Historical Places: Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois
The Loire Valley, in Central France, is a region most famous for its castles and vineyards, which make it the perfect destination for the history enthusiast. There are colossal stone fortresses every few miles along the Loire River, and cities built around great cathedrals, like Orléans and Tours, where even the ground and the walls seem to tell many a story from their centuries of existence.
But historical significance–or should I say interest–of places is often not measured in the height of the constructions and extension of the city map, but rather in the grandeur of events which in they took place, or how they survive in the people’s memory, in historical records, stories, myths, legends, folklore. Such a great impression such events cause, that they are never forgotten, and may make a small village of a handful of families richer than a city of tens of thousands.
Stories of the Loire Valley
Some seven leagues (that is, 35 km/20 miles) south of the city of Tours, the largest city in the old province of Touraine (now department of Indre-et-Loire) there is a small village named Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois, where it is told marvelous events happened. Let me tell how I got there, and my impression of it.
I was visiting the city of Chinon, in Central France, to see the Forteresse Royale de Chinon, the castle in which history tells us Joan of Arc met the dauphin–later the king Charles VII–before venturing into Orléans for the quest of raising the siege. I was staying with a French gentleman named Michel, who kindly offered me a bed in his comfortable house in exchange of company and some Brazilian cooking (sorry it wasn’t as delicious as you deserved, my friend!).
Now this gentlemen was an experienced traveller, having been all around the world. A proud socialist, he told me about the time when he visited my continent, just as I was visiting his, to take a journey on the footsteps of Che Guevara, his hero. He was curious about my interest in Joan’s campaigns, and I told him about the places I had been to and where I planned to go next: Rouen, Orléans, Chinon, Paris, Domrémy–begin at the end, end at the beginning. Three special places were left out of my travel map, though, for lack of time: Reims, where the coronation of Charles VII took place, Compiègne, where Joan was captured, and the small nearby village of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois.
The Legend of the Sword
This village is known for the marvelous story of the sword of Joan of Arc. While at the dauphin’s court of Chinon, the Maid was given a shining armour and a gold-embroidered white banner. But she wouldn’t take a sword from the dauphin’s armory; instead, she would require her sword came from heaven. Only such a weapon would be able to unite the realm and revert the tide of war, raise the siege of Orléans and achieve the coronation of the rightful king of France.
The Voices–that is, Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret–instructed Joan to send for the sword buried by the altar of the chapel, and that its blade would be marked by five crosses near the crossguard. A courier was sent with these instructions on a letter to the priests, dictated by Joan. Loyal to the Armagnac cause and believers of the Maid’s mission, they had the floor excavated, and inside a chest the sword was found, with a torn scabbard and a thin layer of rust on the blade. After a light polish, the markings of the five crosses revealed themselves.
Though there were many swords in the sanctuary, left by pilgrim soldiers vowed to Saint Catherine, none had ever seen this sword; therefore, it was counted as another of the Maid’s miracles.
When I told Michel about the story, he was surprised that he had never heard about it, nor about the place; so we did some quick research on the internet. I told him that the sword buried therein was the sword of Charlemagne, that Joan carried to battle. I must had read that maybe in Mark Twain’s Recollections, or maybe in the Age of Empires II game. I was mistaken. Our research–and later readings–revealed that the village had in fact nothing to do with with Charlemagne, but rather with his grandfather Charles Martel.
Anatole France writes:
“The story of this sword spread, swollen with strange fables. It was said to be the sword of the great Charles Martel, long asleep underground. Many thought that it was the sword of Alexander and the heroes of old. All men held it good and fortunate.” (Vie de Jeanne d’Arc, vol. I)
[L’histoire de cette épée se répandit au loin, grossie de fables étranges. C’était, disait-on, l’épée, longtemps endormie sous terre, du grand Charles Martel. Plusieurs pensaient que ce fut l’épée d’Alexandre et des preux du temps jadis. Tous la tenaient bonne et fortunée.]”
Origin: The Battle Of Tours-Poitiers (AD 732)
Fierbois stands for “ferus bocus”, or wild woods. This is how the place was reported to be before its foundation, and remains of the forest can still be seen in the southern border of the village. It was in these lands between Tours and Poitiers that the commander of the Frankish armies fought the Saracens who had conquered the Iberian Peninsula, defeated the armies of the Visigoths and, crossing the Pyrenees, waged war to expand the Islamic Caliphate into Francia. They had had victory in Aquitaine and were advancing northwards, but here in the Loire Valley they were overthrown by the hand and leadership of Charles Martel, the Hammer.
