by Ali Alizadeh
11:38 a.m.
The French cheer, bow to the shaken girl, kneel before her, clasp their hands, kiss her bloodied boots. How they love her. She grimaces and yells angrily. Attack the abbey! They obey joyfully. The English unload arrows, crossbow bolts, cannonballs, boiling tar over the surges of the Maid’s fanatical fighters. Jeanne runs with them, then sudden pain: she’s stepped on a caltrop, a spiked metal ball. Her men scale the ramparts of the English stronghold, slaughter whoever they find inside. Decapitated corpses of eight hundred Englishmen litter the incinerated site. Fifty English officers flee on a boat downstream. They flee from the horrors of the hellish French woman, for the safety of the mighty Turrets. Their boat capsizes. The English officers drown.
Evening
Jeanne the Maid hobbles to where her horse is chewing on the blades of grass that jut between English cadavers. In only one day three positions have been captured by the holy army of the Maid. The scandalised Regent Bedford of England lifts the reward for the Ungodly Harlot of the Beast to ten thousand gold pounds. Now only two days left until the arrival of the 5,000-strong English army of Sir John Fastolf. At night, the English siege captain Sir William orders the evacuation of less important bastions. He’s focused on defending the Turrets. In the city Jeanne excuses herself from the banquet celebrating the sensational conquests. Perhaps seeing so many disembowelled bodies over the last week, so many headless corpses, has ruined her appetite. Can she sleep? Her leg hurts.
Saturday 7 May
The sombre young woman rises to lead the final battle. To storm the Turrets and end the siege of Orléans. To champion her king and prevent the English from further violating the kingdom of France. She is to end the Hundred Years’ War. And then what? (She knows what she wants, with every beat of her hardened heart.) But it’s no time to think about that. It’s time to destroy the last English force in central France. Declines breakfast, prays, confesses, cries, crosses herself, arms and joins the three thousand French warriors camped across the river. The English number two thousand inside the Turrets and at the rampart in front of the powerful structure. She mounts her horse, firms her grip on the flagpole. She’ll lead the great charge herself. Three thousand pairs of adoring French eyes are fixed on her. Two thousand pairs of detestable English eyes aim at her. Future movies are plain wrong, clichéd: she doesn’t make a speech. She grinds her teeth and spurs her horse. She gallops towards the English. The attack begins.
9:05 a.m.
Under a storm of arrows, the French armoured cavalry suffers many losses but the French knights don’t retreat, they follow their unstoppable young captain until they reach the English rampart. They dismount, unleash swords and axes. And with the diabolical Witch of France before them, the English bowmen tremble and struggle to load their bows and aim. French knights climb up the short walls of the rampart quickly and butcher the frightened English bowmen. French nobles are soon joined by hundreds of commoners, men-at-arms with countless scaling ladders. And a blizzard of shafts from the towering walls of the Turrets scythes them. Hundreds run through by arrows, they drop and die. Jeanne yells something, then shrieks. An arrow has hit her.
12:22 p.m.
The wound above her heart is not deep, soon dressed with lard and strips of cloth. The French captains, hovering around her on a patch of grass away from the Turrets. In palpable anguish. Perhaps the fortress is impenetrable. Over five hundred French soldiers dead or writhing at the feet of the sturdy bastion or sinking in the river. All their siege ladders have been toppled. The Turrets’ solid drawbridge barely scratched by spears and axes hurled by the beaten French. Jeanne sits up, tightens the straps of the collar of her tunic to cover her bloodied breasts. She can’t bear the weight of the metal contraptions on her body, disarms herself, tosses aside her sword. She gives her flag to her squire. Jean the Bastard and Duke d’Alençon take off their plumed helms, kneel, clasp their bloody hands. Begging Jeanne to stage a miracle, speak to God to send a flood or thunderbolts to destroy the Turrets. She sighs. The captains lament: If the Turrets remain in English hands until their fucking relief arrives tomorrow, our previous battles will have been in vain. By God, dear girl, do something. The English will regain superiority of numbers, retaliate and renew the damn siege. The Most Holy Maid frowns, stumbles away, grunts incoherently, almost collapses.
