They came for her at once and took her out, again in her chains, to the market square. There must have been ten thousand people waiting there, faces at every window, children clinging to chimney pots. There was a platform for the judges, a platform for the priests, and in the centre a scaffold with a great stake piled all around with wood. And in front of the stake was a board, with writing printed on it for all to read: “Joan, who called herself The Maid, liar, pernicious, deceiver of the people, sorceress, superstitious, blasphemer of God, presumptuous, disbeliever in the faith of Jesus Christ, boastful, idolatrous, cruel, dissolute, invoker of devils, apostate and heretic.”
They led her first up on to the platform where the priests stood, Cauchon amongst them. Many of them were in tears. Here she knelt and prayed aloud, beseeching God to show her mercy and to forgive her judges for all they had done to her. When she had finished Cauchon read out the sentence of death.
“Since you, Joan, have been found by us relapsed into diverse errors and crimes and wickednesses, as a dog returns to its vomit, we do cast you forth and eject you from the communion of the Church as an infected limb, and hand you over to secular justice.” The rest was drowned in a great cheer as Joan was dragged down the steps and across the market square towards the scaffold. Rough hands bound her to the stake. One English soldier stuck a paper hat on her head, and spat in her face. On the hat he had scrawled: ‘Heretic. Relapsed. Apostate. Idolatress.’
Already the executioner had his torch alight. But then, just as he lit the fire, another English soldier sprang up on to the faggots, a wooden cross in his hand. He held it to her lips so she might kiss it. She looked into his face to thank him and saw, under the English helmet, that it was Louis; her page and friend. “God bless you, sweet Joan,” he said.
“Get down,” she cried. “They are lighting the fire.”
But Louis stayed till the very last moment, with the smoke rising now through the faggots, he sprang back to safety just in time, stumbled backwards and fell. By the time he looked up again the flames were all around her…
“Jesus! Jesus!” she cried, and then her head fell forward and she never spoke again. All that could be heard was the crackle of the flames.
There were no cheers now. Many cried openly at what they had just witnessed. “We are lost,” said one of the English soldiers. “We have just burnt a saint.”
Another soldier standing close to Louis, gripped his arm suddenly, and pointed. “Look,” he cried. “A white dove flying up out of the fire. It’s her soul. It’s a miracle, a miracle.”
But Louis could see well enough that the bird rising from the smoke was no dove, but a white sparrow and one he knew well. Belami hovered for some moments over the square, then flew off back home, back to Domrémy. Louis watched him until he could see him no more.
I woke, and looked about me. Somehow I expected Jaquot to be there, but he was not. There was no sparrow to be seen, no bird at all in the sky above me, only a plane flying high, silver in the sun, a vapour trail blossoming in its wake.
I glanced down at my watch. I had been all day down by the river, yet it seemed to have passed so quickly. School would be over by now. I could go back home as if I’d been at school all day long. No one would know the difference.
At supper that evening my mother and father were prattling on and on about my birthday the next day, about how birthdays seem more important every year you get older, then about how they were pleased to be the age they were, how they wouldn’t want to be seventeen again, even if they could be. They were being kind. They were simply avoiding any mention of the Joan of Arc celebrations the next day. I was hardly listening.
“Good day at school, Eloise?” my father asked me. I was caught completely unawares. I had no reply. Luckily for me the phone rang. My father picked it up.
“Yes. Hello, yes. She’s home now, yes… You mean this evening? All right. I’ll tell her then. Goodbye.” He put the phone down.
“What?” asked my mother.
“He was pouring himself some wine. “Her again,” he said. “Friend of yours from school, Eloise – Marie Duval. She wants to see you. She’s coming round.”
My mother turned to me. “Oh, we didn’t tell you, did we? She called earlier, came to the door. She said she was looking for you at school today. Couldn’t seem to find you anywhere. No one could, she said. Funny, that.”
I looked down at my plate and wished the floor would just open up and swallow me.
“Where did you get to, Eloise?” my mother asked. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick. I mean really worried.”
