RPAGF Chapter 7 Pilgrims
Chapter 7 Pilgrims
"Jeanne, go and wake Pierre up! What time is it? Tell him to take the cows to drink some water and come eat."
The woman was busy at the stove, giving an order without turning her head. Behind her, at the table, sat her two daughters, the older one about fifteen, doing needlework—a piece of woolen cloth was already mostly sewn, the stitches fine and even. She responded, put down her work, and pushed open the door to the next side room.
The sound of snoring filled the air.
Jeanne frowned, picked up the kettle by the door, and poured it over her brother's head. Pierre woke up with a start, jumped out of bed, wiped the water droplets from his face, and said in a grumpy voice, "Jeanne! What are you doing?"
"Look at the time! Still sleeping?" Jeanne, hands on her hips, shouted even louder than him. "You never listen to reason, running off with Jean every night! I told you to go water the cows!"
Pierre muttered as he dried his hair with the blanket, "What nonsense! That's sword practice! When the British come, won't we still have to rely on us men?"
Jeanne ignored him, turned back to the table, and picked up her needle and thread again. Pierre dried his hair, grabbed an apple from the stove, and led the cow out.
The woman glanced at the sky, placed the pot on the fire, and turned to see that the white cloth in her eldest daughter's hands was already taking shape. She nodded with satisfaction: "Jeanne, your skillful hands are truly a gift from God. I wonder which lucky young man will be able to marry such a good girl as you."
The girl next to her, two years younger, lowered her eyes, her needlework slowing. The woman quickly added, "Catherine, you're still young. Besides, Jeanne isn't a good cook either."
Jeanne blushed. "Mother, please stop. Can the altar cloth be finished today? Should we deliver it this afternoon?"
The woman nodded: "The priest is pressing us hard, so it will be sent this afternoon. A family in a downstream village was found murdered the day before yesterday, and the priest is going to hold Mass for them today."
Jeanne didn't say anything, but simply tightened the stitches a little more.
The water in the pot boiled twice, and then the door was pushed open again. Two men carried in farm tools, and another man herded a flock of sheep into the backyard. The middle-aged man in the lead found a ceramic pot as soon as he entered, took a few sips, and handed it to the man next to him.
The woman went up to them: "How's the situation in the fields? Will the family at the east end be able to finish harvesting before the rain?"
The man put down his sickle, sat down next to Jeanne, and shook his head: "There's no hope. It's going to rain tomorrow, and we still need ten acres. Jacques and I are the only ones who helped; we're the only ones in the whole village who have finished harvesting. You know their situation: a deserter who lost half an arm, and an old man who's about to be buried. They can practically be counted as one."
The shepherd man came into the house and chimed in, "If you ask me, it's all the Burgundians' fault. If they hadn't passed through a few days ago, forcing us all to go to the training camp, most of the land wouldn't still be unharvested by now. You and Jacques didn't go then; some families only had one male member, and after training, they had to walk two leagues home overnight."
Jacques nodded: "Yes, there are many men in our family. Pierre and Jean can go to training, and there's my father and me. My mother also takes care of Jeanne and Catherine at home. Since the fire two years ago, there aren't many families in our village that can gather four men."
The woman sighed, glanced at the pot, turned down the heat, and began calling her daughter to call her youngest son back. She then started preparing the utensils. The men were still chatting, their voices buzzing in the kitchen.
"Dad, you go to town so often, why is the situation even worse this year than the year before?"
"I only heard about it from the town's officers." The man helped carry the large pot to the table and began serving pea porridge into bowls. "The British army has already reached Orleans and hasn't left since spring. I reckon they won't retreat until winter. You know how ruthless the Burgundians are; the more the British cause trouble, the more ruthless they become."
Jacques helped the woman bring out the bread and picked up the conversation: "Yes, the Burgundians are getting more and more ruthless. They almost burned our village down the year before last. So this year, even if it means grinding our teeth, everyone is going to guard the riverbank. But this kind of law-abiding is not going to end. The town can only send twenty soldiers to help this year."
