Home of Britain’s bestselling history magazine and award-winning podcast
From Joan of Arc to Brigitte Bardot: meet the trailblazing women who shaped French history
Katherine Pangonis speaks to Charlotte Vosper about the extraordinary women often excluded from France’s national story – and what their lives reveal about the country
Charlotte Vosper: In your book, you tell the history of France through the lives of 21 women. How did you choose who to include? Katherine Pangonis: I had this idea to revisit French history by looking at women who were not necessarily the most famous, but through whose lives you could explore pivotal moments of change in French history. I wanted to pick women whose experiences encapsulated or shed new light on the events that we think we know well, but usually through male-centric lenses. I wanted to draw attention to the fact that the women who played roles in great moments of change in French history weren’t just footnotes or exceptions, but that their lives actively shaped politics, culture, religion and the French identity over centuries. By following their lives, I hope I can help the reader to see the history of France a bit differently. That was my key mission when selecting the women for the book. You suggest women have been systematically excluded from the national narrative of French history. Can you expand on this? I think it’s a combination of both deliberate and inadvertent exclusion from the French national narrative. Really, this links to a bigger question about the representation of women in history. In the written historical record, the lack of female representation comes down to the basic fact that throughout most of history the majority of the population were illiterate, and secondly, that the small number of the population that were educated in reading and writing, tended to be male. Today, while women aren’t totally erased from the French historical narrative, there is a lack of information about them. This book started with my long walks in the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris, where there are 20 statues of the queens and illustrious women of France. We see these women’s faces and their historical costumes, but none of the statues have any information about women’s lives attached to them. This is often the case in museums, too. One of my favourite museums is the Musée Carnavalet, which looks at the history of Paris from its early origins to the modern day. It’s an excellent museum, but the roles of women just aren’t highlighted enough. For example, they have a room about the Enlightenment which includes a desk belonging to Voltaire, a key thinker from the period. Near the desk, a portrait of Émilie Du Châtelet hangs on the wall. Du Châtelet was a fantastic mathematician in her own right and she contributed hugely to Voltaire’s work. But there is no information about her in the museum. In many cases, I think this lack of recognition comes from big institutions’ reluctance to go below the surface of existing, widely available information. This is in the process of changing though. There’s a movement among historians to redress the balance, and I would like my book to contribute to that. Read more | Medieval influencers: 4 women who brought change to the Middle Ages I would like to zone in on some of the women in your book. Let’s start with Christine de Pizan. What can you tell us about her? De Pizan was one of the first women known to make a living from her writing. She was born in Venice around 1364 and moved to France when her highly educated father began work at Charles V’s court as an astrologer. Her father made a deliberate effort to educate her, beyond what was expected at the time. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-1425784369webready-56362d6-e1774964759865.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A medieval manuscript scene shows crowned and veiled women studying around a table with books and instruments, while two others build a white‑brick wall with mortar." title="A miniature from Le Livre de la Cité des Dames. In this landmark 15th-century book, Christine de Pizan imagines an allegorical city of refuge whose walls are built from the achievements of women, ranging from warriors to artists to saints (Image by Getty Images)" /> At 15, Christine married a 26-year-old man in what seems to have been a real love match. They lived together and had children, but when he died in 1389, de Pizan was left a young widow. Suddenly, she found herself as the only breadwinner, with small children and an aging mother to look after. In response, she dedicated herself to building a career as a writer, creating these beautiful and painstakingly handwritten manuscripts. At the French court she was well positioned to find wealthy patrons to sell her works to, and so she managed to support her children with her writing, earning enough to educate them and broker them good marriages. De Pizan left behind an impressive surviving body of work, which is why researching her was so rewarding for me. She wrote about other women and elevated the female artists who illustrated her works, and in this sense, we can call her a protofeminist. She really was a fantastic figure. So you think that we can read modern identities, such as de Pizan being a ‘protofeminist’, back into the past? We can definitely see the beginnings of modern ideas in earlier thinking. While there are dramatic differences between the moral frameworks of different time periods, there’s a huge amount of shared experience throughout history. Philosophical, emotional and spiritual threads link us with the people that came before us. Projecting modern values onto the past is risky, but there are connections through time. Some of what Christine de Pizan wrote about women is problematic by modern feminist standards, like the way she writes about sex workers. While she was progressive for her day, she is not progressive enough to be called a ‘good feminist’ in the 21st century. Nevertheless, I think her work did lay the foundations of modern feminism to an extent. She built a career for herself and wrote tracts defending women against critical stereotypes. In this, we can see her as a key figure in the very early phases of the feminist movement, even if her personal values didn’t align with modern feminist ones. Read more | Joséphine de Beauharnais: how Napoleon's muse became empress of France De Pizan’s historical significance may be evident but is the influence on French history of the other women in your book as tangible? Soft power plays a critical role throughout the book. I was motivated by two considerations when selecting people to write about. I wanted to choose women who were active political agents, and in that category I would include de Pizan. I’d also include Louise Michel, an incredible activist during the Paris Commune who is often hailed as the mother of anarchy, and of course Olympe de Gouges, a woman who was pro-revolution but ended up on the block of the guillotine herself. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-89856741webready-c1fb3a9-e1774965105277.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black‑and‑white studio photograph of a person with short, wavy hair, dressed in a dark garment with a patterned collar and a tied scarf at the neck, posed against a plain backdrop." title="The feminist, anarchist and social activist Louise Michel (1830–1905) (Image by Getty Images)" /> And yet, beyond these women, I’ve also included those whose historical influence was less tangible, and whose lives shed light on the less well-known parts of French history. In that category, I would include St Balthild of Chelles, a Frankish queen during the Dark Ages who set the stage for later powerful queens like Eleanor of Aquitaine. I’d also put Béatrice de Planisolles – a 13th-century noblewoman who was subjected to the Cathar inquisition – in that category. She wasn’t particularly powerful or wealthy, but she left behind these amazing inquisition records about how she lived her life and what she thought and felt. Then, of course, there was the Empress Joséphine Bonaparte, the wife of Napoleon. Most of her power came through her influence as a cultural icon and her profound influence on her husband. Other women who follow in this vein include the painter Berthe Morisot, who changed how women’s lives were viewed in the arts, and the singer Édith Piaf, who wrote about love, tragedy and emotional trauma. There is a soft and artistic power that reverberates from these women throughout history, and I’ve tried to capture that in the book as well. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/hip2684290webready-bace3df-e1774965238511.