7:16 p.m.
The French have collected their casualties. They are tired, despondent. French pages finally blow the horns of retreat. Orléans could not be saved after all. So the English may still devour France. But Jeanne has fully revived. Baron Gilles de Rais whispers a scheme into her ear. He realises the risks. But what’s to lose? She seems appalled, mounts her horse. She rides to a ruined, secluded place. It used to be a vineyard before the war. She returns about ten minutes later. She must have been praying. Speaking to her famous Voices, no doubt. Asking for their permission? Tears have etched paths across her cindered cheeks. Emotional, tottering and murmuring to herself, obviously hurting, soaked in soot and blood. She purses her lips, nods to Baron de Rais. She walks to her squire, demands her battle flag. He’s confused. He’s sure retreat has been sounded. Jeanne ignores his puzzlement, snatches the flagpole out of his lax grip.
8:14 p.m.
Now she strides towards the Turrets, by herself. In only a tunic and leggings, no helmet or armour. She breathes in the smoky air, the smell of bleeding corpses. She clutches the flag with both hands. Stiffens her back. She stares up at the clefts above the walls of the monstrous fortress. Wets her lips.
Glasdale WILLIAM GLASDALE!
English captain!
You who call me WHORE you who call me WITCH
It’s me JEANNE I’m alone I’m unarmed
Her squire sprints after her, realising that his mistress has lost her fragile, feminine mind. He shakes her, tries to lift her, to at least take the ostentatious flag out of her hands. But the girl resists, commands him to leave her. They tug on the flagpole. And then the bulky reinforced drawbridge of the massive citadel creaks, slowly descends over the river. Jeanne’s squire crosses himself. Scurries back towards the stupefied French soldiers, watching with disbelief and terror. Their courageous Maid is surrendering herself. She is seen to shiver. A squadron of armoured English knights march over the lowered drawbridge towards her. The small young woman stands there, absolutely by herself.
8:36 p.m.
She sees the abnormally tall figure coated in hefty armour, a barrel helm, a red cross enamelled into the steel of his breastplate: Sir William Glasdale, the English siege captain. He removes his iron gloves, approaches Jeanne. Takes off his massive cylindrical headwear. His pink skin scabbed, wrinkled, flaking; his head, eyebrows shaved but a forked whitish beard pokes out of his chin. His broad face tremors when he speaks. Well, well. Joan of Arc, I presume. The Sorceress of France. Glad to make your acquaintance, you filthy frog cunt whore. Jeanne takes a short step back. Does she glance at the water that flows under the drawbridge? She espies a glow afloat the surface of the river. She juts her chin, a deep breath. And she shouts. Her historic battle-cry.
I pity you William! I PITY you
Pity yourself you whore. You’re going to burn.
On a barge, camouflaged under a cloak of rushes and reeds. An unknown French civilian, his elderly parents compensated by Baron de Rais. A young non-combatant whose wife was crushed by an English cannonball at the start of the siege. His hidden boat skilfully paddled, positioned under the lowered drawbridge. Dying for a divine cause (apparently) sends one to Heaven. He hears Jeanne’s scream. He hears her pity. The signal. The boatman-saboteur crosses himself, lowers his torch to the wick of the six barrels of gunpowder. The fire ship explodes.
8:56 p.m.
The earth shivers. The drawbridge of the gargantuan English citadel is suddenly gripped by tentacles of fire. Shaken, Sir William and his men turn, give up on their prey. They rush back towards their fortress. The beams of the drawbridge are embers, crumbling. Golden flames lick Sir William, en
velop his flesh. Jeanne is reported to be watching this. She’s said to be in tears. Weakened wood snaps beneath the mighty English siege captain. He falls into the river, and sinks. The French surge, attack, build a bridge and break into the Turrets. Jeanne’s clutching the flagpole with both hands, on her knees, staring at the enemy’s burning towers.