“The river,” I replied, not looking up from my plate. “I went down to the river. I just couldn’t go to school. Not today. I couldn’t face it. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t eat another thing. I was close to tears and they knew better than to talk to me. My mind roamed from one thing to another, from Jaquot by the river to Belami and Joan in the garden at Domrémy, to Joan burning in Rouen, to Marie Duval. Why was she coming? What for? Back to Joan again, Joan storming the Tourelles, Joan praying by the river at Orléans, Jaquot by the river at Orléans.
The door bell rang.
It was strange seeing Marie Duval in my house. There were a few awkward introductions in the hall. Then I took her out into the garden so that we could be alone.
“I looked for you at school,” she began. I said nothing. I didn’t want to have to explain. “Well, it’s about tomorrow,” she went on. “The parade, the procession, whatever they call it.”
“What about it?” I asked.
“The thing is,” she said, “I read it. I read your essay on Joan of Arc. Everyone’s read it. They pinned it up at school this morning – it’s coming out in the newspaper tomorrow. And then we had a rehearsal, for tomorrow. I had to get up on this huge horse. I was sitting there, and that’s when I knew for sure. I think I’d known it all along really. The truth is, it’s never been right. Me winning, I mean. Me being chosen as Joan. You wrote the best essay. You should have won. They only chose me because I was born here. Joan wasn’t born here, was she? It’s not where you’re born that counts, is it? I was sitting up there and thinking: Eloise should be on this horse. Eloise should be Joan tomorrow, not me.”
I was filled with a sudden stupendous hope. Marie took my hands in hers. “Listen, I talked to all the other essay finalists, and they all agreed with me. So this afternoon we went to the Headmaster, and we made him agree too. Will you do it? Will you be Joan tomorrow?”
“But you don’t mind?” I asked, still incredulous.
Marie smiled. “Not really. You deserve it more than me. Soon as I read your essay I knew that. You didn’t just study her, did you? You got to know her. You got close. And besides, I was getting very nervous about it all. I hate horses. Honestly, I do. They make me sneeze. You can’t have Joan of Arc sneezing her way through the streets of Orléans, can you? So, will you do it?”
“Oh, yes,” I cried. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” And we stood there hugging each other and crying and swaying together under the silver birches.
“I thought you said you’d lost your cat,” she said in my ear. “Black and white, wasn’t it?”
I turned round. Mimi! Mimi, sleek and silky in the glow of the evening sun, was rubbing herself up against the trunk of a silver birch, her raised tail trembling with joy.
Marie stayed on late that evening to celebrate Mimi’s miraculous return. I took her up to my room, pulled my picture of Joan out from the back of the cupboard and showed it to her.
“I’ve had her all my life,” I told her.
Marie wrinkled her nose at it. “Not at all how I imagined her,” she said. “I’ve always imagined her very different – more human, more like you.”
The armour was too big. I did not care. My bottom was sore from long hours in the saddle. I did not care. The cathedral bells pealed the flags waved, the bands played, the people cheered. The whole world seemed happy. I laughed in the sun, and loved every glorious m
oment of it. I was Joan, Joan triumphant, Joan adored. I was in raptures. Above my head fluttered my standard, Joan’s standard. I waited for the moment. I was sure it would come, but when it did it still took me by surprise. There was a ripple of laughter in the crowd and they were pointing up at my standard. I looked up. There he was, Jaquot, perched high on the point of it and singing his happy heart out.
“The sparrow and the saint,” came a voice from somewhere, from everywhere. A voice I knew so well, my voice from the river. “The sparrow and the saint.”
Author’s Note
When, some years ago, I wrote Arthur, High King of Britain and then Robin of Sherwood I was simply retelling two old legends in my own way. I had little historical truth to take into consideration. With both books, I was seeking to strip away the encrusted layers of countless tellings, which seemed to me to have distorted the legends. I wanted to discover again, if I could, the living people behind the legends, the Arthur and the Robin who might have inspired the legends in the first place.
But Joan of Arc is, of course, more than a legend. George Bernard Shaw wrote of her in the introduction to his play: ‘Joan of Arc was born about 1412, burnt for heresy, witchcraft and sorcery in 1431; rehabilitated after a fashion in 1456, designated Venerable in 1904, declared Blessed in 1908; and finally canonised in 1920.’