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A formal painted portrait of a woman wearing a jeweled tiara and an embroidered white gown, her right hand placed on a crown set on a richly decorated cushion, with a throne and drapery behind her." title="Joséphine (1763–1814), the empress of France and wife of Napoleon Bonaparte (Image by Topfoto)" /> As well as giving due attention to female power and influence, it’s also important to recognise women with more complex legacies. How did you assess their historical impact and balance that with the more troubling aspects of their life stories? That’s a really interesting question. While, as I’ve said already, I think projecting moral values onto figures of the past is tricky and not particularly rewarding, in the case of Coco Chanel, I think we can view her with our modern value systems in mind. Chanel died in the mid-20th century, and while there have been seismic societal changes between then and now, she is not so far removed from us that we should play down her complex legacy by saying she lived in a different time. Chanel has been accused of being a Nazi sympathiser. She stayed in Paris during the German occupation, lived in a lavish suite at the Ritz with her lover (who was a Nazi intelligence officer), and she offered up her services as a spy on behalf of the Nazi regime. Yes, she liberated women from corsets, modernised how women dress, and made women’s fashion more comfortable and more practical. But while this is iconic, we cannot divorce her influence on fashion from the fact that her personal conduct was terrible. Some people would argue that the punishment of French women who had Nazi lovers during the occupation was too harsh: their heads were shaved, they were whipped, and they were shamed terribly. In some cases, it was arguably justified; in others – such as poor women who had no one else to protect them – perhaps not. But I’d argue that Chanel did have choices. Women like the dancer Josephine Baker, who was in Paris during the war and offers a direct parallel, offered her services to the French Resistance at great personal risk and to help Jewish families. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/GettyImages-1277359054-2webready-35a4f72-e1774968738135.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A black‑and‑white photo of a person in a dark jacket, light blouse, and hat with a brooch, leaning on a table with their head resting on one arm." title="The designer Coco Chanel, pictured in 1954, may have modernised fashion, but she had ties to the Nazis (Image by Getty Images)" /> Certainly, the modern fashion house is far removed from the original woman, and you can love Chanel designs, but her Nazi sympathies are a part of Coco’s story which it’s important to fully acknowledge. It was also difficult to navigate my inclusion of the actor, singer and model Brigitte Bardot in the book. She was an enduring icon of French culture but also had problematic views. I had to tread a fine line when evaluating how to acknowledge her iconic status, while highlighting that she is not necessarily a woman we should always look up to. In her early career, Bardot’s acting roles turned her into a liberating symbol of female sexuality, and she promoted the free expression of women’s sexual desires. But when she stepped away from the spotlight at the age of 39 and dedicated herself to animal rights activism, she used that cause to criticise religious groups and endorse racial prejudice. On this basis, she was fined for hate speech. I included her as the last woman in my book because I think her public image reflects the divisions in modern France. It is a deeply divided country. Vast waves of the population now vote for far-right parties and French citizens violently disagree with each other. This is part of a wider political trend in Europe, and I think Bardot represents this divisive landscape. Do you think the extraordinary women you write about can help us understand the lives of ordinary women in the past? I think we can certainly use the women in the book to understand the struggles of ordinary women. A good example is George Sand, the 19th-century writer who begged her mother for them to leave their aristocratic family and run away together. Sand wanted to start a hat shop, but her mother refused, telling Sand it would be impossible. She opened Sand’s eyes to just how dangerous and precarious life was for women without money and protection. In this moment, we see the shattering of Sand’s illusion that anything is possible, a testament to just how difficult life was for ordinary women in France over the centuries. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/03/rv52986-1webready-380713e-e1774968581596.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A shoulder‑length painted portrait of a person with dark, wavy hair decorated with red and white flowers, shown against a muted brown background." title="An 1837 oil portrait of the prolific and popular 19th-century French novelist George Sand (Image by Topfoto)" /> Another example is Béatrice de Planisolles. She was married off at a young age to an older man, raped by another, and suffered an attempted rape later in her life. De Planisolles experienced horrible things at so many points in her life, just like the other women in my book. Joan of Arc and Olympe de Gouges were executed. Brigitte Bardot suffered depression and was suicidal at points in her life. Djamila Boupacha, an Algerian militant, was also subjected to rape and sexual abuse. These are extreme cases, but they draw attention to the deep-seated misogyny and racial prejudice that has existed in French society for a very long time. Read more | “In times of political volatility, it’s more vital than ever that we tell women’s stories” | 3 historians on the state of women's history These were women who have arguably led successful and, in some cases, charmed lives, but they have also all been subjected to powerlessness and oppression. This book offers windows into lots of different women’s lives, and together they speak to the ubiquitous issues that women have faced. Whether or not these women’s lives give us insight into the experiences of ordinary women, they show us the pervasive challenges and threats that women have faced throughout history. These issues exist today, and while many women today live freer lives than they would have done a hundred years ago, there is still work to be done. Do any continuities or common experiences unite the women in your book? On the one hand, we might ask what relationship could there really be between St Balthild, the Anglo-Saxon slave girl who was trafficked from Britain to the Kingdom of the Franks and married the king, and Brigitte Bardot, the modern screen icon? But, on the other hand, I see huge points of connection. Most of the women in this book are self-made and they did not follow the paths laid out for them at birth. No one would have expected St Balthild to become Queen of the Franks, or Christine de Pizan to generate her own income from writing, or Joan of Arc to lead a French army. The wealthy, aristocratic George Sand became a trouser-wearing cigar-smoking linchpin of the Parisian literary scene, and in this, she controlled her own destiny. Simone Veil survived the Holocaust to become a leading woman in French and European politics. The women in my book were trailblazers, and that’s the thread linking them. Whether they were heroines or villains or something in between, they all managed to take control of their lives and position themselves as active agents in their own eras. I think that’s amazing. What do you hope will come out of your female-focused history of France? I hope this book will introduce readers to some women who perhaps they hadn’t heard of before. People will probably have heard of Joan of Arc, Eleanor of Aquitaine and Brigitte Bardot. But I’m not sure how many of my readers will know about Louise Michel, Christine de Pizan, Djamila Boupacha or St Balthilde of Chelles. And so I hope that my book can plant seeds in readers’ minds. It is by no means a comprehensive work on the roles of women in French history, nor is it an in-depth academic work, but I hope that the book will whet readers’ appetites, pique their interests, and show them that there is much more to French history than they might have originally thought. Katherine Pangonis is a writer whose work focuses on the Middle East and Mediterranean regions, and the interactions between east and west. Her books include Queens of Jerusalem: The Women Who Dared to Rule (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2021) This article was first published in the March 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
We often refer to countries as 'female' – so why has history excluded women from nation-building?
