Joan

by Katherine J. Chen

He taught her other things, too, after they became friends. He knew he shouldn’t pick favorites, but he chose Joan and not her siblings because she was the quickest, the only one who would listen to an entire story carefully from beginning to end, even if she was skeptical. Because she would look at the sky and see that it did not terminate at the farthest cottage in Domrémy. Because she believed in cinnamon birds.

there was cloth for purchase of every weave and color imaginable. Of reds alone, there numbered several shades, and the best, the most blinding vermilions, hailed from the guilds of Italy, particularly Florence.

There was no good red dye in Europe in 1422. Before synthetics, the first good red dye was cochineal, a polymer produced by a beetle found only the the Americas. It wasn't until the 16th century that it reached Europe.

But she looks straight into the eye of her God. She spreads her arms and bares her new heart of stone. Give me strength, she prays, and not just the strength to endure but more, the strength of ten, fifty, a hundred men. Give me such gifts as the heroes of old were given: the gifts of slaughter and of victory. Give me a courage that is wild and uninhibited, one that will make men’s teeth rattle. Make my flesh, my heart, and my soul invulnerable to all pain. She tells her God, Let me have my revenge on those who have hurt the one I loved most in the world. These are the people responsible. These are my enemies, who are France’s enemies, for if the war were not here, if it had taken place somewhere else, in another kingdom and country, then none of this would have happened. Not to me. These are their names. Remember them. John, Duke of Bedford, regent of England Henry, sixth of his name, future King of England Philip, Duke of Burgundy She hesitates only a moment before adding the Dauphin. It was your weakness, she thinks, your inaction, and your fear that brought us to this point, that kept the door wide open so these wolves could enter my village.

I would like to think it is possible to be strong without also being cruel.

How much time has passed since she first entered the room, she wonders. Five minutes? Ten?

I'm pretty sure that Joan would not have thought of time in terms of minutes.

“No, I was born in a village called Domrémy. I doubt Your Majesty will have heard of it. I have lived there most of my life.” Again, the head tilts, this time in the other direction. The eyes blink, counting over duchies, cities, rivers, towns, as the map of France turns and turns. “A little too close to my cousin Burgundy,” he says at last.

This is the moment when Charles VII suddenly becomes a character. It is evident that he not only can find the tiny village of Domremy on a map, he even knows where it is without one.

“Majesty,” she says, “I will tell you what I know.” She tells him about a room. It is the room she and her sister slept in. She describes the slanted, low ceiling, the shuttered window, the air that is musty and old because no wind or light is permitted to enter. And next to her, Catherine’s shape in the darkness. The sounds of quiet weeping. She recalls the dust motes like fairies, lit by splinters of sun filtering through the shutters’ gaps, and the spider webs, which grow and widen with the hours and the days, spinning miniature gray curtains in the corners of the room.

Joan tells Charles what she knows of war.

She tells him: For war is not just battle plans.

To her, war has become something else, and here lies the problem. When kings have gone bankrupt from the expenditures of war, when they are unable to pay their troops, and soldiers go hungry and feel they have put their lives at stake for nothing, for less than nothing, looting happens. Murder happens. Rape happens. “I believe God crafted the sound of a woman’s scream,” she says, “to pierce the heart and to test our humanity, whether we still have it or whether we have left it behind.

She thinks, The Dauphin is just a man who misses his father. He is a son and a brother, as I am a daughter and a sister. So, why should he remain my enemy when we have both been wronged and by the same people? Royal blood aside, it is possible we are more alike than different, and to get what we want, we need each other. She looks away. From her list of names, she strikes out the Dauphin.

“And if Your Majesty does not act, you shall lose everything.” She steps closer to him. “How can we know our fates? I think of the day you were forced to flee Paris. You did not know, you could not know as you were riding through darkness, fear striking your heart, that you were also riding toward your destiny. For you are here and I am here. Against all odds, fate has brought us together. You, who are your kingdom’s future, and I, who am no one.”