The battle is known as Battle of Tours, or [First] Battle of Poitiers (the second being a part of the English victory streak in the Hundred Years War). It is deemed by the historians as a defining moment in European history: for in that moment the Caliphate’s expansion was stopped in Central Europe. Being the greatest military power in Europe at the time, defeat of the Frankish army could have meant the triumph of Islam over Christianity and the spread of its teachings from Arabia to northern England. On this, Edward Gibbon wrote:
“A victorious line of march had been prolonged above a thousand miles from the rock of Gibraltar to the banks of the Loire; the repetition of an equal space would have carried the Saracens to the confines of Poland and the Highlands of Scotland; the Rhine is not more impassable than the Nile or Euphrates, and the Arabian fleet might have sailed without a naval combat into the mouth of the Thames. Perhaps the interpretation of the Koran would now be taught in the schools of Oxford, and her pulpits might demonstrate to a circumcised people the sanctity and truth of the revelation of Mahomet.” (The Decline And Fall Of The Roman Empire, Chapter LII) (wikipedia)
It is told that it was by grace of Saint Catherine–who was a patron of soldiers–that victory was seized at Tours-Poitiers; that Charles Martel ordered the construction of a sanctuary in her name, and therein buried his sword as an offering. As the legend of the Maid of Orléans grew, it became a custom to say it was Charles’ sword, blessed by Saint Catherine, that she found and carried into battle some seven centuries later, to once again achieve victory against invaders of the kingdom of France. It is an extraordinary tale, full of passion and wonder, no matter which parts are fact and which are fiction.
Visiting the village
On my second day at his house, Michel and I drove to Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois. It was early summer, and in the afternoon the sun shone brightly upon the green hills. The sky and the grass aside, all one sees in this part of the world are vineyards, which at this point were only starting to grow, far and wide.
The road from Chinon led us straight into the main street, and to the central square, the Place des Anciens Combattants, before the church. It is very small village–quick research reveals a population of no more than 750. The outsides of the buildings were the colour of wheat, which added to the green colour of the landscape gave a great feeling of peace. There were other visitors. An elderly couple riding bicycles caught our attention: they had seashells tied to the handlebar; signs of the pilgrimage of Saint James. Many reasons, I reckoned, may bring seekers to a place like this.
Just like in Orléans, Chinon, and other places featured in the stories, there was an iron statue of Joan, some one-hundred metres from the entrance of the church, clad in armour, carrying the banner, with a sword by the waist.
The architecture of the church is remarkably beautiful for a such a small village, especially in the west façade. The portal is a tall pointed arch of unmistakable French gothic style, yet the three rectangular windows and the rectangular wooden door give it a humble look–venerable but not sumptuous–which fits the countryside well. It is worth noting that the current church, as it stands, is not the same as the one wherein Joan attended mass. It is a XV century reconstruction of the old chapel that burned down, commissioned by a priest and admirer of the Maid who testified in the Rehabilitation Trial. Crossing the red doors of the portal, the eyes are immediately attracted to the three pointed-arched stained glass windows of the apse, the furthest point of the church.
The right side of the transept is solely dedicated to Saint Catherine. Below a beautiful painting of the martyr, there is a painted wooden statue; it is reported to be very old, though it is unclear whether this is the same as the one before which Joan knelt in prayer. I picked a coin from my pocket, put it in the offerings box, and lit a candle, while Michel walked around the church. He called me, and I saw an opening on the wall; above it a sign read, “Ici fut trouvée l’épée de Jeanne d’Arc” [Here was found the sword of Joan of Arc].
I walked towards apse, where the altar stood. On the left wall was hung a sword, representing the one that here was found, that legends say was the sword of Charles Martel. Or maybe it was a reminder of the pilgrims who left their arms in the sanctuary of their patron saint. Looking to the right, I saw a small opening on the wall, as low as my knees. Its interior was protected by a thick blurry glass. Inside, there was a silver pedestal supporting a silver tube, with a small glass window that displayed…not much.
A sign beside the glass wall revealed its contents: a holy relic, a phalanx of Saint Catherine of Alexandria herself. I was surprised not to have read about this. I had a weird feeling: despite going along with stories of magical swords and prophecies, now my suspension of disbelief was being forced a little too much. I started to question whether the journey was not a silly thing: it could have been that there never was a Catherine of Alexandria, a saint, a buried sword, miracles, and prophecies. What was the point of those stories if they were false?
I still do not have a clear answer to that question. But what I do know is that the value of stories lies not in whether they are fact or fiction, and is not a matter of belief. It must lie somewhere else; in how they stir people’s hearts, survive and are transformed in the course of time. The three stories of Saint Catherine, Charles Martel and Saint Joan are interweaved as the centuries pass, making of a small countryside village a treasure of history and imagination.
