should have no fear. I was sent here
to protect him. Thanks to my saints,
the weaker counsel did not infect
him. In the budding month of June
we began our appointed journey:
the king, his court, my army, and
at the head of the procession,
me, mounted on my charger. He
was larger than other horses
and in possession of a wild
and fearless temperament. That we
belonged together was evident
from my first time on his back, me
commanding in my armor, him,
proud and shining black.
HO had given you this horse?”
Joan: “My King, or his people, from the King’s money.”
* * *
Trial of Condemnation
The Warhorse
Not for me the slow life of the field and the plow
and the farm and the farmer’s dull monotone
as he harvests and rakes while the sweat of his brow
drops to the soil like the seeds he has sown.
* * *
I was bred for the babel; I was bred for the how
and the why of the fight and the withering groan.
Not for me the slow life of the field and the plow
and the farm and the farmer’s dull monotone.
* * *
I was bred for the knight and his bellicose vow
to enter the fray. Muscled loin, strong of bone,
firm of heart, wild of eye. Who would dare disavow
the bond of my breeding, the courage I’ve shown?
* * *
Not for me the slow life of the field and the plow.
* * *
And she was like me and so we were one.
We were the wind, untamed, unafraid
of the enemy’s grit; we were fierce renegades,
unflagging, unyielding, until we had done
* * *
what we set out to do. There was none
who could check us; though she was a maid,
she was like me and so we were one
when we were the wind, untamed, unafraid.
* * *
Many a knight had been cowed and outdone
by my spirit, left broken, unseated, unmade.
But she understood. Unbridled blood runs
molten and wild, unrestrained, unsurveyed.
* * *
And she was like me and so we were one.
Joan
The shuffling of the soldiers’ feet
raised a tremendous cloud of dust
that could be seen from a great distance.
It gave the captains of the towns
the time to know if they should continue
their resistance or come to a
more peaceable decision. Would
they recognize their rightful king
and enjoy his supervision?
Or would they fight? One after another
they stepped out of English darkness
and came back to the French light.
Cravant, Bonny, Lavau, all welcomed
us, and Saint-Fargeau fell without
a fuss, not a single arrow
in the air. And so it was with
Coulanges, Brinon, Saint-Florentin,
Auxerre. I always rode ahead
to let them know the Maid was at
their door, foolish to oppose, at
their great peril to ignore. And
in the wind, the banner Charles
made for me—white, depicting
angels, and golden fleur-de-lis.
HICH did you care for most, your banner or your sword?”
Joan: “Better, forty times better, my banner than my sword.”
* * *
Trial of Condemnation
The Banner
Above her head the sparrows huddle in the trees. Above her
head they listen with increasing dread. The phantoms
of her enemies are wailing in the morning
breeze above her head. Above her head
I scream a terrifying prayer. Above her head,
a warning from the newly dead to not resist for who
would dare to fight the angels singing there above her head?
Joan
Reims, too, was in English hands but,
before a sword had left its sheath,
it gave in to my demands. Not a
halberd thrown or a single word
of coarse debate. The residents
opened wide their city’s gates as
the frightened English soldiers fled.
All of Reims bowed its head when Charles
rode through its cobbled streets. Word of
my military feats had also
reached their ears. I saw their suffering
faces wet with tears of unchecked joy
and raw relief. But to my eventual
sorrow and certain grief, in the
young king’s retinue there were those
who, because I was not a man
but in men’s clothes, thought I was a
blasphemer and a troublesome
disgrace. They resented my place
in the royal court and worked behind
my back to thwart my influence
with the king. I did nothing to
stop their gossip, their intimations,
or their tricks. My place was with my
king. I did not stoop to politics.
Instead, I attended to the
coronation. There is no apt
description nor sufficient explanation
for what occurred in the cathedral
there. The very air felt sanctified.
I was filled with joy and pride as
Charles VII, king of France, was
coronated and anointed.
I stood beside him—not behind.
And appointed in my finest
armor, I reminded myself
that I, the daughter of a lowly
farmer, had brought this holy day about.
I still can hear the people shout . . .
Or is that the throng in front of
me calling me a slut and witch,
their faces warped in anger, their
din a frenzied pitch?
Fire
I’m near I’m near I’m near my darling
I’m near I’m near I’m near
I roar I roar I roar my darling
I roar I roar I roar
I soar I soar I soar my darling
I soar I soar I soar
I will I will I will my darling
I il l I will I w ll
thr I ill I thr my d rl ng
I thr I ri I
Joan
But my king could save me still. If
he has the will, he could ransom
me. The price would be handsome, but
he could set me free. Everything
I did for France—he won’t forget.
Charles is God’s chosen king:
I know he’ll save me yet.
Charles VII
What an embarrassment to me—
this peasant wench dressed in men’s clothes!
To appear before me! Royalty!
In tunic! Doublet! And in hose!
* * *
A reprehensible affront that goes
against all laws of propriety!
She says she is unschooled. It shows!
What an embarrassment to me!
Joan
There was so much more to do after
the victory at Reims. Henry
still held a large expanse of French
land, and Paris, too, was in his
grip. Though my voices did not tell
me to, with the approval and
companionship of my men and
the king, I set my sights on that
great city. There wou
ld be no mercy
and no solace, no pity for
the false French who there resisted,
whose loyalties had been so grossly
twisted that they would dare defy
me. I needed Charles to stand
beside me, but for seven long
weeks he reveled in his coronation
and stopped at every town that
welcomed him for drink and celebration.