Janina Ramirez speaks to Danny Bird about how women and their stories have been co-opted and curated by men attempting to forge nations across Europe
Danny Bird: What was the genesis of Legenda? Was there a moment when you knew you had to write this book? Janina Ramirez: From the start of my academic career, I learned from [Palestinian-American literary critic and activist] Edward Said and others the value of acknowledging one’s perspective: being transparent about who you are, rather than claiming some sense of neutral empirical truth. For me, identity rests on three pillars. First, I am a woman. Second, class: I come from an immigrant, working-class background. Third, heritage: Polish-Irish, born in Dubai, raised in the UK, married to a Spanish-Scot, with a distinctly European sense of self. With all that, I wasn’t going to get away without a Catholic upbringing: convent school, just very Roman Catholic foundations. I’m not practising now, but it gave me empathy for faith and an understanding of belief. These roots inevitably shape my work. When I published The Private Lives of the Saints [in 2015], my aunt, a Franciscan missionary, told me how proud she was. I had to laugh because the book dismantled saintly myths rather than celebrating them. Yet she was right: I was still that Catholic schoolgirl, writing about religious figures, even as I reframed them. Questions of nationality also ran through my research. My first book required careful choices of terms: ‘Irish’, ‘Welsh’, ‘Scottish’, ‘British Isles’ – each politically charged. By Femina [2022], the pattern was striking: nations everywhere reclaiming heritage, from Scandinavia’s Vikings to France’s Cathars. The focus of my latest book crystallised while writing about [queen and saint] Jadwiga of Poland. My grandmother, who owned a bronze of Pope John Paul II, reminded me how faith and identity intertwine. In my lifetime, that pope canonised women I now study, using them to shape national narratives. So the direction of this new book was clear even as I finished the last one. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2025/12/ali053543-2webready-72fca02-e1765540085950.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Queen Isabella of Castile, pictured in a 15th-century illumination. Five centuries after her death, the Spanish monarch is still used as an icon to shape national identity as essentially Castilian (Image by Topfoto)" title="Queen Isabella of Castile, pictured in a 15th-century illumination. Five centuries after her death, the Spanish monarch is still used as an icon to shape national identity as essentially Castilian (Image by Topfoto)" /> You explore how women such as Joan of Arc and Isabella of Castile became symbols of national identity. Do you think their stories continue to shape how nations see themselves today? I open the book with one of [French far-right nationalist politician] Jean-Marie Le Pen’s impassioned rallies at the statue of Joan of Arc on the Place des Pyramides in Paris. So yes, her story remains relevant – mocked or taken seriously, but still shaping France’s political landscape. After being expelled from the [far-right anti-immigrant] National Front, Le Pen founded an even harder-right party, naming it after Joan of Arc and making her its emblem. That’s how potent her image remains to French nationalists. Similarly, Isabella of Castile’s influence endures. When I speak with Spanish friends, they describe how the Castilian dialect is still seen as the benchmark [rather than regional dialects such as Catalan or Galician] – much like in Britain, where London can feel like a ‘brain drain’ and doesn’t reflect life in the north, Cornwall or Kent. That sense of central dominance ties directly back to Isabella and the way she imposed her vision of Spain. And that’s the heart of it: attempts to impose a single collective identity on diverse peoples – peoples with different regions, traditions and faiths – inevitably crack. Even in Isabella’s lifetime, that imposed single national identity fractured and was repeatedly reinforced, layer upon layer. We see the same dynamics now in places such as Catalonia, the Basque Country and Scotland. These identities don’t simply vanish; they resist, reassert themselves and continue to challenge imposed unity. Read more | Jonathan Sumpton on the Hundred Years’ War: “It was Joan of Arc who persuaded the French that they could win” I’d love to explore how nations so often personify themselves as women – from Britannia to Marianne – embodying a strange mix of maternal or nurturing spirit, virginal purity, even martial strength. What do you think is going on there? Brilliant question! I’m very fortunate to be a colleague in Oxford of Marina Warner, the doyenne of this subject. She has written on Joan of Arc, but also a wonderful book called Monuments and Maidens, which speaks directly to this point. She shows how nations embody themselves in female form: the Statue of Liberty, Marianne in the Panthéon, Britannia looming in St Paul’s Cathedral. And you’re absolutely right: there’s a deep frustration here. The nation is imagined as a woman, yet women themselves had little to no role in building nations. It’s a profound injustice: in virtually every revolutionary moment, women were excluded from shaping national identity. In France, ‘Liberty, equality, fraternity’ – that emphasis on brotherhood – was about raising up men, not women. Think of how the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen [1789] prompted the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Female Citizen [1791] in response; the author of that second declaration, Olympe de Gouges, was executed for it. Revolutions don’t work for women; they offer no place for us. Yet the most powerful symbol to unite people is often ‘the mother’. That universal image, both compelling and emotionally resonant, becomes propaganda: to serve king and country is to serve one’s motherland. Men are called to die for their ‘mother’, while real women are denied participation in politics, philosophy, architecture or law. That’s the deep irony you’ve identified: women are entirely excluded from nation-building, yet the ultimate emblem of the nation is a woman. Several of the women you write about pushed back against the expectations of their time. Why do you think some have become celebrated as heroines whereas others have been condemned? We are still enthralled by the charismatic, the extreme, the outspoken. I don’t understand why certain celebrities and influencers command such attention while thoughtful, rational voices struggle to be heard. We must be cautious about whom we choose to celebrate as heroes, both today and in the past. The figures who endure often do so because their stories are condensed into simple, powerful images that can be reproduced and instantly recognised. Take Agustina of Aragón, for example. Many women fought in Zaragoza [against invading French forces] during the Peninsular War from 1808, yet she became iconic because painters such as Goya fixed her image: a small figure on a pile of bodies, lighting a cannon’s fuse. That lodged itself in the public imagination – this is how legend works. When I began the book, I also considered including men such as Robin Hood or Alfred the Great, whose myths have likewise been reshaped into soundbites. People prefer statues, posters and slogans to complex truths. They want heroes they can identify at a glance without grappling with the full picture. That’s why I wrote the book: to question the stories we take as fact. Consider the Lady Godiva legend [in which the 11th-century noblewoman of Mercia rode naked through the streets of Coventry in order to win respite for its people from oppressive taxation by her husband, the earl]. The only factual link between the historical Godgifu and the tale we know is Coventry itself. Everything else is invention. I love stories, and I open each chapter with one, but my aim is to dig beneath them – to be forensic about who these figures really were. In doing so, they become more complex, more fascinating and ultimately more thrilling than the legends that have simplified them. Read more | “In times