by Ali Alizadeh
We’ll be safe in Orléans, Piéronne. We’ll be happy there.
It is sometime in the first month of the new year when Jeanne the Maid informs King Charles VII that she wishes to reside in Orléans with her household which now includes her squire, her confessor, and the young Breton woman left behind by Brother Richard.
I shall miss you, my petulant friend.
Petulant, Your Majesty?
Indeed. You certainly do not make the ordeal of reaching an agreement with Burgundy easy for me. That said, when the English are finally a peril of the past and I have regained Paris, I will see to it that it is written in all the chronicles and annals that France owes her survival to you, Jeanne of Domrémy.
The Maid bows and leaves King Charles VII. In due course, Charles the Victorious shall force the Duke of Burgundy into submission. Paris will be his, as will Normandy and Aquitaine. His master gun-makers and engineers shall manufacture Europe’s greatest early-modern cannons, blast the flimsy English longbows out of existence, end medieval warfare. And he’ll do all this without the girl knight who rescued him from perdition. Historians are perplexed about the Maid’s sudden departure from politics. Scholars admit that they lose track of her for a few months in early 1430. But does one’s heart ever lose track of its yearnings? Were you not always my destiny? And would it not be correct to follow Jeanne beyond the spectacle of power?
Piéronne is quiet on the ride to Orléans. The sound of the sludge of mud and softened snow being trampled by the horses’ hooves and the wheels of their cart. I knew you felt unsettled by all that had happened recently. Jeanne continues to reassure Piéronne that their future will be secure. On their first night in Orléans, the king’s councillor and his wife, key among the city’s notables, host a banquet in their honour. Jeanne is relieved to see Piéronne eat heartily of the baked pheasant, and they retire to their hostess’s personal chapel after they have taken a little wine. Jeanne is certainly conscious of not becoming as flighty as she was on Christmas Eve. She has requested that her wine be diluted with water tonight. You asked me how long we would be staying in this house as guests. I vowed to find us a place of our own.
They tour a timber-framed dwelling of three storeys on Rue des Petits-Souliers, in the centre of the city. Monsieur Jean Pinel, who owns the house, tells the Maid and her household that this place is a bourgeois apartment. They can live here for twelve crowns of gold per year. The stairways within are a little constricted but the bedchambers have generous windows. The house is close to a small chapel named after Saint Catherine.
Piéronne is withdrawn at first, wrapped tightly in an oversized cloak, eyeing the rooms with some trepidation. After a brief walk through the cobbled streets of the busy neighbourhood, and after seeing that the house is next door to a shop that sells cooking oil and condiments, Piéronne finally smiles at Jeanne. The Maid signs the lease for fifty-nine years, the longest possible period. She is so happy then that even the offensive necessity of having a male guarantor named on the contract does not vex her.
In the centuries to come, the city of Orléans will celebrate the warrior girl of Lorraine each year. The Fêtes de Jeanne d’Arc will feature a morning service, wily politicians, tanks, lightshows and a faux-medieval parade led by a beaming young woman on horseback, selected annually to impersonate the Maid of Orléans. Kitsch but understandable, cities have their own memories and sentiments. Orléans was a city she loved. Can’t it have been there that she lived in love? Our first weeks in the house were so sweet. The men sleep downstairs and the women occupy the topmost bedchamber. Jeanne is delighted to see Piéronne finally regain some of the chirpiness and chattiness she possessed when they had first met. They play backgammon regularly and, noticing that Piéronne has grown somewhat bored of this game, Jeanne asks d’Aulon to acquire the board and pieces for that other game, chess, also banned by those preachers who see everything as immoral.
You had memorised the moves, which you said you had learnt from a duke’s valet in secrecy. You showed me how to move knights, rooks, bishops and pawns. Jeanne realises immediately that, with her experience of warfare, chess would be a rather easy game for her. Piéronne often weakens her defensive line of pawns, not so unlike the English bowmen at the Battle of Patay. Jeanne launches her knights, her queen and her bishops at Piéronne’s king, all at once. It ailed me, Piéronne, to see you lose so easily. And much as Jeanne hates not winning, either on a field of grass or on a chequered board, she decides to let Piéronne win every second game. It made me happy to see you be happy at checkmating me.
