A MONK OF FIFE
Chapters XVIII - XXVI
CHAPTER XVIII
HOW ELLIOT'S JACKANAPES WAS SEEN AT THE KING'S
CROWNING
"The hearts of kings are in His hand," says Holy Scripture, and it
is of necessity to be believed that the hearts of kings, in an
especial sense, are wisely governed. Yet, the blindness of our
sinful souls, we often may not see, nor by deep consideration find
out, the causes wherefore kings often act otherwise, and, as we
might deem, less worthily than common men. For it is a truth and
must be told, that neither before he was anointed with the blessed
oil from the holy vessel, or ampulla, which the angel brought to St.
Remigius, nor even after that anointing (which is more strange), did
Charles VII., King of France, bear him kingly as regards the Maiden.
Nay, I have many a time thought with sorrow that if Xaintrailles, or
La Hire, ay, or any the meanest esquire in all our army, had been
born Dauphin, in three months after the Maid's victories in June
Paris would have been ours, and not an Englishman left to breathe
the air of France. For it needed but that the King should obey the
Maid, ride straight to Reims, and thence on Paris town, and every
city would have opened its gates to him, as the walls of Jericho
fell at the mere sound of the trumpets of Israel.
This is no foolish fancy of an old man dreaming in a cloister about
what might have been. For the Regent of the English, brother of
their King Harry the Fifth, and himself a wise man, and brave, if
cruel, was of this same mind. First, he left Paris and shut himself
up in the strong castle of Vincennes, dreading an uproar among the
people; and next, he wholly withdrew himself to Rouen, for he had
now no force of men to guard the walls of Paris. Our Dauphin had
but to mount and ride, and all would have been his at one blow, ay,
or without a blow. The Maid, as we daily heard, kept praying him,
even with tears, to do no more than this; and from every side came
in men free and noble, ready to serve at their own charges. The
poorest gentlemen who had lost all in the troubles, and might not
even keep a horse to ride, were of goodwill to march as common foot-
soldiers.
But, while all France called on her King, he was dwelling at Sully,
in the castle of La Tremouille, a man who had a foot in either camp,
so that neither English nor Burgundians had ever raided on his rich
lands, when these lay in their power. So, what with the self-
seeking, and sloth, and jealousy of La Tremouille; what with the
worldly policy of the Archbishop of Reims, crying Peace, where there
was no peace, the Maid and the captains were not listened to, or, if
they were heard, their plans were wrought out with a faint heart, so
that, at last, if it is lawful to say so, the will of men prevailed
over the will of Heaven.
Never, I pray, may any prince of my own country be so bestead, and
so ill-served, that, when he has won battles and gained cities two
or three, and needs but to ride forward and win all his kingdom, he
shall be turned back by the little faith of his counsellors! Never
may such a thing befall a prince of Scotland! Concerning these
matters of State, as may be believed, we devised much at Tours,
while messengers were coming and going, and long, weary councils
were being held at Sully and at Gien. D'Alencon, we got news, was
all for striking a blow yet more bold than the march to Reims, and
would have attacked the English where they were strongest, and
nearest their own shores, namely, at Rouen. The counsellors of the
peaceful sort were inclined to waste time in besieging La Charite,
and other little towns on Loire-side. But her Voices had bidden the
Maid, from the first, to carry the Dauphin to Reims, that there he
might be anointed, and known to France for the very King. So at
last, finding that time was sorely wasted, whereas all hope lay in a
swift stroke, ere the English could muster men, and bring over the
army lately raised by the Cardinal of Winchester to go crusading
against the miscreants of Bohemia--the Maid rode out of Gien, with
her own company, on June the twenty-seventh, and lodged in the
fields, some four leagues away, on the road to Auxerre. And next
day the King and the Court followed her perforce, with a great army
of twelve thousand men. Thenceforth there came news to us every day
in Tours, and all the news was good. Town after town opened its
gates at the summons of the Maid, and notably Troyes and Chalons, in
despite of the English garrisons.
We were all right glad, and could scarce sleep for joy, above all
when a messenger rode in, one Thomas Scott, whom I had encountered
before, as I have written, bidding my master come straightway to
Reims, to join the King, and exercise his craft in designing a great
picture of the coronation. So with much ado he bestowed his
canvases, brushes, paints, and all other gear of his trade in
wallets, and, commending his daughter to his old kinswoman, to obey
her in all things, he set off on horseback with Thomas Scott. But
for myself, I was to lodge, while he was at Reims, with a worthy
woman of Tours, for the avoiding of evil tongues, and very tardily
the time passed with me, for that I might not be, as before, always
in the company of Elliot.
As for my lady, she was, during most of these days, on her knees at
the altar in the great minster, praying to the saints for the
Dauphin, and the Maid, and for her father, that he might come and go
safely on his journey. Nor did she pray in vain, for, no more than
two days after the first tidings had arrived that the sacring was
done, and that all had gone well, my master rode to his own door,
weary, but glad at heart, and hobbled into his house. One was sent
running to bring me this good news, and I myself ran, for now I was
able, and found him seated at his meat, as well as he could eat it
for Elliot, that often stopped his mouth with kisses.
He held forth his hand to me, saying, "All is as well as heart could
desire, and the Maid bids you follow her, if you may, to the taking
of Paris, for there she says will be your one chance to win your
spurs. And now let me eat and drink, for the heat is great, the
ways dusty, and I half famished. Thereafter ask me what you will,
and you, Elliot, come not between a hungry man and his meat."
So he spoke, sitting at his table with his tankard in his hand, and
his wallets lying about him on the floor. Elliot was therefore fain
not to be embracing him, but rather to carve for him, and serve in
the best manner, that he might sup the quicker and tell us all his
tale. This he did at last, Elliot sitting on his knee, with her arm
about his neck. But, as touches the sacring, how it was done,
though many of the peers of France were not there to see, and how
noble were the manners of the King and the Maid, who stood there
with her banner, and of the only reward which she would take,
namely, that her townsfolk should live free of tax and corvee, all
this is known and written of in Chronicles. Nor did I see it
myself, so I pass by. But, next to actual beholding of that
glorious rite, the best thing was to hear my master tell of it,
taking out his books, wherein he had drawn the King, and the Maid in
her harness, and many of the great lords. From these pictures a
tapestry was afterwards wrought, and hung in Reims Cathedral, where
it is to this day: the Maid on horseback beckoning the King onward,
the Scots archers beside him in the most honourable place, as was
their lawful due, and, behind all, the father of the Maid entering
Reims by another road. By great good fortune, and by virtue of
being a fellow-traveller with Thomas Scott, the rider of the King's
stable, my master found lodgings easily enough. So crowded was the
town that, the weather being warm, in mid July, many lay in
tabernacles of boughs, in the great place of Reims, and there was
more singing that night than sleeping. But my master had lain at
the hostelry called L'Asne Roye, in the parvise, opposite to the
cathedral, where also lay Jean d'Arc, the father of the Maid.
Thither she herself came to visit him, and she gave gifts to such of
the people of her own countryside as were gathered at Reims.
"And, Jeannot, do you fear nothing?" one of them asked her, who had
known her from a child.
"I fear nothing but treason," my master heard her reply, a word that
we had afterwards too good cause to remember.
"And is she proud now that she is so great?" asked Elliot.
"She proud! No pride has she, but sat at meat, and spoke friendly
with all these manants, and it was "tu" and "toy," and "How is this
one? and that one?" till verily, I think, she had asked for every
man, woman, child, and dog in Domremy. And that puts me in mind--"
"In mind of what?"
"Of nought. Faith, I remember not what I was going to say, for I am
well weary."
"But Paris?" I asked. "When march we on Paris?" My master's face
clouded. "They should have set forth for Paris the very day after
the sacring, which was the seventeenth of July. But envoys had come
in from the Duke of Burgundy, and there were parleys with them as
touching peace. Now, peace will never be won save at the point of
the lance. But a truce of a fortnight has been made with Burgundy,
and then he is to give up Paris to the King. Yet, ere a fortnight
has passed, the new troops from England will have come over to fight
us, and not against the heretics of Bohemia, though they have taken
the cross and the vow. And the King has gone to Saint Marcoul,
forsooth, seeing that, unless he goes there to do his devotions, he
may not touch the sick and heal the crewels. {29} Faith, they that
have the crewels might even wait till the King has come to his own
again; they have waited long enough to learn patience while he was
Dauphin. It should be Paris first, and Saint Marcoul and the
crewels afterwards, but anything to waste time and keep out of the
brunt of the battle." Here he struck his hand on the table so that
the vessels leaped. "I fear what may come of it," he said. "For
every day that passes is great loss to us and much gain to our
enemies of England, who will anon garrison Paris."
"Faint-heart," cried Elliot, plucking his beard. "You will never
believe in the Maid, who has never yet failed to help us, by the aid
of the saints."
"The saints help them that help themselves," he answered. "And
Paris town has walls so strong, that once the fresh English are
entered in, even the saints may find it a hard bargain. But you,
Elliot, run up and see if my chamber be ready, for I am well weary."
She ran forth, and my master, turning to me, said in a low voice, "I
have something for your own ear, but I feared to grieve her. In a
booth at Reims I saw her jackanapes doing his tricks, and when he
came round questing with his bowl the little beast knew me and
jumped up into my arms, and wailed as if he had been a Christian.
Then I was for keeping him, but I was set on by three or four stout
knaves, and, I being alone, and the crowd taking their part, I
thought it not well to draw sword, and so break the King's peace
that had just then begun to be King. But my heart was sore for the
poor creature, and, in very truth, I bring back no light heart, save
to see you twain again, for I fear me that the worst of the darg
{30} is still to do. But here comes Elliot, so no word of the
jackanapes."
Therewith he went off to his chamber, and I to mine, with less
pleasure than I had looked for. Still, the thought came into my
heart that, the longer the delay of the onslaught on Paris, the
better chance I had to take part therein; and the harder the work,
the greater the glory.
The boding words of my master proved over true. The King was sacred
on July the sixteenth, and Paris then stood empty of English
soldiers, being garrisoned by Burgundians only. But, so soon as he
was anointed, the King began to parley with Burgundy, and thus they
spun out the time, till, on July the twenty-fifth, a strong army of
Englishmen had entered Paris. Whether their hearts were high may
not be known, but on their banner they had hung a distaff, and had
painted the flag with the words -
"Ores viegne la Belle,"
meaning, "Let the fair Maid come, and we shall give her wool to
spin." Next we heard, and were loth to believe it, that a new truce
of fifteen days more had been made with Burgundy. The Maid, indeed,
said openly that she loved not the truce, and that she kept it only
for the honour of the King, which was dearer to her than her life,
as she proved in the end.
Then came marchings, this way and that, all about the Isle of
France, Bedford leaving Paris to fight the King, and then refusing
battle, though the Maid rode up to the English palisades, and smote
them with her sword, defying the English to come out, if they were
men. So the English betook them back to Paris, after certain light
skirmishes only. Meanwhile some of his good towns that had been in
the hands of the English yielded to the King, or rather to the Maid.
Among these the most notable was Compiegne, a city as great as
Orleans. Many a time it had been taken and retaken in the wars, but
now the burgesses swore that they would rather all die, with their
wives and children, than open their gates again to the English. And
this oath they kept well, as shall be seen in the end.
CHAPTER XIX
HOW NORMAN LESLIE RODE AGAIN TO THE WARS
Tidings of these parleys, and marches, and surrenders of cities came
to us at Tours, the King sending letters to his good towns by
messengers. One of these, the very Thomas Scott of whom I have
before spoken, a man out of Rankelburn, in Ettrick Forest, brought a
letter for me, which was from Randal Rutherford.
"Mess-John Urquhart writes for me, that am no clerk," said Randal,
"and, to spare his pains, as he writes for the most of us, I say no
more than this: come now, or come never, for the Maid will ride to
see Paris in three days, or four, let the King follow or not as he
will."
There was no more but a cross marked opposite the name of Randal
Rutherford, and the date of place and day, August the nineteenth, at
Compiegne.
My face fired, for I felt it, when I had read this, and I made no
more ado, but, covenanting with Thomas Scott to be with him when he
rode forth at dawn, I went home, put my harness in order, and hired
a horse from him that kept the hostelry of the "Hanging Sword,"
whither also I sent my harness, for that I would sleep there. This
was all done in the late evening, secretly, and, after supper, I
broke the matter to my master and Elliot. Her face changed to a
dead white, and she sat silent, while my master took the word,
saying, in our country speech, that "he who will to Cupar, maun to
Cupar," and therewith he turned, and walked out and about in the
garden.
We were alone, and now was the hardest of my work to do, to comfort
Elliot, when, in faith, I sorely needed comfort myself. But honour
at once and necessity called me to ride, being now fit to bear
harness, and foreseeing no other chance to gain booty, or even,
perchance, my spurs. Nor could I endure to be a malingerer. She
sat there, very white, her lip quivering, but her eyes brave and
steadfast.
I kneeled beside her, and in my hands I took her little hand, that
was cold as ice.
"It is for the Maid, and for you, Elliot," I whispered; and she only
bent her head on my shoulder, but her cold hand gripped mine firmly.