of political volatility, it’s more vital than ever that we tell women’s stories” | 3 historians on the state of women's history Were there any unexpected objects or sources that illuminated the roles of women featured in your book? Yes – particularly while researching the chapter on Greece, one of the hardest to write. The 1821 Greek revolt is often downplayed in accounts of nationhood. Because it was a rebellion against the Ottoman empire – against ‘the east’, rather than against monarchies in western Europe – it can feel like a different story from the Belgian, German or French struggles for democracy, and tends to be pushed to the margins. I wanted to foreground it. What struck me most was how this perspective connects to broader debates about Eurocentrism. Recently, at the Gloucester History Festival, I listened to Peter Frankopan, 10 years on from the publication of his book The Silk Roads, urging us not to be so western-focused, and Vince Cable, who echoed the same point in relation to China, India and Japan today. I wanted to shift the narrative away from the familiar classical thread linking Europe to Rome and ancient Greece, and instead emphasise that, for much of medieval history, Constantinople (now Istanbul) was the true hub of civilisation and power. London and the north of Europe were seen as barbaric backwaters. Greek identity in the 19th century was not just a Byronesque, romantic appeal to ancient culture. For Greeks, it was about reclaiming the legacy of Constantinople, which had fallen to the Ottomans in the 15th century. Researching the role of women in Constantinople, I was struck by the extraordinary survival of coins, enamels, jewelled crosses – objects that in most revolutions would have been melted down, yet remained intact because the Ottomans largely ignored them. Among them are coins depicting the 11th-century sisters Zoe and Theodora (left) ruling with the male title ‘emperor’ of Byzantium, rather than ‘empress’. Their images, along with artefacts carried to places such as Georgia when it was ruled by Queen Tamar (reigned 1184–1213), are stark reminders that women could and did rule empires. Indeed, at the same time as Charlemagne was trying to construct a Holy Roman Empire [at the turn of the ninth century], Empress Irene was ruling in Constantinople, viewing the Franks as peasants on the fringes of civilisation. That chapter forced me to question western national narratives and to reflect on the cycles of rise and fall in world history. It also highlighted the need for humility in how we see our place in a global story that has always been in flux, and the importance of asking where women feature in that. You also discuss the intersection where religious devotion and politics meet, through women such as Catherine of Siena. Today, would their faith make them seem radical or reactionary? Catherine of Siena [14th-century mystic and letter-writer] is a fascinating and difficult figure to grasp. I suspect that she would now be seen as a radical extremist. Her influence grew rapidly from local notoriety to involvement in politics, family disputes and the affairs of the nobility. Rejecting the cloistered life of a nun, which she deemed too modest and hidden, she instead exploited the opportunities of the Dominican Third Order, which allowed women to live partly within the rhythms of monastic life while remaining active in the world – able to marry, raise families and pursue public roles. Even this was too restrictive for Catherine. She craved visibility and seized every chance to place herself centre stage. Behind her was a group that recognised her potential and promoted her as a kind of spiritual influencer. With their support, she was propelled onto ever larger platforms, becoming more reactionary and extreme as her fame grew. Eventually, she had the ear of the pope and played a part in global politics. It was a meteoric but tragic rise. Catherine’s regime of intense self-mortification, involving starvation and other severe practices, destroyed her health and she died young [aged just 33, in 1380]. Ironically, in the medieval world, some of the very behaviours officially condemned – such as fasting and self-harm – often brought fame and were celebrated as marks of sanctity. Extreme acts, such as plunging into frozen rivers or enduring brutal beatings, drew attention, enhanced reputations and opened the way to influence. For women, especially, punishing the body was often the only route to power and legacy. This pattern was not confined to women; men pursued similar paths. Nor is it a relic of the past. Even today, religious devotion expressed through extreme bodily endurance persists – in India, for example, ascetics hold an arm aloft until it withers. We may think ourselves too rational, too secular, to be drawn into such practices, but self-punishment in the name of belief remains very much alive. The temptation is to label such figures simply as fanatics, yet the reality is more complex. Were they extremists, or merely individuals desperately trying to stand out and make a difference? Religion, identity, politics, economics – all can be forces for good but, in the wrong hands and when driven by personal ambition, they become extreme. What emerges, in Catherine’s case and beyond, is the interplay between individual striving and wider social structures – why one person rises to prominence while others remain unheard. Read more | Michael Wood on lessons on good government from medieval Siena In the end, you argue that reconnecting with these stories can help us resist division and manipulation. What do you think these women have to teach us about resilience and identity today? In my conclusion, I write that Agustina lit the cannon, while Joan picked up the sword. What unites these women is their courage. In times of threat and change, they were brave – and my argument is that we must be brave, too. We need clarity of mind and sharpened intellects to face today’s challenges. We are not fighting on streets with swords, but against misinformation, propaganda and manipulation at the highest levels. We must be equipped to understand our place in the world and our communities. The book begins and ends with women who had no concept of nations as we know them, yet shared the same land as us, walked the same paths and looked upon the same mountains. Their lives offer inspiration because they survived, thrived and achieved remarkable things in difficult circumstances. By connecting with their environments, we become part of their legacy. I deeply believe in the power of local history and connecting with our surroundings – exploring archives, visiting museums, walking through graveyards. Engaging with objects and places allows us to connect with people of the past in a meaningful way. It reminds us that humans have always been complex and brilliant. We are not the pinnacle of progress, and the people of the past were not mere peasants living short, brutish lives. Their experiences are fascinating, and learning about them teaches us to be better citizens today. In our modern world, we cannot control distant geopolitical events manipulated by the powerful. What we can control is our daily interactions with those around us, with the landscape and with our communities. Humanity has always found ways to coexist, collaborate and learn from one another across cultures and generations. That shared, everyday life that I see in my medieval figures still exists. We’ve just lost sight of it. We need to reconnect with each other, with the land and with the tangible realities of life, rather than the digitised, ethereal existence of screens and texts. Humans have always lived alongside one another, and understanding those relationships is essential. This article was first published in the December 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
England’s forgotten medieval hero: how John, Duke of Bedford carried on Henry V's fight
When the Hundred Years’ War was reaching a climax, one man was fighting tenaciously to secure the English claim to the French crown. So why, asks Joanna Arman, is Henry V’s formidable brother, John, Duke of Bedford, not better known?