And you were so much more than a playmate, my love. Piéronne consoles Jeanne when they have to give supper to two of Jeanne’s brothers who have come to Orléans, without invitation. They wish to gain employment as soldiers in their sister’s future expeditions. And when Jeanne and Piéronne hear that the artist who painted her battle flag at the outset of her career in Tours is too impoverished to pay for the marriage of his daughter, Piéronne becomes determined to do what they can to help the man.
The Maid sends a letter to the mayor of Tours, asking him to make a rather large donation towards the bride’s dowry. You were so upset when d’Aulon told us the mayor would only pay for food and drink at the wedding banquet. Piéronne hardens her face after d’Aulon leaves their room. You frowned at me. Jeanne needs to ration their own funds to pay for fighters, as she no longer leads any of the king’s men.
I’m sorry, Piéronne. We can’t afford to give them any of our own money.
You looked away from me.
That is not fair, Jeanne. It makes me sad for the poor couple. I’ve been thinking, Jeanne, that marriage can be a truly lovely thing, and it’d be so nice for two people to not have to think they’re living in sin all the time. I wish we could go to the wedding, Jeanne, but you probably wouldn’t be interested. I know you hate weddings, but, well, I’m actually jealous of them.
Jeanne breathes deeply before speaking.
We’re not living in fear and sin, Piéronne.
You turned your face away from me. Piéronne speaks after a pause.
My Voice, Jeanne, tells me to fear damnation. Every time we’re intimate and even when we hold hands, and when we’re seen together in public, I get anxious, thinking that sooner or later this will all end, that we’ll be exposed. As sinners.
Jeanne shoves aside the pages before her. She stares at the fake coins, jetons, on the counting table she has borrowed from a burgher for calculating their funds and expenses. I felt it was time to tell you, Piéronne, what I should have already told you, so many times in the past. I closed my eyes and listened to my Voices. Give me your permission, Saint Catherine. She doesn’t. But I would have the courage.
Piéronne. I love you. I’ll love you forever, until the day I die.
I waited. With all my existence, Piéronne. For you to repeat these words, to address them to me. An immeasurable expanse of time passes in silence in their sunlit room. I opened my eyes and saw you sitting on the windowsill. Piéronne is gazing distractedly at the movement of horses and carriages on the street below their home. I could not bring myself to voice my dread. Could it have been that you had not heard me? Is Piéronne only momentarily unsure of her feelings towards Jeanne?
I waited, Piéronne. I waited. You would not tell me that you too loved me. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Jeanne feels as though she’s been hit by an arrow, perhaps a lance, in the centre of her chest. I could barely breathe. She leaves the task of adding and subtracting numerals. I don’t remember if I told you where I was going. She marches down the wooden steps, covers her face with the hood of her cloak, and rushes to the chapel nearby. I knelt before the image of Saint Catherine. As she used to do as a bullied and lonely child in her village. She trembles. I begged the saint and God and all angels of Heaven to help me. Help Jeanne keep Piéronne.
15
March 1430
Alarming news. The untiring English regent, John of Bedford, pathologically determined t
o revive his kingdom’s ailing imperial fortunes in other people’s lands. It becomes known that he has groomed England’s child-king, Henry VI – a morose, psychopathic introvert – to be shipped to France to have a grandly ostentatious coronation in Paris as that country’s true king. To invalidate Charles VII’s coronation in Reims. Two thousand English soldiers, bent on beating back the French – and at last having their revenge on the demonic harpy, Joan of Arc – land in Calais. They join the Burgundians who are having countless problems of their own. Citizens of Paris, Melun, Saint-Denis and many other cities under the control of the obscenely rich oligarchs of Burgundy agitate for emancipation. They are sick and tired of being sick and tired and hungry when the waistlines of Burgundian merchants, bribed Parisian officials, English land-grabbing knights and pro-English clergymen bulge. Commoners under Anglo-Burgundian occupation have no great love for the French royal house, but they pine for the heavenly peasant female warrior who has promised an end to misery. Although Jeanne the Maid has not been seen in combat for some months, her legend inspires uprisings against injustice. Partisans take up arms. (Odious Christian fundamentalist Brother Richard uses the opportunity provided by the Maid’s absence from politics to forge and circulate a letter, calling for a crusade on Bohemian heretics, with the fake signature of the French heroine.)
