I remember being surprised, when I woke, that still no English had come to bury their dead, as was the custom. Later I learned that at least two thousand had died and two hundred more had been taken prisoner; it would have taken many nights to bury them all, had there been enough free men left alive to do it. I do not know if those English dead were ever buried, or if they were left for the wolves and the crows.
When we woke, Louis and I, I saw motion at the far edge of the battlefield, and found that most of our army had slept there, only a short way off, around the edges of the dead. Jeanne and some of the captains had spent the night in the nearby town—Patay, it was called. Father Pasquerel, who was making his way slowly among the dead, came gravely up to us, saying, “It is a sorry sight.”
“God cannot be pleased,” I said, “at such a slaughter.”
“Nay, child,” Father Pasquerel said, “war is cruel, but the ways of evil are crueler. This slaughter is a sign from God that He wishes us to prevail. Think of the holy Crusades, which men have fought for God, to curb the evil infidel.” Then he smiled in his courtly way and held his hands out to us, saying, “Come, it will be easier now.” When we hesitated, he said, “The Maid herself was moved by the slaughter, for such indeed it was. She wept when she saw it, and when she saw one of our French men-at-arms strike an English prisoner and throw him down, she leapt from her horse and held the Englishman till he had made his confession and was dead.”
I tried to be heartened by this, but I could not help thinking that perhaps it was not enough, since it had been Jeanne who had urged us to fight.
Father Pasquerel extended his hands to us once more and again said, “Come. At least take bread with us. You must be hungry.”
We were hungry. Louis looked as if he would stumble and fall at any moment and I am sure I looked the same. I felt too weak to resist, and so I agreed.
After we ate, for all that long day, as Louis and I first tried to clean the blood off ourselves and then rested away from the others, I thought of what Father Pasquerel had said, and Louis and I talked. I knew that the English, like the Burgundian brigands who had ravished my own Meuse valley, must have been cruel to the French whose towns they had seized. I knew that people in besieged towns often starved, and were not free to go where they chose. And I knew this was our country, not theirs, our small corner of the world, and that the English had theirs across the sea, and should be content with it. As the day wore on and my strength returned, I partway convinced myself that Father Pasquerel was right. I saw that Louis was clinging to his words, and later the elegant Alençon said to him, “Had you not killed that man who begged for mercy, he or one of his companions would have killed you. The lesson, mon ami—my friend—is not to look into their eyes, eh?”
I shuddered at Alençon’s coldness, but Louis seemed heartened by his words.
Later, too, Jeanne came and led me away from Louis, saying, “It grieves me, too, to see so many dead. But my saints have told me that it must be so. I am glad you tend the wounded, and do not love to fight. We both do God’s work, my friend, but we do it differently. You are the dove of peace, and I wield the sword of war. At this time, France needs soldiers, but at war’s end, when all of France is France again, she will need the work of peace—your work. Follow me, Gabrielle, to see the dauphin crowned and to aid my wounded when they fall. Perhaps when that is done, you will be able to return safely to Domremy, if that is what you want.”
I nodded; I was unable to speak, but her words made sense to me—though I was not sure I would return to Domremy.
We went back to Orléans, where Louis and I slowly became ourselves again. Jeanne went first to Sully and then to Gien, where she was at last able to persuade the dauphin, despite La Trémoille’s reluctance, to travel to Reims to be crowned—on condition that we secure more towns for him along the way. So we mounted and left Orléans once more.
It was in Gien that I first saw our king-to-be, and understood how his advisers were able to influence him so easily, for he was not at all as I had imagined. I had thought of the dauphin as tall and stately, with well-molded features and a dignified, noble bearing—gentle, as Jeanne had often called him when speaking of him, but firm, like a stern but loving father, perhaps even not unlike my own Papa, or Nicolas, or Jeanne’s kind squire, d’Aulon.
But he was nothing like that. He was small, especially next to the huge La Trémoille, who rode at his side and dwarfed him, and he was a little bowed, with a thin, petulant face and a weak chin and mouth, and eyes that seemed uncertain of where to look. He reminded me of a child who has been pampered and spoiled, and I was disappointed. But Louis, beside me in his repaired mail shirt and a dead man’s leather doublet, whispered softly, “He is the only French king we have, Gabrielle; we must do him homage. Besides, a man’s outer look shows neither his soul nor his courage.”
Louis is right, I thought, and so as the men in the army cheered with joy at seeing their king at last, I added my voice to theirs. Soon, as is the way with such things, I began to feel joyous, too. But Nicolas stood quietly by without smiling, and I heard him say softly, “Poor uncertain Charles; how weary he looks, and how frightened!”
At Gien, our army grew, though there was scant money to pay those who served in it, and less food, and most men were poorly armed, except with loyalty and good spirits. We reached Auxerre at the very end of June, and camped near that city for three days, until at last the people there said they would shift their loyalty to the dauphin if Troyes, Châlons, and Reims did the same; it was as if they feared to rebel alone.
We left with that promise, and went on to Saint-Florentin, which came to our side eagerly—but the next city, Troyes, held by Burgundians, was reluctant. It was there, while we were preparing for battle, that we encountered Brother Richard, a monk from Paris. At first, thinking Jeanne was a witch, he tried to exorcise her with holy water. “Approach boldly,” Jeanne said to him, smiling. “I will not fly away.” And soon he was kneeling with her in earnest conversation—but Father Pasquerel did not seem pleased.
We stayed outside Troyes for several days, with the men grumbling from hunger and inactivity, waiting for word from the dauphin allowing us to fight. And then, when word came and the men were filling the moat with the bundles of sticks and brush called fascines, so they could cross it and storm the walls, men came out of the city, bearing signs of truce, and surrendered! Louis and I embraced, I with considerable joy at his not having to fight.