Sunday 8 May
The corpse of Sir William Glasdale is fished out of the Loire. The news of the fall of the Turrets rattles Europe. English reinforcements to the north of the city retreat, abandon the siege. Orléans has been liberated. The king of France is at last victorious. After a century of defeat and humiliation. The French shall win the Hundred Years’ War. Jeanne d’Arc’s victory at the siege of Orléans will be listed by an English historian in The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World, alongside the battles of Alexander the Great, William the Conqueror and Napoleon Bonaparte. The fearless teenage girl will join the ranks of history’s foremost military leaders. France survives, thrives, becomes a world power. It may be said that Jeanne d’Arc has changed the course of Western history.
But she has walked away from the celebrations in the city on the glorious day of France’s epochal victory. She’s alone, kneeling in a darkened chapel in what is left of a burnt convent on the outskirts of the city. She has found an effigy of Saint Catherine of Alexandria. She stares at it. Then speaks to it.
Forgive me. I didn’t want it like this.
Thank you, Sister. Yes, I’ll end this misery.
You didn’t need to tell me that. I did it for justice, for truth, to end this horrible war.
I will, Sister. And, you know, I did it for love too.
Are you sure, Sister? Can you tell me when?
And won’t God be angry with me? He won’t punish me?
Thank you Sister, thank you.
Part II
1
Two years later. Return to her life as a prisoner.
The uninvited visitor, the Countess of Worcester and Warwick, has just left her cell. Has left Jeanne, the chained former military leader, with a reminder of her true circumstances. The question of love. An unhelpful reminder. Jeanne doesn’t want this, the intimation of an unnamable. She shakes her head. In this dank enclosed place, memories of openness and movement instead, memories of glory.
The prisoner tilts her face in the direction of the window. The precious opening to sky and immensity. Yes, she has known grandeur. Could anything impede the recollections of pride? Ecstatic pride. The tolling of Orléans’s church bells after the fall of the Turrets. The liberation of town after town, castle after castle, from English bondage. Jubilations, boisterous children running after her horse under arches of garlands and ribbons. Rich and impoverished, young and aged, women and men crossing themselves, bowing at her appearance astride a superlative black steed. Women and men, and then, one woman. Her songlike Breton accent. Kings and queens, pawns and bishops. Her warm fingers on me.
Jeanne doesn’t want this memory. Stands up, frowns. The pull of chains at her feet, an unyielding return to this place.
Her mind endeavours for temporary escape. Recalls the victorious march to Reims. She’ll of course be remembered. History will be the judge of her judgement. The ridiculous, monstrous trial. And history’s will be a correct judgement. She has more reason than most to feel vindicated, even if today she’s a forlorn captive in the hands of her mortal enemies. Reality may be superseded, can’t touch bygone actualities. The magnificent coronation of King Charles in the cathedral of Reims after the Maid’s victories. Her king receiving holy ointment from the Archbishop of Reims, in the place where monarchs of France have been consecrated since their Frankish ancestors. That cannot be revoked. And Jeanne made it happen. Her hardened face softens for a few seconds.
2
The moan of the door. Intrusion upon the realm of reminiscence. Jeanne lowers herself back onto the floor. Watches a guard enter. He’s curt, tosses a loaf at her. Grunts what must mean ‘eat’ in his language. Avoids eye contact with her, exits and slams the door, locks it. Yes, she’s wary. That it’s already time to supper. That the day is beginning to darken. She won’t eat the bread. Can’t accept the night’s inevitability. Memories of the thanksgiving festivities have not given her an appetite. She won’t sleep. Without leggings securely corded around her waist, her body is far too vulnerable.
Vesper bells chime. She mumbles prayers and crosses herself, invokes Saints Catherine and Marguerite. Could she hear her Voices? Not since signing the appalling document earlier today. The daylight has almost vanished. Violet and then black shades replace the brightness of her window. Only the faint glow of torches from the corridor outside the cell, barred by the shadow of the door. She could have asked the countess for a candle. Or a blanket. But she won’t sleep. She’ll resort to invoking the past. Dark walls testify to the parsimony of her present. She was once admired, revered and followed by thousands upon thousands. There were men who pined after her. And her parents and brothers displayed affection publicly once she became famous and King Charles’s favourite.