"She did say that you should come back unharmed of sword," whispered
Elliot, looking for what comfort she might. "But, O my dear! you
may be taken, and when shall I see you again? Oh! this life is the
hardest thing for women, who must sit and tremble and pray at home.
Sure no danger of war is so terrible! Ah, must you really go?"
Then she clung so closely about me, that it seemed as if I could
never escape out of her arms, and I felt as if my heart must break
in twain.
"How could I look men in the face, and how could I ever see the Maid
again, if I go not?" I said; and, loosening her grasp, she laid her
hands on my shoulders, and so gazed on me steadfastly, as if my
picture could be fixed on the tablets of her brain.
"On your chin is coming a little down, at last," she said, smiling
faintly, and then gave a sob, and her lips met mine, and our very
souls met; but, even then, we heard my master's steps hobbling to
the door, and she gave a cry, and fled to her chamber. And this was
our leave-taking--brief, but I would not have had it long.
"It is ill work parting, Heaven help us," said my master. "Faith, I
remember, as if it were to-day, how I set forth for Verneuil; a long
time I was gone, and came back a maimed man. But it is fortune of
war! The saints have you in their keeping, my son, and chiefly St.
Andrew. Come back soon, and whole, and rich, for, meseems, if I
lose one of you, I am to lose both."
Therewith he embraced me, and I set forth to the hostel where I was
to lie that night.
Now, see how far lighter is life to men than to women, for, though I
left the house with the heaviest heart of any man in Tours, often
looking back at the candleshine in my lady's casement, yet, when I
reached the "Hanging Sword," I found Thomas Scott sitting at his
wine, and my heart and courage revived within me. He lacked nothing
but one to listen, and soon was telling tales of the war, and of the
road, and of how this one had taken a rich prisoner, and that one
had got an arrow in his thigh, and of what chances there were to win
Paris by an onslaught.
"For in no other can we take it," said he, "save, indeed, by
miracle. For they are richly provisioned, and our hope is that, if
we can make a breach, there may be a stir of the common folk, who
are well weary of the English and the Burgundians."
Now, with his talk of adventures, and with high hopes, I was so
heartened up, that, to my shame, my grief fell from me, and I went
to my bed to dream of trenches and escalades, glory and gain. But
Elliot, I fear me, passed a weary night, and a sorry, whereas I had
scarce laid my head on my pillow, as it seemed, when I heard Thomas
shouting to the grooms, and clatter of our horses' hoofs in the
courtyard. So I leaped up, though it was scarce daylight, and we
rode northwards before the full coming of the dawn.
Here I must needs write of a shameful thing, which I knew not then,
or I would have ridden with a heavier heart, but I was told
concerning the matter many years after, by Messire Enguerrand de
Monstrelet, a very learned knight, and deep in the counsels of the
Duke of Burgundy.
"You were all sold," he said to me, at Dijon, in the year of our
Lord fourteen hundred and forty-seven--"you were all sold when you
marched against Paris town. For the Maid, with D'Alencon, rode from
Compiegne towards Paris, on the twenty-third of August, if I
remember well"; and here he turned about certain written parchments
that lay by him. "Yea, on the twenty-third she left Compiegne, but
on the twenty-eighth of that month the Archbishop of Reims entered
the town, and there he met the ambassadors of the Good Duke of
Burgundy. There he and they made a compact between them, binding
your King and the Duke, that their truce should last till Noel, but
that the duke might use his men in the defence of Paris against all
that might make onfall. Now, the Archbishop and the King knew well
that the Maid was, in that hour, marching on Paris. To what purpose
make a truce, and leave out of the peace the very point where war
should be? Manifestly the French King never meant to put forth the
strength of his army in helping the Maid. There was to be truce
between France and Burgundy, but none between England and the Maid."
So Messire Enguerrand told me, a learned knight and a grave, and
thus was the counsel of the saints defeated by the very King whom
they sought to aid. But of this shameful treaty we men-at-arms knew
nothing, and so hazarded our lives against loaded dice.
CHAPTER XX
CONCERNING THE MAID AND THE BIRDS
We rode northwards, first through lands that I had travelled in
before to Orleans, and so into a country then strange to me, passing
by way of Lagny, with intent to go to Senlis, where we deemed the
King lay. The whole region being near Paris, and close under the
English power, was rich and peaceful of aspect, the corn being
already reaped, and standing in sheaves about the fields, whether to
feed Englishmen or Frenchmen, none could tell. For the land was in
a kind of hush, in expectancy and fear, no man knowing how things
should fall out at Paris. Natheless the Prior of Lagny, within that
very week wherein we came, had gone to St. Denis, and yielded his
good town into the hands of the Duc d'Alencon for the King. And the
fair Duke had sent thither Messire Ambrose de Lore, a very good
knight, with Messire Jehan Foucault, and many men-at-arms.
To Messire Ambrose we were brought, that we might give and take his
news. I remember well that I dropped out of the saddle at the door
of his lodgings, and could scarce stand on my legs, so weary was I
with the long and swift riding. Never had I ridden so far, and so
fast, fresh horses standing saddled and bridled for Thomas Scott and
me at every stage, but the beast which I had hired I sent back from
the first stage to mine host of the "Hanging Sword." Not without
labour I climbed the stairs to the chamber of Messire Ambrose, who
bade us sit down, and called for wine to be given us, whereof Thomas
Scott drank well, but I dared take none, lest my legs should wholly
refuse their office.
When Thomas had told how all the country lay at the King's peace,
and how our purpose was to ride to the King at Senlis, the knight
bade us rather make what haste we might to St. Denis. "For there,
by to-morrow or next day, the King is like to be, and the assault
will be delivered on Paris, come of it what will."
With this he bade us good speed, but, to guess from his countenance,
was in no high hopes. And, at supper, whereto we had the company of
certain of his men-at-arms, I could well perceive that they were not
in the best heart. For now we heard how the Maid, being sorrowful
for the long delays, had bidden the Duc d'Alencon ride forth with
her from Compiegne "to see Paris closer than yet she had seen it."
The Duc d'Alencon, who in late days has so strangely forgotten the
loyalty of his youth, was then fain to march with her, for they two
were the closest friends that might be. Therefore they had passed
by way of Senlis, where they were joined by some force of men-at-
arms, and so, on the third day's march, they came to St. Denis,
where they were now lying. Here it is that the kings of France have
been buried for these eight hundred years, in the great Abbey.
"Nom Dieu!" said one of those who spoke with us. "You might deem
that our King is nowise pressed to see the place where his
forefathers lie. For D'Alencon is riding, now and again, to Senlis,
to rouse the King, and make him march to St. Denis, with the army,
that the assault may be given. But if they were bidding him to his
own funeral, instead of to a gentle passage of arms, he could not
make more excuses. There are skirmishes under Paris walls, and at
the gates, day by day, and the Maid rides here and there,
considering of the best place for the onslaught. But the King
tarries, and without him and the army they can venture on no great
valiance. Nevertheless, come he must, if they bring him bound in a
cart. Wherefore, if you want your part in what is toward, you do
well to make no long tarrying here."
I was of the same mind, and as the King was shortly to be looked for
at St. Denis, we rode thither early next morning, with what speed we
might. On our left, like a cloud, was the smoke of Paris, making me
understand what a great city it was, much greater than Orleans.
Before us, far away, were the tall towers of the chapel of St.
Denis, to be our guide! We heard, also, the noise of ordnance being
fired, and therefore made the greater haste, and we so rode that,
about six hours after noon, on the Eve of the Nativity of our
Blessed Lady, we reached the gates of the town. Here we found great
press of folk, men coming and going, some carrying the wounded, for
there had been a skirmish that day, at one of the Paris gates,
whence came the sound of cannon and culverins, and we had won little
advantage.
At the gates of St. Denis we asked where the quarters of the Scots
men-at-arms might be, and were told in the chapel, whither we needed
no guide. But, as we went up the street, we saw women leaning forth
from the windows, laughing with the men-at-arms, and beckoning to
them, and by the tavern doors many were sitting drinking, with girls
beside them, and others were playing dice, and many an oath we
heard, and foul words, as is customary in a camp. Verily I saw well
that this was not the army of men clean confessed and of holy life
who had followed the Maid from Blois to Orleans. In place of
priests, here were harlots, and, for hymns, ribald songs, for men
had flocked in from every quarter; soldiers of the robber companies,
Bretons, Germans, Italians, Spaniards, all talking in their own
speech, rude, foul, and disorderly. So we took our way, as best we
knight, through the press, hearing oaths enough if our horses trod
over near any man, and seeing daggers drawn.
It was a pleasure to come out on the great parvise, where the red,
white, and green of our Scots were the commonest colours, and where
the air was less foul and noisome than in the narrow wynds. High
above us the great towers of the abbey shone red and golden in the
light of the sinking sun, while beneath all was brown, dusk, and dim
with smoke. On these towers I could gladly have looked long, and
not wearied. For they are all carven with the holy company of the
martyrs and saints, like the Angels whom Jacob saw ascending by the
ladder into heaven; even so that blessed company seemed to scale
upwards from the filth of the street, and the darkness, and the din,
right on towards the golden heights of the City of God. And beneath
them lie the sacred bones of all the kings of France, from the days
of St. Dagobert even to our own time, all laid there to rest where
no man shall disturb them, till the Angels' Trumpet calls, and the
Day of Judgment is at hand. Verily it is a solemn place for a
Christian man to think on, and I was gazing thereupon, as in a
dream, when one plucked my sleeve, and turning, I saw Randal
Rutherford, all his teeth showing in a grin.
"Welcome," he cried. "You have made good speed, and the beginning
of a fray is better than the end of a feast. And, by St. Boswell,
to-morrow we shall have it, lad! The King came in to-day--late is
better than never--and to-morrow we go with the Maid, to give these
pock-puddings a taste of Scottish steel."
"And the Maid, where is she, Randal?"
"She lodges beyond the Paris gate, at the windmill, wherefrom she
drove the English some days agone."
"Wherefore not in the town?" I asked.
"Mayhap because she likes to be near her work, and would that all
were of her mind. And mayhap she loves not the sight of the wenches
whom she was wont to drive from the camp, above all now that she has
broken the Holy Sword of Fierbois, smiting a lass with the flat of
the blade."
"I like not the omen," said I.
"Freits follow them that freits fear," said Randal, in our country
speech. "And the Maid is none of these. 'Well it was,' said she,
'that I trusted not my life to a blade that breaks so easily,' and,
in the next skirmish, she took a Burgundian with her own hands, and
now wears his sword, which is a good cut and thrust piece. But
come," he cried, "if needs you must see the Maid, you have but to
walk to the Paris gate, and so to the windmill hard by. And your
horse I will stable with our own, and for quarters, we living Scots
men-at-arms fare as well as the dead kings of France, for to-night
we lie in the chapel."
I dismounted, and he gave me an embrace, and, holding me at arms'-
length, laughed -
"You never were a tall man, Norman, but you look sound, and whole,
and tough for your inches, like a Highlandman's dirk. Now be off on
your errand, and when it is done, look for me yonder at the sign of
'The Crane,'" pointing across the parvise to a tavern, "for I keep a
word to tell in your lug that few wot of, and that it will joy you
to hear. To-morrow, lad, we go in foremost."
And so, smiling, he took my horse and went his way, whistling, "Hey,
tuttie, tattie!"
Verily his was the gladdest face I had seen, and his words put some
heart into me, whereas, of the rest save our own Scots, I liked
neither what I saw, nor what I heard.
I had but to walk down the street, through elbowing throngs of
grooms, pages, men-at-arms, and archers, till I found the Paris
Gate, whence the windmill was plain to behold. It was such an old
place as we see in Northern France, plain, strong, with red walls
which the yellow mosses stain, and with high grey roofs. The Maid's
banner, with the Holy Dove, and the Sacred Name, drooped above the
gateway, and beside the door, on the mounting-stone, sat the boy,
Louis des Coutes, her page. He was a lad of fifteen years, merry
enough of his nature, and always went gaily clad, and wearing his
yellow hair long. But now he sat thoughtful on the mounting-stone,
cutting at a bit of wood with his dagger.
"So you have come to take your part," he said, when we had saluted
each the other. "Faith, I hope you bring good luck with you, and
more joy to my mistress, for we need all that you can bring."
"Why, what ails all of you?" I asked. "I have seen never a hopeful
face, save that of one of my own countrymen. You are not afraid of
a crack on your curly pate, are you?"
"Curly or not, my head knows better than to knock itself against
Paris walls. They are thick, and high, and the windows of every
house on the wall are piled with stones, to drop upon us. And I
know not well why, but things go ill with us. I never saw Her," and
he nodded towards the open gateway, "so out of comfort. When there
is fighting toward, she is like herself, and she is the first to
rise and the last to lie down. But, in all our waiting here, she
has passed many an hour praying in the chapel, where the dead kings
lie, yet her face is not glad when she comes forth. It was wont to
shine strangely, when she had been praying, at the chapel in
Couldray, while we were at Chinon. But now it is otherwise.
Moreover, we saw Paris very close to-day, and there were over many
red crosses of St. George upon the walls. And to-morrow is the
Feast of the Blessed Virgin, no day for bloodshed."
"Faint heart!" said I (and, indeed, after the assault on Paris,
Louis des Coutes went back, and rode no more with the maid). "The
better the day, the better the deed! May I go within?"
