The road begins in Domerami
Domremy, on the border of Lorraine-Champagne-Ardenne, 300 km from Paris
In medieval France, in Domery, a small, remote village on the border of the Lauren, Champagne-Verdon, a little girl with a long, dark braid ran through the pastures. Among the green meadows she milked the cows of the herd, took the jug of milk to her home in the village at the foot of the hill and returned to sit on a rock under the “fairy tree”. The girls of the village loved to meet here, weave flowers and hang them on the branches of the trees that protect the spring. The elders of the village used to say that it was a magic tree that fulfilled wishes.
According to local belief, if young girls decorate the tree with flowers and dance around it, the fairies will be kind to the girls and ensure that they have a good husband and a good life. For generations, the village girls would come here while herding the family's flocks and spend the grazing hours together until the flocks were returned to the village in the evening.
For Jeanne, the girl with the braid who had participated in the ceremony several times, it was a celebration of bored girls. Every now and then she would break away from the hustle and bustle around her, her gaze would become dreamy and she would start muttering words as if she were talking to angels, or were they fairies?! Her figure had intrigued the good souls in the village since that mysterious visit of a carriage on a cold, foggy night several years ago, but no one dared to talk about it.
Domarmi is a small village and all the families know and trust each other. That night, a carriage pulled by well-groomed but sweaty horses, its curtains drawn, entered the village. Several figures stopped at the door of a modest house and stormed inside. The sound of hooves on the dirt path prompted curious glances through the window, but no one noticed exactly what was happening.
The heavy darkness outside shrouded the figures in mystery. How many were there? Why had they stopped at the entrance to the residence of the king's tax collector? Could it be that they were carrying money and were coming to arrest him? And who would they appoint in his place? But the visit was brief, and a short time later the figures left the house as they had come, and the carriage drove away from the village without taking Jacques, the tax collector, with them.
Joan of Arc's family
Jacques was actually a nice guy and liked people. A few years ago, he came to the village with his wife from a neighboring village in search of land to farm. He found fertile land here, wide pastures, and a handful of residents who were happy to have a few more working hands. A few months later, Jacques built his family home, a modest family room with a fireplace in the center for cooking and heating the house on cold nights, and another den where he placed one bed for the whole family. In those days, anyone who could afford a roof and a loaf of bread was happy with his lot!
Jacques, the head of the family, worked in the fields most of the day, while his wife raised the children and took care of their education. The family expanded and soon had three sons and two daughters. The time for family dinner was set according to the season, with the last rays of light in winter and at dusk in summer. Exhausted from the day's chores, all the family members would gather in the central room, place a wooden plate on supporting legs, and thus create an improvised table.
Each family member pulled up a wooden chair and sat down to wait for the food. The mother of the family would pour a little soup from the black pot on the fire and each diner would grab a hot bowl, the contents of which warmed the stomach and the heart. They sipped the meager soup and also dipped a piece of hard bread in it, in order to fill their stomachs a little more. As the light faded, the family prepared to sleep on a full stomach.
In winter, to prepare the land for sowing, oxen were harnessed to a plow and furrowed the black soil. Those who could not afford an ox paid the owner of the animal to hire the ox for a day's work in the fields. In addition to working the land, the small herd of cows necessary for daily subsistence also required the mobilization of resources, so the children of the family contributed their share of household chores. They collected the chickens' eggs, gathered herbs for cooking, picked fruit for the family meals, and looked after the family herd while the parents worked in the fields or in the household.
In those days, women were mothers and housewives in a managerial position. All the decisions of the house went through them, from running the household to raising and educating the children. Today, this is called a trusted position with flexible hours, very flexible.
Each family cultivated a small plot of land in Vaucouleurs, and in return for increasing taxes received decreasing protection from the local governor appointed directly by the heir apparent, Charles VII.
Those were difficult days. Days when it was better to stay in the village because of the highwaymen who did not hesitate to kill for a handful of coins or a simple slice of bread. Recently, the internal war against the Duke Burgundy A member of France's sworn enemies, the English, had arrived at the village gates. In recent years, English soldiers had arrived in the area and began raiding villages in search of food and more. Looting, destruction, arson, and rape were just some of the threats facing the residents.
In the village of Domarmi, all the residents respected each other, and Jacques' family, who had only arrived here a few years earlier, was also received with great welcome and respect. Jacques agreed to fulfill the honorable role of tax collector on behalf of the king, and was given 200 dunams of land to cultivate.
The fateful night that no one remembered
Back to that January night in 1404 or maybe 1412 or maybe another year, the villagers were not sure, but the black night had already fallen on the village and most of its residents were sleeping soundly after hard work plowing.
