The Maid (8 page)

It was weeks before Sir Robert would see her again. Cold, endless weeks. Rain pouring down every day. Darkness falling right after the midday meal. Jehanne fought the darkness in her own heart, the voices that promised disaster if she did not make it to Chinon before mid-Lent.

She spent most of her time in the church that sat beside Sir Robert's castle, praying. Up the long, steep cobbled hill she walked every day at dawn, her steps quick and intent, nimble as a goat.
Come, my love,
she thought.
Lend me your strength.

People stared at her. Their eyes on her ragged red dress, her fevered face, her determined walk. She smiled at those who met her gaze, walked past the rest as if she didn't see them. She turned her eyes to the sky.

The church was a dark, shadowed place, built of brown stone with high and narrow green stained-glass windows and lit by a forest of tall, slender candles. Jehanne's boot heels tapped on the smooth stone floor as she walked toward the altar of Saint Michael, the taps echoing in the high rafters of the building, a thrilling, solemn sound that made her feel as if she were in a play. At the altar she lit a candle and added it to the flickering forest. Then she knelt and prayed, her breath coming out in small white puffs, the tender yellow candle flames trembling above her head.

And it was always after she'd surrendered that the saints would come. Always after she thought,
Well, maybe not today,
and accepted it, felt her shoulders slump a little, let her heart sink back in its cage, that they came to her. The sudden bloom of light on her cheek, behind her eyes, the flood of warmth, their voices so tender. It was Margaret this day. Plump, fiery Margaret, standing in the air before her.
Hurry, cabbage. Blood is flowing in the streets of Orléans.

What can I do? Sir Robert won't see me.

Be brave, lamb. Brave and fast. God will clear the way. Every path will be opened to you. Hurry now, no time to waste.

The next afternoon, when she'd finished praying, Jehanne returned to the soldiers at the gate outside Sir Robert's fortress. Her heart shrank at the sight of them—their armor glinting in the sunlight, the memory of their cruel laughter ringing in her head. But she kept walking forward.
Enjoy yourself, darling,
Margaret sang out.
They're just boys after all. Show them your light; they'll never be able to resist.
Jehanne broke into a broad smile, her heart laughing at the lunacy of what she was doing, eyes bright, cheeks flushed as she came to stand before the group of knights and captains with their fine tall horses and their bright green tunics. "Here I am again," she said, raising her eyebrows and grinning. "Think he'll see me today?"

"In your dreams, sweetheart," one said.

The next day another said, "What would Sir Robert want with a mad cowgirl?" But they enjoyed her too, the soldiers. The bold, feisty smile. The bald audacity of this cheeky, pretty farm girl. They ogled her, showed off with their swords, made rude offers, tested her to see what she was made of. "I'll see you, honey. I've got just what you need ..."

Jehanne laughed, rolled her eyes. But went home feeling smashed under the skin. She woke late at night, sick with fear. Lay staring at the ceiling for hours while the woman beside her in the bed slept quietly.

But in the morning hope always rushed in anew, filling her heart with clean white sunlight.
Maybe today.

One day when Jehanne came home to the Le Royers', the main room was abuzz, ringing with talk and laughter. Three women were seated around the hearth, spinning and chattering. Thérèse was chopping carrots at the table. Letice sat beside her sister with a knot in her jaw, a strange hectic flush in her yellow face, scrubbing a turnip with her red bitten fingers. The room fell silent when Jehanne entered, the three women by the hearth gaping openly at her as if she'd sprouted a third eye in her forehead.

"Ah, there you are!" cried Thérèse loudly, a flutter of guilt in her voice. She introduced the women as Claudette, Mignon, and Paula. "I was just telling the girls about your mission, Jehanne. Hope you don't mind."

Jehanne stepped toward the hearth to rub her hands. She turned to face the women. "No, it's all right." Then she smiled wryly. "I'll take all the help I can get."