Pierre had slipped back into the house sometime earlier, and was about to scoop something out of the pot with a spoon when the woman slapped his hand, making him obediently sit down at the table. Hearing Jacques's words, he excitedly replied, "You didn't go to Vaucouleur this year, you don't know—the Marshal in the south seems to have won a great victory, and Montagna even flooded the British, killing hundreds of British knights! I don't think the British will last long; they might be gone in two years!"
The middle-aged man frowned and shoved him into his seat. "What do you know, you brat? We've been fighting for over a decade, from Agincourt to now. The British have marched from the coast to our doorstep, Paris is gone! How can we drive them out in two or three years?" His voice hardened. "You're not allowed to sneak off to Vaucouleur to be some kind of infantryman. If you do, I'll break your legs first!"
The woman stepped forward and pulled him away: "Alright, alright, let's eat first, we'll talk later."
She sat down first and made the sign of the cross. The other six people followed suit, bowing their heads and clasping their hands together. After a brief silence, the woman picked up her spoon, tapped it against the edge of the pot, and it was time to eat.
The few slices of cured meat were quickly devoured—except for the one the woman had offered to her youngest daughter. The middle-aged man traded his egg to Jeanne, receiving half in return. Only after Jeanne had soaked up the last bit of cabbage soup with bread did the woman give each of them an apple and begin clearing the dishes.
Pierre seemed to have forgotten that he had just been scolded. He tugged at Jean's sleeve and said, "You can take your time herding those sheep. Anyway, no one in the village will be competing with you for grass at this time. Come and practice your swordsmanship with me first." He glanced at his father at the table and saw that the latter nodded slightly before he took out two wooden swords from the corner of the wall and pulled Jean into the yard.
The woman watched their retreating figures and called out, "Practicing swordsmanship is fine, but hold back! Don't hurt yourself!"
The father sighed, lowering his voice: "Actually, Pierre's personality is just a bit too impulsive. But practicing swordsmanship is a good thing these days; the world is getting more and more chaotic."
Upon hearing this, Jeanne put down her needlework and went to the door, watching the two brothers compete with great interest.
Pierre was shorter, but he fought with discipline, striking left and right, specifically looking for Jean's weaknesses. Jean's swordsmanship wasn't as refined, but being a few years older and having longer arms, he easily parried using his reach and occasionally even managed a counter-attack. Pierre struggled more and more as the fight progressed, and finally, after taking a blow to the arm, he raised his hand in surrender.
He was panting and about to rest when he turned around and saw Jeanne standing in the doorway, engrossed in watching something. Remembering the grudge over the pot of water that morning, he suddenly called out, "Jeanne, would you like to try it?"
He frowned and said, "What nonsense are you talking about? Jeanne is a girl, why would you ask her to touch a sword? Besides, you know Jeanne's temperament, don't mess with her."
Seeing that Jeanne didn't retort, Pierre became intrigued: "Brother, do you see how Burgundians care whether you're a man or a woman? There are a few families in the next village without men, and they still have women coming, haven't they? What if Jeanne can't protect herself when we're not home?"
Jeanne didn't say anything, but walked up to Jean and extended her hand.
Rang shook his head: "Don't blame it on me if you get hurt."
Jeanne took the sword, glanced down at her headband, tightened her thick braid, and tucked the hem of her skirt into her belt, revealing her leather-soled wooden shoes. She mimicked Jean's stance, holding the sword upright in front of her chest.
Pierre, seeing this, said nothing, gave a distorted knightly salute, and shouted, "Be careful! Don't call for your mother if you get hurt!"
He thrust straight at her, and Jeanne took two steps back following his sword.
He thrust forward again, but this time Jeanne kept her eyes fixed on the tip of the sword and only took one step back.