The next day, Louis and I idled by the river—the Seine—in a thicket where we could be hidden and alone. Louis slept much of the time, his head in my lap, and I stroked his hair and dreamed of the time when we would be wed. Would we have three children or four, I wondered, forgetting I had once forsworn children. I thought of my infant brother and wondered how he was and how my sisters fared, especially Marguerite with her cough, and Maman and Papa, and all our neighbors in Domremy. If I closed my eyes just so, I could almost pretend the Seine was the Meuse, but it took much imagination, for the Seine’s course was straighter and its banks less green and misty, and there were no cows lowing nearby or village church bells answering each other across a gentle valley. And besides, closing my eyes made me sleepy.
I eased Louis’s head off my lap and lay beside him. With one arm around his waist, I settled my head onto his chest—he wore no scratchy mail shirt now, since we were unlikely to do battle—and snuggled into the crook where his neck met his shoulders. Thus warmed by his body and the sun, I, too, fell asleep.
We spent two or three days in Troyes, where a young woman made Jeanne godmother to her first child, and named it Jeannette. When we left for Châlons, Brother Richard rode with us. The dauphin, thin and still petulant but on a splendid charger, led the march, and the townspeople, lining the walls, cheered us as we went. We were cheered again when we approached Châlons two days later, and as we drew near the town, knots of travelers, dusty and tired, hailed us and the dauphin. “Long live King Charles the Seventh!” they shouted, lifting their staffs in salute as we passed. Many were simple countrypeople who had traveled great distances to see their king-to-be. And, I thought, what a place is France, to inspire such loyalty.
Then all thoughts vanished from my mind, for by the side of the road was a group with Jeanne in its midst, and Pierre and Jean. With a cry I ran toward them, surprising Nicolas, I am sure—but they were people from our own village, from Domremy: Jean Moreau, Jeanne’s godfather, and Gérardin d’Epinal, who, it turned out, had married Isabellette, a girl who used to spin with Jeanne and Mengette and Hauviette. Best of all, Henri was there, Pierre’s and my old friend. I embraced him, and then laughed at his shock—for I was still dressed as a page—until I told him who I was.
We all spoke at once, and at first could make no sense of each other’s words. Gradually it emerged that Jeanne’s father was no longer angry with her; indeed, her parents were on their way to Reims to see her and to see the dauphin crowned, with others from our village as well—and yes, the village was proud of all we had done, and especially proud of Jeanne, and grateful to her.
“So,” said Henri, looking me up and down, “you are still playing with the boys, eh, Gabrielle?”
I laughed again, but sobered quickly, telling him that it was no longer play. I told him about Louis, too, and saw his eyebrows rise that I could love a lord. The more I tried to explain that the distinction did not matter to us, the more I could see that he did not understand, and I felt sadly removed from him, my village, and my childhood.
“Your father,” said Henry gravely, “would not like to see you in such clothes.”
“It is with me as it is with Jeannette,” I told him. “I am among men, and must appear to be a man for my own safety.”
“Surely,” said Henri, “your Louis could protect you from harm, as could this surgeon to whom you are, it seems, apprenticed—though it is a strange world when a woman learns the trade of a man who is not her husband or her brother or her father.”
“Louis and Nicolas are not always with me,” I said. “All is chaos in fighting, often.” I was aching to ask after my family, and I kept straining my eyes behind us as we walked, for a glimpse of them—for surely, I thought, they would have come with the first group.
But when I was finally able to ask, after having to tell Henri what it was like to be in a real battle, he said, “They are well but they will not come, Gabrielle, though your mother and sisters and small brother send you their blessings and their love.”
“And my father?” I asked, noting the omission.
Henri looked at the dusty ground. “Your father, I am sure, blesses you in his heart.”
“What of his words, Henri?” I asked, feeling my own heart turn to stone within me. “What does he say?”
“He was angry with your mother for a long time,” he said reluctantly, “when you did not return from Le Puy. He was angry at Isabelle Romée as well, for letting you go with that priest, saying your mother needed you at home since Catherine had left. For a long time he went about his work silently, and then when he finally spoke of it, he said he feared you would become a—a whore if you followed the army.”
This did not sound like my gentle father, and it pained me to learn how little he trusted me. I felt myself turn red with fury and embarrassment. “I am no such!” I cried. “And if I were, Jeanne would turn me out, for she will not have women with the army, which is another reason why I go disguised. Look yourself,” I said, sweeping my arm toward the long column of men. “You will see few women here, and those few who do come, she chases away quickly. This is not like most armies,” I continued hotly, “with strumpets and wives among the supply carts. This is a holy army, dedicated to its mission!”
I was amazed at my own vehemence, and Henri seemed also, for he stared at me for some time before saying gravely, “So I see,” but the corners of his mouth twitched as if he would laugh.
We fell silent then, and I thought again how far I had come in spirit, as well as in distance, from my people. My eyes stung with the thought that perhaps I could never return to Domremy and live there in peace. I had thought before that I might not—but to think that I could not was worse.
I went quickly to the medicine cart, pulled a sprig of dried rosemary from one of my pouches, and held it out to Henri. “Give my mother this,” I said, “with my love”—for she had taught me it stood for remembrance. “And tell my father that I am no whore. I will contrive to see you again, Henri, but if I cannot, fare you well.”
I ran back into the column of marching men, purposely losing myself among them, and searching for Louis. When I found him, I tugged at his stirrup as he rode by, saying, “Pull me up, master,” and he, looking surprised but pleased, grasped my arm. Between us, we managed to get me onto his horse. I rode into Châlons behind him, my arms tight around his waist.