As black skies faded to grey, and dawn broke on that fateful day in the early 15th century, an English army gazed across a field in northern France. What their eyes encountered was a vastly superior force: some 15,000 French-led troops glared back – their numbers nearly double those of England’s men-at-arms and archers. The English had faced seemingly insuperable odds before, and emerged victorious. But could they really triumph over this well-armed force bolstered by fearsome international allies? The Hundred Years’ War had been raging for close to a century already, with negotiations between England and France coming and going – but all ultimately failing to decisively end the conflict. The balance of military success had swung one way and then the other in clashes on land and, occasionally, at sea. Read more | Jonathan Sumpton on the Hundred Years’ War: “It was Joan of Arc who persuaded the French that they could win” Many confrontations had ended with English longbowmen proving decisive. But as morning ebbed and the afternoon rolled on, the outcome remained uncertain. Finally, battle commenced – and the English won a great and memorable victory against the odds. Sounds familiar? No, this is not a description of the battle of Agincourt, Henry V’s famous victory of 1415. Instead, it’s the story of the clash fought on 17 August 1424 – nearly nine years after Agincourt, and two after Henry’s death – outside the town of Verneuil-sur-Avre in Normandy. Here, the English army led by Henry’s younger brother John, Duke of Bedford, hammered a combined force of French and Scottish solders plus 2,000 Milanese heavy cavalry, killing perhaps 6,000 enemy troops while suffering minimal losses. Historians refer to the battle of Verneuil as ‘the second Agincourt’ – yet that clash, like John himself, is largely forgotten today. Why has such a heroic victory faded from memory? And what part did John play in that tumultuous period of English and French history? Born to battle We’ll return to the battle later, but to answer those questions, we must first turn the clock back 25 years. In 1399, Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster – better known today as Henry IV – usurped the English throne from his cousin Richard II. John was just 10 years old at the time and, as Henry’s third son, would be unlikely to inherit the throne. Read more | The tyrant and the usurper: Richard II v Henry IV Yet the young man quickly proved himself a highly capable leader during his father’s turbulent reign. In 1403, aged just 14, John was made Warden of the East March, the region on the Scottish border around Berwick-on-Tweed. He soon proved his mettle defending England’s northern borders against Scottish incursions alongside his older cousin Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland. After his brother succeeded to the English throne as Henry V in 1413, John was trusted with the rule of England during his warlike sibling’s many expeditions abroad, and was created Duke of Bedford in May 1414. The new king was closer to John than to any of his other brothers – even Thomas, Duke of Clarence, who was next in line for the throne. Henry was absent from England for almost half of his nine-year reign, and allowed Bedford to act as regent in all but name during most of that time. John appears to have discharged his growing responsibilities with aplomb. Yet nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. In August 1422, Henry V died while on campaign in France, possibly from dysentery. England had lost its indomitable warrior king. It was a perilous moment. With the crown now passing to Henry’s nine-month-old son, Henry VI, and England embroiled in war with the French, the nation urgently needed someone to shepherd it through the dangerous months ahead. Read more | Alternate history: what if Henry V hadn't died in 1422? Luckily, Henry V had realised that Bedford was up to the task, and appointed his brother as regent of France just before he died. For 13 years, Bedford effectively held together the English presence in the country. Ten months after his brother’s death, John married Anne, sister of Phillip, Duke of Burgundy. Unusually for medieval noblemen, a picture of John created during his lifetime survives in the Bedford Hours, a beautifully illuminated manuscript given by John to Anne as a wedding present and containing images of both him and his wife. It reveals that John bore a striking resemblance to his father and brother: tall, with a beaked nose and dark hair cut in a pudding-bowl style. A son’s guerrilla war John’s marriage to Anne cemented England’s alliance with the Duchy of Burgundy – and that alliance was to grow ever more crucial as relations between England and France continued to plumb the depths. In 1420, Henry V had been nominated as the heir of Charles VI of France by the terms of the Treaty of Troyes. This created a ‘dual monarchy’, by which the kings of England were entitled to rule both England and France. The biggest loser from the Treaty of Troyes was Charles VI’s disinherited son, also called Charles – and, in the early 1420s, he waged a sort of guerrilla war against the English, bolstered by aid from Scotland. It was in the younger Charles’s name that, in 1424, the French Count of Aumerle (along with John Stewart, Earl of Buchan and Archibald Douglas, Earl of Douglas) joined battle with the English outside Verneuil, which had recently been taken by trickery. After brutal hand-to-hand fighting, English longbowmen and crossbowmen turned the course of the battle, and the French were routed. John then determinedly finished off the Scottish contingent, reportedly crying out the name of Clarence – an act of vengeance for his brother, who had been killed three years earlier by a largely Scottish army at the battle of Baugé. Read more | What was it like to be a Prisoner of War during the Hundred Years’ War? John took seriously his promise to uphold his nephew Henry VI’s claim to the French throne and continued to defend the English territories in France over the years that followed. The fortunes of his forces oscillated in this war – not helped by the ill-advised marriage of his youngest brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, to Jacqueline of Hainault, cousin of the Duke of Burgundy. This union threw the alliance with Burgundy into jeopardy, as Humphrey clashed with the duke, and John spent valuable time and effort building diplomatic bridges with England’s longstanding ally. Then, in 1429, a French peasant girl named Joan arrived on the scene. John and Joan of Arc’s paths crossed only a few times, and his relationship to the saintly French warrior is much misunderstood. In movies about Joan, John is typically cast as the villain, even the man responsible for her fate. In reality, the two never met, though Joan addressed two irate letters to him. “You, Duke of Bedford who call yourself Regent of France… make satisfaction to the king of Heaven,” she demanded in one missive. “Surrender to the Pucelle [maiden], who has been sent here by God, the king of Heaven, the keys of all the good towns that you have taken and violated in France… I am commander of war, and in whatever place I come upon your men in France, I will make them leave, whether they wish to or not. And if they do not wish to obey, I will have them all killed; I have been sent here… to drive you out of all France.” At first, John wasn’t too troubled by Joan’s declamations. Within five months of her arrival on the scene, however, she had relieved the siege of Orléans, and on 17 July had the younger Charles crowned King Charles VII of France in Reims Cathedral. By summer 1429, then, John was worried and annoyed. Like most of his English contemporaries, he considered Joan a witch – and he wasn’t going to allow her to threaten the dual monarchy. So he devised a plan to stop her in her tracks. First, he sent word to England to have Henry VI crowned king of France (though he’d succeeded his father in 1422, his coronation hadn’t yet taken place). Then, as his next gambit, he lured Joan and Charles to Paris, forcing them to expend time and resources in taking the capital instead of focusing on weak spots such as Orléans. John shored up Paris for a long