On that fateful evening, in a small house at the entrance to the village, Marian, a housewife bent over with age, sat on a rickety straw chair and mended worn-out clothes by the flickering light of a small candle. While her only son slept in the next room, Marian held a needle from an ox bone that she had carved for herself and mended a hole in her son's tattered trousers. For years he had worn the same trousers, year after year, winter and summer. The fabric was already thin and easily torn, but Marian had no doubt that they would last a few more years, if only she could repair the hole that had opened in the knee area. One hand held the needle and the other the holed garment, and a metal finger guard stopped the needle from entering her finger and causing injury.
Suddenly, the approaching sound of horse hooves was heard.
“Who dares to travel on the roads in the dark?” Marian was surprised. Intrigued, with great difficulty and despite the intense pain in her joints, Marian managed to get up from her chair and approach the window at the front of the house. The intense cold of January had created a thin layer of ice on the window, and through the thin curtain Marian tried to peek out toward the source of the noise. The weak light of the candle behind her revealed her figure by the window. Horses harnessed to a black carriage passed her house and galloped forward on the path through the village. She saw the horses’ breath fumes escaping from their warm bodies into the icy air. These were certainly not robbers who had come from afar, she thought to herself as she stepped back, fearing that they would see the light of the candle burning in her house.
Domerami had only a few residents, a few households scattered on both sides of the main dirt road and a modest church at the edge of the village. The village, built centuries earlier in times of peace, was not protected by walls.
The horses began to slow down and Marianne guessed that they were stopping not far from her house, near the church. The priest lived alone near the house of God and opposite the church gate lived Jacques and his family. Marianne was unable to make out who the night visit was for nor to see the faces of the visitors. The figures slipped behind the church and disappeared into the darkness.
Marian leaned her ear, but the thick silence of the night kept its secrets.
Her eyes were tired from squinting in the dark, and especially her knees were failing due to her advancing age. With a sigh of pain, she placed the needle on the table, along with the finger guard and the garment she still held in her hand, and sat down in the wooden rocking chair that had been her bed for the past few months. A few minutes later, a deep sleep overcame her, and she dreamed of highwaymen suddenly emerging from dark corners.
The next day the village woke to a clear, cold morning. The night's frost had left a layer of ice on the main path and the grassy pastures were also decorated with a thin white layer of ice. With the appearance of first light, the shy rays of the sun began to melt the ice and the water slowly trickled down to the saturated soil, to the roots of the grasses, flowers and trees.
Now there was no memory of last night's events.
Marian's ankle
Marianne got up at dawn and immediately lit the fireplace. At night the frost penetrated the houses and froze the weak to death. She had to be strong. Her husband had died many years ago and her only son, who had never married, needed her more than ever.
This year, the cold has enveloped the village and has not let up. For many days now, the cold has been so intense that the residents are barely visible on the village paths, and only those who have to work the land have come out wrapped in several layers of warm clothing. Two of the village elders who grew up with her and matured alongside her have already passed away from the cold. Luckily for her and her son, they prepared for winter in advance, and thanks to the fact that they lived near a dense forest, her son cut down many trunks during the summer and prepared firewood for heating during the harsh days of winter.
For years she had been preparing his meals on the hearth of the house and had managed their entire lives very frugally. Even today, despite the little sleep and the intense cold, she mustered up the strength and went out into the yard to get some wood for the fireplace. A thin layer of ice covered the path. The green grass in the yard was covered in a transparent white veil and the cold wind whipped her face. As Marian walked toward the woodshed, she felt how each step made her slip a little on the thin ice. She advanced very carefully and hurriedly took in her arms several logs that her son had cut down in advance.
With her arms loaded with split firewood, she slowly walked back toward her house, but suddenly her right leg buckled and she fell onto the frozen ice. The terrible pain caused her to drop the logs and they scattered across the ice. As she fell, Marian felt the force of the blow of her body hitting the ice and let out a cry of pain. For several long moments, she sat on the frozen ground, feeling how the cold quickly took over all her limbs and stretched her bones. The pain in her ankle was unbearable and radiated down her entire leg. She was unable to get up on her own.
Luckily for her, her son, who had just woken up from his sleep, heard her scream, got up from his bed in a panic, and felt for her help. He carefully wrapped her in his arms and lifted her up with great concern. Marian was unable to step on her injured leg, and she leaned on him, on her son, whom she loved so much and to whom she had dedicated her life. How good it was that they were together and taking care of each other, she thought to herself.