But it is well known, the emptiness of being unloved. It matters. The night’s solitude is eerie for the restrained captive. Only the knowledge of another’s love could transform that. Turn frightful sleeplessness into melancholy yearning. Yearning for whom? She can’t allow that. Must not. Her dazzling blue eyes. No. Jeanne shakes her tired head in the darkness. She knows her love was tenebrous, and must remain hidden. Inside her troubled head. In the sealed folds of her story. Obscured by the mythologised tale of the brave religious girl who fought like a crusader to please the Lord. And so on. She can just make out the shape of a rat, a silhouette near the door. Hasn’t she often been lonely? Why is tonight so dreadful?
The rat exits. Such silence.
She wonders if the guards are still in the corridor, although she does not wish to think about the guards. Closes eyes to conjure an image. The gleam of polished suits of armour, the glow of the king’s crown. The most auspicious day of her life? Irrefutable brilliance. To see Charles receive sacrament as the true heir to the throne of France. To know that she was behind this. Everyone believes that Charles has also disappointed her, that he has ignored her plight. But it’s to have been expected. Jeanne has always known that the king is a pragmatist. He would not risk being associated with a convicted criminal. He has a kingdom to rule, French adversaries to placate, English invaders to expel. His young champion cannot expect to be rescued by him. And he never did claim to have personal emotions for her. An introverted schemer with a wife, children and only a passing interest in royal mistresses. She can’t blame him. She never had personal emotions for him.
As for those whom she could love, those whom she has loved… No, please, Saint Catherine. Don’t let me think about that. Has she not suffered enough? The verse from Romans. Or is it from Leviticus? Wishes she didn’t have to hear this in her mind now, dishonourable passions…women who exchanged natural relations for those that are contrary to nature…No, she has no need. No need for love. Bury the sweet odour of her armpits, the image of short shiny coils of hair. She who hurt me so much. Jeanne won’t think about her. What is the sharp sensation of an arrow or a crossbow bolt in the flesh, O Lord, compared to the wound of our beloved. Fearsome secrecy, and such guilt. Pity me, our Father, in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.
Her reverie is broken. A metallic squeak.
The door of the cell is part-open. The outline of a human figure at the entrance, inside the cell. Jeanne clasps her knees. A protective gesture. Thighs tightly enveloped in the folds of her gown. Wants to shout but can’t. Hard to breathe and think and act with a frenzied heart. Movement and the sound of feet approaching her corner. She can hear the figure’s breathing. More light from the corridor. A guard with a torch, clearly visible through the iron bars in the door. And the person within standing not far from her, he becomes more apparent. Another guard, without helmet or weapons. He whispers in accented French.
Whore.
She hears herself release a whimper from behind clenched lips. Can’t open her mouth. Her entire being is utterly blocked and stiffened. Her eyes are rigidly open, take in the emergent details of the intruder. Stocky, hooded, bearded and eyes that now appear to sparkle. He has found her, in the light of his helper’s flame. Is there a smirk on his face? No, it’s the face of a committed fighter. He steps towards her. She’s frozen in place, can’t shiver. He squats, pushes back his hood. Short curly hair. Touches her shackles.
Have your mouth shut. Or I hurt. Kick you, kill you, whore. Yes?
He stands up, loosens the belt around his hosen. She can’t move or look away. Hypnotised by the man’s dominance. He bends and starts pulling on the chains, to drag her feet and her body towards him on the floor. She’s attached herself with all her strength to the floor of her corner. He drops the chains and makes a sudden move for her.
His hands on her knees. The contact shatters the tightness of her nerves. Releases the intensity of her muscles. Her lips break open, she screams. Shocking, shrill. The rapist swears in English, smacks her face. Another howl, she launches her left fist. Another English obscenity and he withdraws. Her knuckles sting. An explosion of light in the cell. The other guard rushes in. The first one is holding his face. More jagged expletives. The second man lands his boot on Jeanne’s chin. The back of her head hits the wall. Tastes blood, curls up, covers her face. Man’s hands grip her neck and then suddenly a barking command. The hands leave her.