As he thrust the sword halfway out for the third time, Jeanne held it horizontally, gripped it with both hands, and swung it forcefully—smashing it right in the middle of Pierre's blade. Pierre's wrist went numb, and the wooden sword flew out, landing on the muddy ground outside the yard.
Jeanne patted his head with her sword and tossed it back to him.
Pierre, still in shock, stumbled from the blow of the wooden sword and fell to the ground with a thud. Jeanne didn't even glance at him, and went into the house with her head held high.
Jeanne, standing nearby, was stunned until her figure disappeared into the doorway before she snapped out of her daze. Pierre rolled over on the floor and angrily roared, "How could I forget she's a woman with incredible strength!"
Jeanne went inside and found her father and elder brother already at work, while Catherine was asleep at the table. The altar cloth in her mother's hand was completely mended. She turned it over to check it, then handed it to Jeanne, whispering, "This cloth is mended. Take it to the priest quickly; he must be waiting anxiously."
Jeanne nodded, took the white cloth, folded it carefully, stuffed it into the small pouch in her apron, and walked briskly toward the church.
Before she even reached the church entrance, she saw a short, stout priest waving at her. She jogged over, pulled the white cloth from her bag, and said, "Father, we're done!"
The priest took it, unfolded it, and looked at it, beaming with joy: "Good girl Jeanne, I knew I'd come to the right person. Without this altar cloth, what would I use to place the cross?"
Jeanne smiled faintly in response.
The priest rolled up the cloth, tucked it under his arm, and pointed south: "Good girl, I have to go next door. That damned robber wiped out my whole family; they were buried yesterday, and I have to go today. I just had a pilgrim arrive, and I haven't had time to entertain him yet. You talk to him first, and if you think he's a good person, ask your mother if she can stay at your house for the night. If he can't, leave him with me; I'll let him sleep with the donkey for the night."
After saying that, he hurriedly packed his things and headed south.
Jeanne entered the church and, sure enough, saw a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a cloak kneeling in prayer before a pew. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, illuminating his back and giving his faded cloak a soft, old hue.
She walked over, and the man heard her footsteps and turned around.
It was a face covered in wrinkles. He was very old, but his eyes were bright, and his eye sockets were deeply sunken. He stood up, bowed slightly, and made the sign of the cross. Jeanne returned the sign.
"I am Jeanne," she said. "The priest asked me to come and help."
The old man's voice was slow: "Bless you, Miss Jeanne. I am a humble pilgrim on my way to the Holy Land, and I would like to ask for a meal and a night's lodging in your village. I am willing to exchange my labor for it."
Jeanne quickly replied, "May the Lord bless you, sir. You don't need to do any work; Mother is always happy to entertain devout and courteous believers like you. If you don't mind, please stay at my house for the night."
The old man nodded and said, "Then thank you for your piety and kindness. Please excuse me and this church as I bid you farewell."
He turned to face the altar and offered another prayer. Then he picked up his cane from the bench beside him, and slung over his shoulder a small backpack and water bag—that was all he owned. Jeanne didn't know how to reply, so she simply turned and led the way. The old man walked at a leisurely pace, his cane tapping on the stone pavement. Jeanne, however, sometimes quickened her pace, sometimes slowed, stopping after a few steps to wait for him.
When they reached his doorstep, Jeanne turned around to open it for him and noticed that one of the old man's boots was torn, revealing the strips of cloth used to bind his feet. Yet he stood steadily, without even leaning on his cane.
Jeanne pushed open the door, her voice tinged with excitement: "Mama, a devout pilgrim has come to stay!"
Isabella stood up from the stove, wiped her hands on her apron, glanced at the old man for a moment, and then bowed slightly: "Come in, old man."
The old man took off his hat, revealing short, white hair and a tanned bronze scalp. He bowed slightly: "May God bless this family."
Isabella led him to the table and went to pour him some water. The old man placed his hat on his lap and his gaze slowly swept around the kitchen—the statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner, the key-shaped badge hanging above the stove. Then he took the bowl of soup from the woman and looked at her hand.
