him a knight, gave him a pension of 500_l._. a year, and desired him
to surrender his prisoner to the queen, as his own representative.
This was accordingly done, and King David was lodged in the Tower
of London. Soon after, three days before All Saints' Day, there
was a large and gay fleet to be seen crossing from the white cliffs
of Dover, and the king, his son, and his knights rode down to the
landing-place to welcome plump, fair-haired Queen Philippa, and all
her train of ladies, who had come in great numbers to visit their
husbands, fathers, or brothers in the wooden town. Then there was
a great court, and numerous feasts and dances, and the knights and
squires were constantly striving who could do the bravest deed of
prowess to please the ladies. The King of France had placed numerous
knights and men-at-arms in the neighboring towns and castles, and
there were constant fights whenever the English went out foraging,
and many bold deeds that were much admired were done. The great
point was to keep provisions out of the town, and there was much
fighting between the French who tried to bring in supplies, and the
English who intercepted them. Very little was brought in by land,
and Sir Jean de Vienne and his garrison would have been quite starved
but for two sailors of Abbeville, named Marant and Mestriel, who
knew the coast thoroughly, and often, in the dark autumn evenings,
would guide in a whole fleet of little boats, loaded with bread and
meat for the starving men within the city. They were often chased
by King Edward's vessels, and were sometimes very nearly taken,
but they always managed to escape, and thus they still enabled the
garrison to hold out.
So all the winter passed, Christmas was kept with brilliant feasting
and high merriment by the king and his queen in their wooden palace
outside, and with lean cheeks and scanty fare by the besieged
within. Lent was strictly observed perforce by the besieged, and
Easter brought a betrothal in the English camp; a very unwilling
one on the part of the bridegroom, the young Count of Flanders, who
loved the French much better than the English, and had only been
tormented into giving his consent by his unruly vassals because
they depended on the wool of English sheep for their cloth works.
So, though King Edward's daughter Isabel was a beautiful fair-haired
girl of fifteen, the young count would scarcely look at her; and
in the last week before the marriage-day, while her robes and her
jewels were being prepared, and her father and mother were arranging
the presents they should make to all their court on the wedding-day,
the bridegroom, when out hawking, gave his attendants the slip,
and galloped off to Paris, where he was welcomed by King Philippe.
This made Edward very wrathful, and more than ever determined to
take Calais. About Whitsuntide he completed a great wooden castle
upon the seashore, and placed in it numerous warlike engines, with
forty men-at-arms and 200 archers, who kept such a watch upon the
harbor that not even the two Abbeville sailors could enter it,
without having their boats crushed and sunk by the great stones
that the mangonels launched upon them. The townspeople began to feel
what hunger really was, but their spirits were kept up by the hope
that their king was at last collecting an army for their rescue.
And Philippe did collect all his forces, a great and noble army,
and came one night to the hill of Sangate, just behind the English
army, the knights' armor glancing and their pennons flying in the
moonlight, so as to be a beautiful sight to the hungry garrison who
could see the white tents pitched upon the hillside. Still there
were but two roads by which the French could reach their friends
in the town--one along the seacoast, the other by a marshy road
higher up the country, and there was but one bridge by which the
river could be crossed. The English king's fleet could prevent any
troops from passing along the coast road, the Earl of Derby guarded
the bridge, and there was a great tower, strongly fortified, close
upon Calais. There were a few skirmishes, but the French king,
finding it difficult to force his way to relieve the town, sent
a party of knights with a challenge to King Edward to come out of
his camp and do battle upon a fair field.
To this Edward made answer, that he had been nearly a year before
Calais, and had spent large sums of money on the siege, and that he
had nearly become master of the place, so that he had no intention
of coming out only to gratify his adversary, who must try some
other road if he could not make his way in by that before him.
Three days were spent in parleys, and then, without the slightest
effort to rescue the brave, patient men within the town, away went
King Philippe of France, with all his men, and the garrison saw the
host that had crowded the hill of Sangate melt away like a summer
cloud.
August had come again, and they had suffered privation for a whole
year for the sake of the king who deserted them at their utmost
need. They were in so grievous a state of hunger and distress that
the hardiest could endure no more, for ever since Whitsuntide no
fresh provisions had reached them. The governor, therefore, went
to the battlements and made signs that he wished to hold a parley,
and the king appointed Lord Basset and Sir Walter Mauny to meet
him, and appoint the terms of surrender.
The governor owned that the garrison was reduced to the greatest
extremity of distress, and requested that the king would be contented
with obtaining the city and fortress, leaving the soldiers and
inhabitants to depart in peace.
