I left Madame Jacqueline’s soon after that, to avoid Marie-Claire’s prying eyes, for though of course I had no plan to help Jeanne escape—would that I had!—I did not think it wise to stay and feed Marie-Claire’s suspicion, or, through her, William’s. Madame Jacqueline found lodging for me with a friend who loved the king, and gave out to Marie-Claire that I had left, discouraged at Jeanne’s recanting, to return to Domremy. I saw Marie-Claire at a distance twice after that, but I do not know if she saw me, or what she might have thought if she did.
Lisette came to me now, instead of to Madame Jacqueline, whom I often met at my new lodging or at the side of a woman in travail. The first time I saw Lisette after Jeanne’s recantation at Saint-Ouen, I was at least expecting to hear of Jeanne’s happier estate in the hands of the Church, though by then I was full of fury at the sentence that had been pronounced upon her. I had been unable to hear it at Saint-Ouen, for the noise of the crowd was too great, but I learned soon afterward that she was to be kept in prison for the rest of her life. She would never see Domremy again, or walk along the River Meuse, or embrace her parents, and this seemed so cruel that I was for a time unable to speak after I heard it. She had done no wrong, but had only served her king—and where was that king? Why had he not come to her aid? Why had he not ransomed her, as any valuable captain would have been ransomed? Surely King Charles could have raised the money to free his loyal Maid! Had La Trémoille and Regnault de Chartres prevented him? And where were Jeanne’s brave captains, those who had been so loyal when all was going well? Pierre had been captured and was no doubt languishing in prison himself—but where was Jean?
I resolved to stay in Rouen until I knew if I could see Jeanne, and then I would decide whether to stay and continue to work with Madame Jacqueline despite Marie-Claire, or leave to look for Pierre and perhaps go home to Domremy, or return to Poissy and my dear Madame Christine.
But the next time Lisette came to me, as soon as she was inside my chamber she said breathlessly, “I have bad news, news so bad I know not how to tell it.”
I sat her down, poured her some wine, and let her catch her breath. I remember hoping she might never catch it, for the despair in her eyes chilled me so that I could not move.
“I have just heard that when they took the Maid back to prison,” she said finally, looking everywhere but at me, “she at first put on women’s clothes, which is what they wished, those men. But later she took them off again and put on the others. I know not why, although someone at the castle said her guards tried to molest her as soon as she was wearing skirts again, and others say someone hid her women’s clothes and let her have only men’s.”
“What?” I said, renewed anger allowing me to speak. “Was she not taken to a church prison, and could she not there have women with her where no one would molest her or force her to dress as a man?”
Lisette shook her head. “I know not why, madame, but this was denied her.” She gave a soft moan and looked up at me, her eyes moist. “And now that she has put on soldier’s garb again,” she said, “I fear all is lost. They say that they will burn her, for they feel no good religious woman would dress as a man, and she must therefore be a witch. But I fear that is an excuse only; they hate that she serves France and our king.”
I felt my head spin, and I reached for the edge of a nearby chest lest I fall. Lisette touched my arm shyly and whispered, “We must be brave for her, madame.”
I embraced her then, and we clung to each other in sorrow, for we knew that in truth all was lost—and word came soon that Jeanne was indeed to be burned.
I can hardly bear to think further, and must pause to gather strength before I do.
It was another clear May morning. I remember hearing a songbird when I woke up, and for a moment I lay peacefully in my chamber, listening to it, and thinking what wonders God made when he made birds.
Then I remembered what day it was, and a heaviness came into my throat and my chest and stomach till I could hardly breathe.
I dressed quickly, though, and quietly, and tried not to think. I told myself only that I must be with her, that she must see someone from home on this her last day on earth. Perhaps it would remind her of a happier time, of the misty valley of her childhood and of the sparkling Meuse; perhaps the memory would convey that not all was hateful in this world which was so cruelly punishing her. I did not want to see her burn, and I was afraid that the memory of it would haunt me forever—but I pushed that fear aside. And, as I went out into the nearly empty street, I felt I was not present in my body anymore, not that I had become Jeanne but that I was a vessel for her, for her fear, perhaps, and for her pain. I knew that I would die for her if I could, for I felt that she was far better than I, and more worthy to live, despite her warring. She had fought for God and for France, not for ambition or cruelty. I felt humble before the strength of her faith, and knew I could not doubt or even question it.
I did not seek out Madame Jacqueline for company, or Lisette, or even Michelle, for I knew that I must be alone with Jeanne on this day.
All was in readiness when I reached the Vieux Marché, the square in which the execution was to take place, not far from the cathedral. A few people had already gathered there, and vendors of pies and chestnuts were setting up their stalls.
There were four hastily built platforms, close to the church of Saint-Sauveur, but what filled my eyes most was the stake, high on a square made of plaster, with a board fastened to it, bearing the words:
JEANNE, WHO HAD HERSELF CALLED THE MAID, A LIAR, PERNICIOUS DECEIVER OF THE PEOPLE, SORCERESS SUPERSTITIOUS, BLASPHEMER OF GOD, DEFAMER OF THE FAITH OF JESUS CHRIST BOASTFUL, IDOLATROUS, CRUEL, DISSOLATE, INVOKER OF DEMONS APOSTATE, SCHISMATIC, AND HERETIC.