One of the women, a husky, low-browed brunette gazed at her hungrily. That was Claudette. "Is it true?" she asked. "Are you really the virgin from Marie Robine's prophecy? The one who's going to save us from the Goddons?"

"She is," said Thérèse from the table. "I knew the first time I saw her."

"God speaks to you? And the saints too?"

Jehanne said that they did.

"Amazing," breathed Claudette.

"In your dreams?" Paula asked, her voice sarcastic. She was a wry, heavy-jawed woman with a bitter purple mouth and long bony fingers. "God talks to me in my dreams too. Doesn't make it real."

"Doesn't make it false," said Jehanne.

"They speak to her all the time," said Thérèse. "They have for the last five years."

"Are they just beautiful?" said Claudette.

Jehanne nodded.

"Like in the church windows?" said Claudette.

Letice clicked her tongue and gave her head a hard little shake. Abruptly she set down her half-peeled turnip, dropped her knife with a clatter, and walked toward the door.

Her sister called after her. "Leti," she called, but Letice kept walking.

"Someone's time of the month, is it?" said Claudette.

Thérèse puffed up her cheeks with air and slowly exhaled. "Ridiculous," she said.

Claudette had eyes only for Jehanne. The virgin. "Tell me more," she said. "What do they say to you?"

Jehanne blushed. "I'm forbidden to speak of it to anyone but the King."

Claudette studied her. "You have the
virtus
in you," she said finally. "I see it."

"If only Sir Robert thought so."

"What does it matter what that pig thinks?" said the third woman. A slim, urchin-faced creature with sad, bulging eyes and a light snow of pink freckles on her nose. Mignon.

"She needs an escort," said Thérèse, pushing a line of orange carrot coins off her knife. "And horses. She can't just trot off by herself through three hundred and fifty miles of Goddon territory. They'll string her up by her toes before she's gone ten miles."

"I need a letter of introduction to the King too," said Jehanne, who was pacing now in front of the fireplace. "My voices say I have to be in Chinon by mid-Lent. That's only six weeks away. I have to leave here as soon as possible."

Claudette nodded, frowned with approval. "It's about time somebody did something."

"I wish we could help," said Mignon. "Is there anything we can do?"

Jehanne stopped walking. She said that they could spread the word that the virgin of Lorraine had come to win France back from the Goddons. "But it must be fast. If Sir Robert does not help me get to the Dauphin soon, France will be lost for good."

"Liar," Letice hissed. It was nighttime. The house was dark. Jehanne was sitting in the room where she and Letice slept together, braiding her hair in the candlelight. Thérèse was still downstairs, putting wood on the fire for the night. Letice came in, bringing with her a cold gust of air from the hall. She stood with her back against the door, her eyes black with hate. Jehanne looked up. Blinked.

"You're a filthy fucking liar," Letice said.

"You think so?" Jehanne stood up and went at the girl head first, her hands knotted into fists, but before she reached her, Thérèse banged on the door, said, "What's this? You girls locking me out now?"

Every morning Jehanne walked up the long hill to hear Mass in the brownstone church of Our Lady of the Vaults, and every morning a five-year-old altar boy named Grégoire watched her kneeling in the front pew, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, her face feverish, lifted to Heaven. Sometimes she wept, her eyes shining, her face wet with tears. Sometimes she spoke quietly to herself, as if in a trance. Everyone in the room noticed her, praying and whispering to her saints like one possessed. Praying as if her life depended on it. But only the boy was bold enough, untrained enough to stare nakedly at her throughout the service. Only the child watched with open fascination as Jehanne knelt in the sunlight, the motes dancing above her dark fevered head, chapped red lips moving, whispering, pleading, sighing.
Help me, Father. Lend me Your strength.

After the service he followed her down the dark stone staircase into the freezing high-vaulted crypt below the chapel. He watched her kneel once more in the damp shadows and pray at the shrine of the Virgin, her face so radiant that the boy thought he would do anything for her, follow her anywhere, just to be near her and the light pouring from her eyes.