But Sir Walter Mauny was forced to make answer that the king, his
lord, was so much enraged at the delay and expense that Calais
had cost him, that he would only consent to receive the whole on
unconditional terms, leaving him free to slay, or to ransom, or
make prisoners whomsoever he pleased, and he was known to consider
that there was a heavy reckoning to pay, both for the trouble the
siege had cost him and the damage the Calesians had previously done
to his ships.
The brave answer was: "These conditions are too hard for us. We are
but a small number of knights and squires, who have loyally served
our lord and master as you would have done, and have suffered much
ill and disquiet, but we will endure far more than any man has
done in such a post, before we consent that the smallest boy in the
town shall fare worse than ourselves. I therefore entreat you, for
pity's sake, to return to the king and beg him to have compassion,
for I have such an opinion of his gallantry that I think he will
alter his mind."
The king's mind seemed, however, sternly made up; and all that Sir
Walter Mauny and the barons of the council could obtain from him
was that he would pardon the garrison and townsmen on condition
that six of the chief citizens should present themselves to him,
coming forth with bare feet and heads, with halters round their
necks, carrying the keys of the town, and becoming absolutely his
own to punish for their obstinacy as he should think fit.
On hearing this reply, Sir Jean de Vienne begged Sir Walter Mauny
to wait till he could consult the citizens, and, repairing to the
market-place, he caused a great bell to be rung, at sound of which
all the inhabitants came together in the town-hall. When he told
them of these hard terms he could not refrain from weeping bitterly,
and wailing and lamentation arose all round him. Should all starve
together, or sacrifice their best and most honored after all
suffering in common so long?
Then a voice was heard; it was that of the richest burgher in the
town, Eustache de St. Pierre. "Messieurs, high and low," he said,
"it would be a sad pity to suffer so many people to die through hunger,
if it could be prevented; and to hinder it would be meritorious in
the eyes of our Saviour. I have such faith and trust in finding
grace before God, if I die to save my townsmen, that I name myself
as first of the six."
As the burgher ceased, his fellow-townsmen wept aloud, and many,
amid tears and groans, threw themselves at his feet in a transport
of grief and gratitude. Another citizen, very rich and respected,
rose up and said, "I will be second to my comrade, Eustache."
His name was Jean Daire. After him, Jacques Wissant, another very
rich man, offered himself as companion to these, who were both his
cousins; and his brother Pierre would not be left behind: and two
more, unnamed, made up this gallant band of men willing to offer
their lives for the rescue of their fellow-townsmen.
Sir Jean de Vienne mounted a little horse--for he had been wounded,
and was still lame--and came to the gate with them, followed by
all the people of the town, weeping and wailing, yet, for their own
sakes and their children's, not daring to prevent the sacrifice.
The gates were opened, the governor and the six passed out, and
the gates were again shut behind them. Sir Jean then rode up to
Sir Walter Mauny, and told him how these burghers had voluntarily
offered themselves, begging him to do all in his power to save
them; and Sir Walter promised with his whole heart to plead their
cause. De Vienne then went back into the town, full of heaviness
and anxiety; and the six citizens were led by Sir Walter to
the presence of the king, in his full court. They all knelt down,
and the foremost said: "Most gallant king, you see before you six
burghers of Calais, who have all been capital merchants, and who
bring you the keys of the castle and town. We yield ourselves to
your absolute will and pleasure, in order to save the remainder
of the inhabitants of Calais, who have suffered much distress and
misery. Condescend, therefore, out of your nobleness of mind, to
have pity on us."
Strong emotion was excited among all the barons and knights who
stood round, as they saw the resigned countenances, pale and thin
with patiently-endured hunger, of these venerable men, offering
themselves in the cause of their fellow-townsmen. Many tears of
pity were shed; but the king still showed himself implacable, and
commanded that they should he led away, and their heads stricken
off. Sir Walter Mauny interceded for them with all his might, even
telling the king that such an execution would tarnish his honor,
and that reprisals would be made on his own garrisons; and all
the nobles joined in entreating pardon for the citizens, but still
without effect; and the headsman had been actually sent for, when
Queen Philippa, her eyes streaming with tears, threw herself on
her knees amongst the captives, and said, "Ah, gentle sir, since
I have crossed the sea with much danger to see you, I have never
asked you one favor; now I beg as a boon to myself, for the sake
of the Son of the Blessed Mary, and for your love to me, that you
will be merciful to these men!"