4 March
Burgundians set out to crush the insurgents with absolute force. Their main target: the city of Compiègne. To be obliterated for swearing loyalty to the king of France and to Jeanne the Maid.
It was nearly Lent when this news reached us. Jean d’Aulon sits on the table in their foyer and crosses his arms.
Sure. Piedmontese mercenaries are reliable, and they come with their own guns. We can enter and relieve the rebels in Melun, but forget Compiègne, Jeanne. The duke has dispatched a large force to besiege that city, led by Jean de Luxembourg, and he means to take it. They’d be in their thousands. He will most probably be reinforced by the English that have landed in Calais. Without the king’s army we’d have no chance of rescuing Compiègne.
I could send a letter to the king. This is an open act of war, Jean, in breach of their beloved truce.
Yes, but you know very well what the king will say. Going to Compiègne on our own would be nothing short of suicide.
I did not want to make a decision before first speaking to you. The Maid contemplates taking her men to Melun, perhaps as far as Lagny, a town on France’s side. She could set up camp there and send word to the king that with his assistance she will repel the Burgundians from Compiègne, in the hope that by then it will have finally dawned upon the king that Burgundy has no interest in making peace with France. Her Voices favour these actions. But what about our life in our house in Orléans? Is Jeanne the Maid willing to try to end the endless war again?
Jeanne follows Piéronne into the kitchen when Piéronne arrives back home with a basket of bread and vegetables. You looked lovely as always. And when you glanced at me, your gentle eyes simmered with affection, even if your lips would not form a smile.
Piéronne, the partisans loyal to the king are under attack. But I have not agreed to go to their aid and we will not go if you don’t wish us to.
Piéronne does not speak and busies herself with placing the foodstuff on the table and kindling the stove.
It could be a short campaign. We will only go as far as Lagny, as I’m sure the king won’t send me troops to lift the siege of Compiègne. D’Aulon says it would be unwise to attack the Burgundians at Compiègne, and he’s right. It would be far too dangerous.
When Piéronne finally speaks she remains focused on slicing the vegetables.
You’ve obviously already made up your mind, Jeanne. So just tell me when we’re leaving and I’ll be ready.
I haven’t made a decision yet, Piéronne. Why do you assume… Piéronne, what is the matter? Why are you always so unhappy?
You stopped chopping the carrots but continued to avoid my eyes.
Jeanne, I’ve been having bad dreams, and only today, when I was at the markets, I ran into a nun who’s just come back from Paris, and she told me an awful thing. She said she went to an oration at the university, given by someone from the faculty of law, someone important and close to the university’s chancellor, and this person was talking about you, Jeanne, saying the most dreadful things about you. You don’t want to know, Jeanne, just awful, evil things…
I took the kitchen knife away from you and put my arms around you. It hurt me to see you cry.
The university is controlled by the Burgundians, Piéronne. Don’t worry about what their dimwitted professors say. They’ll regret it when we’ve taken Paris back.
Do you know what anathema means, Jeanne? It’s a kind of punishment for people who have abandoned God, for Christians who have betrayed Christianity. That’s what they want to do to you, Jeanne. This awful scholar said to hundreds of people that you’re an idolatress because you wear clothes forbidden to women and cut your hair like men. Oh Jeanne, did you know there is a verse in the Bible that says women should grow their hair? I did not know this, Jeanne, and now they’re saying that you’re an enchantress who’s making Christians kill each other and that Satan works through you.
I held you firmly and caressed your beautiful hair.
They can say what they like, Piéronne. They don’t scare me.
You resisted my embrace. Piéronne pushes Jeanne away.
