dreamed the night before she left for Nancy. A disaster. Three thousand French noblemen defeated by a small convoy bound for the English troops at Orléans. Three thousand of France's most famous warriors against three hundred English wagons full of dried fish.
All the most highly decorated generals had volunteered to march upon Rouvray: La Hire, Poton de Xaintrailles, the Bastard of Orléans, and the King's own army, led by young Comte de Clermont. It should have been an easy victory, a joke. But no, it was as she had dreamed: a slaughter. Poton, La Hire, the Bastard, and their men riding in from Orléans in a thunder of horses and armor, their bright flags snapping in the winter wind as they arrived outside Rouvray with their men, hot to fight—only to find Clermont and the King's army nowhere in sight. "Clermont, that ass," Sir Robert said, shaking his head. "While he and his idiots were busy plundering Rouvray's cellars, the English convoy arrived, caught sight of the Orléans men lying in wait, and started digging themselves in for a fight." The Orléans men had requested permission to attack the convoy without Clermont, but he refused. Clermont had been so greedy to see his first big battle that he made them all wait for him while the English got themselves beautifully entrenched, circling their wagons and planting sharp spikes that stuck out on all sides, so when at last the French forces attacked, they charged straight at the spikes in a great crush, impaling themselves row after row after row. "A massacre," Sir Robert said, his jaw set, eyes lowered as if he were watching the battle unfold as he spoke. "Another pathetic massacre."
He raised his eyes to look at Jehanne, who stood before him. "How did you know?" he said. There was a difference in him that day. He still looked like an old bull, but something had changed. The doors in his eyes had opened. "How did you know that would happen?"
"A dream."
He nodded, rubbed his lip with his index finger. "Tell me about this dream. Did God speak to you in it?"
"I'm forbidden to say more."
The governor squinted at her for a long moment, his finger pressed against the hollow in the center of his top lip. "You are something, Jehannette from Domrémy, I'll give you that."
"I am the Maid of Lorraine, sir. I was born for this."
Sir Robert shook his head. "Whatever you are, you've gotten a lot of people in this town very excited. You'd better hope you don't disappoint them."
Jehanne's heart bounced in her chest. "Does that mean you'll send me to Chinon, sir?"
"I'm considering it."
47
That afternoon Thérèse came to Jehanne where she knelt, praying in the church, and begged her to return to the house. "I was wrong to doubt you," she said, gripping her apron as she spoke. "It's just been so strange—all this."
Jehanne was silent.
You heard about Rouvray. About my meeting with Sir Robert. That's the only reason you're here.
"You know," she continued, "the way I was raised, it's a sin worthy of hanging for a woman to go around in boy's clothes ... it's just ... not done."
"God Himself has instructed me to do it, and I will continue."
Thérèse nodded. Her eyes were bright with tears. "Of course," she said. "Of course you should, but won't you come home now, please? I hate seeing you here in the cold like this."
People are terrible, weak as sheep,
thought Jehanne. But eventually she allowed Thérèse to throw a shawl over her shoulders and they walked out of the church and down the long hill to the house.
The curate, Jean Fournier, said they needed to exorcise her. Make certain that she was not a fiend of the Devil. He'd appeared, frowning in the Le Royers' doorway, that evening, rain splashing on his hat, staining his black houppelande. On one side of him stood Sir Robert, Sir Robert with his eyes bright and strange. On the other side stood a boy, thin and wrecked with pimples. A long triangular face, eyes on either side of his skull, like a goat. Jehanne
All the most highly decorated generals had volunteered to march upon Rouvray: La Hire, Poton de Xaintrailles, the Bastard of Orléans, and the King's own army, led by young Comte de Clermont. It should have been an easy victory, a joke. But no, it was as she had dreamed: a slaughter. Poton, La Hire, the Bastard, and their men riding in from Orléans in a thunder of horses and armor, their bright flags snapping in the winter wind as they arrived outside Rouvray with their men, hot to fight—only to find Clermont and the King's army nowhere in sight. "Clermont, that ass," Sir Robert said, shaking his head. "While he and his idiots were busy plundering Rouvray's cellars, the English convoy arrived, caught sight of the Orléans men lying in wait, and started digging themselves in for a fight." The Orléans men had requested permission to attack the convoy without Clermont, but he refused. Clermont had been so greedy to see his first big battle that he made them all wait for him while the English got themselves beautifully entrenched, circling their wagons and planting sharp spikes that stuck out on all sides, so when at last the French forces attacked, they charged straight at the spikes in a great crush, impaling themselves row after row after row. "A massacre," Sir Robert said, his jaw set, eyes lowered as if he were watching the battle unfold as he spoke. "Another pathetic massacre."
He raised his eyes to look at Jehanne, who stood before him. "How did you know?" he said. There was a difference in him that day. He still looked like an old bull, but something had changed. The doors in his eyes had opened. "How did you know that would happen?"
"A dream."
He nodded, rubbed his lip with his index finger. "Tell me about this dream. Did God speak to you in it?"
"I'm forbidden to say more."
The governor squinted at her for a long moment, his finger pressed against the hollow in the center of his top lip. "You are something, Jehannette from Domrémy, I'll give you that."
"I am the Maid of Lorraine, sir. I was born for this."
Sir Robert shook his head. "Whatever you are, you've gotten a lot of people in this town very excited. You'd better hope you don't disappoint them."
Jehanne's heart bounced in her chest. "Does that mean you'll send me to Chinon, sir?"
"I'm considering it."
47
That afternoon Thérèse came to Jehanne where she knelt, praying in the church, and begged her to return to the house. "I was wrong to doubt you," she said, gripping her apron as she spoke. "It's just been so strange—all this."
Jehanne was silent.
You heard about Rouvray. About my meeting with Sir Robert. That's the only reason you're here.
"You know," she continued, "the way I was raised, it's a sin worthy of hanging for a woman to go around in boy's clothes ... it's just ... not done."
"God Himself has instructed me to do it, and I will continue."
Thérèse nodded. Her eyes were bright with tears. "Of course," she said. "Of course you should, but won't you come home now, please? I hate seeing you here in the cold like this."
People are terrible, weak as sheep,
thought Jehanne. But eventually she allowed Thérèse to throw a shawl over her shoulders and they walked out of the church and down the long hill to the house.
The curate, Jean Fournier, said they needed to exorcise her. Make certain that she was not a fiend of the Devil. He'd appeared, frowning in the Le Royers' doorway, that evening, rain splashing on his hat, staining his black houppelande. On one side of him stood Sir Robert, Sir Robert with his eyes bright and strange. On the other side stood a boy, thin and wrecked with pimples. A long triangular face, eyes on either side of his skull, like a goat. Jehanne
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