"I will go with you," he said, "for she said that you would come,
and bade me bring you to her."
We entered the gateway together, and before us lay the square of the
farm, strewn with litter, and from within the byre we heard the milk
ring in the pails, for the women were milking the cows. And there
we both stood astonished, for we saw the Maid as never yet I had
seen her. She was bareheaded, but wore the rest of her harness,
holding in her hand a measure of corn. All the fowls of the air
seemed to be about her, expecting their meat. But she was not
throwing the grain among them, for she stood as still as a graven
image, and, wonderful to tell, a dove was perched on her shoulder,
and a mavis was nestling in her breast, while many birds flew round
her, chiefly doves with burnished plumage, flitting as it were
lovingly, and softly brushing her now and again with their wings.
Many a time had I heard it said that, while she was yet a child, the
wild birds would come and nestle in the bosom of the Maid, but I had
never believed the tale. Yet now I saw this thing with mine own
eyes, a fair sight and a marvellous, so beautiful she looked, with
head unhelmeted, and the wild fowl and tame flitting about her and
above her, the doves crooning sweetly in their soft voices. Then
her lips moved, and she spoke -
"Tres doulx Dieu, en l'onneur de vostre saincte passion, je vous
requier, se vous me aimes, que vous me revelez ce que je doy faire
demain pour vostre gloire!"
So she fell silent again, and to me it seemed that I must not any
longer look upon that holy mystery, so, crossing myself, I laid my
hand on the shoulder of the page, and we went silently from the
place.
"Have you ever seen it in this manner?" I whispered, when we were
again without the farmyard.
"Never," said he, trembling, "though once I saw a stranger thing."
"And what may that have been?"
"Nay, I spoke of it to her, and she made me swear that I never would
reveal it to living soul, save in confession. But she is not as
other women."
What he had in his mind I know not, but I bade him good even, and
went back into the town, where lights were beginning to show in the
casements. In the space within the gates were many carts gathered,
full of faggots wherewith to choke up the fosse under Paris, and
tables to throw above the faggots, and so cross over to the assault.
CHAPTER XXI
HOW A HUNDRED SCOTS SET FORTH TO TAKE PARIS TOWN
Entering the tavern of "The Crane," I found the doorways crowded
with archers of our Guard, among whom was Randal Rutherford.
When I had come, they walked into a chamber on the ground floor,
calling for wine, and bidding certain French burgesses go forth, who
needed no second telling. The door was shut, two sentinels of ours
were posted outside, and then Randal very carefully sounded all the
panels of the room, looking heedfully lest there should be any hole
whereby what passed among us might be heard in another part of the
house, but he found nothing of the kind.
The room being full, some sitting and some standing, as we could,
Randal bade Father Urquhart, our chaplain, tell us to what end we
had been called together.
The good father thereupon stood up, and spoke in a low voice, but so
that all could hear, for we were all hushed to listen.
"There is," he said, "within Paris, a certain Carmelite, a
Frenchman, and a friend of Brother Richard, the Preacher, whom, as
you know, the English drove from the town."
"I saw him at Troyes," said one, "where he kneeled before the Maid,
and they seemed very loving."
"That is the man, that is Brother Richard. Now, as I was busy
tending the wounded, in the skirmish three days agone, this
Carmelite was about the same duty for those of his party. He put
into my hand a slip of paper, wherein Brother Richard commended him
to any Scot or Frenchman of the King's party, as an honest man, and
a friend of the King's. When I had read this, the Carmelite spoke
with me in Latin, and in a low voice. His matter was this: In
Paris, he said, there is a strong party of Armagnacs, who have, as
we all know, a long score to settle with them of Burgundy. They are
of the common folk and labourers, but among them are many rich
burgesses. They have banded themselves together by an oath to take
our part, within the town, if once we win a gate. Here is a cedule
signed by them with their names or marks, and this he gave me as a
proof of good faith."
Here he handed a long slip of parchment, all covered with writing,
to Randal, and it went round among us, but few there were clerks,
save myself. I looked on it, and the names, many of them attested
by seals with coat armour, were plain to be read.
"Their counsel is to muster in arms secretly, and to convey
themselves, one by one, into certain houses hard by the Port St.
Denis, where certain of their party dwell. Now, very early to-
morrow morning, before dawn, the purpose of the English is to send
forth a company of a hundred men-at-arms, who will make a sudden
onset on the windmill, where the Maid lies to-night, and so will
take her, if they may."
"By St. Bride of Douglas," said one of us, "they will get their kail
through the reek, for our guard is to lie in arms about the
windmill, and be first in the field to-morrow."
"The craft is, then," Father Urquhart went on, "that we shall
destroy this English company with sword or arrow, but with no alarm
of culverins or cannon. Meanwhile, some five score of you will put
on to-night the red cross of St. George, with plain armour, so that
the English shall mistake you for their own men returning from the
sally, and some few men in our own colours and coats you will hale
with you as prisoners. And, if one of you can but attire himself in
some gear of the Maid's, with a hucque of hers, scarlet, and dight
with the Lilies of France, the English gate-wards will open to you
all the more eagerly."
"By the bones of St. Boswell!" cried Randal in his loud voice, but
the good Father put a hand on his mouth.
"Quiet, man!" he said.
"By the blessed bones of St. Boswell," Randal said again, as near a
whisper as he could attain to, "the lady of the linen-basket shall
come as the Maid. We have no man so maidenly."
They all shouted, laughing, and beating the tables with hands and
tankards.
"Silence!" cried Robin Lindsay.
"Nay, the louder we laugh, the less will any suspect what is
forward," said Randal Rutherford.
"Norman, will you play this part in the mumming?"
I was ashamed to say no, though I liked it not over well, and I
nodded with my head.
"How maidenly he blushes!" cried one, and there was another clamour,
till the walls rang.
"So be it then," says Father Urquhart, "and now you know all. The
honest Armagnacs will rise so soon as you are well within the gate.
They command both sides of the street that leads to the Port St.
Denis, and faith, if the English want to take it, when a hundred
Scots are within, they will have to sally forth by another gate, and
come from the outside. And you are to run up the banner of Scotland
over the Port, when once you hold it, so the French attack will be
thereby."
"We played the same game before Verneuil fight, and won it," said
one; "will the English have forgotten the trick?"
"By St. Bride, when once they see us haling the Maid along, they
will forget old stratagems of war. This is a new device! Oh to see
their faces when we cry 'St. Andrew,' and set on!"
"I am not so old as you all in the wars," I began.
"No, Mademoiselle la Lavandiere, but you are of the right spirit,
with your wench's face."
"But," I said, "how if the English that are to attack the windmill
in the first grey of the morning come not to hand-strokes, or take
to their heels when they find us awake, and win back to Paris before
us? Our craft, methinks, is to hold them in an ambush, but what if
we catch them not? Let but one runaway be swift of foot, and we are
undone."
"There is this to be said," quoth Father Urquhart, "that the English
company is to sally forth by the Port St. Denis, and it is the Port
St. Denis that our Armagnacs will be guarding. Now I speak as a man
of peace, for that is my calling. But how would it be if your
hundred men and Norman set forth in the dark, and lay hid not very
far from the St. Denis Gate? Then some while after the lighting of
the bale-fires from the windmill, to be lit when the English set on,
make straight for the gate, and cry, "St. George for England!"
"If you see not the bale-fires ere daylight, you will come back with
what speed you may; but if you do see them, then--"
"Father, you have not lived long on the Highland line for nothing,"
quoth Robin Lindsay.
"A very proper stratagem indeed," I said, "but now, gentlemen, there
is one little matter; how will Sir Hugh Kennedy take this device of
ours? If we try it and fail, without his privity, we had better
never return, but die under Paris wall. And, even if we hold the
gate, and Paris town is taken, faith I would rather affront the fire
of John the Lorrainer than the face of Sir Hugh."
No man spoke, there were not two minds on this matter, so, after
some chaffer of words, it was agreed to send Father Urquhart with
Randal to show the whole scheme to Sir Hugh, while the rest of us
should await their coming back with an answer. In no long time they
were with us, the father very red and shame-faced.
"He gave the good father the rough side of his tongue," quoth
Randal, "for speaking first to me, and not to him. Happily we were
over cunning to say aught of our gathering here. But when he had
let his bile flow, he swore, and said that he could spare a hundred
dyvour loons of his command, on the cast of the dice, and, now
silence all! not a word or a cry," here he held up his hand, "we are
to take 'fortune of war'!"
Every man grinned gladly on his neighbour, in dead stillness.
"Now," said Randal, "slip out by threes and fours, quietly, and to
quarters; but you, Norman, wait with me."
CHAPTER XXII
HOW NORMAN LESLIE FARED IN PARIS TOWN
"Norman, my lad, all our fortunes are made," said Randal to me when
we were left alone. "There will be gilt spurs and gold for every
one of us, and the pick of the plunder."
"I like it not," I answered; whereon he caught me rudely by both
shoulders, looking close into my face, so that the fume of the wine
he had been drinking reached my nostrils.
"Is a Leslie turning recreant?" he asked in a low voice. "A pretty
tale to tell in the kingdom of Fife!"
I stood still, my heart very hot with anger, and said no word, while
his grip closed on me.
"Leave hold," I cried at last, and I swore an oath, may the Saints
forgive me,--"I will not go!"
He loosed his grasp on me, and struck one hand hard into the other.
"That I should see this, and have to tell it!" he said, and stepping
to the table, he drank like one thirsty, and then fell to pacing the
chamber. He seemed to be thinking slowly, as he wiped and plucked
at his beard.
"What is it that ails you?" he asked. "Look you, this onfall and
stratagem of war may not miscarry. Perdition take the fool, it is
safe!"
"Have I been seeking safety since you knew me?" I asked.
"Verily no, and therefore I wonder at you the more; but you have
been long sick, and men's minds are changeful. Consider the thing,
nom Dieu! If there be no two lights shown from the mill, we step
back silently, and all is as it was; the English have thought worse
of their night onfall, or the Carmelite's message was ruse de
guerre. But if we see the two lights, then the hundred English are
attempting the taking of the mill; the St. Denis Gate is open for
their return, and we are looked for by our Armagnacs within Paris.
We risk but a short tussle with some drowsy pock-puddings, and then
the town is ours. The Gate is as strong to hold against an enemy
from within as from without. Why, man, run to Louis de Coutes, and
beg a cast suit of the Maid's; she has plenty, for she is a woman in
this, that dearly she loves rich attire."
"Randal," I said, "I will go with you, and the gladdest lad in
France to be going, but I will go in my own proper guise as a man-
at-arms. To wear the raiment of the Blessed Maid, a man and a
sinner like me, I will in nowise consent; it is neither seemly nor
honourable. Take your own way, put me under arrest if you will, and
spoil my fortunes, and make me a man disgraced, but I will not wear
her holy raiment. It is not the deed of a gentleman, or of a
Christian."
He plucked at his beard. "I am partly with you," he said. "And yet
it were a great bourde to play off on the English, and most like to
take them and to be told of in ballad and chronicle, like one of
Wallace's onfalls. For, seeing the Pucelle, as they will deem, in
our hands, they will think all safe, and welcome us open armed. O
Norman, can we do nothing? Stop, will you wear another woman's
short kirtle over your cuisses and taslet? She shall be no saint, I
warrant you, but, for a sinner, a bonny lass and a merry. As a
gentleman I deem this fair stratagem of war. If I were your own
brother,--the Saints have his soul in their keeping,--I would still
be of this counsel. Will you, my lad?"
He looked so sad, and yet withal so comical, that I held out my hand
to him, laughing.
"Disguise me as you will," I said, "I have gone mumming as Maid
Marion before now, in the Robin Hood play, at St. Andrews"; and as I
spoke, I saw the tall thatched roofs of South Street, and the Priory
Gates open, the budding elms above the garden wall of St. Leonard's,
and all the May-day revel of a year agone pouring out into the good
town.
"You speak like yourself now, bless your beardless face! Come
forth," he said, taking a long pull at a tankard,--"that nothing
might be wasted,"--and so we went to quarters, and Randal trudged
off, soon coming back, laughing, with the red kirtle. Our men had
been very busy furbishing up the red cross of St. George on their
breasts, and stripping themselves of any sign of our own colours.
As for my busking, never had maid such rough tire-women; but by one
way or another, the apparel was accommodated, and they all said
that, at a little distance of ground, the English would be finely
fooled, and must deem that the Maid herself was being led to them
captive.
It was now in the small hours of morning, dark, save for the glimmer
of stars, here and there in a cloudy sky. Father Urquhart himself
went up to the roof of the mill, to say his orisons, having with him
certain faggots of pitch-wood, for lighting the beacon-fires if need
were; and, as it chanced, braziers to this end stood ready on the
roof, as is custom on our own Border keeps.
We Scots, a hundred in all, in English colours, with three or four
as prisoners, in our own badges, fared cautiously, and with no word
spoken, through dewy woods, or lurking along in dry ditches where
best we might, towards the St. Denis Gate of Paris. I had never
been on a night surprise or bushment before, and I marvelled how
orderly the others kept, as men used to such work, whereas I went
stumbling and blindlings. At length, within sight of the twinkling
lights of Paris, and a hundred yards or thereby off the common way,
we were halted in a little wood, and bidden to lie down; no man was
so much as to whisper. Some slept, I know, for I heard their
snoring, but for my part, I never was less in love with sleep. When
the sky first grew grey, so that we could dimly see shapes of
things, we heard a light noise of marching men on the road.
