A Day Joan of Arc Burned, 1431
Time Surfing: Graphic History
Time Surfing: Experience History Firsthand.
Historical Backdrop
By the spring of 1431, France had been torn by the long war with England for nearly a century. A teenage peasant girl from Domrémy named Joan (Jeanne) had climed heavenly voices told her to drive the English out and crown the French king, Charles VII. She led armies, lifted the siege of Orléans, and became a legend — until she was captured, sold to the English, and put on trial in the English-held city of Rouen. A church court led by Bishop Pierre Cauchon judged her as heretic and witch. Politics, not faith, decided her fate. On May 30, 1431, she was condemned to burn at the stake in the Old Market Square while she was still only about nineteen years old.
Our subject is Geoffroy Thérage, the master executioner (the bourreau) of Rouen. He was a working craftsman of death — a man who whipped, branded, hanged, and burned for the city’s wages, feared and shunned by neighbors who still needed his trade. He built the pyre, tied the girl, and lit the fire. Records tell us that afterward he was shaken to his core.
Before dawn, roughly 4:30 a.m. — Geoffroy Thérage’s lodging, a cramped room near the city ditch, Rouen
You wake in the dark to the sound of your own coughing. The room stinks of tallow and old smoke. You pull your boots over damp feet and check your tools by candlelight — knife, rope, the flint you will need later. Your wife does not look at you. Today’s work is not like hanging a thief. You know whose name is on the order. You eat cold bread and drink watered wine, and your hands are steady, but your gut is not.
About 6:00 a.m. — Place du Vieux-Marché (the Old Market Square), Rouen
You reach the empty square in grey morning light. Your helpers are already stacking bundles of dry wood and faggots around a tall plaster pillar. The pyre is built high — higher than a man’s head — because the crowd must see. You test the ropes and the wood. Somewhere a rooster crows and shopkeepers open their shutters to watch. The stone masons finish the little step where she will stand. You say nothing. You just work.
About 7:00 a.m. — Edge of the square, near the assembling English guard
Soldiers pour into the streets around the market. Hundreds of them, in steel caps and red-and-white coats with the cross of Saint George. Their captains want no trouble — no rescue, no riot. A clerk reads you your part in the day’s order. You listen and nod. The crowd is growing fast now, pushing at the ropes, hungry for the sight. You feel their heat at your back like a fire already lit.
About 8:00 a.m. — The narrow streets between Rouen Castle and the Old Market
A cart rattles into view, pulled slow through the mob. She sits inside, small and pale, in a long grey gown, her cropped dark hair loose, a monk on either side of her. People shout — some curse her, some weep, some just stare. You stand near the stake and watch her come. She looks even younger than you feared. Her lips are moving. She is praying, not screaming.
About 9:00 a.m. — The Old Market Square, before the raised platforms