siege that summer, and set about winning hearts and minds. His plan worked remarkably well. When Joan arrived in August, she was forced to wait outside the city, failing in her attempts to draw her enemies into open battle. John had learned from observation of Joan’s previous engagements not to take the bait, preferring to fight her on his own terms. Following a siege, the French took the small suburb of Saint-Denys, but Paris itself eluded them. Eventually, in frustration, Joan of Arc appeared before the walls, screaming that all inside should surrender – or, she threatened, she would bring down the wrath of God upon them and kill everybody. The defenders of Paris were not impressed: an English soldier reportedly shot her with a crossbow, calling her a “bloody tart”. Joan had to be dragged away from the gate, bleeding and humiliated, and Charles’s army withdrew from Paris. In 1430, Joan was captured – but John wasn’t able to enjoy this moment. As Henry VI was now in France, the council didn’t technically need a regent and so it threatened to fire John. As a result, he spent much of that year in limbo, unable to do much politically or militarily. He did not play a role in determining Joan’s fate; by then, she had been condemned for heresy, so the matter was left almost entirely in the hands of the church. John was not even present in Rouen on 30 May 1431, when Joan was burned at the stake. Instead, he was bringing supplies to Paris, which continued to suffer frequent attacks. Their fortunes at that moment contrasted starkly: while the young woman who became France’s potent and enduring figurehead was being brutally executed in Rouen, John of Bedford was being greeted as a hero in Paris. Yet the situation then was not as clear-cut as it may seem today. Timeline: the remarkable life of John, Duke of Bedford 20 June 1389 Mary de Bohun, wife of Henry Bolingbroke, Earl of Derby, gives birth to her third son, probably at Kenilworth Castle. He is named after his paternal grandfather, John of Gaunt. 30 September 1399 John’s father is proclaimed King Henry IV after deposing his cousin Richard II. 1403 In the aftermath of the battle of Shrewsbury on 21 July, John is appointed Warden of the East March, aged just 14, marking the beginning of his military training. 1414 At the second parliament of his oldest brother, Henry V, John is made Duke of Bedford and Earl of Kendal. October 1422 Just weeks after Henry V’s death, John takes up the office of regent of France. May 1423 John marries Anne, younger sister of Philip, Duke of Burgundy, one of England’s most important allies. 17 August 1424 John leads an English army to victory against combined Franco-Scottish forces near Verneuil-sur-Avre, Normandy. The battle becomes known as the ‘Second Agincourt’. August – September 1429 In response to a challenge by John, Joan of Arc and Charles VII of France attempt to take Paris, starting a fruitless siege. Bedford’s careful preparations ensure that the city does not fall. 13 November 1432 Anne of Burgundy dies in Paris, possibly of plague. John marries Jacquetta of Luxembourg the following April. 14 September 1435 John dies in Rouen, aged 46, one week before the Congress of Arras ends the alliance between England and Burgundy. A family at war Henry VI crossed the channel to France in the summer of 1430, and for the next 18 months rivalry simmered between John and various members of the council, especially his paternal uncle, Cardinal Beaufort, who was determined to assert his own primacy. These tensions resulted in the regency being removed from John, and for a time Henry’s council took charge of the war effort in France. Yet John had always had a good relationship with the young king. He had been in England when his nephew was born in late 1421, while Henry V was away in France. And his campaigns in France had been undertaken, it seems, not only to preserve his brother’s legacy but also to advance the interests of the young English monarch. Read more | How Henry VI's love of peace cost him the throne – and his life He must, then, have looked on with some satisfaction when – on 16 December 1431, at the tender age of 10 – Henry VI was crowned King of France at Notre Dame de Paris. The coronation proved something of a turning point for both Henry and John. The king would soon depart for England, never to set foot on French soil again. As for John, he was immediately reinstated as regent – reflecting overwhelming trust in his abilities, even if some in the English court didn’t want to admit it. He immediately set about reversing some of the policies Henry VI’s council had put into place. Then, in 1432, John lost the love of his life and his greatest ally: his wife, Anne. She was only in her late 20s, possibly succumbing to an outbreak of plague in Paris. Though John remarried the following year, he never produced any legitimate children. Anne’s death proved the final nail in the coffin for the alliance between England and Burgundy, though John managed to hold it together for almost three more years. During this time he had to return to England because he was the only person considered trustworthy enough to mediate between the rival factions forming in Henry VI’s government. His brother Humphrey and uncle Cardinal Beaufort were at odds – not for the first time – and the division was tearing the government apart. John had another problem: the continuing conflict in France was becoming increasingly unpopular in England. In the words of medieval historian Jonathan Sumption, John was “the only statesman who truly understood the demands of the dual monarchy and in the end truly believed in it”. That belief was stretched to breaking point in the summer of 1435 at the Congress of Arras. This summit saw Charles VII and Philip, Duke of Burgundy embarking on a series of negotiations that threatened to conclude with both of them rejecting English claims to the French throne. A young and healthy John, Duke of Bedford might have better represented English interests at the summit. But John, who hosted the English delegation at the congress, was not young and healthy. He was in his mid-forties, exhausted and on the edge of death. In fact, John died before the summit reached its end, breathing his last in Rouen Castle on 14 September 1435. One week later, Philip and Charles came to terms, ending the alliance between Burgundy and England that had endured for almost 15 years. John was buried not in England but in Rouen Cathedral. Today, nothing remains of his tomb nor any other memorial. Though England clung on to control of Normandy for 15 years after John’s death, the nation had been deprived of its most loyal, capable and dedicated leader. After his demise, commitment to the war in France waned, and the divisions in Henry VI’s government became increasingly virulent. By 1453, England had lost almost all of its remaining French possessions. In death, as in life, John’s reputation remained untarnished. The English would look back on the days of his regency as a golden age. He was even respected and admired in France. Read more | The miraculous afterlife of Henry VI One cannot help but think that if he had lived longer, the course of Henry VI’s reign might have run differently. Would the king’s famous and beloved uncle have helped to heal divisions – perhaps even persuading his nephew to go to France and fight? If John had produced a legitimate heir, would Henry have had a loyal cousin by his side when the House of York rose to challenge his throne? We can only guess at the answers to those conundrums. But we can, at least, remember and honour the valour and loyalty of this long-forgotten prince. This article was first published in the February 2025 issue of BBC History Magazine
Dan Jones speaks to Helen Castor about her new book on the tragic French heroine Joan of Arc.
Historian Helen Castor discusses her new biography of the tragic French heroine Joan of Arc, describing her famous victories and the dramatic trial that condemned her to death. Putting the questions is fellow historian Dan Jones.
Voltaire, Vanessa Bell and Joan of Arc: 3 things that happened On This Day 30 May
What happened on this day in history? We round up three famous events, births, battles and deaths...
