Voices: The Final Hours of Joan of Arc

Voices: The Final Hours of Joan of Arc

by David Elliott


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Bestselling author David Elliott explores how Joan of Arc changed the course of history and remains a figure of fascination centuries after her extraordinary life and death. Joan of Arc gets the Hamilton treatment in this evocative novel. 

Told through medieval poetic forms and in the voices of the people and objects in Joan of Arc’s life, (including her family and even the trees, clothes, cows, and candles of her childhood), Voices offers an unforgettable perspective on an extraordinary young woman. Along the way it explores timely issues such as gender, misogyny, and the peril of speaking truth to power. Before Joan of Arc became a saint, she was a girl inspired. It is that girl we come to know in Voices.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781328987594
Publisher: HMH Books
Publication date: 03/26/2019
Pages: 208
Sales rank: 49,042
Product dimensions: 5.60(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.10(d)
Lexile: 900L (what's this?)
Age Range: 14 - 17 Years

About the Author

David Elliott is a NYT bestselling author whose books include Bull, And Here's to You!, The Evangeline Mudd books, In the Past, This Orq. books, and Baabwaa and Wooliam. Born in Ohio, David has worked as a singer, a cucumber washer, and a popsicle stick maker. He lives with his wife and a three-footed dog in New Hampshire. www.davidelliottbooks.com 

Read an Excerpt

The Candle

it as if it were
yesterday. She was
so lovely and young. In
her hand I darted and flick-
ered away, an ardent lover’s ad-
venturing tongue. I had never known
such yearning, exciting and risky and
cruel. As we walked to the church, I was
burning; she was my darling, my future,
my fuel. I wanted to set her afire right then.
But she was so pure, so chaste; her innocence
only increased my desire. Still, I know the
dangers of haste. So I watched and I studied
and waited, and I saw that her young blood
ran hot. She had no idea we were fated. I
could name what she craved; she could
not. Then in her eye, I caught my
reflection. In her eye, I saw my-
self shine, and I saw the heat
rise on her virgin’s com-
plexion. That’s when
I knew: She was


I’ve heard it said that when we die
the soul discards its useless shell,
and our life will flash before our
eyes. Is this a gift from Heaven?
Or a jinx from deepest Hell? Only
the dying know, but what the dying
know the dying do not tell. What
more the dying know it seems I
am about to learn. For when the
sun is at its highest, a lusting torch
will touch the pyre. The flames will rise.
And I will burn. But I have always
been afire. With youth. With faith. With
truth. And with desire. My name is
Joan, but I am called the Maid. My
hands are bound behind me. The fire
beneath me laid.


I yearn I yearn I yearn my darling
I yearn I yearn I yearn

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