Joan of Arc lived and died. She breathed the air we breathe. From the transcripts of her trial in 1431 and her retrial in 1456, we know more about her than any other person of her time. From her own lips she speaks to us down the centuries. And we hear her story, too, from eyewitnesses, from those who knew her as a girl, who grew up with her, who fought with her, who watched her die.
Since her death, Joan has been exploited mercilessly. She has been demonised and vilified – Shakespeare himself was among her detractors. She has been politicised, idolised, and sanctified. They made a legend of her, set her on a pedestal. I tried to find the real Joan, the Joan who grew up in Domrémy. I wanted to be near her, to make sense of the innumerable historical inconsistencies and contradictions. Who was this peasant girl who heard voices, who, as a mere teenager, began driving the English out of France and then died at the stake for her beliefs, who inspired the French so much that within just a few years of her death, they had driven the English from their soil forever?
Many biographies by learned authors have been written about her. There have been numerous plays and films, too; but in many cases I found the Joan in them too remote or too saintly. I wanted to see her as she must have been, to share her doubts and her joys, her innermost thoughts. So in my book, I have invented a companion for her, a white sparrow who stays with her faithfully all through her life, right to the end. And to reach back into history, I have used the story of a girl of today who grows up with a picture of Joan of Arc in her house, who admires and loves her deeply. Both devices enabled me to come close to Joan and will, I hope, enable my readers to do the same. But I have neither invented nor embroidered the history – though Joan’s story is so remarkable, it might very well seem as if I have! And wherever possible I have used Joan’s words. I have let her speak for herself.
Michael Morpurgo – April 15, 1998
Author’s Acknowledgments
Many sources were used in the writing of this book. But foremost amongst them have been St Joan by Bernard Shaw (Penguin), Jeanne d’Arc by Vita Sackville West (Folio Society), The Trial of Joan of Arc (Folio Society) and J’ai nom Jeanne la Pucelle by Régine Pernaud (Collections Découvertes Gallimard). And many people too have helped. In particular Christine Baker at Gallimard, to whom the book is dedicated, Pam and Colin Webb, my publishers at Pavilion, Philippe Barbeau of Orléans, The Jeanne d’Arc Foundation and the City of Orléans … and, of course, the other Michael, Michael Foreman. My thanks to them all.
After a fierce storm, a boy of today discovers a human skull, buried beneath the roots of an ancient tree. A skull with a legendary past: the heroic story of Robin Hood.
OUT NOW
About the Author
MICHAEL MORPURGO OBE is one of Britain’s best-loved writers for children. He has written over 100 books and won many prizes, including the Smarties Prize, the Blue Peter Book Award and the Whitbread Award. His recent bestselling novels include Shadow, An Elephant in the Garden and Born to Run.
Michael’s stories have been adapted numerous times for stage and screen, and he was Children’s Laureate from 2003 to 2005, a role which took him all over the country to inspire children with the joy of reading stories.
Other Books by Michael Morpurgo include:
Outlaw – the story of Robin Hood
Little Manfred
Shadow
An Elephant in the Garden
Running Wild
Kaspar
Born to Run
The Amazing Story of Adolphus Tips
Farm Boy
The Butterfly Lion
Copyright
First published as Joan of Arc in Great Britain in paperback by Pavilion Books,
London House, Great Eastern Wharf, London SW11 4NQ in 1998
Published in 2001 by Hodder Children’s Books, a division of Hodder Headline
Limited, 338 Euston Road, London, NW1 3BH
This edition published as Sparrow – the story of Joan of Arc by HarperCollins
Children’s Books in 2012
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London, W6 8JB
The HarperCollins website address is: www.harpercollins.co.uk
SOURCE ISBN 978-0-00-746595-8
EPub Edition © MARCH 2012 ISBN 978-0-00-746596-5
Michael Morpurgo asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.
SPARROW. Copyright © Michael Morpurgo 1998. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Michael Morpurgo, Sparrow
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