It was 588 or so years ago, 23rd October 1430, that Joan of Arc dumped me, and I’ve never quite recovered. There have been a few princesses and duchesses since, even a few pleasant peasant girls, but my heart was never really in it and those dalliances never lasted, so here I sit, old and alone.
She said she wanted more out of life than just marriage and kids. I told her I could give her more, more than any soldier or bishop or horse, but she just gave me that inquisitive half-smile and murmured, “La gloire, tu peux me donner la gloire?”
Of course I thought she was glory personified; how could a girl from Domrémy cope with any more glory? She had a flock of geese and a donkey, and the wild garlic she grew along the river bank won Best of Show at the Montreux Jazz Festival three years in a row.
Little did I know what kind of glory she sought. How could I guess that she wanted to be sung about and idolised?
So she left, and although lesser men write songs about her valour, they know nothing of her cruel pride, her vanity, how she could demolish a man, but at least no other man knew her charms like I did.