May 30, 1431
They shear off the little hair
left on my head.
Large sloppy tears cleanse my face.
I plead not to be removed from my cell.
“I should have been put in a church prison!
My death is your doing!”
I scream at Bishop Cauchon.
Cauchon denies responsibility.
He shoves a rough black tunic in my face
and forces me to wear a miter with the words
Heretic, Relapse, Apostate, Idolater.
It seems every armed soldier in Rouen
escorts me to the tumbrel.
This simple cart generally used to haul manure
will convey me to my death in the marketplace.
I roll slowly through
the angriest mob I have ever seen,
the poor and rich united
by their hate for me.
Ten thousand people
trample one another
to get an up-close
and final look at the French witch.
Four stages have been raised
in the square:
one for ecclesiastical judges
and notable people;
one for secular judges and the bailiff;
one for the clergyman who will
deliver to me a final sermon;
and the highest platform
for me and the stake
on which I will burn.
Cauchon reads me the placard
he erected before my stake:
“Jehanne who had herself
named La Pucelle is a liar,
pernicious person, abuser of people,
soothsayer, superstitious woman,
blasphemer of God, presumptuous,
unbeliever in the faith of Jesus Christ,
boaster, idolater, cruel, dissolute,
invoker of devils, apostate,
schismatic, and heretic.”
After another robed man
preaches me a final sermon,
Bishop Cauchon yells,
“Jehanne, you are fallen again
into these errors and crimes
as the dog who returns to his vomit!
We separate and abandon you from the church
and give you over to secular power.”
His words incite the crowd to cheers
and shoves and madness.
“Oh, Rouen, I am much afraid
that you may suffer for my death,”
I say as they chain me to my pyre.
“I pardon you for any harm
you have done to me.”
I look around with terror
for anything that might comfort me.
“May I please be given a cross?”
Unexpectedly, a rough-looking
English soldier here to control the mob
ties two sticks of kindling into a cross
and hands it to me.
I kiss the cross that it may bring me
courage and peace,
then tuck it inside my robe.
I will not be strangled,
as are most people sentenced to die by fire.
They want me to smell my flesh cook.
A torch lights the bottom of the pyre.
Immediately I feel the heat,
smell the burning wood,
hear a crackling of tinder.
When the pain comes
like a thousand sharpened swords,
I cry out, “Jesu! Jesu!”
Tears boil on my face.
I try to see my way to heaven,
but smoke blurs my eyes.
“Jesu!” Please let me die quickly.
But I do not.
I endure twenty minutes
of unfathomable suffering.
After my screams subside
and the English are certain I am dead,
they rake back the fire
and raise up my naked body
to expose and dishonor me,
to prove to the world
that I was only a woman.
The flames are then relit
until they reduce my carcass to ash.
But none of this distresses me,
for I look down from Paradise now.