Sparrow

  But in the end she did not keep it, not as a skirt anyway. It was not her voices who persuaded her though, not directly anyway. It was Jean and Bertrand and Uncle Durand. They were all quite adamant. “Either you go disguised as one of us, as a soldier,” said Jean, “or you don’t go at all. For God’s sake, Joan, the whole country is talking of no one else. Do you want to end up in some ditch with your throat cut before you get to Orléans? Well, do you?”

  For once Joan had no answer. “Madame Le Royer has agreed to do the work,” Jean went on. “I’ve got a pair of my servant’s breeches that’ll fit. Your Uncle Durand will lend you his tunic, and Bertrand’s young cousin has a pair of boots your size. I have arranged it all.”

  “No you haven’t,” said Joan. “It is my voices that have arranged it, as they arrange everything in the end. I had thought to defy them in this, but I see I cannot.” They were mystified at this, as they were by so much of what she said. “Very well,” she went on, “but I shall still wear my skirt. It shall serve as a man’s cloak. I shall make it myself. My voices shall have their way. And you can have your way, Jean, only if I can have mine. Remember that and we shall always work well together.”

  Bertrand smiled. “That’s our Joan – victory out of defeat. We win the argument, but she wins the war.”

  There was an afternoon and evening of cutting and sewing before Joan’s suit of boy’s clothes was ready: a grey tunic over black breeches and boots, a scarlet cloak over her shoulders. She paraded for them round the room.

  “You will do,” said Jean de Metz. “You are a soldier now, Joan. You may have no beard, but you’re one of us.”

  “Then I am content,” Joan replied. “For I would be as my soldiers, eat what they eat, sleep where they sleep. But I am a soldier still without a sword.”

  Strangely it was Robert de Beaudricourt who provided the sword. When they left the next day all of Vaucouleurs was there to see them off. “Go carefully, Joan,” said Robert de Beaudricourt, suddenly fonder of her than he ever thought possible, and with that he unbuckled his own sword, and handed it to her. “Go, and do what must be done.”

  “You have been an obstinate old coot, Robert,” said Joan, mounting up. “But you have given me a start. God bless you for that, and for this sword, too. The rest is up to me now, and God.” And blowing a farewell kiss to the Le Royers, to her uncle and aunt and the babe in arms, she rode away towards Chinon, never once looking back.

  They did not stop to rest once that first night, wanting to distance themselves as quickly as possible from Vaucouleurs. As it turned out no one followed them nor were they attacked. It was rather the rain that was to prove their worst enemy on the three-hundred-mile journey. Through Burgundian territory they travelled by night whenever they could. It was hazardous going, and not just because of the enemy, who were everywhere about them and bound to be looking for them. But every river they came to was in flood. To Joan, even rivers were no barrier. To her every precious hour wasted on a detour meant another dead Frenchman. She would ride up and down the bank surveying the river for the best crossing place. Then she would plunge her horse in. The others soon learnt that her judgment always proved safe, that every swollen river was fordable if they followed her, if they crossed exactly where she did.

  Belami flew above them, beating his path through the torrential rain. It was no weather for sparrows either, but Belami did not mind. Now she was on her way, Joan was happier than he had ever seen her. And if Joan was happy, then so was he, no matter what the weather.

  There were friendly houses, and abbeys, like the one in St Urbain, where they could rest in safety and dry out. Joan slept where the others slept, the only girl amongst six men; but none of them thought of her as a girl any more, not even Bertrand, who was usually a great one for the ladies. Joan insisted they travelled by day now, for there was no time to waste. Movement at night along the muddy roads was often slow and on several occasions they had got themselves hopelessly lost in the darkness. But there were risks in travelling by day, and they knew it.

  They had left Gien, and for once the sun was warm on their backs. They were in French territory now, and safer or so they thought. They were riding through the forest when they suddenly found their way blocked by a dozen unsavoury-looking ruffians, their swords drawn and glinting, their arrows readied and aimed. From down out of the trees all around came several more of them, flitting like shadows. Within seconds they found they were surrounded. The leader of the ruffian gang stepped forward.

