This is a day late. Sorry about that, I wanted to get it in time. Well, it's just as likely that Jeanne was born on the seventh but as there is a Christian holiday yesterday, some people like to think that she was born then.
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It was the day of her birth, scholars argued. The sixth of January, the Epiphany, upon which the baby Jesus was visited by the wise men three. How appropriate it was, thought France; Jesus was visited by three kings and given gifts upon that day. His dear Jeanne had had three visitors as well; the Father, the Midwife and himself. Though none gave gifts.
He remembered the day so clearly, clearer than yesterday sometimes.
He remembered being drawn to the small town of Domrémy-such a small town-And he was pointed towards her house by Archangel Michael. He set a much more mundane message then a star above her house. The angel lit the roof on fire. Helping them put it out by shovelling snow upon it, he turned to ask the couple if anyone was hurt. He was surprised to see the woman suddenly shed a tonne of water at least and waddle into the house moaning about evil fate. Only a few seconds later the father, his young daughter followed by a younger son hot-footed it out of the house, shrieking:
"Notre mère! She's giving birth! Get the midwife!" they cried, splitting up and rousing all the villagers with their shouting.
France slipped inside, for he could hear a babe wailing its heart out. Padding softly around the room outside of the mother's chamber, he found the child, turning almost red in the face and tears pouring down its face. He immediately recognized that there was no one in the house but the Isabelle, and she was giving birth. He picked the babe up and walked around the room, cooing and frantically trying to remember what he used to do when En-
He stopped abruptly. England was no longer a child. He knew that. The babe of the isles was no more and he despised the man-no, he thought scornfully, the mere child- that had taken his place. May his disgusting food make him choke and die.
The child started wailing again and so France had to hastily resume his sojourn around the small peasant house. A few minutes after the babe was asleep the door shot open and the midwife bustled in, brawny and commanding, filling up the entire room.
"Comment? There is a man here? Why is this?" she demanded, freezing France in his tracks with a glare.
He smiled weakly. "Mademoiselle, I am…Ehh…a passing merchant."
The midwife narrowed her eyes as she took in how young he was-nineteen if she had to guess.
He jerked his head towards the mother's room.
"Aren't you supposed to be helping her?"
The woman fairly exploded with energy and shooed all the males out, stripping branches of their leaves and slamming a mortar and pestle down to grind the juices out.
"You! Catherine!" she commanded the girl. "Grind this until your arms ache!"
Catherine- much accustomed to new births, having been through two others- fell to her task with gusto, pounding away at the leaves as if the unoffending herbs were an English soldier. In fact, the midwife made the two men and little boy chop herbs and mix tinctures, since the mother was "narrowly made and it will be a hard birth, most like."
For hours, Madame Darc screamed and cried, hailing abuse upon the poor Monsieur Darc's head. He shook his head and sighed.
"Isabelle is always like this," he remarked sourly to France after a particularly scorching insult involving his mother and a toad doing something totally improbable. "Always saying how cursed stupid I am because I got her pregnant. It's not my fault. She's the woman."
France felt a trifle sorry for the man and woman both. He felt that some of the more inventive curses were particularly interesting though; he noted them down on a scrap of paper when no-one was looking. He needed some nice threats to deliver to Nations, and mothers giving birth seemed to have the best ones. He'd have to look into the matter later.
And there is a shout-a final, wavering cry- and the mother fell silent. Francis watched the husband rush into the room. He backed out just as fast, arms pinwheeling, as a stout hand pushed him out of the way.
"The baby's come but she's still losin' blood," bellowed the midwife. "I need my bloodwort and my borage and my knife now."
Catherine-appointed for the task because she was female-hurried in with two evil-smelling glasses of cloudy green liquid and a dagger; there was nothing but silence for a good quarter of an hour as France and Monsieur Darc hovered impatiently outside the room. The door creaked open and the midwife stumbled out, a hand bloody with the baby's new passage.
"Payment." She said curtly.
Monsieur Darc slowly counted out two copper coins and a silver half-crown. The midwife snatched them.
"Jacques? The baby-she is a girl." came a quavering voice from the open doorway. Monsieur Darc swept in to behold the baby, trailed by the little boy.
"She's small! Really small!" exclaimed her new brother.
"Hush, mon petit homme, your sister is asleep." chided Madame Darc.
France wavered awkwardly outside the happy family bubble. He wasn't so keen on disrupting the mood.
"Ah, merchant Francis." smiled Monsieur Darc. "Would you like to see the girl that you helped into the world?" He gestured broadly towards the glowing mother and child.
"I-I would not want to intrude...but..." he hesitated. "Maybe...I would like..."
"Good man." Jacques clapped him on the back.
France carefully peeked at the baby, over the heads of the other children. She was born with a full head of dark brown hair, ("doubtless never going to lose it, look how thick it is!" exclaimed Isabelle) and a small button nose already red with the cold. Her eyes, when they opened, were a clear gray.
She looked solemnly at all of those who had gathered around her at the day of her birth, and, since being born was such a laborious job, she started to cry.
"What are you going to name her?" asked France.
"Why," remarked Isabelle, "I thought I'd already told you. Her name is Jeanne."