"Excuse me," he suddenly asked, "has anyone in your family ever been to Rome?"
Isabella paused, her spoon hovering in mid-air. "My father went there thirty years ago." She paused again. "My last name is Romeo—my name is Isabella Romeo."
The old man put down the soup bowl, took a key badge from his hat, and placed it on the table. It was exactly the same as the one hanging on the wall—bronze, with the key teeth facing upwards and the edges polished to a shine.
“I’ve also been to Rome,” he said. “I asked for it at the entrance of St. Peter’s Basilica. By God’s grace, I was able to stay in such a devout home.”
The three women at the table were stunned. Catherine stared, mouth agape, at the badge on the table, then at the one on the wall, her eyes wide. Jeanne was the first to react, saying, "It's not that I don't believe you, sir, but you look so old, and you still don't have a horse. It must take you a year or two to get to Rome, right?"
"Three and a half years." The old man's voice carried a hint of pride. "I started from Champagne, followed the Seine to Lyon, then crossed the Alps to Turin, and then the ancient road led straight to Rome."
"My goodness!" Isabella took the badge off the stove and compared it with the one in the old man's hand—they were indeed identical, except the former had turned black. "My father traveled with a caravan and carried a lot of money. He traveled by carriage from spring to winter. You, sir, are all alone... It's unbelievable."
"I don't have that much money." The old man took the badge back and pinned it back on his hat. "I've been stuck on the road for a long time, trying to save up enough money to continue my journey, or I'm relying on kind people like you."
Jeanne and Catherine kept asking the old man questions—how deep was the snow in the Alps, what color were the houses in Turin, and how high was the dome of St. Peter's Basilica. Isabella listened for a while, then quietly went to the back of the house to get some things and busied herself at the stove.
As the sun began to set, people gradually returned home. Only when some houses in the village had already lit their lamps did Pierre reluctantly enter his house, still somewhat hesitant as he went inside.
He was surprised to find that no one cared that he had come in.
Everyone gathered around the old man at the table, listening to what he was saying. Only his mother gave him a slightly disapproving look: "Where have you been playing again? We have a distinguished guest—this old gentleman is a pilgrim returning from Rome! Quickly wipe your hands clean and eat!"
Pierre put his own thoughts aside, squeezed to the front of the table, and excitedly asked, "Sir, have you been to Rome? What was it like there?"
The old man didn't mind his abruptness and replied with a smile, "Rome is a great city, but what's more special than the scenery is that you can meet people from all over the world there, even from the East. The first place I visited was St. Peter's Basilica. Just one look and all the fatigue from my journey vanished. And when I saw St. Peter's Tomb, my decades-old ailment was cured, and I haven't returned since."
Pierre seemed somewhat dissatisfied: "Didn't you see the Holy See, or any other important person?"
The old man shook his head: "I stayed in Rome for half a year without having the chance to see the Holy See. But I thought, perhaps this was the Lord telling me that this was my blessing. So I set off on my return journey, and sure enough, the journey was smooth."
The middle-aged man listened for a long time before interjecting, "Didn't you encounter any obstacles on the road? As far as I know, the English are attacking in all directions, and the Burgundians are trying to blockade the entire Champagne."
The old man shook his head: "I have seen the Burgundian army; they are indeed very barbaric. Perhaps it was the Lord's will that I encountered one of our armies. With the commander's permission, I traveled with them to Mâcon, and then I came here alone without encountering any soldiers or bandits."
Pierre's eyes lit up: "Who led that army? Did they fight the British? Did they win or lose?"
The old man pondered for a moment: "I don't know who that man is; I was merely allowed to travel with him. However, the soldiers said they were loyal to the Crown Prince, who was in Tours commanding the resistance against the British. I parted ways with them before they prepared for battle, and I think it was the Lord's will."
Pierre was about to ask something when his mother interrupted him—she pointed to the pot, indicating that it was time to eat.