And a different tongue would fill the halls, the harsh language of the English, though much else would stay the same.

“What would I gain by being a man?” she says. “A cock, a deeper voice, hair across my chest. I would not become stronger. I am already strong.” And, she thinks, I would inherit the several weaknesses of man’s nature: his lust, his boundless aggression, his desire to tame all that he touches—the beasts of the field, the earth, women. For a man cannot see anything in the world without wishing to wear it like a trophy on his back, to call himself master over it. To her, this is what it means to be a man.

He explains, seeing she is skeptical, “I know what I am talking about, for are there not some in the world who have only to look at a lute before they are able to pluck its strings and make music? And as for the poets, I have heard their best work comes to them in sleep and in dreaming, as though a voice speaks directly into their ear, or that whole verses will materialize out of thin air in a flash of understanding. It cannot be explained, so do not try. It is simply genius.” Give her any weapon, and she will know how to use it. After an hour, she will make short work of the masters of the poleax, the mace, the crossbow, weapons she has never picked up before. Now she understands that even a grown man who has trained since he was a small boy cannot catch up to her. It isn’t really fair, but who ever said that life was fair? Different words are used to describe her condition. She is gifted, special, remarkable, a nonpareil fighter; Dunois says there will never be one like her again—at least not for another age. Joan is blessed.

She wants to ask them, though she stops herself, What do you, any of you, know about earning your place in the world? You have had everything given to you. You were born into what you are today: a prince, a lord, a captain. With these titles, you thought the rest would come easily, so no wonder we are losing the war. Victory in battle doesn’t take into consideration pedigree. When royal blood is spilled, it is the same as any foot soldier’s. I know now there will always be this divide between us. Even if I fight beside you, I will never be the same as you.

“She isn’t in a dark place,” Joan says to the grandmother. “When one dies, the moment of death is very brief. One instantly wakes again, as if roused from a light sleep, and the soul is transported between heartbeats to another world. This child will find herself in a meadow, a place unlike any other. On every wildflower, a butterfly. In every tree, a songbird. The sun never shines too bright, for the hands of the angels moderate its rays, and from their mouths, they blow cooling breezes so the climate is eternally spring. It is a place God reserves for only His most loved, the innocent souls He has called back to Him. In this place, she is no longer an infant but fully grown, yet none will ever covet her beauty or seek to tempt and destroy her. She will never want for anything, but it will be given, before she can even anticipate her desire. She will not feel hunger or pain; her heavenly body will move across the space of this great meadow and spin through orchards resplendent with fruit, of a kind we are unable to cultivate in this world, much less taste. But all the boughs of heaven’s gardens will hang heavy for her, and she will drink from the streams of Paradise, whose water is as pure as it is sweet.”

“Childeric was the King of the Franks, father of the great Clovis.

Clovis, King of the Franks, and his three thousand followers nearly a millennia ago.

Though I was defeated before the walls of Paris, I feel it in my bones, in my soul: I am still the greatest warrior alive.

The historical version of Joan, as she is commonly portrayed in biographies and in films, is a kind of holy woman, one might even say a religious fanatic, who hears Mass multiple times a day, who decries whoring and gambling in her army (she once broke a sword across a prostitute’s back) and encourages her soldiers to confess their sins. She is more or less a spiritual cheerleader to the fighting men—that is, the “real” soldiers. The historical Joan does not shed blood. She does not fight, though she puts on an expensive suit of armor, is skilled in riding, and carries a sword. The historical Joan prefers to hold her banner and rally her men without wounding or maiming a single enemy soldier.

She is no mild or humble genius. She has a mouth on her. She is hot-tempered. Proud bordering on arrogant. Flawed but charismatic. Full of rage and capable of inflicting great destruction and death but also loving, introspective, hopeful for better days ahead. In other words, still very much human.

I had to take many liberties with Joan’s history and with the history of the time to make Joan’s journey relatable.