"The English!" whispered he that lay next me. "Hush!" breathed
Randal, and so the footsteps went by, none of us daring to stir, for
fear of the rustle in the leaves.
The sound soon ceased; belike they had struck off into these very
fields wherethrough we had just marched.
"Now, Robin Lindsay, climb into yonder ash-tree, and keep your eyes
on the mill and the beacon-fires," said Randal.
Robin scrambled up, not easily, because of his armour, and we
waited, as it seemed, for an endless time.
"What is that sound," whispered one, "so heavy and so hoarse?"
It was my own heart beating, as if it would burst my side, but I
said nought, and even then Robin slid from the tree, as lightly as
he might. He held up two fingers, without a word, for a sign that
the beacons were lighted, and nodded.
"Down all," whispered Randal.
"Give them time, give them time."
So there we lay, as we must, but that was the hardest part of the
waiting, and no sound but of the fowls and wild things arousing, and
the cry of sentinels from Paris walls, came to our ears.
At length Randal said, "Up all, and onwards!"
We arose, loosened our swords in their sheaths, and so crossed to
the road. We could now see Paris plainly, and were close by the
farm of the Mathurins, while beyond was the level land they call
"Les Porcherons," with slopes above it, and many trees.
"Now, Norman," said Randal, "when we come within clear sight of the
gate, two of us shall seize you by the arms as prisoner; then we all
cry 'St. George!' and set off running towards Paris. The quicker,
the less time for discovery."
So, having marched orderly and speedily, while the banks of the
roadway hid us, we set off to run, Randal and Robin gripping me when
we were full in sight of the moat, of the drawbridge (which was
down), and the gate.
Then our men all cried, "St. George for England! The witch is
taken!" And so running disorderly and fast we made for the Port,
while English men-at-arms might be plainly seen and heard, gazing,
waving their hands, and shouting from the battlements of the two
gate-towers. Down the road we ran, past certain small houses of
peasants, and past a gibbet with a marauder hanging from it, just
over the dry ditch.
Our feet, we three leading, with some twenty in a clump hard behind
us, rang loud on the drawbridge over the dry fosse. The bridge
planks quivered strangely; we were now within the gateway, when down
fell the portcullis behind us, the drawbridge, creaking, flew up, a
crowd of angry faces and red crosses were pressing on us, and a blow
fell on my salade, making me reel. I was held in strong arms,
swords shone out above me, I stumbled on a body--it was Robin
Lindsay's--I heard Randal give a curse as his blade broke on a
helmet, and cry, "I yield me, rescue or no rescue." Then burst
forth a blast of shouts, and words of command and yells, and English
curses. Cannon-shot roared overhead, and my mouth was full of
sulphur smoke and dust. They were firing on those of our men who
had not set foot on the drawbridge when it flew up. Soon the
portcullis rose again, and the bridge fell, to let in a band of
English archers, through whom our Scots were cutting their way back
towards St. Denis.
Of all this I got glimpses, rather than clear sight, as the throng
within the gateway reeled and shifted, crushing me sorely.
Presently the English from without trooped in, laughing and cursing,
welcomed by their fellows, and every man of them prying into my
face, and gibing. It had been a settled plan: we were betrayed, it
was over clear, and now a harsh voice behind making me turn, I saw
the wolf's face of Father Thomas under his hood, and his yellow
fangs.
"Ha! fair clerk, they that be no clerks themselves may yet hire
clerks to work for them. How like you my brother, the Carmelite?"
Then I knew too well how this stratagem had all been laid by that
devil, and my heart turned to water within me.
Randal was led away, but round me the crowd gathered in the open
space, for I was haled into the greater gate tower beyond the wet
fosse, and from all quarters ran soldiers, and men, women, and
children of the town to mock me.
"Behold her," cried Father Thomas, climbing on a mounting-stone, as
one who would preach to the people, while the soldiers that held me
laughed.
"Behold this wonderful wonder of all wonders, the miraculous Maid of
the Armagnacs! She boasted that, by help of the Saints, she would
be the first within the city, and lo! she is the first, but she has
come without her army. She is every way a miracle, mark you, for
she hath a down on her chin, such as no common maidens wear; and if
she would but speak a few words of counsel, methinks her tongue
would sound strangely Scottish for a Lorrainer."
"Speak, speak!" shouted the throng.
"Dogs," I cried, in French, "dogs and cowards! You shall see the
Maid closer before nightfall, and fly from her as you have fled
before."
"Said I not so?" asked Brother Thomas.
"A miracle, a miracle, the Maid hath a Scots tongue in her head."
Therewith stones began to fall, but the father, holding up his hand,
bade the multitude refrain.
"Harm her not, good brethren, for to-morrow this Maid shall be tried
by the ordeal of fire if that be the will of our governors. Then
shall we see if she can work miracles or not," and so he went on
gibing, while they grinned horribly upon me. Never saw I so many
vile faces of the basest people come together, from their filthy
dens in Paris. But as my eyes ran over them with loathing, I beheld
a face I knew; the face of that violer woman who had been in our
company before we came to Chinon, and lo! perched on her shoulder,
chained with a chain fastened round her wrist, was Elliot's
jackanapes! To see the poor beast that my lady loved in such ill
company, seemed as if it would break my heart, and my head fell on
my breast.
"Ye mark, brethren and sisters, she likes not the name of the ordeal
by fire," cried Brother Thomas, whereon I lifted my face again to
defy him, and I saw the violer woman bend her brows, and place her
finger, as it were by peradventure, on her lips; wherefore I was
silent, only gazing on that devil, but then rang out a trumpet-note,
blowing the call to arms, and from afar came an answering call, from
the quarter of St. Denis.
"Carry him, or her, or whatever the spy is, into the outer gate
tower," said a Captain; "put him in fetters and manacles; lock the
door and leave him; and then to quarters. And you, friar, hold your
gibing tongue; lad or lass, he has borne him bravely."
Six men-at-arms he chose out to do his bidding; and while the gates
were cleared of the throng, and trumpets were sounding, and church
bells were rung backwards, for an alarm, I was dragged, with many a
kick and blow, over the drawbridge, up the stairs of the tower, and
so was thrown into a strong room beneath the battlements. There
they put me in bonds, gave me of their courtesy a jug of water and a
loaf of black bread by me, and then, taking my dagger, my sword, and
all that was in my pouch, they left me with curses.
"You shall hear how the onfall goes, belike," they said, "and to-
morrow shall be your judgment."
With that the door grated and rang, the key was turned in the lock,
and their iron tread sounded on the stone stairs, going upwards.
The room was high, narrow, and lit by a barred and stanchioned
window, far above my reach, even if I had been unbound. I shame to
say it, but I rolled over on my face and wept. This was the end of
my hopes and proud heart. That they would burn me, despite their
threats I scarce believed, for I had in nowise offended Holy Church,
or in matters of the Faith, and only for such heretics, or wicked
dealers in art-magic, is lawfully ordained the death by fire. But
here was I prisoner, all that I had won at Orleans would do little
more than pay my own ransom; from the end of my risk and travail I
was now further away than ever.
So I mused, weeping for very rage, but then came a heavy rolling
sound overhead, as of moving wheeled pieces of ordnance. Thereon
(so near is Hope to us in our despair) I plucked up some heart. Ere
nightfall, Paris might be in the hands of the King, and all might be
well. The roar and rebound of cannon overhead told me that the
fighting had begun, and now I prayed with all my heart, that the
Maid, as ever, might again be victorious. So I lay there,
listening, and heard the great artillery bellow, and the roar of
guns in answer, the shouting of men, and clang of church bells. Now
and again the walls of the tower rang with the shock of a cannon-
ball, once an arrow flew through the casement and shattered itself
on the wall above my head. I scarce know why, but I dragged me to
the place where it fell, and, put the arrow-point in my bosom.
Smoke of wood and pitch darkened the light; they had come, then, to
close quarters. But once more rang the rattle of guns; the whizzing
rush of stones, the smiting with axe or sword on wooden barrier and
steel harness, the cries of war, "Mont joye St. Denis!" "St. George
for England!" and slogans too, I heard, as "Bellenden," "A Home! a
Home!" and then I knew the Scots were there, fighting in the front.
But alas, how different was the day when first I heard our own
battle-cries under Orleans walls! Then I had my life and my sword
in my hands, to spend and to strike; but now I lay a lonely
prisoner, helpless and all but hopeless; yet even so I clashed my
chains and shouted, when I heard the slogan.
Thus with noise and smoke, and trumpets blowing the charge or the
recall, and our pipes shrieking the pibroch high above the din, with
dust floating and plaster dropping from the walls of my cell till I
was wellnigh stifled, the day wore on, nor could I tell, in anywise,
how the battle went. The main onslaught, I knew, was not on the
gate behind the tower in which I lay, though that tower also was
smitten of cannon-balls.
At length, well past mid-day, as I deemed by the light, came a hush,
and then a thicker smoke, and taste of burning pitch-wood, and a
roar as if all Paris had been blown into mid-air, so that my tower
shook, while heavy beams fell crashing to earth.
Again came a hush, and then one voice, clear as a clarion call, even
the voice of the Maid, "Tirez en avant, en avant!" How my blood
thrilled at the sound of it!
It must be now, I thought, or never, but the guns only roared the
louder, the din grew fierce and fiercer, till I heard a mighty roar,
the English shouting aloud as one man for joy, for so their manner
is. Thrice they shouted, and my heart sank within me. Had they
slain the Maid? I knew not, but for torment of soul there is scarce
any greater than so to lie, bound and alone, seeing nought, but
guessing at what is befalling.
After these shouts it was easy to know that the fighting waned, and
was less fierce. The day, moreover, turned to thunder, and waxed
lowering and of a stifling heat. Yet my worst fears were ended, for
I heard, now and again, the clear voice of the Maid, bidding her men
"fight on, for all was theirs." But the voice was weaker now, and
other than it had been. So the day darkened, only once and again a
shot was fired, and in the dusk the shouts of the English told me
over clearly that for to-day our chance and hope were lost. Then
the darkness grew deeper, and a star shone through my casement, and
feet went up and down upon the stairs, but no man came near me.
Below there was some faint cackle of mirth and laughter, and at last
the silence fell.
Once more came a swift step on the stairs, as of one stumbling up in
haste. The key rattled in the wards, a yellow light shone in, a
man-at-arms entered; he held a torch to my face, looked to my bonds,
and then gave me a kick, while one cried from below, "Come on,
Dickon, your meat is cooling!" So he turned and went out, the door
clanging behind him, and the key rattling in the wards.
In pain and fierce wrath I gnawed my black bread, drank some of the
water, and at last I bethought me of that which should have been
first in the thoughts of a Christian man, and I prayed.
Remembering the story of Michael Hamilton, which I have already
told, and other noble and virtuous miracles of Madame St. Catherine
of Fierbois, I commanded me to her, that, by God's grace, she would
be pleased to release me from bonds and prison. And I promised
that, if she would so favour me, I would go on pilgrimage to her
chapel of Fierbois. I looked that my chains should now fall from my
limbs, but, finding no such matter, and being very weary (for all
the last night I had slept none), I fell on slumber and forgot my
sorrow.
Belike I had not lain long in that blessed land where trouble seldom
comes when I was wakened, as it were, by a tugging at my clothes. I
sat up, but the room was dark, save for a faint light in the
casement, high overhead, and I thought I had dreamed. Howbeit, as I
lay down again, heavy at heart, my clothes were again twitched, and
now I remembered what I had heard, but never believed, concerning
"lutins" or "brownies," as we call them, which, being spirits
invisible, and reckoned to have no part in our salvation, are wont
in certain houses to sport with men. Curious rather than
affrighted, I sat up once more, and looked around, when I saw two
bright spots of light in the dark. Then deeming that, for some
reason unknown to me, the prison door had been opened while I slept,
and a cat let in, I stretched out my hands towards the lights,
thence came a sharp, faint cry, and something soft and furry leaped
on to my breast, stroking me with little hands.
It was Elliot's jackanapes, very meagre, as I could feel, and all
his ribs standing out, but he made much of me, fondling me after his
manner; and indeed, for my lady's sake, I kissed him, wondering much
how he came there. Then he put something into my hands, almost as
if he had been a Christian, for it was a wise beast and a kind.
Even then there shone into my memory the thought of how my lady had
prayed for her little friend when he was stolen (which I had thought
strange, and scarcely warranted by our Faith), and with that, hope
wakened within me. My eyes being now more accustomed to the
darkness, I saw that the thing which the jackanapes gave me was a
little wallet, for he had been taught to fetch and carry, and never
was such a marvel at climbing. But as I was caressing him, I found
a string about his neck, to which there seemed to be no end. Now,
at length, I comprehended what was toward, and pulling gently at the
string, I found, after some time, that it was attached to something
heavy, on the outside of the casement. Therefore I set about
drawing in string from above, and more string, and more, and then
appeared a knot and a splice, and the end of a thick rope. So I
drew and drew, till it stopped, and I could see a stout bar across
the stanchions of the casement. Thereon I ceased drawing, and
opening the little wallet, I found two files, one very fine, the
other of sturdier fashion.