Pierre walked to the stove and froze. The bread was freshly baked and still steaming. Next to it, a large plate held a dozen or so large slices of cured pork, several sausages, and eight fried eggs, all neatly arranged.
He was just starting to distribute bread when Jacques brought in a large pot of soup, which, besides cabbage, contained parsnips, garlic, and a few diced hams. Just when he thought that was the end of it, Isabella took the pot and ladled a large spoonful of beans into each person's plate, the beans glistening with lard. There was also a small plate of goat cheese and a jug of cider on the table.
The middle-aged man glanced at the table full of dishes, nodded, and didn't say anything more.
The prayer was led by an elderly man. He closed his eyes, placed his hands folded on the edge of the table, and spoke a particularly long prayer, while the others waited quietly with their eyes lowered.
The old man ate little, but he swept everything in front of him clean. Isabella saw this and ran to the stove to bring back a plate of roasted apples, lightly sprinkled with salt, enough for everyone to have one.
After finishing his meal, the old man rose contentedly and bowed deeply, saying, "May God bless this family. This is the best meal I've had since I left home for this pilgrimage."
Jeanne asked, somewhat puzzled, "Sir, didn't you go home? Aren't you living in Champagne?"
The old man sat down and looked at her quietly: "I have no home anymore. When I left, I entrusted my house to the church. But when I returned, my village was gone. I heard that the Burgundians came and plundered it, and to this day no one dares to come back."
A moment of silence fell over the table. Seeing the look of pity on everyone's faces, he continued, "I had no family left. When I was young, my children died of the plague. And before I set out, my wife was called by the Lord. You need not grieve for me; it was the Lord's will that saved me from the sword."
"So where are you going now?" the middle-aged man asked. "If you'd like, there are plenty of jobs around here that need someone like you."
The old man shook his head and bowed again: "Thank you for your kindness. But I already have somewhere to go. I think the end of this pilgrimage is Mont Saint-Michel. I've heard that there is a group of noble people there who persevere in these dark times. I want to join them, or die there."
No one asked any further questions. Isabella quietly instructed Jeanne to prepare a side room that was usually reserved for pilgrims, and specifically told her to change the sheets and blankets.
Jeanne carried the clean bedding into the side room, bent down to make the bed, while the old man stood at the doorway leaning on his cane, not coming in. After she finished making the bed, she turned to leave, but her feet stopped at the threshold, and she hesitated back and forth.
The old man smiled, sat on the edge of the bed, leaned his cane against the wall, and asked, "Miss Jeanne, is there anything else you want to ask this old man?"
Jeanne's fingers twisted the apron straps for a long time. "Can you promise not to tell anyone else? Especially the priest?"
The old man looked at her gently: "Child, I will be setting off again tomorrow. Whatever your secret is, it will only be taken to the West by me. And the secret belongs to God."
Jeanne sat down on the low stool beside the bed, her hands clenched tightly on her knees. "Sometimes... I hear sounds." Her voice was soft, as if afraid the wind outside the window would hear it. "Those sounds tell me to help—to help the Crown Prince defeat the English."
The old man didn't speak immediately. He just looked at her, his eyes showing neither surprise nor suspicion.
"When did you hear the sound?" he asked. "Did it tempt you to commit a crime or do anything immoral?"
“I heard about it two years ago,” Jeanne’s voice trembled. “I didn’t dare tell anyone. It only asked me to help the Crown Prince and didn’t mention anything else. But in recent years… it’s been happening more and more frequently.”
Her eyes reddened, and her voice lowered even further: "Am I possessed by a demon? Or cursed by a witch?"
The old man shook his head. He reached out and placed his hand on Jeanne's clenched hand.
"Good girl, don't be afraid." His voice was steady. "This is neither a devil nor a witch. This is revelation."
Jeanne looked up, tears welling in her eyes: "But the priest said that the Lord won't speak to us without going through them; only the devil will!"