They moved forward slowly, and when they crossed the threshold, the son sat her down on a chair by the unlit fireplace, and hurried outside to fetch the scattered logs. He quickly returned, arranged the wood in the fireplace, and lit the blessed fire that would warm his beloved mother. The shy flames began to grow stronger, and the fire illuminated and warmed the dark room. Despite the intense pain in her ankle, Marian could not remain idle, and soon she came to her senses and decided to prepare the dough for bread, the basis of their diet, necessary for survival in the cold days of winter.
Marian struggled through the kitchen and gathered a few spoonfuls of coarse black barley flour from the sack, which she sifted thoroughly and set aside. Her son brought her some sourdough – natural yeast that had risen with water overnight – and after sinking back into the chair with a sigh of pain, she added it to the bread dough, which she kneaded vigorously and expertly until it formed a homogeneous ball of dough.
Marianne placed the dough in a bowl by the fireplace to rise. After a while, she shaped the loaves into a ball (Boule) and asked a servant to take the loaves to the village baker, who would put them in his oven and supervise the baking of the bread. In every village there was a baker (Boulanger), whose job was to bake the balls of bread (Boule) brought to him by the housewives, hence his professional name Boulanger. Meanwhile, Marianne's ankle had swollen and sent pain signals that pierced her entire body. Now that she had finished making the bread, she could free herself to take care of her leg.
Marian learned from her mother to make medicines from herbs, flowers, stones, bones, and other ingredients that were available in the area. The various recipes were passed down from mother to daughter and were well-remembered in times of need. Of course, these were medicines for the common people, and it is likely that within the walls of castles and palaces the nobility enjoyed more advanced and expensive treatments, but Marian's mother always knew how to cure any pain or illness.
Marian recalled that for swelling and pain the instructions were very clear: take a tiny amount of soot from the chimney, add a pinch of finely crushed slate powder and mix with a clove of horsetail. Grind everything into a fine powder, mix with a little lard and there you have it, a salve for pain and swelling! Apply the salve to the swollen area; repeat the treatment several times a day for at least three days, and hope for the best.
Marianne limped around the room, gathering all the ingredients needed for the ointment and starting to grind them into a fine powder. She took a small amount of lard she had saved from last summer, added the mixture of ingredients to it and mixed until a homogeneous ointment was obtained. Carefully she lifted the folds of her dress and began to massage her ankle with the ointment. Her skin was rough from years of hard, endless work.
Life in the village was not easy at all, and in addition to the hard work, the farmers had to deal every few years with natural disasters such as drought that brought with it hunger and disease, weather damage that damaged grain and other crops, epidemics that subdued animals and people alike, robbers and murderers who sought to live at the expense of the simple villagers, and of course hostile soldiers – Burgundians or English – who regularly raided the village.
Despite the sharp pain in her leg that bothered her greatly, Marian gathered some vegetables from the kitchen shelves and sat down to chop the ingredients for the meager soup she would make for her daughter. They had slaughtered their last pig last summer, and already there wasn't much meat left to eat. A few of the leftover meat, preserved in salt, hung on a beam in the corner of the room, hidden from visitors. A few chickens ran around in the yard, laying between two and four eggs a day, depending on the season and the weather. This was enough for their household consumption. Marian occasionally made an omelet from the eggs, seasoned with several types of herbs, and used them in various dishes.
Peasant vegetable soup
Marian took a large, heavy pot and placed it on the hook hanging from the fireplace, above the flames of the fire. Her son, who had now finished getting ready to go to work in the fields, went out into the yard and drew water from the well. The work was hard and his elderly mother was no longer able to carry the buckets of water. He filled two buckets, brought them into the house, and placed them by the counter in the kitchen. The heat from the fireplace began to spread throughout the house, and the son felt the warmth on his face as soon as he entered the house from the freezing cold of the winter morning.
He saw his mother standing by the fireplace and with painful movements hanging up the pot to make the soup – the same soup he would eat at the end of the day, when he returned home from a hard day’s work in the cold and strong wind. He was aware of the fact that his mother was no longer well, and the day when he would be left alone and would have to care for and cook for himself was fast approaching. A great sadness enveloped him. All his life he had lived and worked under his mother’s protective wings, and now he stood before her and a great fear of the future gripped him.
Marian turned to him and smiled a smile soaked in pain. The pain in her leg limited her movements and it was obvious that she was suffering. Her son came to his senses and with a slight movement he poured the water into the hanging pot. Now he had to go out into the cold to do his business. He placed his right hand on her shoulder, kissed his mother on the forehead and left the warm house. Marian, who had been waiting for the water to boil, tidied up the house a little. Later, when the soup boiled, she would continue the sewing work she had not finished the night before. She added the vegetables she had cut up earlier to the water and took one egg, broke it into the boiling soup and stirred it well. She broke up the slices of dry bread that she had left over from several days ago and added them to the soup as well.
