How Burns the Fire

Before my flesh feeds the flames, I smell smoke from the acidic plume that billows around me. There is a rawness within my throat with every breath I fight for. They built my pyre using wood dampened by last nights spring rain, now instead of burning brightly it smolders, causing an overpowering haze. The chanting from the crowd slowly turns to coughs as their lungs fill with the noxious fumes and their eyes water. Outwardly, I smile bravely at my tormentors, my accusers, judge, and jury. Inwardly I can barely contain my emotions, if it weren’t for the ropes that bind me to the stake I would have crumpled with fear a long time ago. My hope for a cessation of my sentencing is no more than a dream of a united world. Beautiful in thought, unattainable because of the men in charge who will never relinquish power freely.

My bare feet blister because of the heat radiating from charcoal embers and not the fires that were to engulf my body and cleanse my soul. Instead, I will cook like a roasted pig on a spit. Not even they wish to witness that. The common folk and English gentry want to see me die, this is true. Even so, they aren't so blood crazed and barbaric that they enjoy watching the final agonizing moments of someone burning drag on longer than their attention span. This slow death would be too much. God fearing folk such as these will have nightmares, and that won't do. Also, the chances of me passing out and succumbing to the smoke before the fires melt my body was more likely to occur. This would deny pleasure for the few who want to see and hear my pain.

It isn't surprising when the nasally voice of Bishop Cauchon yells out. "Untie her, hold her while we build a new pyre."

The soldiers breathe heavily as they climb the smoldering pile of logs. They quickly cut my bonds, for fear the flames catch, and they burn with me. I am dragged to the edge and tossed on the ground. Ten Brave men surround me with their spears. Afraid of this tiny girl who has not yet seen twenty summers. My vision slowly returns as I am no longer consumed by the bitter smoke. I breathe in deeply trying to calm my nerves, muscles shiver uncontrollably and this I do not want them to see. I am so scared and alone.

I watch as they tear down the pile of wood, and begin once more to rearrange it, removing the wet lumber. The crowd is growing anxious. They came to witness the death of the one who hears the words of the devil.

It is true, there are voices in my head, but they were not Satan's, the words that echoed in my head were from his counter part. The one from above, whom we all supposedly pray too. I never asked for this, I never wanted it. I had no choice.

Through swollen eyes I spy a group of my men, dressed in peasant garb. Yet I see bulges in their wardrobe, probably hiding weapons. Were they foolish enough to try and free me, the English soldiers would cut them down in moments. The ones that survived would join me in the cleansing of souls or worse they would be tortured for days. My friend the Duc d’Alençon, locks eyes with me, his feet shuffle as he sees a chance. Before they can move I give a slight shake of my head, which clearly says ‘No, do not try to rescue me’

There is confusion upon his face, genuine sorrow as he realizes I do not wish to be saved. The others now see his hesitation and glance in my direction, again I give a slight shake of my head. When your own King betrays you out of fear, there is naught else to fight for. I have done what I can, my part is over, they will have to continue without me.

The skies darkened as the spring rains threatened to pour down once more, postponing their special event. The bishop yells for them to make haste. Soon I am once more led to the pyre and tied to the rough pole. The hemp rope cuts into my flesh reminding me that pain is about to come. My strength gives way to fear, yet I know that if I search for god he would guide me. Smells of sweat, singed hair and damp soil permeated the air. In a dream like state, I cry out for a crucifix, hoping to find solace in the touch. A kind soul braves the wrath and fastens one by tying two sticks together, he lets me kiss it, then places it next to my heart within my clothing. A chant from the crowd begins as my executioner lites the bales beneath my feet. He steps away and glances at me. Within his reddening eyes I see him begging me for forgiveness. His lips mouthing a prayer, he stumbles down then turns and walks away, unable to witness what he has done.

In silence, I forgive him.

It isn’t long before a creeping grey mist rises from below, a molten stench of pine needles and burnt fog fill my lungs with a pungent cloud of smoke. I pray that I shall pass out, already I feel my skin bubbling and once more taste the bitter vapors that were once my hair. My voice rises above the crackling flames, calling to Jesus and all the saints to give me strength.

Through the mirage of heat waves forming around me I watch Bishop Cauchon step into the crowd, raising his arms like a false god he calls out.

“Maiden, Jehanne la Pucelle. May the light of heaven burn the evil from your soul.”

The flames grow, saying nothing I lift my head to the heavens. A light penetrates the darkened skies, bathing me in a holy light that envelopes me. I glow but not from the fire, a warmth that no flame can compare, radiates within me. In moments, my heart fills with hope, joy, love, forgiveness.

I hear a voice sing within my head and smile. Looking at priests, the English gentry and the Burgundians who betrayed me. Suddenly the crowd become silent as I stare into bishop Cauchon’s eyes.

My voice carries like it did on the battlefield. “Our father waits for me in Heaven and tells me, while my flesh may feed the flames for a moment, it shall be your soul that feeds the fires of hell for an eternity.”

I watch the crowd distance themselves from him, the fear on his face tells me he knows the truth in my words.

The fear I had, still surrounds me yet I am calm, with my final breath I call for Jesus and before all goes black I see fear in the faces of those who sentenced me. They who feel their deeds and names will live on forever.

But I know the truth.

Like me, these God-fearing men shall fade from time, no one will remember our deeds, our names will vanish forever like smoke in the wind.

Her name is not forgotten.

She lives on past her prosecutors and her deeds shall be passed along for generations. Joan of Arc, ‘the maiden’ did more with her short time on earth than most people could ever hope to achieve in their lifetime.

Although this is Historical Fiction it is based on truth:

- Bishop Cauchon participated in her sentencing

- A stranger fastened a cross out of sticks for her to hold and kiss

- The executioner who lit the fire left the scene and drank in a nearby tavern asking for forgiveness.

- Joan cried out to Jesus and the Saints to give her strength

-It was her fellow Frenchmen (Burgundians) who captured and then turned her over to the English, after she fell off her horse in battle.

-King Charles of France abandoned her because she was becoming popular amongst the common folk and a few nobles.

-She NEVER gave in to the lies they accused her of, and she maintained the voice of God spoke to her until the end.