  “And which of you is the Maid of Domrémy?” he demanded.

  “Him,” Joan was laughing and pointing at Jean de Metz. “But he has a beard, so I suppose you might not believe me. It’s me, you dunderhead. I am the Maid. You want to kill me, do you, or rob me? Well, you can if you like. We can’t stop you. But all I have on me are these two rings.” She wriggled her fingers in the air. “See? Oh, and my sparrow up there on that branch. You could eat him, and you could sell the rings, and you could kill me. But what would it profit you? The sparrow is tiny and probably tasteless. The rings are worthless and I’ll be just another body in a ditch. Or is it a ransom you’re after perhaps? Ah, I see from your eyes that I have hit the mark. Well, you’re wasting your time there too. First, the Dauphin has no money, by all accounts. And second, if he had he’d not part with a penny of it for me, that’s for sure. So you see you’d be wasting your time.” The robbers stood there speechless as she went on. “Shall I tell you something? On this ring it says ‘Jhesus Maria’. I was sent here by Him, by our Lord in Heaven, to drive out the Godoms for ever. With his help, and with yours, I will save France. Well, what will it be? A couple of worthless rings, or the freedom of France? Take your pick.”

  The robbers backed away from her, crossing themselves, and let Joan and her companions pass on their way. All of them, except Joan, expected an arrow in the back, but none came.

  As they neared Chinon they came to the shrine of St Catherine at Fierbois. Here Joan was happy to stop for an entire day, not just to rest the horses, but to say Mass. “I have not said Mass in a week, Belami,” she said, as she unsaddled her horse outside the chapel. “Going to Mass is like drinking water to me,” she went on. “I would die inside without it.” All day she prayed at the chapel, guarded by Richard the Archer and Jean and Bertrand, all on edge now after their brush with the robbers in the forest. When she had finished praying, she at once dictated a letter to be carried on ahead to the Dauphin. “Write that he will be alone no longer, that I shall soon be there to come to his aid, that I know from my voices many things that will be to his own good and the good of France, that I must therefore see him as soon as I arrive, that there is no time to waste.”

  By the time she rode into Chinon the next day the whole town knew of her coming and was out in the streets to greet her. They crossed themselves as she passed, and many of the sick reached out to touch her stirrup and seek her healing blessing. She was bewildered at all this adulation; but her heart soared when she saw the hope and faith in their eyes.

  To her astonishment and dismay though, when she came up to the castle gates she was told the Dauphin would not see her. For two whole days she paced her lodgings in a fury of frustration. With Jean and Bertrand counselling patience, she received the Dauphin’s endless messengers as courteously as she could – patience had never come easily to Joan at the best of times. She sent back the same message every time: “Say to the King that I have come a long way to see him, that the King of Heaven has sent me to raise the siege of Orléans and afterwards to lead the Dauphin to his coronation at Reims. I shall say no more than this, however many messengers he may send me, until we meet in person.”

  Both Jean and Bertrand were sent for and questioned about this strange visionary from the farmyard, this unlikely saviour of France, but in spite of all they said on her behalf the Dauphin still would not see her. On their third morning in Chinon, Joan was sitting disconsolate on her bed, and Belami was on the window ledge singing his hear
t out for her, to cheer her flagging spirits, when the Dauphin’s messenger arrived yet again. This time, at long last, it was to summon her to the castle. So with Jean and Bertrand at her side, and Richard the Archer going ahead, she walked, almost ran, the short distance up the hill and over the drawbridge.

  As she was crossing the courtyard a man rode up to her and laughed haughtily at her from high on his horse. “So you’re the famous Maid,” he scoffed, looking her up and down. “By God, one night with you and I could teach you a thing or two.” Jean went for his sword at once, but Joan put a hand on his arm to restrain him.