Verily then I blessed the violer woman, who at great peril of her
own life, and by such witty device as doubtless Madame St. Catherine
put into her heart, had sent the jackanapes up from below, and put
me in the way of safety. I wasted no time, but began filing, not at
the thick circlet on my wrist, but at a link of the chain whereto it
was made fast. And such was the temper of the file, that soon I got
the stouter weapon into the cut, and snapped the link; and so with
the others, working long hours, and often looking fearfully for the
first glimmer of dawn. This had not come in, when I was now free of
bonds, but there was yet the casement to be scaled. With all my
strength I dragged and jerked at the rope, whereby I meant to climb,
lest the stanchions should be rusted through, and unable to bear my
weight, but they stood the strain bravely. Then I cast off my
woman's kirtle, and took from my pouch the arrow-point, and
therewith scratched hastily on the plastered wall, in great letters:
"Norman Leslie of Pitcullo leaves his malison on the English."
Next I bound the jackanapes within the bosom of my doublet, with a
piece of the cord whereto the rope had been knotted, for I could not
leave the little beast to die the death of a traitor, and bring
suspicion, moreover, on the poor violer woman. Then, commanding
myself to the Saints, and especially thanking Madame St. Catherine,
I began to climb, hauling myself up by the rope, whereon I had made
knots to this end; nor was the climbing more difficult than to scale
a branchless beech trunk for a bird's nest, which, like other boys,
I had often done. So behold me, at last, with my legs hanging in
free air, seated on the sill of the casement. Happily, of the three
iron stanchions, though together they bore my weight, one was loose
in the lower socket, for lack of lead, and this one I displaced
easily enough, and so passed through. Then I put the wooden bar at
the rope's end, within the room, behind the two other stanchions,
considering that they, by themselves, would bear my weight, but if
not, rather choosing to trust my soul to the Saints than my body to
the English.
The deep below me was very terrible to look upon, and the casement
being above the dry ditch, I had no water to break my fall, if fall
I must. Howbeit, I hardened my heart, and turning my face to the
wall, holding first the wooden bar, and then shifting my grasp to
the rope, I let myself down, clinging to the rope with my legs, and
at first not a little helped by the knots I had made to climb to the
casement. When I had passed these, methought my hands were on fire;
nevertheless, I slid down slowly and with caution, till my feet
touched ground.
I was now in the dry ditch, above my head creaked and swung the dead
body of the hanged marauder, but he did no whit affray me. I ran,
stooping, along the bed of the dry ditch, for many yards, stumbling
over the bodies of men slain in yesterday's fight, and then,
creeping out, I found a hollow way between two slopes, and thence
crawled into a wood, where I lay some little space hidden by the
boughs. The smell of trees and grass and the keen air were like
wine to me; I cooled my bleeding hands in the deep dew; and
presently, in the dawn, I was stealing towards St. Denis, taking
such cover of ditches and hedges as we had sought in our unhappy
march of yesterday. And I so sped, by favour of the Saints, that I
fell in with no marauders; but reaching the windmill right early, at
first trumpet-call, I was hailed by our sentinels for the only man
that had won in and out of Paris, and had carried off, moreover, a
prisoner, the jackanapes. To see me, scarred, with manacles on my
wrists and gyves on my ankles, weaponless, with an ape on my
shoulder, was such a sight as the Scots Guard had never beheld
before, and carrying me to the smith's, they first knocked off my
irons, and gave me wine, ere they either asked me for my tale, or
told me their own, which was a heartbreak to bear.
For no man could unfold the manner of that which had come to pass,
if, at least, there were not strong treason at the root of all. For
our part of the onfall, the English had made but a feigned attack on
the mill, wherefore the bale-fires were lit, to our undoing. This
was the ruse de guerre of the accursed cordelier, Brother Thomas.
For the rest, the Maid had led on a band to attack the gate St.
Honore, with Gaucourt in her company, a knight that had no great
love either of her or of a desperate onslaught. But D'Alencon, whom
she loved as a brother, was commanded to take another band, and wait
behind a butte or knowe, out of danger of arrow-shot. The Maid had
stormed all day at her gate, had taken the boulevard without, and
burst open and burned the outer port, and crossed the dry ditch.
But when she had led up her men, now few, over the slope and to the
edge of the wet fosse, behold no faggots and bundles of wood were
brought up, whereby, as is manner of war, to fill up the fosse, and
so cross over. As she then stood under the wall, shouting for
faggots and scaling-ladders, her standard-bearer was shot to death,
and she was sorely wounded by an arbalest bolt. Natheless she lay
by the wall, still crying on her men, but nought was ready that
should have been, many were slain by shafts and cannon-shot, and in
the dusk, she weeping and crying still that the place was theirs to
take, D'Alencon carried her off by main force, set her on her horse,
and so brought her back to St. Denis.
Now, my mind was, and is to this day, that there was treason here,
and a black stain on the chivalry of France, to let a girl go so
far, and not to follow her. But of us Scots many were slain, and
more wounded, while Robin Lindsay died in Paris gate, and Randal
Rutherford lay a prisoner in English hands.
CHAPTER XXIII
HOW ELLIOT'S JACKANAPES CAME HOME
Of our Blessed Lord Himself it is said in the Gospel of St. Matthew,
"et non fecit ibi virtutes multas propter incredulitatem illorum."
These words I willingly leave in the Roman tongue; for by the wisdom
of Holy Church it is deemed that many mysteries should not be
published abroad in the vulgar speech, lest the unlearned hear to
their own confusion. But if even He, doubtless by the wisdom of His
own will, did not many great works "propter incredulitatem," it is
the less to be marvelled at that His Saints, through the person of
the Blessed Maid, were of no avail where men utterly disbelieved.
And that, where infidelity was, even she must labour in vain was
shown anon, even on this very day of my escape out of Paris town.
For I had scarce taken some food, and washed and armed myself, when
the Maid's trumpets sounded, and she herself, armed and on
horseback, despite her wound, rode into St. Denis, to devise with
the gentle Duc d'Alencon. Together they came forth from the gate,
and I, being in their company, heard her cry -
"By my baton, I will never go back till I take that city." {31}
These words Percival de Cagny also heard, a good knight, and maitre
d'hotel of the house of Alencon. Thereon arose some dispute,
D'Alencon being eager, as indeed he always was, to follow where the
Maiden led, and some others holding back.
Now, as they were devising together, some for, some against, for
men-at-arms not a few had fallen in the onfall, there came the sound
of horses' hoofs, and lo! Messire de Montmorency, who had been of
the party of the English, and with them in Paris, rode up, leading a
company of fifty or sixty gentlemen of his house, to join the Maid.
Thereat was great joy and new courage in all men of goodwill, seeing
that, within Paris itself, so many gentlemen deemed ours the better
cause and the more hopeful.
Thus there was an end of all dispute, our companies were fairly
arrayed, and we were marching to revenge ourselves for the losses of
yesterday, when two knights came spurring after us from St. Denis.
They were the Duc de Bar, and that unhappy Charles de Bourbon, Comte
de Clermont, by whose folly, or illwill, or cowardice, the Scots
were betrayed and deserted at the Battle of the Herrings, where my
own brother fell, as I have already told. This second time Charles
de Bourbon brought evil fortune, for he came on the King's part,
straitly forbidding D'Alencon and the Maid to march forward another
lance's length. Whereat D'Alencon swore profane, and the Maiden,
weeping, rebuked him. So, with heavy hearts, we turned, all the
host of us, and went back to quarters, the Maid to pray in the
chapel, and the men-at-arms to drink and speak ill of the King.
All this was on the ninth of September, a weary day to all of us,
though in the evening word came that we were to march early next
morning and attack Paris in another quarter, crossing the river by a
bridge of boats which the Duc d'Alencon had let build to that end.
After two wakeful nights I was well weary, and early laid me down to
sleep, rising at dawn with high hopes. And so through the grey
light we marched silently to the place appointed, but bridge there
was none; for the King, having heard of the Maid's intent, had
caused men to work all night long, destroying that which the gentle
Duke had builded. Had the King but heard the shouts and curses of
our company when they found nought but the bare piles standing, the
grey water flowing, and the boats and planks vanished, he might have
taken shame to himself of his lack of faith. Therefore I say it
boldly, it was because of men's unbelief that the Maid at Paris
wrought no great works, save that she put her body in such hazard of
war as never did woman, nay, nor man, since the making of the world.
I have no heart to speak more of this shameful matter, nor of these
days of anger and blasphemy. It was said and believed that her
voices bade the Maid abide at St. Denis till she should take Paris
town, but the King, and Charles de Bourbon, and the Archbishop of
Reims refused to hearken to her. On the thirteenth day of
September, after dinner, the King, with all his counsellors, rode
away from St. Denis, towards Gien on the Loire. The Maiden, for her
part, hung up all her harness that she had worn, save the sword of
St. Catherine of Fierbois, in front of the altar of Our Lady, and
the blessed relics of St. Denis in the chapel. Thereafter she rode,
as needs she must, and we of her company with her, to join the King,
for so he commanded.
And now was the will of the Maid and of the Duc d'Alencon broken,
and broken was all that great army, whereof some were free lances
out of many lands, but more were nobles of France with their men,
who had served without price or pay, for love of France and of the
Maid. Never again were they mustered; nay when, after some weeks
passed, the gentle Duc d'Alencon prayed that he might have the
Maiden with him, and burst into Normandy, where the English were
strongest, by the Marches of Maine, even this grace was refused to
him, by the malengin and ill-will of La Tremouille and the
Archbishop of Reims. And these two fair friends met never more
again, neither at fray nor feast. May she, among the Saints, so
work by her prayers that the late sin and treason of the gentle Duke
may be washed out and made clean, for while she lived there was no
man more dear to her, nor any that followed her more stoutly in
every onfall.
Now concerning the times that came after this shameful treason at
Paris, I have no joy to write. The King's counsellors, as their
manner was, ever hankered after a peace with Burgundy, and they
stretched the false truce that was to have ended at Christmas to
Easter Day, "pacem clamantes quo non fuit pax." For there was no
truce with the English, who took St. Denis again, and made booty of
the arms which the Maid had dedicated to Our Lady. On our part La
Hire and Xaintrailles plundered, for their own hand, the lands of
the Duke of Burgundy, and indeed on every side there was no fair
fighting, such as the Maid loved, but a war of wastry, the peasants
pillaged, and the poor held to ransom. For her part, she spent her
days in prayer for the poor and the oppressed, whom she had come to
deliver, and who now were in worse case than before, the English
harrying certain of the good towns that had yielded to King Charles.
Now her voices ever bade the Maid go back to the Isle of France, and
assail Paris, where lay no English garrison, and the Armagnacs were
stirring as much as they might. But Paris, being at this time under
the government of the Duke of Burgundy, was forsooth within the
truce. The King's counsellors, therefore, setting their wisdom
against that of the Saints, bade the Maid go against the towns of
St. Pierre le Moustier and La Charite, then held by the English on
the Loire. This was in November, when days were short, and the
weather bitter cold. The Council was held at Mehun sur Yevre, and
forthwith the Maid, glad to be doing, rode to Bourges, where she
mustered her men, and so marched to St. Pierre le Moustier, a small
town, but a strong, with fosses, towers, and high walls.
There we lay some two days or three, plying the town with our
artillery, and freezing in the winter nights. At length, having
made somewhat of a breach, the Maid gave the word for the assault,
and herself leading, with her banner in hand, we went at it with
what force we might. But twice and thrice we were driven back from
the fosse, and to be plain, our men were fled under cover, and only
the Maid stood within arrow-shot of the wall, with a few of her
household, of whom I was one, for I could not go back while she held
her ground. The arrows and bolts from the town rained and whistled
about us, and in faith I wished myself other where. Yet she stood,
waving her banner, and crying, "Tirez en avant, ils sont e nous," as
was her way in every onfall. Seeing her thus in jeopardy, her
maitre d'hotel, D'Aulon, though himself wounded in the heel so that
he might not set foot to ground, mounted a horse, and riding up,
asked her "why she abode there alone, and did not give ground like
the others?"
At this the Maid lifted her helmet from her head, and so, uncovered,
her face like marble for whiteness, and her eyes shining like steel,
made answer -
"I am not alone; with me there are of mine fifty thousand! Hence I
will not give back one step till I have taken the town."
Then I wotted well that, sinful man as I am, I was in the company of
the hosts of Heaven, though I saw them not. Great heart this
knowledge gave me and others, and the Maid crying, in a loud voice,
"Aux fagots, tout le monde!" the very runaways heard her and came
back with planks and faggots, and so, filling up the fosse and
passing over, we ran into the breach, smiting and slaying, and the
town was taken.
For my own part, I was so favoured that two knights yielded them my
prisoners (I being the only man of gentle birth among those who
beset them in a narrow wynd), and with their ransoms I deemed myself
wealthy enough, as well I might. So now I could look to win my
heart's desire, if no ill fortune befell. But little good fortune
came in our way. From La Charite, which was beset in the last days
of November, we had perforce to give back, for the King sent us no
munitions of war, and for lack of more powder and ball we might not
make any breach in the walls of that town. And so, by reason of the
hard winter, and the slackness of the King, and the false truce, we
fought no more, at that season, but went, trailing after the Court,
from castle to castle.