But does anything scare you, Jeanne? Anything at all? Aren’t you worried what they might do to you if you’re captured, or kidnapped? The English have put a price on your head, have they not? Jeanne, if these learned men convince the Church to excommunicate you, I’d hate to think what might happen to you. They won’t treat you as a prisoner of war, they won’t care about the code of chivalry. They’ll charge you with witchcraft and heresy. Can’t you see, Jeanne, how serious this is? For God’s sake, Jeanne, will you listen to me?
I was listening to you, Piéronne. And yes, there was a thing I was very, very scared of. But it was not some idiot of a scholar spouting nonsense about me, or the Burgundians or the English or the Pope himself threatening to burn me. It was the terror of you leaving me. Piéronne is now nearly hissing at Jeanne.
Jeanne. They burn people all the time, I’ve seen it with my own eyes, Jeanne. Women in particular, they love burning women especially. Unusual women, Jeanne. Women who do unnatural things, women who live like men, women who…Oh God, Jeanne, everyone knows I’m close to you. They’ll come after me too. I don’t want to die, I don’t want you to die. Please, Jeanne, we need to think about things. You should start wearing a dress. This cannot go on anymore. It can’t, Jeanne.
Jeanne is too anguished to stay in the kitchen. It hurt so much, Piéronne, to be admonished by you. She leaves for the chapel of Saint Catherine and cries and prays for close to an hour. She returns home when she is calmer. I found it possible to be a little happy at seeing you had waited for me to serve supper. Their eyes are swollen, their voices scarcely audible. Piéronne asks Jeanne if the latter’s hair needs a trim so that she may wear her salade helmet. Jeanne mumbles that her hair is adequate, and leaves for bed after a few mouthfuls of stew.
The next morning Piéronne asks Jeanne if she wants to play a game of chess. Jeanne, the fearless warrior maiden of France, is genuinely frightened of Piéronne’s emotions. I agreed to play. Do they hope a trivial activity can heal the wound of last night’s confrontation? You asked me to choose white, so that I’d make the first move. Jeanne is unsure. Piéronne proceeds to make her customary moves, weakening her right flank. Her king is soon at the mercy of Jeanne’s bishop and queen. Jeanne plays along, spreads her trap, sacrificing two pawns in the process.
But I didn’t want to checkmate you. I wanted to concede defeat, to tell you, beg you, Piéronne, to have pity on me. I wanted to push away the board and the miniature armies and all the things that separated us, Piéronne, and tell you that I will not live without you. That my life really would
end without you.
Jeanne doesn’t do this. She instead makes an intentional error, places her queen within the range of Piéronne’s knight. She waits for Piéronne to eliminate her most valuable piece, to reverse her stratagem, to win the game. So that you would finally smile at me again. And Piéronne doesn’t move her knight. Jeanne’s queen remains unhurt. I could hear the heaviness of your breathing, I did not know how to respond. Piéronne speaks, her voice calm, infused with coldness, with anger.
You don’t need to let me win all the time. I’m not a child, Jeanne.
They depart Orléans a week later, in the company of the Maid’s Italian mercenaries and a small band of local volunteers, including her brothers whose presence she finds, for the first and last time, a little comforting. You ignored them, and you ignored me, during the march. It was in our tent on the night before my attack on Melun, not far from the town moat. After you were awoken by your nightmare, that my own nightmare came true.
Jeanne has not been sleeping. She is startled by Piéronne’s cry. There was no one else there but us. I asked you if you wanted me to light a candle. Piéronne shivers and sobs.
It’s only a dream, Piéronne.
My Voice. It was so angry, so horrible, Jeanne…I saw a fire, Jeanne. Bright, horrible fire.
I wanted to embrace you, but I knew you’d reject my arms. Jeanne remains lying on her side of the rug. And she cannot remove her eyes from the opalescence of Piéronne’s face. You turned your face to me, your eyes glittered in the dark.
Jeanne. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go to Hell.
You won’t go to Hell, Piéronne. I don’t care what people think the Bible says. Our love is not a sin. I won’t let anyone hurt you.