It was as if they had taken all the things good men hate most and blamed Jeanne for them, and I seethed with fury at their lies. Why was this happening? Why?
I must have whispered “Why?” aloud, for a soldier standing nearby gave me a look of surprise, and then said softly, “Because, mademoiselle, she is too good for this earth, and some men cannot bear that she is better than they.”
It was I who was surprised then, for I heard from his accent that he was English. When I looked at him more closely, he nodded and moved away.
But I knew that Jeanne’s goodness could not be the sole reason. I remembered the courage she had given our men and I imagined how much the English and Burgundians must have grown to fear her. That, too, must be the reason for her sentence, I thought, my eyes fixing on the words “sorceress” and “invoker of demons.” If you are a soldier, and are bested in battle by a woman, must you not think the reason is something more than that she is a better soldier than you? If you think God is with her, you must then think He is not with you—and so it would serve your interest better to think she is a creature of the Devil.
The square was becoming crowded, so I moved closer to the stake, for I wanted Jeanne to see me. I told myself I could always close my eyes if I could not bear to watch her pain.
I heard the cart carrying her before I saw it, and then it came into sight at the far end of the square, rumbling roughly over the cobblestones. Jeanne stood gripping one side, clad only in a long black shift, with a cloth over her head like a kerchief. Her mouth was set and taut, but I could see she had wept not long before, though she was quiet now and her eyes were dry. The crowd shouted when they saw her, mostly rough words. I think those few of us who loved her kept silent, praying with her when we saw her eyes turn above the crowd to Heaven and her lips move.
She was led to one of the platforms near the stake, and helped onto it. There was a long sermon, whose words I hardly heard. My eyes were on Jeanne, who stood silently and patiently, looking toward the sky, and then at the stake, and then at the crowd. She appeared puzzled, sometimes, as if she did not understand what had brought her here. I could feel my heart hammering in my breast and I wondered if she felt her own.
The sermon ended, and pinched, ratlike Cauchon spoke directly to Jeanne about her soul and its salvation, which seemed to me ironic; his own, I felt, was in more danger than hers. And then a high churchman, a bishop, read words casting her out of the Church and giving her to the secular officials—but this was ironic, too, for it seemed to me the Church had avoided accepting her ever since her capture. The cloth was removed from head, and I saw that her hair had been shaved off, and then her head was crowned with a miter—a mocking miter, not a holy one, for on it were the words HERETIC, RELAPSED, APOSTATE, IDOLATOR. Jeanne knelt in prayer, for some time, and I could hear her forgiving those who had wronged her, and asking their pardon. The soldiers around her, guarding her, laughed, but many near me wept.
Then she was conducted to another platform and was there for some time; again I could not hear what was spoken. But at last the man nearest her raised his hand. Another man seized her arm and pulled her rudely to the stake, and I heard her call upon her saints and cry, “Rouen, Rouen, shall I die here?” Then, with some of her old defiance and courage, almost in the tone she had used to the Burgundians at Orléans, she shouted, “Ha! Rouen, I have great fear that you will suffer for my death!”
My eyes were wet when she said that, as men piled fascines and logs closer around the skirt of her shift. I heard someone beside me saying kindly, “You know, mademoiselle, that they slip them something, to make the dying easier.” When I turned to see who it was and recognized the English soldier who had spoken to me before, another person, who I thought must be a merchant from his dress, said grimly, “I fear they have put the stake too high for that, and the logs too high as well. The executioner will not be able to reach her to help her die. For of course he has to do it unseen if he is to do it at all, and that will not be possible.”
I wished that I had not heard either man.
I turned again toward Jeanne, and saw that she was looking out over the crowd, and asking, with both hands and words, for a cross. The English soldier searched the ground near his feet and then I saw two small sticks, dropped from the fascines with which they were to kindle the fire. I picked them up quickly, and handed them to him, for he was taller than I and had better chance, I knew, of reaching her, especially being English and a soldier. He smiled at me, and fastened the two together with a bit of cord he had about him. Then he reached up to her with the little cross he had made, handing it to her. I saw her smile at him, and then, I think, she noticed me and smiled again before she kissed the cross and put it in her bosom.
She asked for another cross, a large one from the church, and when this was brought out and held up for her, she embraced it. But then it was pried from her, and her hands and arms were bound. The cross was moved away, to save it from the fire. I suppose—but she could see it still, I think, for the man who bore it held it high.
And then they lit the fire.
I know I stood there; I think I did not close my eyes, for I still remember her face, reflecting the flames and showing such terror and such agony as I have never seen. I remember praying, saying, “Holy Mary, protect her, save her from the pain”—for that was all I could think of: how it must hurt, how it must burn.
In a while there was so much smoke and the flames were so high that I could see no longer, and there was a great smell of burning wood and cloth and flesh that sickened many. I could hear her calling to her saints, and to God, and asking for holy water, which no one could give her.
And at last she cried, “Jesus!” and was no more.