In those days, bread had a place of honor and was considered almost a sacred food. It took so much work to obtain it, and given the years of famine, the inhabitants knew that every crumb of bread was used, whether fresh or dry. In addition, the local priest explained to the villagers the religious connection between bread, which symbolized the body of Jesus, and the importance of preserving one's soul and behaving simply and in harmony with one's surroundings.
In two days, the day of rest will come, Marian mused. On Sunday mornings, the bells of the tower ring and all the villagers gather in the little church. This is where they meet each other, absorb the holiness of the place, pray to the saints depicted in the stained glass windows, say a prayer for protection from illness and harm, and listen to the sermon of the local priest. Marian, who had not learned to read and write like most of the villagers, would look at the stained glass windows of the little church and recognize the characters and events depicted in the pictures. She recited the prayers by heart, as her parents and many generations before them had done.
It has been this way for centuries and will continue to be so in the years to come. On the day of rest, man and beast rest in the bosom of the family and enjoy a little respite from the daily hardship. Marian sat down and sighed – faith gave her strength. On Sunday she would pray for a good life for her son and for relief from her pain.
Marian had been in pain for two days with her injured leg, and on Sunday morning the bells rang, calling the villagers to gather for prayer at the church at the end of the main path. The bitter cold continued to hit the area. During the week, the residents rarely met, and the gathering within the church walls allowed them to connect and strengthen their bonds.
Marian wrapped herself in warm clothes, wrapped her shoulders in a shawl, took a walking stick and set off towards the church, arm in arm with her son. The path was still covered in ice and she had to be careful not to slip again. The pain in her ankle had lessened thanks to the good ointment she had concocted, but it had not yet gone. From all sides, residents emerged from their homes and greeted each other on their way to Sunday prayers.
Will the new scion of the Dark family survive?
Marian and her son arrived at the church and upon entering, they crossed themselves with devotion and reverence. A mystical scent hung in the air. Marian moved to her place in the front row, and as she moved between the rows, she surveyed those present with her gaze. Everyone nodded their heads and murmured a greeting of peace toward her. Marian was one of the village elders and everyone respected her, a single woman raising her son alone with difficulty but with dignity. She knew all the villagers and their families and returned their greetings of peace.
Jacques was here too, his eyes small and his face troubled. Next to him sat his eldest son Jacquemin. Usually his wife sits on the other side of the boy, but today her place was deserted. Marianne continued forward and sat down in front of the small altar. The mass could begin.
Like all the villagers, Marianne knew the prayers by heart from her childhood, when her parents would regularly take her to the small church every Sunday and holiday. She recited the prayers in Latin as she had been taught in her youth. The melody helped her remember the words, the meaning of which she vaguely knew after her mother explained them to her, as her own mother had explained them to her, and she in turn explained them to her son. It is not clear whether she remembered all the meanings, but the paintings on the church walls filled her prayers with content and outlined her life.
She thanked God for His goodness, asked for a good wife for her only son, and prayed in her heart that the Savior would show her the way to a good life without sin, so that on Judgment Day she would find herself at the gates of Heaven and not in the torments of Hell, which is depicted in such colorful detail in one of the murals.
After the prayer, the worshippers left the church and each returned to his own home. As usual, Marianne left with the last of the worshippers, and as she turned to leave, she heard the sound of a baby crying from the neighboring house. Surprised, she turned her gaze towards the source of the sound and managed to see Jacques enter his house and quickly close the door.
Could it be that his wife Isabel gave birth to another baby?!
The family was already blessed with three sons and one charming and graceful daughter. There were several more births, but the newborns did not survive and died at a young age. The cemetery is full of graves of tender children who did not survive the harsh winters! Anyone who gave birth now, in the middle of a harsh winter, would have a hard time keeping the baby alive.
Various thoughts now troubled Marian. How could she not see Isabel's belly swelling? However, in winter women wear so many layers of clothing that it is very difficult to tell which one is pregnant. It is also possible that Isabel gave birth prematurely and her belly did not have time to swell for everyone to see…
The pain that pierced her ankle interrupted her thoughts and she opened the door to her house. The smell of hot soup and fresh bread filled the room, but Marian sat down in the rocking chair, exhausted.
A few years passed and Jacques and Isabelle's baby began to run around the village. A small girl, with black hair and brown eyes, who helped the family with simple farm chores. She was a happy and lively child, and Marianne often saw her passing by the path near her house.
Her name was Jean.
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