Many feasts were held, and much honour was done to the Maid, as by
gifts of coat armour, and the ennobling of all her kith and kin, but
these things she regarded not, nor did she ever bear on her shield
the sword supporting the crown, between the lilies of France.
If these were ill days for the Maid, I shame to confess that they
were merry days with me. There are worse places than a king's
court, when a man is young, and light of heart, full of hope, and
with money in his purse. I looked that we should take the field
again in the spring; and having gained some gold, and even some good
words, as one not backward where sword-strokes were going, I know
not what dreams I had of high renown, ay, and the Constable's staff
to end withal. For many a poor Scot has come to great place in
France and Germany, who began with no better fortune than a mind to
put his body in peril. Moreover, the winning of Elliot herself for
my wife seemed now a thing almost within my reach. Therefore, as I
say, I kept a merry Yule at Jargeau, going bravely clad, and dancing
all night long with the merriest. Only the wan face of the Maid
(that in time of war had been so gallant and glad) came between me
and my pleasures. Not that she was wilfully and wantonly sad, yet
now and again we could mark in her face the great and loving pity
that possessed her for France. Now I would be half angered with
her, but again far more wroth with myself, who could thus lightly
think of that passion of hers. But when she might she was ever at
her prayers, or in company of children, or seeking out such as were
poor and needy, to whom she was abundantly lavish of her gifts, so
that, wheresoever the Court went, the people blessed her.
In these months I had tidings of Elliot now and again; and as
occasion served I wrote to her, with messages of my love, and with a
gift, as of a ring or a jewel. But concerning the manner of my
escape from Paris I had told Elliot nothing for this cause. My
desire was, when soonest I had an occasion, to surprise her with the
gift of her jackanapes anew, knowing well that nothing could make
her greater joy, save my own coming, or a victory of the Maid. The
little creature had been my comrade wheresoever we went, as at
Sully, Gien, and Bourges, only I took him not to the leaguers of St.
Pierre le Moustier and La Charite, but left him with a fair lady of
the Court. He had waxed fat again, for as meagre as he was when he
came to me in prison, and he was full of new tricks, warming himself
at the great fire in hall, like a man.
Now in the middle of the month of January, in the year of Grace
fourteen hundred and thirty, the Maid told us of her household that
she would journey to Orleans, to abide for some space with certain
ladies of her friends, namely, Madame de St. Mesmin and Madame de
Mouchy, who loved her dearly. To the most of us she gave holiday,
to see our own friends. The Maid knew surely that in France my
friends were few, and well she guessed whither I was bound.
Therefore she sent for me, and bidding me carry her love to Elliot,
she put into my hands a gift to her friend. It was a ring of
silver-gilt, fashioned like that which her own father and mother had
given her. At this ring she had a custom of looking often, so that
the English conceived it to be an unholy talisman, though it bore
the Name that is above all names. That ring I now wear in my bosom.
So, saying farewell, with many kind words on her part, I rode
towards Tours, where Elliot and her father as then dwelt, in that
same house where I had been with them to be healed of my malady,
after the leaguer of Orleans. To Tours I rode, telling them not of
my coming, and carrying the jackanapes well wrapped up in furs of
the best. The weather was frosty, and folk were sliding on the ice
of the flooded fields near Tours when I came within sight of the
great Minster. The roads rang hard; on the smooth ice the low sun
was making paths of gold, and I sang as I rode. Putting up my horse
at the sign of the "Hanging Sword," I took the ape under my great
furred surcoat, and stole like a thief through the alleys, towards
my master's house. The night was falling, and all the casement of
the great chamber was glowing with the colour and light of a leaping
fire within. There came a sound of music too, as one touched the
virginals to a tune of my own country. My heart was beating for
joy, as it had beaten in the bushment outside Paris town.
I opened the outer door secretly, for I knew the trick of it, and I
saw from the thin thread of light on the wall of the passage that
the chamber door was a little ajar. The jackanapes was now fretting
and struggling within my surcoat, so, opening the coat, I put him
down by the chamber door. He gave a little scratch, as was his
custom, for he was a very mannerly little beast, and the sound of
the virginals ceased. Then, pushing the door with his little hands,
he ran in, with a kind of cry of joy.
"In Our Lady's name, what is this?" came the voice of Elliot. "My
dear, dear little friend, what make you here?"
Then I could withhold myself no longer, but entered, and my lady ran
to me, the jackanapes clinging about her neck with his arms. But
mine were round her too, and what words we said, and what cheer we
made each the other, I may not write, commending me to all true
lovers, whose hearts shall tell them that whereof I am silent. Much
was I rebuked for that I did not write to warn them of my coming,
which was yet the more joyful that they were not warned. And then
the good woman, Elliot's kinswoman, must be called (though in sooth
not at the very first), and then a great fire must be lit in my old
chamber; and next my master came in, from a tavern where he had been
devising with some Scots of his friends; and all the while the
jackanapes kept such a merry coil, and played so many of his tricks,
and got so many kisses from his mistress, that it was marvel. But
of all that had befallen me in the wars, and of how the Maiden did
(concerning which Elliot had questioned me first of all), I would
tell them little till supper was brought.
And then, indeed, out came all my tale, and they heard of what had
been my fortune in Paris, and how the jackanapes had delivered me
from durance, whereon never, surely, was any beast of his kind so
caressed since our father Adam gave all the creatures their names.
But as touching the Maid, I told how she had borne herself at St.
Pierre le Moustier, and of all the honours that had been granted to
her, and I bade them be of good heart and hope, for that her banner
would be on the wind in spring, after Easter Day. All the good news
that might be truly told I did tell, as how La Hire had taken
Louviers town, and harried the English up to the very gates of
Rouen. And I gave to Elliot the ring which the Maid had sent to
her, fashioned like that she herself wore, but of silver gilt,
whereas the Maid's was of base metal, and it bore the Holy Names
MARI. IHS. Thereon Elliot kissed it humbly, and avowed herself to
be, that night, the gladdest damsel in all France.
"For I have gotten you, mon ami, and my little friend that I had
lost, beyond all hope, and I have a kind word and a token from Her,
la fille de Dieu," whereat her speech faltered, and her eyes swam in
tears. But some trick of her jackanapes brought back her mirth, and
so the hours passed, as happy as any in my life. Truly the memory
of these things tells me how glad this world might be, wherein God
has placed us, were it not troubled by the inordinate desires of
men. In my master's house of Tours, then, my days of holiday went
merrily by, save for one matter, and that of the utmost moment. For
my master would in no manner permit me to wed his daughter while
this war endured; and Elliot herself, blushing like any rose, told
me that, while the Maid had need of me, with the Maid I must abide
at my duty, and that she herself had no mind for happiness while her
friend was yet labouring in the cause of France. Howbeit, I
delivered me of my vow, by pilgrimage to the chapel in Fierbois.
{32}
CHAPTER XXIV
HOW THE MAID HEARD ILL TIDINGS FROM HER VOICES,
AND OF
THE SILENCE OF THE BIRDS
Eastertide came at last, and that early, Easter Day falling on March
the twenty-seventh. Our King kept his Paques at Sully with great
festival, but his deadly foe, the Duke of Burgundy, lay at the town
of Peronne. So soon as Eastertide was over, the Duke drew all the
force he had to Montdidier, a town which lies some eight leagues to
the north and west of Compiegne. Hence he so wrought that he made a
pact with the captain of the French in Gournay, a town some four
leagues north and west of Compiegne, whereby the garrison there
promised to lie idle, and make no onslaught against them of
Burgundy, unless the King brought them a rescue. Therefore the Duke
went back to Noyon on the Oise, some eight leagues north and east of
Compiegne, while his captain, Jean de Luxembourg, led half his army
west, towards Beauvais. There he took the castle of Provenlieu, an
old castle, and ruinous, that the English had repaired and held.
And there he hanged certain English, who were used to pillage all
the country about Montdidier. Thence Jean de Luxembourg came back
to the Duke, at Noyon, and took and razed Choisy, which was held for
France.
Now all these marchings, and takings of towns, were designed to one
end, namely, that the Duke might have free passage over the river
Oise, so that his men and his victual might safely come and go from
the east. For, manifestly, it was his purpose to besiege and take
the good town of Compiegne, which lies on the river Oise some
fifteen leagues north and east of Paris. This town had come in, and
yielded to the Maid, some weeks before the onfall of Paris, and it
was especially dear to her, for the people had sworn that they would
all die, and see their wives and children dead, rather than yield to
England or Burgundy. Moreover, whosoever held Compiegne was like,
in no long time, to be master of Paris. But as now Guillaume de
Flavy commanded in Compiegne for the King, a very good knight and
skilled captain, but a man who robbed and ravished wheresoever he
had power. His brother, Louis de Flavy, also joined him after
Choisy fell, as I have told.
All this I have written that men may clearly know how the Maid came
by her end. For, so soon as Eastertide was over, and the truce
ended, she made no tarrying, nor even said farewell to the King, who
might have held her back, but drew out all her company, and rode
northward, whither she knew that battle was to be. Her mind was to
take some strong place on the Oise, as Pont l'Eveque, near Noyon,
that she might cut off them of Burgundy from all the country
eastward of Oise, and so put them out of the power to besiege
Compiegne, and might destroy all their host at Montdidier and in the
Beauvais country. For the Maid was not only the first of captains
in leading a desperate onslaught, but also (by miracle, for
otherwise it might not be) she best knew how to devise deep schemes
and subtle stratagem of war.
Setting forth, therefore, early in April, on the fifteenth day of
the month she came to Melun, a town some seven leagues south of
Paris, that had lately yielded to the King. Bidding me walk with
her, she went afoot about the walls, considering what they lacked of
strength, and how they might best be repaired, and bidding me write
down all in a little book. Now we two, and no other, were walking
by the dry fosse of Melun, the day being very fair and warm for that
season, the flowers blossoming, and the birds singing so sweet and
loud as never I heard them before or since that day.
The Maid stood still to listen, holding up her hand to me for
silence, when, lo! in one moment, in the midst of merry music, the
birds hushed suddenly.
As I marvelled, for there was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breath
of cold wind, I beheld the Maid standing as I had seen her stand in
the farmyard of the mill by St. Denis. Her head was bare, and her
face was white as snow. So she stood while one might count a
hundred, and if ever any could say that he had seen the Maid under
fear, it was now. As I watched and wondered, she fell on her knees,
like one in prayer, and with her eyes set and straining, and with
clasped hands, she said these words--"Tell me of that day, and that
hour, or grant me, of your grace, that in the same hour I may die."
Then she was silent for short space, and then, having drawn herself
upon her knees for three paces or four, she very reverently bowed
down, and kissed the ground.
Thereafter she arose, and beholding me wan, I doubt not, she gently
laid her hand upon my shoulder, and, smiling most sweetly, she said
-
"I know not what thou hast seen or heard, but promise, on thine
honour, that thou wilt speak no word to any man, save in confession
only, while I bear arms for France."
Then humbly, and with tears, I vowed as she had bidden me, whereto
she only said -
"Come, we loiter, and I have much to do, for the day is short."
But whether the birds sang again, or stinted, I know not, for I
marked it not.
But she set herself, as before, to consider the walls and the
fosses, bidding me write down in my little book what things were
needful. Nor was her countenance altered in any fashion, nor was
her wit less clear; but when we had seen all that was to be looked
to, she bade me call the chief men of the town to her house, after
vespers, and herself went into the Church of St. Michael to pray.
Though I pondered much on this strange matter, which I laid up in my
heart, I never knew what, belike, the import was, till nigh a year
thereafter, at Rouen.
But there one told me how the Maid, before her judges, had said
that, at Melun, by the fosse, her Saints had told her how she should
be made prisoner before the feast of St. John. And she had prayed
them to warn her of that hour, or in that hour might she die, but
they bade her endure all things patiently, and with a willing mind.
At that coming, then, of the Saints, I was present, though, being a
sinful man, I knew not that the Holy Ones were there. But the birds
knew, and stinted in their singing.
Now that the Maid, knowing by inspiration her hour to be even at the
doors, and wotting well what the end of her captivity was like to
be, yet had the heart to put herself in jeopardy day by day, this I
deem the most valiant deed ever done by man or woman since the
making of the world. For scarce even Wallace wight would have stood
to his standard had he known, by teaching of them who cannot lie,
what end awaited him beyond all hope. Nay, he would have betaken
him to France, as once he did in time of less danger.
Now, I pray you, consider who she was that showed this courage and
high heart. She was but the daughter of a manant, a girl of
eighteen years of age. Remember, then, what manner of creature such
a girl is of her nature; how weak and fearful; how she is
discomfited and abashed by the company of even one gentleman or lady
of noble birth; how ignorant she is of war; how fond to sport and
play with wenches of her own degree; how easily set on fire of love;
and how eager to be in the society of young men amorous. Pondering
all these things in your hearts, judge ye whether this Maid, the
bravest leader in breach, the wisest captain, having foreknowledge
of things hidden and of things to come, the most courteous lady who
ever with knights sat in hall, not knowing carnal love, nor bodily
fear, was aught but a thing miraculous, and a sister of the Saints.