At home that night, eating a bowl of lentils, he told his mother. "There's a magic girl in church. I love her."

"What?"

"She talks to God. And the saints. She's magic."

"Finish your food," the mother said.

But the next morning, when she dropped the boy off at church, the mother leaned down and whispered, "So where's this magic girl of yours?"

The boy pointed to the girl in the red dress, kneeling in the front pew. "There."

"Her?"

"She's beautiful."

"Not really," said the mother. But she saw the heat in that round, uplifted face, the dark gleaming head, the radiant smile. She found it hard to look away.

"Why do you say she's magic?"

"Because she is."

"No," said the mother. "She's just praying very hard."

Later, in the street, the mother stood with a basket of leeks on her arm, talking to another woman in the sun. "Have you seen that girl who goes back and forth to the church all the time? The crazy one?"

The woman nodded. "Claudette met her the other day over at the Le Royers'. Says she's on a mission from God, no less."

"Does she now?"

"Mission to go to the Dauphin, save France. Says there are three saints who talk to her, give her visions and the whole thing."

The two women regarded each other with delighted frowns.

"You remember the prophecy Marie of Avignon made, that France would be ruined by a woman and restored by a maid from Lorraine?"

"
Mmmm ...
"

"She says she's the Maid."

"God's Maid? Here to save France?"

The woman nodded.

"Oh, that's rich."

Silence then. The mother regarded her leeks thoughtfully. "Be great if it were true though, eh?"

"Thérèse believes her. Says she's honest as a nun."

"Well. Pray God it's true. It would take a bloody miracle to save this country."

Soon the Le Royers' house was packed full every afternoon with people wanting to see the girl who claimed to be the Maid of Lorraine. Hear about her mission for themselves. Mothers brought their colicky, red-faced infants and asked her to bless them; farmers brought cows and sheep that would not breed; a young man appeared with his face and chest covered with black boils, stinking of rotted meat, begging to be healed. Jehanne refused. "I have no healing powers," she said. Still they lined up, begging for a touch, a word from the Holy Maid.

And still Sir Robert refused to see her. When she went to his château each day after her prayers, the soldiers shook their heads, shrugged. "Sorry, darling. Can't do it for you."

One evening, after everyone had left, Jehanne stood alone in her room, watching as a pack of dogs ran howling down the street. There were four or five of them, skinny, wild things, running fast and barking loudly—as if they were chasing something, though she could not see what they were chasing. Watching them, she grew very agitated. She looked down and saw that her fists were clenched tightly in front of her, her knuckles white as chalk. She began pacing back and forth.
I must have help. I must have someone to help me convince him.

Abruptly she stopped walking and leaned against the cold windowpane, pressing her fingers over her eyes until dozens of yellow spots appeared.
Now! I must have someone right now!
She opened her eyes and looked out the window into the road and the bare black trees, but there was no one there, only the dark huddled houses and the faint gleam of the wet cobbled street. She began pacing again, back and forth across the floorboards.
Oh, what's the point?
What is the point?
She longed, suddenly, to fling herself out the window, dash her head against the rocks in the street. End it all. "How am I supposed to do this without any help?" she shouted at the ceiling. "Tell me, how am I supposed to do this?"

She sighed and sank down on her bed.
I know nothing, Lord,
she thought.
You have chosen the wrong person for this mission. I have no idea what to do.

The next afternoon, at the gate to Sir Robert's castle, there was a man Jehanne had never seen before. He was standing with the other soldiers—a tall olive-skinned young man with a long, sad face and bright gray eyes slightly too close together. He smiled when she looked at him, and when she smiled back, his eyes turned soft and helpless. His heart lay beating in her hands. His clothes were fine and clean—a heavy dark blue woolen captain's cloak with a thick silver clasp, tall brown leather boots—and as he walked toward her she thought,
Dear God, let him not say something embarrassing.