  “You shouldn’t say such things,” she said quietly, “nor use God’s name as you do, particularly as you are so close to your own death.” The rider guffawed, put his spurs to his horse and rode off towards the drawbridge. Joan watched him go. He was halfway across the bridge when his horse stumbled and fell, catapulting him into the moat. From all over the castle courtyard they ran to help. Joan crossed herself. “Poor man. They cannot save him, nor his immortal soul either,” she said sorrowfully. She turned away and looked up at the castle walls. “Well, Dauphin,” she went on, “here I come.”

  Belami flew off and circled the castle looking for the best and safest vantage point. There were pigeons perched everywhere, but in the end he did manage to find a space on a crowded ledge. He was there just in time to see Joan come striding into the Great Hall, Bertrand and Jean behind her.

  It was a vast and magnificent room, under a high vaulted ceiling. There were flaming torches all around the walls – fifty, a hundred of them maybe – and underneath them a milling crowd of courtiers, of bishops, of noblemen and their ladies, all bedecked and glittering in their finery. At one end of the room was a throne on a dais where the Dauphin sat waiting for her. Joan walked the length of the hall, the crowd parting for her to let her through. A hush fell about the hall. For a moment or two Joan stood before the throne, looking the Dauphin full in the face.

  “Do you not bow to your Dauphin, girl?” he said.

  “Yes,” Joan replied coolly. “I would, but you are not he. You are not the Dauphin. You are trying to trick me, to test me as I knew you would, as my voices warned me you would. They tell me everything, you see. You can deceive me, but you cannot deceive God. Since you seem to insist on playing silly games, I shall find the good Dauphin for myself.” She sprang up on the dais, and surveyed the great throng of people in the hall. “Ah,” she said, “I see him.” She jumped down and plunged into the crowd.

  It looked for a moment to Belami as if she was bobbing a curtsy to a stone pillar. There was a sudden gasp of astonishment. “Kind Dauphin,” – she seemed to be talking to the pillar – “I am Joan, known as the Maid. The King of Heaven sends me to you with the message that you shall be anointed and crowned king in the city of Reims, that you will be the lieutenant of the King of Heaven, who is also the King of France.” From behind the pillar came only a face at first, a sheepish face, flaccid, with bulging frightened eyes.

  “It’s not me who is the Dauphin, Joan,” he said, and he pointed back towards the throne. “There, there is the Dauphin.”

  “In God’s name, noble Prince,” said Joan, stamping her foot, “it is you who is the Dauphin, and none other. We have no time for such games. The English will be at your gates in weeks, and you play games. Would you have me stop them, or no?” She came closer to him. “I must speak with you, alone and now.”

  She took him by the arm and led him away into a side chamber. They made a strangely incongruous pair, the nervous knock-kneed potbellied Prince of France with weasly wandering eyes, and the sturdy country girl dressed up as a boy soldier. She was talking earnestly to him as they went, talking as if she had known him all her life.

  Belami tried every window in the castle but still could not find them. In the end he returned to his ledge, drove off the noisy pigeons and waited. Down in the hall they waited too. It was some time before the two of them emerged. When they did the Dauphin looked a different man. The pallor had left his face. His eyes had stopped their wanderings. He even stood straighter, and he was holding her by the hand as if she was a long lost sister. The hall was silent at once.

  “Let it be known throughout my k-kingdom,” – he spoke with a stutter, but as he went on the words came with increasing confidence, “that this Maid, this Joan of Arc of Domrémy, is a true messenger of God. She has the eye of God. She knows my prayers, things I have not divulged even to my confessor.” There were some barely suppressed sniggerings at this. “And, and, she has it on God’s authority that despite what many of you think – and I know you think it – God knows that I am no bastard, but the true and rightful son of my father, and therefore the true king of France.” He turned to the Archbishop of Reims who was standing close by. “Archbishop, Joan would have you anoint me and crown me king in your cathedral, where all French kings should be crowned.”

  “But it is impossible,” the Archbishop replied. “There are twenty thousand English between here and Reims, and they still besiege Orléans. Besides, why should we believe this chit of a peasant girl?”