"Yes, the Lord won't speak to us." The old man released his grip, took off his hat to reveal a full head of white hair, which was faintly edged with gold by the candlelight. "But we can do it ourselves."
He was silent for a moment, as if he was recalling something.
“After my wife died, I lived in a daze until one day when I was fifty-one, I heard a voice in my heart—why not go to Rome?” His voice was soft, as if he were talking to himself. “When I met Saint Peter, I realized that it was a revelation from the Lord. He was now calling me to see the last French fortress in Normandy to end this pilgrimage. But the Lord never spoke to me; it was all I was saying to myself. Only when I did it did I realize that it was His will.”
He took Jeanne's hand again, holding it tightly.
"You are lucky, good girl. You have heard the revelation at such a young age and know what you want to do. I'm not telling you to do it now, but when you are sure that this call is right, you have an obligation to face your destiny."
Jeanne was somewhat taken aback, but she didn't pull her hand away.
"You know, Miss Jeanne," the old man's voice lowered, "that in England, there is a woman with the same name as you. Though the English are despicable, they call this name beautifully—they call her 'Joan of Arc'*."
He looked at her, his eyes shining in the candlelight, no longer like an old man's.
"I hope you will be a pure and steadfast person, just like your name. Don't be afraid of those voices. You will know when they are right."
Jeanne's tears finally fell. She leaned forward and buried her face in the old man's arms, her shoulders shaking with sobs. The old man simply patted her back gently, as if he were patting the daughter he had failed to raise years ago.
Outside the window, the Mozi River flows silently past Dongleimi Village.
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There are various accounts regarding the woman's background. Her father, Jacques, was originally a tax farmer with considerable wealth, but after Agincourt, the family fortunes declined, and he became a cattle herder. Her mother, Isabella, is said to have made a pilgrimage to Rome, but there are no written records to support this claim; it is likely a local tale and not to be believed.
This woman was eccentric from a young age, possessing extraordinary strength; most of the village boys who wrestled with her could not defeat her. Even more strangely, she often spoke alone in the fields or knelt in a corner of the church, murmuring incessantly. When neighbors asked her questions, she remained silent. Some curious individuals claimed she had received divine revelation, and she went around proclaiming it, claiming to have heard divine voices and seen extraordinary visions, thus bewitching the villagers—a truly heinous act. According to church law, anyone who claims to have received divine revelation without the permission of the Vatican is suspected of heresy and should be tried. However, at that time, the belief in miracles was prevalent in Lorraine, and the villagers, ignorant and foolish, could not distinguish truth from falsehood, with some blindly following her.
Even more outrageous, this woman abandoned needlework to learn swordsmanship, dressed in men's clothing, wielded weapons, and wrestled with men without shame. At that time, Burgundians frequently passed through the area, and the villagers would fortify themselves with pitchforks and sticks. This woman mingled among them, boasting of her bravery. A mere village girl, disregarding traditional womanly virtues, showing no respect for elders, and presumptuously discussing national affairs, even daring to say she would "help the Crown Prince drive out the English army"—such outrageous words are either delusional or indicative of malicious intent.
In short, this woman was of humble birth, behaved eccentrically, and her words and actions defied all reason. Her eventual thrust into the limelight was a desperate act by the French, not a matter of fate, nor of her own talent.
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The Wars of Britain and France by Sir John Price
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*This might seem a bit strange, mainly because Joan of Arc's father and elder brother were both named Jacques, sharing the same first and last name... This is one of the fascinating aspects of French naming conventions.
*This surname is actually Romée, derived from the Latin word Romaeus, meaning "pilgrim to Rome." In medieval France, this surname was used to honor an ancestor who completed a pilgrimage to Rome.
*The French name Jeanne is a direct translation of "让娜" (Rangna), while the Chinese translation is taken from the English name Joan. The Chinese name "贞德" (Zhen De) is a transliteration based on the Cantonese pronunciation of English, given a beautiful meaning, and was created in the late Qing Dynasty, rather than being a direct translation.