By the time we reached the city
gates, our fates were set and firmly
sealed, for the English had prepared
themselves and concealed weapons and
ammunition around and on
the city walls—stones, crossbows,
My men were eager and inspired,
their courage hot and high, but an
archer caught me in the thigh, and
the aide who held my banner also
fell, and with it our offense. My
army lost its confidence. When
I was carried from the field, Charles
ordered a withdrawal and my men
were forced to yield.
ID you not say before Paris, ‘Surrender this town by the order of Jesus’?”
Joan: “No, but I said, ‘Surrender it to the King of France.’”
* * *
Trial of Condemnation
The Crossbow
Joan
The king seemed to retreat from me
after my defeat at Paris.
It was the ferrous tongues of my
detractors that caused this change in
his opinion. Among his minions
at the royal court, bad actors
undermined the king’s support by
telling him my character and
comportment would taint his
reputation as a good and
Christian king. I was, they said, an
aberration. A girl who dressed
and acted like a man was a
sinful, monstrous thing he should no
longer tolerate. I’d served my
usefulness, they said. He should remain
aloof. They said I’d been abandoned
by my saints, and Paris was the
proof. My saints, too, which had always
come to me unbidden, remained
distant and silent, hidden unless
I called on them to ask for their
advice. I did this once or sometimes
twice a day. They never turned away
from me but they no longer charged
me with specific tasks as they
had at Orléans and Reims, and
I began to ask myself if
I’d fulfilled my duty to
my king and to my country, France.
But how could I return to
Domrémy, its drudging tasks and
dreary obligations? The military
life had its deprivations, but
it was what I loved and wanted.
I would not be shunted back to
the barn and field, not allow my
current life to be repealed by
the domestic rut I hated,
to be betrothed, wed and mated,
like all the girls I used to know.
* * *
A kind of fearful loneliness
began to germinate and grow.
I felt abandoned, almost ill,
and shaken and so I became
bolder still and started to take
risks I ought not to have taken.
At Compiègne, I rode out among
the English forces—their angry peasant
footmen, their knights on armored horses—
in a cloak of shining gold. I
told myself that once they behold
the Maid of Orléans, fierce and
gleaming in her splendor, they would,
like all the other towns, come to
their senses and surrender. But
the English there were not as
easily impressed as I had
thought. A common soldier grabbed the
cloak. He pulled me from my horse, and
I was captured, caught not only
by a footman who had his eye
on me, but also by my recklessness
and the sin of vanity. I
loved that cloak; it made me feel
invincible and like a royal
son. How confusing that I love
it still, though through it I have been
undone.
AD not your Voices ever told you that you would be taken?”
Joan: “Yes, many times and nearly every day. And I asked of my Voices that, when I should be taken, I might die soon, without long suffering in prison: and they said to me: ‘Be resigned to all—that it must be.’ But they did not tell me the time; and if I had known it, I should not have gone. Often I asked to know the hour: they never told me.”
* * *
Trial of Condemnation
The Gold Cloak
We were as splendid
as the noonday sun,
and in our glory would
But all stars fall when their
time to shine is done. Our fame
was known to everyone. Taken
with our own mythology, as bright
and splendid as the noonday sun, we
fought our battles. One by one by one,
singing, shouting, “Victory!” But all stars
fall. When their time to shine is done they
fade and disappear. None can escape that dull
and awful certainty, though once they shined as
splendid as the noonday sun. What we’d begun
ended. Now it’s only history, like stars that fall when
their time to shine is done. She wasn’t able to outrun her
fate. Each of us has a destiny as sure and splendid as the
noonday sun. But all stars fall when their time to shine is
d o n e .
Joan
I was taken on the twenty-
third of May, and the next day they
brought me to Beaulieu les Fontaines.
But when, in July, I nearly
broke free, they improved their
weak security and removed me
to the tower at Beauvoir. It
was a foul place; the air was sour
but the windows lacked bars: My cell
was seven stories high. Was it my
intention, when I jumped, to enter
Paradise and die? Or did I
believe my blessèd saints would
teach me how to fly?
AVE you never done anything against their [her Voices’] command and will?”
Joan: “All that I could and knew how to do I have done and accomplished to the best of my power. As to the matter of the fall [leap] at Beauvoir, I did it against their command; but I could not control myself. When my Voices saw my need, and that I neither knew how nor was able to control myself, they saved my life and kept me from killing myself.”
* * *
Trial of Condemnation
The Tower
In
another life,
I might have been
a crimson dress made
to inhibit and oppress, worn
by women, cut and sewn. Now my
skin is mortared stone made by men for
war and strife. In another life
she might have been a man,
no more an anomaly than
any other natural man. Not
a danger. Not a threat. Then
she and I would not have met.
She might have been a far-
mer’s wife in another life.
Joan
I still don’t understand why I
did not die the afternoon I
leapt. D
o my saints think this a better
way? To be kept like a beast in
a darkened cell? To never see
the light of day? To be consumed
by smoke and choking fire? Did I
not do well in what they asked of
me? In what way did I offend?
Does my death require something that
I cannot comprehend? Or might
Saint Margaret save me still? The sun
is nearly at its peak, but she
has asked me to have faith. And so
I will.
Saint Margaret
Faith isn’t for the faint of heart.
Both courage and naïveté
are required. To grasp its art,
you must look the other way
when all the omens seem to say
you will not get what you desire,
so, though it may be a cliché,
I put my faith in fire.
* * *
Flames are devoted. Once they start
their urgent work—some call it play—
you may depend, they won’t depart
until they’ve kept their word. Their way
is not to waver; they obey
a law more natural. As they grow higher
they will not falter or betray.
So put your faith in fire.
* * *
Fire will scorch and singe and smart;
she cannot keep its pain at bay.
It will destroy her, then depart,
leaving ashes, cold and gray.
Though she may beg and plead and pray,