30 May 1778: Francois-Marie Arouet (pen name Voltaire) died in Paris aged 83. 1879: Vanessa Bell, painter and member of the Bloomsbury Group, was born at Hyde Park Gate in London. She was the daughter of Sir Leslie Stephen, the first editor of the Dictionary of National Biography. 1431: Aged 19, Joan of Arc was burned at the stake as a relapsed heretic in the old market place in Rouen. She had inspired the French victory at Orleans in 1429 but had been captured by the Burgundians in the following year and subsequently sold to the English. Joan had been instrumental in securing the coronation of Charles VII as king of France and, by securing her condemnation, the English were hoping to undermine Charles’s legitimacy as monarch. Compiled by Julian Humphrys – You can follow Julian on Twitter @GeneralJules
On what is believed to be the 600th anniversary of the birth of Joan of Arc, Charlotte Hodgman talks to historian Kelly DeVries about this saint and national heroine of France, and visits eight related places
This article was first published in the January 2012 issue of BBC History Magazine Born to a relatively wealthy peasant family on 6 January c1412, Joan of Arc appears to have enjoyed a normal upbringing. It was far removed from the fighting that raged elsewhere in France, a series of conflicts now referred to as the Hundred Years’ War. Fought between England and France between 1337 and 1453, the war’s primary cause was the possession of the French throne. Following the deaths of Henry V and Charles VI in 1422, nine-month-old Henry VI was recognised as king of England and France by the English, a claim disputed by those who upheld the succession of the dauphin, Charles. “A great deal of what we know about Joan’s early years comes from notes made during her trial, but it is estimated that she was about 17 years old when she began her year of military activity,” says Kelly DeVries, professor of history at Loyola University, Maryland. “We know she was from a relatively wealthy peasant family, lived in a two-storey stone house next to the village church with her family, and that she probably received her first vision at some point during her mid-teens.” Joan’s visions took the form of voices that she claimed belonged to St Margaret and St Michael, and it was these voices that presented Joan with her first two missions: to relieve the siege of Orléans and to crown the dauphin, Charles, king of France. “In order to succeed in her mission of ridding France of the English, Joan first needed the approval of the dauphin, who was residing at Chinon Castle with his court, but she required an escort to do so,” says DeVries. “That escort took the shape of Sir Robert de Baudricourt, the garrison commander of nearby Vaucouleurs, a town that had resisted attempts to bring it under the control of the Burgundians, who had at this time allied with the English and were seeking to bring the ‘dauphinist’ lands south of the Loire under Anglo-Burgundian control.” Joan’s request was rejected but she returned to Vaucouleurs a few months later. This time, perhaps due to the fact that rumours of a woman rising up to defeat the English were rife in the area, or perhaps following a second opinion from the King of Anjou, de Baudricourt granted Joan a small band of soldiers. The party then set off on a journey through France to Chinon Castle on the Loire river. Although swayed by Joan’s arguments, Charles wanted further proof of Joan’s divinity before committing men and arms to the cause. He sent her to meet Yolande of Aragon, his mother-in-law, and then on to the University of Poitiers where she was questioned, and subsequently approved, by the institution’s religious professors. Joan’s first mission was to relieve the siege of Orléans, a town that had been under attack from English forces for some time. Buoyed up by their success in ending the siege, Joan and her military leaders agreed upon a strategy of clearing the Loire river valley of English troops, beginning with the nearby towns of Jargeau, Meung-sur-Loire and Beaugency. “To her followers, it must have seemed that Joan could not fail,” says DeVries. “She was in command of a huge group of loyal soldiers and appeared to have God on her side; it was in this spirit that a huge ‘Coronation army’ marched from Chinon to Reims where Charles was crowned king. Joan’s divine mission seemed to be complete. “But although grateful for Joan’s success, some nobles suggested Joan be removed from military action following Charles’s coronation,” continues DeVries. “The nobles wanted to make peace with Philip of Burgundy but some didn’t feel they could while Joan was still present, and even the new king wished her gone. Joan, however, had other ideas and added a new task to her divine mission: to take Paris from the English.” Charles reluctantly allowed Joan and her army to set out for St Denis, a region just outside Paris. However, an unsuccessful attack on the French capital’s city walls resulted in serious injury for Joan and Charles took the defeat as a sign that his forces should leave the city. After recuperation in Chinon, however, Joan launched an attack on the castle fortress of La Charité, which was being held by a mercenary captain by the name of Perrinet Gressart. Another military failure ensued and a subsequent attempt to relieve the siege of Compiègne some months later led to Joan’s capture by Burgundian forces. Despite the offer of a ransom by several of her companions, including Duc d’Alencon and Artur de Richemont, Joan was sold to the English and preparations began for her trial, during which she was held captive in Rouen. After a trial of some weeks, Joan was found guilty of heresy, a crime punishable by death, and so on 30 May 1431 she was burned at the stake. A ‘rehabilitation trial’ was brought by Charles between 1450–57 in an attempt to restore Joan’s reputation. This culminated in the official decision to nullify her condemnation, but she was not canonised until 1920, despite moves by the French to do so as early as the 15th century, when she was beatified. “Joan was certainly a remarkable woman,” comments DeVries, “but she was more of a ‘tide turner’ than a victor of the Hundred Years’ War, which continued for a further 23 years after Joan’s death.” 8 places linked to Joan of Arc Domrémy-la-Pucelle, Vosges LorRaine Where Joan first heard the voices of the saints The small village of Domrémy (later named Domrémy-la-Pucelle) was home to Joan until she set out on her military mission, and it was in the yard adjacent to the family’s house that she is said to have received her first visions. Although not of noble stock, it is thought that the family held social rank in the village, a belief supported by the fact that Joan and her family lived in a stone-built house positioned next to the Church of Saint-Remy. Joan herself is said to have been extremely devout, even as a young child, and confessed her sins several times a day. The house in which Joan was raised is now a national monument that is open to the public. Visitors can see the room in which Joan was born, along with other rooms once lived in by the family. The lintel above the front door shows three coats of arms: those of Joan’s family; those of René d’Anjou, in whose territory of Lorraine the house was built; and those of Louis XI, son of Charles VII, who declared the house a religious and historical site following Joan’s ‘rehabilitation trial’ after 1450. Also open to the public is the Church of Saint-Remy where Joan prayed regularly – the font in which she was baptised is also on display. Some also believe that a recently uncovered fresco on the wall of the Notre-Dame de Bermont chapel, sited about 500 yards from the house, may depict Joan praying. www.meusetourism.com Chinon Castle, Chinon Indre-et-Loire Where Joan met the future king of France Chinon Castle has one of the longest histories of any castle in the Loire Valley and dates back around 1,000 years. Much of the original building was created by the English king Henry II in the 12th century, serving as an important regional control centre. Parts of the castle were enhanced by