CHAPTER XXV
OF THE ONFALL AT PONT L'EVEQUE, AND HOW
NORMAN LESLIE
WAS HURT
I have now shown wherefore the fighting, in this spring, was to be
up and down the water of Oise, whence the villagers had withdrawn
themselves, of necessity, into the good towns. For the desire of
the Duke of Burgundy was to hold the Oise, and so take Compiegne,
the better to hold Paris. And on our side the skill was to cut his
army in two, so that from east of the water of Oise neither men nor
victual might come to him.
Having this subtle device of war in her mind, the Maid rode north
from Melun, by the King's good towns, till she came to Compiegne,
that was not yet beleaguered. There they did her all the honour
that might be, and thither came to her standard Messire Jacques de
Chabennes, Messire Rigault de Fontaines, Messire Poton de
Xaintrailles, the best knight then on ground, and many other
gentlemen, some four hundred lances in all. {33} With these lances
the Maid consorted to attack Pont l'Eveque by a night onfall. This
is a small but very strong hold, on the Oise, some six leagues from
Compiegne, as you go up the river, and it lies near the town of
Noyon, which was held by the English. In Pont l'Eveque there was a
garrison of a hundred lances of the English, and our skill was to
break on them in the grey of dawn, when men least fear a surprise,
and are most easily taken. By this very device La Hire had seized
Compiegne but six years agone, wherefore our hope was the higher.
About five of the clock on an April day we rode out of Compiegne, a
great company,--too great, perchance, for that we had to do. For
our army was nigh a league in length as it went on the way, nor
could we move swiftly, for there were waggons with us and carts,
drawing guns and couleuvrines and powder, fascines wherewith to fill
the fosses, and ladders and double ladders for scaling the walls.
So the captains ordered it to be, for ever since that day by Melun
fosse, when the Saints foretold her captivity, the Maid submitted
herself in all things to the captains, which was never her manner
before.
As we rode slowly, she was now at the head of the line, now in the
midst, now at the rear, wherever was need; and as I rode at her
rein, I took heart to say -
"Madame, it is not thus that we have taken great keeps and holds, in
my country, from our enemies of England."
"Nay," said she, checking her horse to a walk, and smiling on me in
the dusk with her kind eyes. "Then tell me how you order it in your
country."
"Madame," I said, "it was with a little force, and lightly moving,
that Messire Thomas Randolph scaled the Castle rock and took
Edinburgh Castle out of the hands of the English, a keep so strong,
and set on a cliff so perilous, that no man might deem to win it by
sudden onfall. And in like manner the good Messire James Douglas
took his own castle, more than once or twice, by crafty stratagem of
war, so that the English named it Castle Perilous. But in every
such onfall few men fought for us, of such as could move secretly
and swiftly, not with long trains of waggons that cover a league of
road, and by their noise and number give warning to an enemy."
"My mind is yours," she said, with a sigh, "and so I would have made
this onslaught. But I submitted me to the will of the captains."
Through the night we pushed our way slowly, for in such a march none
may go swifter than the slowest, namely, the carts and the waggons.
Thus it befell that the Maid and the captains were in more thoughts
than one to draw back to Compiegne, for the night was clear, and the
dawn would be bright. And, indeed, after stumbling and wandering
long, and doubting of the way, we did, at last, see the church
towers and walls of Pont l'Eveque stand out against the clear sky of
morning, a light mist girdling the basement of the walls. Had we
been a smaller and swifter company, we should have arrived an hour
before the first greyness shows the shapes of things. But now,
alas! we no sooner saw the town than we heard the bells and trumpets
calling the townsfolk and men-at-arms to be on their ward. The
great guns of the keep roared at us so soon as we were in reach of
shot; nevertheless, Pothon and the Maid set companies to carry the
double ladders, for the walls were high, and others were told off to
bring up the fascines, and so, leaving our main battle to wait out
of shot, and come on as they were needed, the Maid and Pothon ran up
the first rampart, she waving her standard and crying that all was
ours. As we ran, for I must needs be by her side, the din of bells
and guns was worse than I had heard at Orleans, and on the top of
the church towers were men-at-arms waving flags, as if for a signal.
Howbeit, we sprang into the fosse, under shield, wary of stones cast
from above, and presently three ladders were set against the wall,
and we went up, the Maid leading the way.
Now of what befell I know but little, save that I had so climbed
that I looked down over the wall, when the ladder whereon I stood
was wholly overthrown by two great English knights, and one of them,
by his coat armour, was Messire de Montgomery himself, who commanded
in Pont l'Eveque. Of all that came after I remember no more than a
flight through air, and the dead stroke of a fall on earth with a
stone above me. For such is the fortune of war, whereof a man knows
but his own share for the most part, and even that dimly. The eyes
are often blinded with swift running to be at the wall, and, what
with a helm that rings to sword-blows, and what with smoke, and
dust, and crying, and clamour, and roar of guns, it is but little
that many a man-at-arms can tell concerning the frays wherein, may
be, he has borne himself not unmanly.
This was my lot at Pont l'Eveque, and I knew but little of what
passed till I found myself in very great anguish. For I had been
laid in one of the carts, and so was borne along the way we had
come, and at every turn of the wheels a new pang ran through me.
For my life I could not choose but groan, as others groaned that
were in the same cart with me. For my right leg was broken, also my
right arm, and my head was stounding as if it would burst. It was
late and nigh sunset or ever we won the gates of Compiegne, having
lost, indeed, but thirty men slain, but having wholly failed in our
onfall. For I heard in the monastery whither I was borne that, when
the Maid and Xaintrailles and their men had won their way within the
walls, and had slain certain of the English, and were pushing the
others hard, behold our main battle was fallen upon in the rear by
the English from Noyon, some two miles distant from Pont l'Eveque.
Therefore there was no help for it but retreat we must, driving back
the English to Noyon, while our wounded and all our munitions of war
were carried orderly away.
As to the pains I bore in that monastery of the Jacobins, when my
broken bones were set by a very good surgeon, there is no need that
I should write. My fortune in war was like that of most men-at-
arms, or better than that of many who are slain outright in their
first skirmish. Some good fortune I had, as at St. Pierre, and
again, bad fortune, of which this was the worst, that I could not be
with the Maid: nay, never again did I ride under her banner.
She, for her part, was not idle, but, after tarrying certain days in
Compiegne with Guillaume de Flavy, she rode to Lagny, "for there,"
she said, "were men that warred well against the English," namely, a
company of our Scots. And among them, as later I heard in my bed,
was Randal Rutherford, who had ransomed himself out of the hands of
the French in Paris, whereat I was right glad. At Lagny, with her
own men and the Scots, the Maid fought and took one Franquet
d'Arras, a Burgundian "routier," or knight of the road, who
plundered that country without mercy. Him the Maid would have
exchanged for an Armagnac of Paris, the host of the Bear Inn, then
held in duresse by the English, for his share in a plot to yield
Paris to the King. But this burgess died in the hands of the
English, and the echevins {34} of Lagny, claiming Franquet d'Arras
as a common thief, traitor, and murderer, tried him, and, on his
confession, put him to death. This was counted a crime in the Maid
by the English and Burgundian robbers, nay, even by French and
Scots. "For," said they, "if a gentleman is to be judged like a
manant, or a fat burgess by burgesses, there is no more profit or
glory in war." Nay, I have heard gentlemen of France cry out that,
as the Maid gave up Franquet to such judges as would surely condemn
him, so she was rightly punished when Jean de Luxembourg sold her
into the hands of unjust judges. But I answer that the Maid did not
sell Franquet d'Arras, as I say De Luxembourg sold her: not a livre
did she take from the folk of Lagny. And as for the slaying of
robbers, this very Jean de Luxembourg had but just slain many
English of his own party, for that they burned and pillaged in the
Beauvais country.
Yet men murmured against the Maid not only in their hearts, but
openly, and many men-at-arms ceased to love her cause, both for the
slaying of Franquet d'Arras, and because she was for putting away
the leaguer-lasses, and, when she might, would suffer no plundering.
Whether she was right or wrong, it behoves me not to judge, but this
I know, that the King's men fought best when she was best obeyed.
And, like Him who sent her, she was ever of the part of the poor and
the oppressed, against strong knights who rob and ravish and burn
and torture, and hold to ransom. Therefore the Archbishop of Reims,
who was never a friend of the Maid, said openly in a letter to the
Reims folk that "she did her own will, rather than obeyed the
commandments of God." But that God commands knights and gentlemen
to rob the poor and needy (though indeed He has set a great gulf
between a manant and a gentleman born) I can in nowise believe. For
my part, when I have been where gentlemen and captains lamented the
slaying of Franquet d'Arras, and justified the dealings of the
English with the Maid, I have seemed to hear the clamour of the
cruel Jews: "Tolle hunc, et dimitte nobis Barabbam." {35} For
Barabbas was a robber. Howbeit on this matter, as on all, I humbly
submit me to the judgment of my superiors and to Holy Church.
Meantime the Maid rode from Lagny, now to Soissons, now to Senlis,
now to Crepy-en-Valois, and in Crepy she was when that befell which
I am about to relate.
CHAPTER XXVI
HOW, AND BY WHOSE DEVICE, THE MAID WAS TAKEN AT
COMPIEGNE
"Verily and indeed the Maid is of wonderful excellence," quoth
Father Francois to me, in my chamber at the Jacobins, where I was
healing of my hurts.
"Any man may know that, who is in your company," the father went on
speaking.
"And how, good father?" I asked him; "sure I have caught none of her
saintliness."
"A saint I do not call you, but I scarce call you a Scot. For you
are a clerk."
"The Maid taught me none of my clergy, father, nor have I taught her
any of mine."
"She needs it not. But you are peaceful and gentle; you brawl not,
nor drink, nor curse . . . "
"Nay, father, with whom am I to brawl, or how should I curse in your
good company? Find you Scots so froward?"
"But now, pretending to be our friends, a band of them is harrying
the Sologne country . . . "
"They will be Johnstons and Jardines, and wild wood folk of
Galloway," I said. "These we scarce reckon Scots, but rather Picts,
and half heathen. And the Johnstons and Jardines are here belike,
because they have made Scotland over hot to hold them. We are a
poor folk, but honest, let by the clans of the Land Debatable and of
Ettrick Forest, and the Border freebooters, and the Galloway Picts,
and Maxwells, and Glendinnings, and the red-shanked, jabbering
Highlanders and Islesmen, and some certain of the Angus folk, and,
maybe, a wild crew in Strathclyde."
"Yours, then, is a very large country?"
"About the bigness of France, or, may be, not so big. And the main
part of it, and the most lawful and learned, is by itself, in a
sort, a separate kingdom, namely Fife, whence I come myself. The
Lothians, too, and the shire of Ayr, if you except Carrick, are well
known for the lands of peaceful and sober men."
"Whence comes your great captain, Sir Hugh Kennedy?"
"There you name an honourable man-at-arms," I said, "the glory of
Scotland; and to show you I was right, he is none of your marchmen,
or Highlanders, but has lands in Ayrshire, and comes of a very
honourable house."
"It is Sir Hugh that hath just held to ransom the King's good town
of Tours, where is that gracious lady the mother of the King's wife,
the Queen of Sicily."
Hereat I waxed red as fire.
"He will be in arrears of his pay, no doubt," I made answer.
"It is very like," said Father Francois: "but considering all that
you tell me, I crave your pardon if I still think that the Blessed
Maid has won you from the common ways of your countrymen."
To which, in faith, I had no answer to make, but that my fortune was
like to be the happier in this world and the next.
"Much need have all men of her goodness, and we of her valour," said
the father, and he sighed. "This is now the fourth siege of
Compiegne I have seen, and twice have the leads from our roofs and
the metal of our bells been made into munition of war. Absit omen
Domine! And now they say the Duke of Burgundy has sworn to slay
all, and spare neither woman nor child."
"A vaunt of war, father. Call they not him the Good Duke? When we
lay before Paris, the English put about a like lying tale concerning
us, as if we should sack and slay all."
"I pray that you speak sooth," said Father Francois.
On the next day, being May the twentieth, he came to me again, with
a wan face.
"Burgundians are in Claroix," said he, "across the river, and yet
others, with Jean de Luxembourg, at Margny, scarce a mile away, at
the end of the causeway through the water meadows, beyond the
bridge. And the Duke is at Coudun, a league off to the right of
Claroix, and I have clomb the tower-top, and thence seen the English
at Venette, on the left hand of the causeway. All is undone."
"Nay, father, be of better cheer. Our fort at the bridge end is
stronger than Les Tourelles were at Orleans. The English shot can
scarce cross the river. Bridge the enemy has none, and northward
and eastward all is open. Be of better heart, Heaven helps France."
"We have sent to summon the Maid,' said he, "from Crepy-en-Valois.
In her is all my hope; but you speak lightly, for you are young, and
war is your trade."
"And praying is yours, father, wherefore you should be bolder than
I."
But he shook his head.
So two days passed, and nothing great befell, but in the grey dawn
of May the twenty-third I was held awake by clatter of horsemen
riding down the street under the window of my chamber. And after
matins came Father Francois, his face very joyful, with the tidings
that the Maid, and a company of some three hundred lances of hers,
had ridden in from Crepy-en-Valois, she making her profit of the
darkness to avoid the Burgundians.
