And two years later, in the prison. The prisoner remembers, in the paleness of what passes for light in her cell. She recalls her entry into history.
The end of her childhood, the birth of her legend. A farmer’s daughter in a memorable red dress at the gates of a fortress, and French soldiers mistook her for a would-be camp follower. What brings you here, honey? Not long after returning to Domrémy and finding the family house and the village church burnt by the enemy. What exactly did she tell Captain Robert’s men? And finally when he agreed to see her, and she told him that he must send her into France to make war on the English. She quoted the prophecy. The impact of one decision.
The captive remembers as best as she can. The stone bricks of her cell have not changed, but the room has a softer air. She remembers the captain dismissed her as a lunatic, joked about sending her back to her father for a good beating. What changed his mind? Historians have far too many theories. Jeanne nearly smiles. The captain had ogled her. She even considers eating some of the gruel the guards gave her earlier today.
Continues to remember. When at last it was agreed that she could be of use to the king, at long last free to appear as she pleased. Turned into a boy for safe passage from Lorraine to the king’s castle in Chinon. Unruly hair finally shortened and shaped, a round pageboy’s soup-cup do. Tight hosen instead of skirt, thick doublet instead of bodice. How natural to ride with a leg on either side of the saddle, boots fastened into stirrups. She would never again ride side-saddle. She looks down at her prison gown, missing her real garments, which she is not allowed to wear. But she does feel safer than yesterday, knowing that the earl rebuked the guards after last night’s violence. Is it possible to grow accustomed to life in a dungeon? Could she actually befriend the English countess? Notable French prisoners are allowed some liberties. Perhaps she will endure.
And does it still matter, after all these years, that La Rousse would not be with her? And as for that other one, the one with shimmering blue eyes. Jeanne sits back down on the floor of her cell, notices that the bruises on her face are still sore. She negates the name and its image. Where is she now, she who broke the heart of a virgin warrior? Never mind, Jeanne. Today is almost done and tomorrow she will ask for a blanket. Life must go on. Perhaps the earl will allow her to be free of the manacles for an hour, even to stroll in the yard. There will be trees there. She turns to the window and is saddened to see the sky’s colours so dim. She yawns. So little sleep, maybe no sleep whatsoever, over the last week.
Hears the vesper bells. The guards in the corridor are subdued and one of them can be seen napping. Is it safe to sleep tonight? And what thoughts and pictures will she dream? Not her, please, Saint Catherine and Saint Marguerite, keep her from my soul. Jeanne is resigned to loneliness until she dies. She is, despite the Inquisitor’s accusations and odious charges, nothing if not a very good Catholic. Blames herself for her obscure, sinful longings, and forgives the one whose name she won’t invoke. She is an inmate chained in a box made of mortar and bluestone bricks. The least she can do is deny the urge to torture herself with needless memories. Perhaps there will be a future. Maybe King Charles will one day pay for her release. Or perhaps the countess will take her into her household. How difficult would it be to learn English?