Joan: A Novel of Joan of Arc

by Katherine J. Chen

and the cat must be heavy to carry for long periods at a time, but he is always draping it, like a sack of flour, over his shoulder, always petting its ears and trying to cradle it like a baby,

me

Try, and he will give you a fist of reasons not to do it again.

I want to say this to someone

“Hush, child,” a woman near her chides. “That is Sir Robert de Baudricourt.” And my name is Joan, she thinks. She is tempted to say this aloud. So, who cares?

He turns, seems about to stick his tongue out, except wouldn’t this be beneath his dignity? So, he refrains. But it isn’t beneath her dignity. Her tongue wags at him. She makes the most grotesque face she can conjure, an expression worthy, she hopes, of a gargoyle.

I actually lol’ed at this! So funny, I love this girl

She thinks of the work she still has to do and all these years later her time wasted by the same well-dressed idiot in fine boots.

And she would rather put the blame on men, not on spirits of air. So, call her simple, but she believes this war has nothing to do with God.

how can war be blamed on God 🤕. How can evil, angry men be blamed on God!!! I am with you Joan

“Consider what people will think when they hear this: A woman on a battlefield.

woman must be raised high, higher than the heads of men, or she will be crushed beneath their feet.

Your Majesty has stones, and perhaps they are better stones than the ones England and Burgundy have ready in their pockets. So you must use them.”

Now grow out your hair and put on a dress!”

“Dunois and I have a wager. He says there are people in the world, rare but in existence, who are, in fact, born both as men and as women. They have breasts, but they have cocks as well.”

“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.

Supper with Jacques d’Arc? She could almost laugh, except she remembers scraping pottage off the floor with her hands, and she wonders if the hard edge of the bowl she swallowed out of fear is still somewhere inside her.

Those who do nothing, who stand by and watch as chaos unravels, who feel that as long as they are alive and in good health, it does not matter what else is happening in front of them, why should they be innocent? They are guilty, too.

There are wounds in this world not inflicted by poleax or morning star—hurts that seep through the crevices of even the best-made armor and weaken the limbs, turning the bones as soft as water.

Yet you must stay ahead of the pain.

A raw bruise touches her chest at the sound of laughter, the stray notes of a lute, a voice struggling to remember the words of a song.

Men can commit as many errors as they like—within reason. We, however, cannot afford a single misstep.”

Joan wants to spit out oaths, but she holds herself back.

The sack of wine depleted, she watches Dunois wander off to piss against a tree.

Lol men ffs

Even in such times, there are still occasions for laughter.

“I am the greatest warrior alive,” she says when there is silence again. “I am the performer of miracles.” A beam of light touches the top of her head; it picks out the gold thread of her cloak and makes her shimmer. She pauses. “What are you, other than a king?”

Absolutely iconic