King Philippe Auguste in the 13th century when it came under French control. Other notable owners include Napoleon III and, of course, Charles VII. On Joan’s arrival at Chinon Castle in early March 1429, Charles (then the dauphin) tried to trick her by having one of his courtiers dress up as him. Guided by her ‘voices’, Joan immediately identified Charles, proclaiming: “I bring you news from God, that our Lord will give you back your kingdom, bringing you to be crowned at Reims, and driving out your enemies. In this I am God’s messenger.” Joan spent many months at Chinon, staying in one of the castle’s towers and praying at the castle’s church. Much of the original castle remains, and the tower in which Joan stayed is still relatively intact and is open to the public. The tower was also used to imprison a number of Templars before their execution in 1308 and graffiti from that time is still visible on the tower’s interior walls. www.loirevalleytourism.com Orléans, Loiret Loire Valley Where Joan relieved the city of its year-long siege The siege of Orléans, which took place from 1428–29, is seen by many as one of the turning points in the Hundred Years’ War and was the site of Joan’s first military victory against the English. Says DeVries: “Joan reached the city at the end of April 1429, by which point the English had cut off the city on three sides. It was clear that the enemy strongholds needed to be seized in order to break the siege.” Joan, together with a small guard of men, was able to enter the city, but the bridge across the river and Les Tourelles, a fortified bridgehead, still lay in English hands. Buoyed up by the sight of Joan on horseback, however, and convinced that God was on their side, French soldiers attacked the nearby fortress of St Loup while Joan was sleeping. “Joan quickly realised that she could use this enthusiasm to her advantage,” says DeVries, “and on reaching her men, she ordered an attack on Les Tourelles, herself one of the first to put a ladder up against its walls and climb over into the fort itself.” Les Tourelles fell under the weight of the attack, and the English surrendered, some jumping into the nearby river to avoid capture. The bridge that spans the river today is not that of Joan’s day, but the remains of the medieval bridge can be seen at low tide. The only remains of Les Tourelles are underground, uncovered during archaeological excavations. www.tourisme-orleans.com Jargeau, Loiret Loire Valley Where Joan captured her first English nobleman Following a meeting between military leaders in the presence of the dauphin, a strategy of clearing the Loire river valley of English troops was decided upon and Joan rejoined her army at Orléans in early June. Jargeau, a small town about 10 miles east of Orléans, was the army’s first port of call and it was here that Joan captured the English nobleman William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, who was heading the English defence of the town. Heavy artillery bombardment using cannons and siege engines saw one of the town’s towers fall, and Joan subsequently claimed her second victory against the English forces. Today, the town’s medieval walls, which were subjected to the French assault in June 1429, can still be seen. The town’s Collegiate Church of St Etienne, originally built in the ninth century, is also open to visitors. www.jargeau-tourisme.com Beaugency Loire Valley Where Joan and her army continued the Loire Valley campaign Encouraged by their success at Orléans and Jargeau, as well as another battle at nearby Meung-sur-Loire, Joan moved the campaign to Beaugency, knowing that the recapture of the town would be a significant achievement for the French forces. As the French forces began to bombard Beaugency’s walls, the English defenders inside retreated to the town’s castle before eventually surrendering. An agreement subsequently reached by both sides stated that the English would be allowed to leave the town in safety the following morning. However, on finding out that English forces from Meung-sur-Loire had slipped away under cover of darkness, Joan sent a vanguard of her best soldiers to stop them in their tracks. The fleeing English were eventually caught at Patay and there ensued another battle in which the French once more emerged victorious, capturing two more English leaders, Thomas Scales and John Talbot. The 12th-century castle at Beaugency is one of the town’s key attractions, and a statue of Joan of Arc, located near the castle’s main tower, commemorates the French victory in June 1429. www.francethisway.com Cathedral of Notre-Dame, Reims Marne Where Joan fulfilled her divine mission Following the lifting of the siege at Orléans and the ensuing victories at Beaugency, Meung-sur-Loire and Patay, Joan and her army led Charles through English-occupied territory to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. “The ’Coronation Army’ was, by this time, of a vastly increased size,” comments DeVries, “and it faced little opposition on its long march to Reims.” Upon their arrival in Reims on 16 July 1429, preparations began immediately for the coronation, which, according to French custom, was held at the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. On 17 July, Charles was anointed with holy oil and crowned king of France. Joan was present at the ceremony, standing next to the king in full armour and holding her personal banner. The Cathedral of Notre-Dame at Reims hosted 25 French royal coronations between Louis VIII in 1223 and Charles X in 1825. The building itself was begun in 1211, modelled on Chartres Cathedral, and boasts an interior length of some 455 feet. The cathedral was damaged during the First World War, but much of its original facade is still intact. A statue of Joan on horseback leading the march to Reims stands outside the cathedral. www.reims-tourism.com Compiègne Oise Where Joan was captured by the Burgundians Having recovered from a serious injury, probably to her torso, which she received during her attack on the city of Paris in September 1429, Joan escaped her enforced captivity at the hands of the king in Chinon and made her way to the town of Compiègne, which had been under attack by the Burgundians for several months. It was during a skirmish with the Burgundian forces outside the walls of Compiègne that Joan was knocked from her horse by an enemy archer and captured. Says DeVries: “Some historians say that Joan was locked out of the town by its governor, Guillaume de Flavy, but this was not the case and the Burgundians never succeeded in recapturing Compiègne. In fact, many believe that the Anglo-Burgundian failure to seize the town was one of the factors that five years later led to the split of the English and Burgundian forces.” Today, visitors to Compiègne can see the walls outside which Joan was captured in May 1430. A statue in the town also marks the event. www.oisetourism.co.uk Rouen Seine-Maritime Where Joan was tried and burned at the stake Following her capture, Joan was sold to the English for 10,000 livres and proudly paraded around the towns and cities of occupied France as an English prisoner. She was eventually taken to Rouen whereupon she was put on trial for heresy and subjected to a series of hearings between February and March 1431. “Stories of Joan’s torture while held prisoner in Rouen have most likely been exaggerated, but she was probably subjected to less formal forms of torture such as sleep deprivation and hunger,” says DeVries. Joan was found guilty of heresy and on 30 May 1431 she was publicly burned alive in Rouen’s market square. Although the 12th-century tower in which Joan was held prisoner during her trial no longer stands, there are a number of other relevant sites in the town. Visitors can still see the tower in which Joan was interrogated by her captors, as well as the site of her burning, outside the modern-day church dedicated to Joan of Arc. www.normandy-tourism.org Words: Charlotte Hodgman. Historical advisor: Kelly DeVries, professor of history at Loyola University, Maryland and author of Joan of Arc: A Military Leader (Sutton, 2011)