Dove and Sword: A Novel of Joan of Arc

It was a blustery March morning when we left. Maman gave me her bone-handled knife, the one my grandmother had given her. It seemed too great a gift, but when I protested, she smiled and brushed aside my hair, saying, “You will have more need of it than I. And it will remind you of home.”

Soon we were off, me with a square of warm woolen cloth over my shoulders, and a small purse at my waist containing a cross blessed with holy water and a bit of wormwood against fatigue. My mother added a heavy loaf of dark rousset bread to the flat twice-baked travelers’ loaves Isabelle had put in the pouches worn by Gray Mist, the old horse that carried our goods: sheepskins against the cold, a little common wine, my good dress and Isabelle’s, pig’s grease for wounds, betony against the Devil, and yarrow for wounds and ills of the head and stomach. Isabelle had our money, a few sous and deniers.

We left with tears for our families who stayed behind, and high spirits for the adventure. By now I knew it was not only the Jubilee that sent Isabelle to Le Puy, but also her desire to pray for Jeannette there in that holy place. Our guide and protector along the way was a stout, jolly friend of Messire Guillaume—Brother Antoine, who had provided Gray Mist. Brother Antoine was something of a dandy, for instead of a friar’s simple garb, he wore a long embroidered robe and leather platforms under his soft pointed shoes.

We went first to Neufchâteau, where we purchased candles for the nights we would spend in monasteries, and salt herring to eat with the rousset bread. And there, too, we found many other pilgrims preparing to travel to Le Puy. I had paid little heed to the pilgrims I had seen pass through our village, but now I studied them, and found them to be like most people, young and old, fat and thin, sick and well—though perhaps there were more afflicted among them than in most other groups.

That first night we stopped at the hut of a poor hermit, Brother Antoine’s cousin, and I fell asleep wrapped in my sheepskin on the rough dirt floor, dreaming happily of the journey to come.

The days passed, each different from the one before in weather, company, the land, and where we slept. We often walked with other pilgrims, sometimes lodging with them and sometimes lodging or camping by ourselves. The first night that we slept outside, wrapped in our sheepskins at the edge of a field, I could not find a way to lie that would let me sleep, and I spent the whole night shivering and trying to see pictures in the stars. But after that, I found it easier. I liked the freshness of the air and the freedom of lying alone instead of with others, as at home or in an inn.

Gray Mist plodded over land both flat and hilly, passing newly plowed fields and fields lying ready for the plow, and through forests where we lay awake around our fire waiting for wolves or boars that never came, and over mountain passes where we trembled at the thought of brigands whom we never met. But at last Gray Mist faltered, slowing and stumbling, so Brother Antoine led us off our path to an abbey he knew, high on a hill. “Here they have many horses,” he said. “And a fine farm as well. The monks may let us exchange Gray Mist for a younger horse.”

We toiled up the rocky path, and waited while Brother Antoine knocked at the gate, rousing the porter’s dog, who stuck his head out of a hole in the gate’s wall to bark at us.

“Oho,” said the porter, whose face was very red above his brown robe. “Brother Antoine, you old scoundrel—what, and with women, too? I know not if I should let you in; for all I know it is Satan you seek now and not the Lord.”

Isabelle looked alarmed but I could see the man was joking and I liked him immediately—his dog as well, who bent his spotted head down to lick the hand I offered him.

“Now, now, Denis,” said Brother Antoine, his face creased with smiles, “for all I know you and your Cerberus have already admitted Satan, for I hear great tales of the merry monks who live here, and of the gaming that goes on behind these walls.”

“Well, then,” replied the porter, “it would be well for me to admit you, so you can see that these tales are lies and that we are still as sober a lot here as we ever were.” Chuckling, he opened the gate to let us in.

It was sunset, the hour of Vespers, and the grounds were quiet except for the warm laughter of the friar and monk as they embraced, and the thumping of their hands against each other’s backs and of the gate dog’s tail against the wall. I reached down again and stroked him, and his tail moved faster.

“So, mademoiselle,” said the porter, moving out of Brother Antoine’s embrace and smiling at me, “you are a friend to animals, I see. Do not be deceived by this limb of Satan. He is merely looking for food, not love.”

“Then,” I said, reaching into the purse at my waist, “I shall give him food.”

“Gabrielle,” Isabelle said softly, admonishing me.

“I will not give him much,” I whispered. But I did give him one small scrap of flatbread.

To our right, the porter showed us, was the hostel for pilgrims and other wayfarers. It was a large, long building, with a door at each end, and a window above each door. To the left were more stone buildings, also low and long—the wayfarers’ chapel, the porter said, where we could pray, and the bakehouse, from which, even at this late hour, came such a smell of warm bread that it made me nearly faint from hunger, and I almost regretted the scrap I had given the dog.

Across was the abbey church, larger than ours in Domremy but not as large as Saint-Nicolas in Neufchâteau, and nearby were the cloister and chapter house and other private places. The farm was beyond the hostel and, the porter said, the infirmary was there as well, for monks who were ill, with the herb garden close by. I looked up at that and boldly asked, “Might we pilgrims look at how you cultivate your herbs, or see the infirmary?” At this Isabelle blushed crimson and said, in a hushed voice, “Gabrielle!” Then, turning to the porter, she said, “Pardon, s’il vous plaît—pardon, please—monsieur; she is but a poor village girl and knows not the ways of the world.”

The porter smiled indulgently and said, “I am afraid you cannot see the infirmary, mademoiselle; women are not permitted there. And though I would let you see our garden, Brother François, who tends it, is jealous and guards his secrets as a dragon is said to guard treasure.” He winked then, and bent closer. “But you would see little in any case; it is merely scratched-up dirt with a few greening patches, this early in the year. Come,” he went on, straightening up, “you must all be weary. Let us settle you in the hostel.”

We were crowded there, in the one long room, with many other pilgrims, women at one end and men at the other, with a smoking fire in between, and fleas hopping from person to person. So we sat outside to eat, and we ate better than we had so far, for the monks gave us bread, made with oats and rye, that was softer than our flat travelers’ loaves. We had cheese also, and onions, and even a soup, made, I think, of barley and dried peas. They gave us bochet to drink, which they called hydromel, made of fermented honey and water. I had tasted it only once or twice, on special days. Theirs was sweeter than the drink I knew, and I liked it well.

We stayed outside for a while after eating, for the night was warmer than it had been, and dry, and Isabelle told of her pilgrimage to Rome.

I could not sleep when we went inside, what with the night sounds of snoring, gnashing teeth, and breathing in many rhythms, and the night smells, too, and the itching I had from the fleas. At last I went outside and across to the monks’ chapel, although we had been warned that this was not allowed. But I had seen the wayfarers’ chapel earlier, and it was a humble church like those I knew, and this other one was not. I could not think that wishing to see a church was sinful.

The chapel was very large and beautiful, with a high vaulted ceiling and a lovely statue of our Blessed Mother, gazing sweetly at the Infant in her arms. I thought Jeannette would like to pray to her, were she here, and I tried to pray also, but instead of a proper prayer all I could say was how happy she looked to have such a fine plump baby, and that I hoped she had had an easy time. Then I thought it might be wrong to speak so familiarly to the Blessed Mother, so I turned to leave, but I heard a sound like groaning, coming from the cloister off the chapel. I followed the sound, and saw a young monk, a boy my age, near a dormant rosebush in the cloister’s central garden. He was running, but without moving forward, so that he merely bobbed up and down, up and down, panting and groaning with the effort. It was a comical sight, and I could not keep myself from laughing at it.

The boy started at the sound of my laugh, and looked straight at me.