  “The English will not be there for long, my lord Archbishop,” said Joan. “My voices tell me I will drive them out, and my voices come from God. Don’t you believe in God, my lord Archbishop? You should, I think.”

  To hear this country girl lecturing the Archbishop was too much for some, and there were angry mutterings around the hall. Just then, a young man, resplendent in gold and blue, stepped forward. He was clearly a man to be respected for everyone fell silent at once. “If the Dauphin believes her, then I believe her too,” he declared, and he declared it loud enough for everyone to hear. He bowed to Joan. “I am the Duc d’Alençon, Joan, just recently come out of an English prison, my ransom paid. I know of you from my good friends, Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulengy, and neither of them is inclined to wishful thinking. If you say you are sent by God, then I believe you. I for one will join you and fight by your side for as long as it takes.” He knelt before Joan, took her hand in his and kissed it.

  “You are very welcome,” Joan said. “The more such men are gathered in God’s name the sooner we shall win.” The Dauphin clapped at that, and then everyone was clapping with him and cheering, such cheering as the castle had never known in all its history.

  Up on his ledge, Belami’s heart swelled with pride. When he flew off it was to soar high above the castle towers singing out his joy like a lark – as nearly like a lark as he could manage anyway.

  Joan dined at the castle that evening with the Dauphin, and two of the great dukes of France, the Duc d’Alençon and the Duc de la Trémoille. They talked only of how they could raise the siege of Orléans, of how long it would take to gather the army. But Joan saw even that first evening how weak the Dauphin was in his resolve, one moment fired with determination, the next his head shaking with doubt and despondency. One moment he was the cat that had got the cream, the next he was wondering if it had gone sour.

  “But what if we fail, Joan?” he whined. “Even if I throw my whole army against these walls of Orléans, I could still lose, couldn’t I? Lose my army and I lose France. We need a miracle.”

  Joan tried to soothe away his fears. “Why else do you think I am here, gentle Dauphin? But the miracle will not happen unless we make it happen. The walls of Orléans will not just fall down. I cannot blow them down with trumpets as Joshua did. We must knock them down and the English with them. Give me command over your army and with God’s help I will do the rest.”

  All evening, aided and abetted by the Duc d’Alençon, she coaxed and badgered and cajoled and inspired the Dauphin, until finally he had to give way. “The army is yours, Joan,” he said at last.

  Later they all went out together on to the darkening watermeadows, below the castle.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve ever ridden a horse, Joan?” asked the Duc de la Trémoille.

  Joan snorted at that. “Just give me a horse, my lord duke, and you will see
whether I can ride.”

  Thinking she would never manage him, the Duc de la Trémoille brought her a great war horse, a giant of a charger. Joan did not hesitate. Without ever setting a foot in the stirrup, she leapt up, gathered the reins and galloped off. Afterwards the Duc d’Alençon led her into the castle courtyard and gave her a lance. To his amazement, and everyone else’s, she tilted like a veteran. When she had done, Belami flew down to perch on the end of her lance.

  “You tilt like a soldier,” said the Duc d’Alençon, running up to her, breathless with admiration.

  “That’s because I am a solder,” Joan replied. “God’s soldier, and I shall be to the day I die.”

  “But maybe,” said the Duc d’Alençon, “you should not dress like a soldier, Joan. I mean, some people will not like it, you know. Women should dress like women.”

  “My fair duke,” Joan laughed down at him. “You talk to me of clothes! You dress up like a peacock, yet you are a man, not a bird. I want only to look like a soldier. I dress as I do because my voices say I must, because I must live my life amongst my soldiers, live as they live, be as they are. And know one thing about me, my fair duke, I care not one fig what people like or do not like about me. I care only to obey my voices. I have asked them often about this and they tell me I was right to put away my women’s clothes, and they tell me, too, that I must never again dress as a woman – nor as a peacock, come to that.”

  The Duc d’Alençon knew when he was beaten and gave up. “Do as you will then,” he said, “but for pity’s sake, Joan, you cannot go around in those ragged old clothes, looking like someone’s servant. If you are to lead us, Joan, then you must look the part.”