When he was close enough that she could see the little silver links of his chain mail, he stopped and squinted down at her. "What is it exactly that you want with Sir Robert?"

Jehanne looked at the group of soldiers behind him, smiling broadly and elbowing each other. "I'll tell you in private," she said, and he followed her beneath the shadowed archway of the fortress gate. "This will sound mad, but believe me, it's not."

The man, whose name was Jean de Metz, gazed at her. Nodded.

When Jehanne was finished speaking, he smiled—a wry smile now, one eyebrow arched. He had expected something like this. Had heard the other soldiers talking about the mad little peasant and her talk of saving France. "Has no one told you that the Dauphin is to be expelled from the kingdom, and that we are all doomed to become English?"

Jehanne looked at the man. "Some have said it, but they are wrong." She told him that she had to get to the Dauphin in Chinon before mid-Lent. "Even if it means walking my legs down to stubs, I must get there, for I am the only one in the world who can regain the Kingdom of France."

"Is that so?" he said, delighted by her audacity. She was the first person he'd heard talk of anything but outright surrender to the Goddons for months.

"I tell you with all the truth that is in my heart."

"And if your heart is mad?" he asked. But his eyes were gentle.

"It is not," she said quietly. "I swear to you, I have no desire to carry out this mission. I would rather be home, spinning wool beside my mother in Domrémy. But I must obey my Lord's orders."

That,
he thought,
is a lie.
But a clever lie. It would not do to appear a bloodthirsty virgin, though this was exactly what excited Metz most about her. The fire. The urgency crackling around her like lightning. Metz asked the same question Sir Robert had asked her that first day.
The same question they all asked.
"And who is your lord?"

"God," she said.

Metz laughed softly through his nose. "Lord help me, I believe you." Then another laugh burst out of him, for he was amazed at his own words.

"You should."

"You'll need escorts to take you, you know. It's three hundred and fifty miles between here and Chinon. You can't travel that country alone."

"Yes," she said. "I know."

And to his great surprise, Metz found himself kneeling down before the girl, his heart banging wildly in his chest, as though he were about to propose marriage. "Then I shall be one of them," he declared.

Later that afternoon came her second believer: Bertrand de Poulegny. Short, thin, filthy Bertrand with graying yolk-yellow hair and dark, wet, bulging eyes. Wax creeping out of his ears like moss. A crumpled clown's face. "Won't get far with that green oaf helping you," he said, falling in beside Jehanne as she walked through the gates of the château and began making her way down the long hill to the Le Royers'. A strange one, Bertrand. Arrogant and innocent and desperate all at the same time. He was older than Metz by perhaps seven or eight years—a man in his midthirties with a slight hop in his step that gave him an eager, spritely aspect. A tragic twist to his mouth. Oddly endearing. "I've actually been to Chinon," he continued. "I know the back roads, the forests to steer clear of. It's hellish country, you know. Burgundians and thieves, monsters all over."

"I know," Jehanne said, though she hadn't quite known the extent of it.

"Aren't you afraid?"

"No," she said, lifting her chin a bit. She told him that God had given her this mission and that she knew He would clear the road for her. "I was born for this."

Bertrand grinned. Like Metz, he was a soldier—a man hungry to move and fight. He was tired of standing around in Vaucouleurs, sharpening his sword and listening to the bad news from Orléans roll in day after day. The girl's wild words and her pretty dark eyes excited him. When she spoke, he felt the walls of his world expanding. "And what if I said I was born to guide you there?"

Jehanne was grinning now. "I'd say you're welcome. The more escorts I have, the better."

"We'll need money, you know," he said. "For horses and inns and such. Protection too. Have you got any?"

"Not a sol."

Bertrand laughed. "Me neither." Then he threw his arms up into the sky and shouted, "Dear bountiful God, if You love us, throw down some gold for our mission."

Jehanne stared at him. "Don't do that," she said in a hard voice. "It's not a joke."