran away from their fort
at Saint-Jean-le-Blanc,
so fast their fires still smolder.
But Les Augustins, which obstructs
the main road into Orléans,
remains a valued English rampart.
I advise that we strike directly
at the strongest part of Les Augustins,
so La Hire, the Duke of Alençon, and I
gather four thousand soldiers
and several hundred knights.
Because of our inferior numbers,
the other captains call this a suicide mission.
As if they fight against, not beside us,
these commanders try to block our way.
But the soldiers want to follow me,
for they believe God is on my side.
The other captains wear faces of sour milk
as they are forced to support my plan.
La Hire, the duke, and I
ride in the vanguard.
Swift and first with our lances,
we knock down everything in our path
like a tempest that breaks the dam.
Our enemy soon faces slaughter
and must retreat into the only bastille
still in English control,
the well-fortified Les Tourelles.
The English captains
Talbot and Suffolk had fresher troops
and a better position,
but neither believed we had the courage
to attack the bastille directly.
The battle won,
I jump down from my horse
and step on a chausse-trappe,
a small spike in the ground
designed to penetrate hoof or foot
and slow both infantry and cavalry.
But victory eases the pain,
so if my foot throbs, I barely feel it.
A council of the other captains
decides that the army should rest
while they send out spies
and devise subterfuge.
It is unthinkable to these men
that our smaller army
could win another direct battle
against the English.
But I have prayed,
and God tells me we should
strike tomorrow.
This time Dunois
urges his other captains
to cede to my better counsel
and ready their troops.
Girl in Charge
I know that I am
but a humble blade of grass
amidst a great field of soldiers.
And that all our success
comes from God.
But a smile rises
like the sun across my lips.
I take pride,
as I imagine one who designs
a grand cathedral does
when he gazes at his golden spires
crowning the sky—
for I am a seventeen-year-old girl
who now leads thousands of men.
It seems beyond impossible,
yet because of Him
I am.
One Battle More
There remains only
one rampart to capture,
Les Tourelles,
and I will make good
my promise—
Orléans will be free
of the English.
The security of this city
will pump my country
full of blood
and vigor
and belief.
Exhilarated over tomorrow’s
important battle,
I find sleep eludes me.
Instead I am visited
by thoughts
of my sister.
Catherine
would have no place
in this army
were she alive.
Yet I feel her presence
as surely as the rain
that rattles the roof
of my tent.
My sister looks
down from heaven
and blesses me
with strength.
The Siege of Les Tourelles: The Decisive Battle of Orléans
May 7, 1429
First light slowly climbs
the English tower.
Six hundred of their soldiers wait
in ready defense from the south.
We storm the rampart
from multiple vantages.
Our men, like wild horses unbound,
charge the wall in every direction.
The English fight with axes,
maces, and even their fists,
desperate vermin
trying to beat us down
as we top the bulwark.
Gunpowder blasts
and cries of the fallen
accompany the fighting
like a dirge of kettledrums