Then I deemed that the enemy would soon have news of her, and all
that day I heard the bells ring merry peals, and the trumpets
sounding. About three hours after noonday Father Francois came
again, and told me that the Maid would make a sally, and cut the
Burgundians in twain; and now nothing would serve me but I must be
borne in a litter to the walls, and see her banner once more on the
wind.
So, by the goodwill of Father Francois, some lay brethren bore me
forth from the convent, which is but a stone's-throw from the
bridge. They carried me across the Oise to a mill hard by the
boulevard of the Bridge fort, whence, from a window, I beheld all
that chanced. No man sitting in the gallery of a knight's hall to
see jongleurs play and sing could have had a better stance, or have
seen more clearly all the mischief that befell.
The town of Compiegne lies on the river Oise, as Orleans on the
Loire, but on the left, not the right hand of the water. The bridge
is strongly guarded, as is custom, by a tower at the further end,
and, in front of that tower, a boulevard. All the water was gay to
look on, being covered with boats, as if for a holiday, but these
were manned by archers, whom Guillaume de Flavy had set to shoot at
the enemy, if they drove us back, and to rescue such of our men as
might give ground, if they could not win into the boulevard at the
bridge end.
Beyond the boulevard, forth to the open country, lay a wide plain,
and behind it, closing it in, a long, low wall of steep hills. On
the left, a mile and a half away, Father Francois showed me the
church tower of Venette, where the English camped; to the right, a
league off, was the tower of Clairoix; and at the end of a long
raised causeway that ran from the bridge across the plain, because
of the winter floods, I saw the tower and the village of Margny.
All these towns and spires looked peaceful, but all were held by the
Burgundians. Men-at-arms were thick on the crest of our boulevard,
and on the gate-keep, all looking across the river towards the town,
whence the Maid should sally by way of the bridge. So there I lay
on a couch in the window and waited, having no fear, but great joy.
Nay, never have I felt my spirit lighter within me, so that I
laughed and chattered like a fey man. The fresh air, after my long
lying in a chamber, stirred me like wine. The May sun shone warm,
yet cooled with a sweet wind of the west. The room was full of
women and maids, all waiting to throw flowers before the Maid, whom
they dearly loved. Everything had a look of holiday, and all was to
end in joy and great victory. So I laughed with the girls, and
listened to a strange tale, how the Maid had but of late brought
back to life a dead child at Lagny, so that he got his rights of
Baptism, and anon died again.
So we fleeted the time, till about the fifth hour after noon, when
we heard the clatter of horses on the bridge; and some women waxed
pale. My own heart leaped up. The noise drew nearer, and presently
She rode across and forth, carrying her banner in the noblest
manner, mounted on a grey horse, and clad in a rich hucque of
cramoisie; she smiled and bowed like a queen to the people, who
cried, "Noel! Noel!" Beside her rode Pothon le Bourgignon (not
Pothon de Xaintrailles, as some have falsely said), her confessor
Pasquerel on a palfrey; her brother, Pierre du Lys, with his new
arms bravely blazoned; and her maitre d'hotel, D'Aulon. But of the
captains in Compiegne no one rode with her. She had but her own
company, and a great rude throng of footmen of the town that would
not be said nay. They carried clubs, and they looked, as I heard,
for no less than to take prisoner the Duke of Burgundy himself.
Certain of these men also bore spades and picks and other tools; for
the Maid, as I deem, intended no more than to take and hold Margny,
that so she might cut the Burgundians in twain, and sunder from them
the English at Venette. Now as the night was not far off, then at
nightfall would the English be in sore straits, as not knowing the
country and the country roads, and not having the power to join them
of Burgundy at Clairoix. This, one told me afterwards, was the
device of the Maid.
Be this as it may, and a captain of hers, Barthelemy Barrette, told
me the tale, the Maid rode gallantly forth, flowers raining on her,
while my heart longed to be riding at her rein. She waved her hand
to Guillaume de Flavy, who sat on his horse by the gate of the
boulevard, and so, having arrayed her men, she cried, "Tirez avant!"
and made towards Margny, the foot-soldiers following with what speed
they might, while I and Father Francois, and others in the chamber,
strained our eyes after them. All the windows and roofs of the
houses and water-mills on the bridge were crowded with men and
women, gazing, and it came into my mind that Flavy had done ill to
leave these mills and houses standing. They wrought otherwise at
Orleans. This was but a passing thought, for my heart was in my
eyes, straining towards Margny. Thence now arose a great din, and
clamour of trumpets and cries of men-at-arms, and we could see
tumult, blown dust, and stir of men, and so it went for it may be
half of an hour. Then that dusty cloud of men and horses drove,
forward ever, out of our sight.
The sun was now red and sinking above the low wall of the western
hills, and the air was thicker than it had been, and confused with a
yellow light. Despite the great multitude of men and women on the
city walls, there came scarcely a sound of a voice to us across the
wide river, so still they kept, and the archers in the boats beneath
us were silent: nay, though the chamber wherein I lay was thronged
with the people of the house pressing to see through the open
casement, yet there was silence here, save when the father prayed.
A stronger wind rising out of the west now blew towards us with a
sweet burden of scent from flowers and grass, fragrant upon our
faces. So we waited, our hearts beating with hope and fear.
Then I, whose eyes were keen, saw, blown usward from Margny, a cloud
of flying dust, that in Scotland we call stour. The dust rolled
white along the causeway towards Compiegne, and then, alas! forth
from it broke little knots of our men, foot-soldiers, all running
for their lives. Behind them came more of our men, and more, all
running, and then mounted men-at-arms, spurring hard, and still more
and more of these; and ever the footmen ran, till many riders and
some runners had crossed the drawbridge, and were within the
boulevard of the bridge. There they stayed, sobbing and panting,
and a few were bleeding. But though the foremost runaways thus won
their lives, we saw others roll over and fall as they ran, tumbling
down the sides of the causeway, and why they fell I knew not.
But now, in the midst of the causeway, between us and Margny, our
flying horsemen rallied under the Maiden's banner, and for the last
time of all, I heard that clear girl's voice crying, "Tirez en
avant! en avant!"
Anon her horsemen charged back furiously, and drove the Picards and
Burgundians, who pursued, over a third part of the raised roadway.
But now, forth from Margny, trooped Burgundian men-at-arms without
end or number, the banner of the Maid waved wildly, now up, now
down, in the mad mellay, and ever they of Burgundy pressed on, and
still our men, being few and outnumbered, gave back. Yet still some
of the many clubmen of the townsfolk tumbled over as they ran, and
the drawbridge was choked with men flying, thrusting and thronging,
wild and blind with the fear of death. Then rose on our left one
great cry, such as the English give when they rejoice, or when they
charge, and lo! forth from a little wood that had hidden them, came
galloping and running across the heavy wet meadowland between us and
Venette, the men-at-arms and the archers of England. Then we nigh
gave up all for lost, and fain I would have turned my eyes away, but
I might not.
Now and again the English archers paused, and loosed a flight of
clothyard shafts against the stream of our runaways on the bridge.
Therefore it was that some fell as they ran. But the little company
of our horsemen were now driven back so near us that I could plainly
see the Maid, coming last of all, her body swung round in the saddle
as she looked back at the foremost foemen, who were within a lance's
length of her. And D'Aulon and Pierre du Lys, gripping each at her
reins, were spurring forward. But through the press of our clubmen
and flying horsemen they might not win, and now I saw, what never
man saw before, the sword of the Maid bare in battle! She smote on
a knight's shield, her sword shivered in that stroke, she caught her
steel sperthe into her hand, and struck and hewed amain, and there
were empty saddles round her.
And now the English in the meadow were within four lances' lengths
of the causeway between her and safety. Say it I must, nor cannon-
ball nor arrow-flight availed to turn these English. Still the
drawbridge and the inlet of the boulevard were choked with the
press, and men were leaping from bank and bridge into the boats, or
into the water, while so mixed were friends and foes that Flavy, in
a great voice, bade archers and artillerymen hold their hands.
Townsfolk, too, were mingled in the throng, men who had come but to
gape as curious fools, and among them I saw the hood of a cordelier,
as I glanced from the fight to mark how the Maid might force her way
within. Still she smote, and D'Aulon and Pierre du Lys smote
manfully, and anon they gained a little way, backing their horses,
while our archers dared not shoot, so mixed were French, English,
and Burgundians.
Flavy, who worked like a man possessed, had turned about to give an
order to the archers above him; his back, I swear, was to the press
of flying men, to the inlet of the boulevard, and to the drawbridge,
when his own voice, as all deemed who heard it, cried aloud, "Up
drawbridge, close gates, down portcullis!" The men whose duty it
was were standing ready at the cranks and pulleys, their tools in
hand, and instantly, groaning, the drawbridge flew up, casting into
the water them that were flying across, down came the portcullis,
and slew two men, while the gates of the inlet of the boulevard were
swung to and barred, all, as it might he said, in the twinkling of
an eye.
Flavy turned in wrath and great amaze: "In God's name, who cried?"
he shouted. "Down drawbridge, up portcullis, open gates! To the
front, men-at-arms, lances forward!"
For most of the mounted men who had fled were now safe, and on foot,
within the boulevard.
All this I heard and saw, in a glance, while my eyes were fixed on
the Maid and the few with her. They were lost from our sight, now
and again, in a throng of Picards, Englishmen, Burgundians, for all
have their part in this glory. Swords and axes fell and rose,
steeds countered and reeled, and then, they say, for this thing I
myself did not see, a Picard archer, slipping under the weapons and
among the horses' hoofs, tore the Maid from saddle by the long
skirts of her hucque, and they were all upon her. This befell
within half a stone's-throw of the drawbridge. While Flavy himself
toiled with his hands, and tore at the cranks and chains, the Maid
was taken under the eyes of us, who could not stir to help her. Now
was the day and the hour whereof the Saints told her not, though she
implored them with tears. Now in the throng below I heard a laugh
like the sound of a saw on stone, and one struck him that laughed on
the mouth. It was the laugh of that accursed Brother Thomas!
I had laid my face on my hands, being so weak, and was weeping for
very rage at that which my unhappy eyes had seen, when I heard the
laugh, and lifting my head and looking forth, I beheld the hood of
the cordelier.
"Seize him!" I cried to Father Francois, pointing down at the
cordelier. "Seize that Franciscan, he has betrayed her! Run, man,
it was he who cried in Flavy's voice, bidding them raise drawbridge
and let fall portcullis. The devil gave him that craft to
counterfeit men's voices. I know the man. Run, Father Francois,
run!"
"You are distraught with very grief," said the good father, the
tears running down his own cheeks; "that is Brother Thomas, the best
artilleryman in France, and Flavy's chief trust with the
couleuvrine. He came in but four days agone, and there was great
joy of his coming."
Thus was the Maid taken, by art and device of the devil and Brother
Thomas, and in no otherwise. They who tell that Flavy sold her,
closing the gates in her face, do him wrong; he was an ill man, but
loyal to France, as was seen by the very defence he made at
Compiegne, for there was none like it in this war. But of what
avail was that to us who loved the Maid? Rather, many times, would
I have died in that hour than have seen what I saw. For our enemies
made no more tarrying, nor any onslaught on the boulevard, but rode
swiftly back with the prize they had taken, with her whom they
feared more than any knight or captain of France. This page whereon
I work, in a hand feeble and old, and weary with much writing, is
blotted with tears that will not be held in. But we must bow humbly
to the will of God and of His Saints. "Dominus dedit, et Dominus
abstulit; benedictum sit nomen Domini."
Wherefore should I say more? They carried me back in litter over
the bridge, through the growing darkness. Every church was full of
women weeping and praying for her that was the friend of them, and
the playmate of their children, for all children she dearly loved.
Concerning Flavy, it was said, by them who loved him not, that he
showed no sign of sorrow. But when his own brother Louis fell,
later in the siege, a brother whom he dearly loved, none saw him
weep, or alter the fashion of his countenance; nay, he bade
musicians play music before him.
I besought the Prior, when I was borne home, that I might be carried
to Flavy, and tell him that I knew. But he forbade me, saying that,
in very truth, I knew nought, or nothing that could be brought
against a Churchman, and one in a place of trust. For I had not
seen the lips of the cordelier move when that command was given--
nay, at the moment I saw him not at all. Nor could I even prove to
others that he had this devilish art, there being but my oath
against his, and assuredly he would deny the thing. And though I
might be assured and certain within myself, yet other witness I had
none at all, nor were any of my friends there who could speak with
me. For D'Aulon, and Pasquerel, and Pierre du Lys had all been
taken with the Maid. It was long indeed before Pierre du Lys was
free, for he had no money to ransom himself withal. Therefore
Flavy, knowing me only for a wounded Scot of the Maid's, would think
me a brainsick man, and as like as not give me more of Oise river to
drink than I craved.
With these reasonings it behoved me to content myself. The night I
passed in prayers for the Maid, and for myself, that I might yet do
justice on that devil, or, at least, might see justice done. But
how these orisons were answered shall be seen in the end, whereto I
now hasten.
RETURN TO TABLE OF CONTENTS CONTINUE TO NEXT CHAPTER
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