For some time the king looked at her in silence; then he exclaimed:
"Dame, dame, would that you had been anywhere than here! You have
entreated in such a manner that I cannot refuse you; I therefore
give these men to you, to do as you please with."
Joyfully did Queen Philippa conduct the six citizens to her own
apartments, where she made them welcome, sent them new garments,
entertained them with a plentiful dinner, and dismissed them each
with a gift of six nobles. After this, Sir Walter Mauny entered the
city, and took possession of it; retaining Sir Jean de Vienne and
the other knights and squires till they should ransom themselves, and
sending out the old French inhabitants; for the king was resolved
to people the city entirely with English, in order to gain a
thoroughly strong hold of this first step in France.
The king and queen took up their abode in the city; and the houses
of Jean Daire were, it appears, granted to the queen--perhaps,
because she considered the man himself as her charge, and wished to
secure them for him--and her little daughter Margaret was, shortly
after, born in one of his houses. Eustache de St. Pierre was taken
into high favor, and was placed in charge of the new citizens whom
the king placed in the city.
Indeed, as this story is told by no chronicler but Froissart, some
have doubted of it, and thought the violent resentment thus imputed
to Edward III inconsistent with his general character; but it is
evident that the men of Calais had given him strong provocation by
attacks on his shipping--piracies which are not easily forgiven--and
that he considered that he had a right to make an example of them.
It is not unlikely that he might, after all, have intended to forgive
them, and have given the queen the grace of obtaining their pardon,
so as to excuse himself from the fulfillment of some over-hasty
threat. But, however this may have been, nothing can lessen the
glory of the six grave and patient men who went forth, by their own
free will to meet what might be a cruel and disgraceful death, in
order to obtain the safety of their fellow-townsmen.
THE STORY OF JOAN OF ARC, THE MAID WHO SAVED FRANCE
Anonymous
Over five hundred years ago, the children of Domremy, a little
village on the border of France, used to dance and sing beneath a
beautiful beech tree. They called it "The Fairy Tree." Among these
children was one named Jeanne, the daughter of an honest farmer,
Jacques d'Arc. Jeanne sang more than she danced, and though she
carried garlands like the other boys and girls, and hung them on the
boughs of the Fairies' Tree, she liked better to take the flowers
into the parish church and lay them on the altars of St. Margaret
and St. Catherine.
She was brought up by her parents (as she told the judges at her
trial) to be industrious, to sew and spin. She did not fear to
match herself at spinning and sewing, she said, against any woman
in Rouen. When very young, she sometimes went to the fields to watch
the cattle. As she grew older, she worked in the house; she did not
any longer watch sheep and cattle. But the times were dangerous, and
when there was an alarm of soldiers or robbers in the neighborhood,
she sometimes helped to drive the flock into a fortified island or
peninsula, for which her father was responsible, in the river near
her home. She learned her creed, she said, from her mother. Twenty
years after her death, her neighbors, who remembered her, described
her as she was when a child. Jean Morin said that she was a good
industrious girl, but that she would often be praying in church
when her father and mother did not know it. Jean Waterin, when he
was a boy, had seen Joan in the fields, "and when they were all
playing together, she would go apart and pray to God, as he thought,
and he and the others used to laugh at her. When she heard the
church bell ring, she would kneel down in the fields." All those
who had seen Joan told the same tale: she was always kind, simple,
industrious, pious and yet merry and fond of playing with the
others.
In Joan's childhood France was under a mad king, Charles VI, and
was torn to pieces by two factions, the party of Burgundy and the
party of Armagnac. The English took advantage of these disputes,
and overran the land. The two parties of Burgundy and Armagnac
divided town from town and village from village. It was as in the
days of the Douglas Wars in Scotland, when the very children took
sides for Queen Mary and King James, and fought each other in the
streets. Domremy was for the Armagnacs--that is, against the English
and for the Dauphin, the son of the mad Charles VI. But at Maxey,
a village near Domremy, the people were all for Burgundy and the
English. The boys of Domremy would go out and fight the Maxey boys
with fists and sticks and stones. Joan did not remember having
taken part in those battles, but she had often seen her brothers
and the Domremy boys come home all bruised and bleeding.
When Joan was between twelve and thirteen (1424), so she swore,
_a Voice came to her from God for her guidance_, but when first it
came, she was in great fear. And it came, that Voice, about noonday,
in the summer season, she being in her father's garden. Joan had
not fasted the day before that, but was fasting when the Voice
came. The Voices at first only told her to be a good girl, and go
to church. The Voice later told her of the great sorrow there was
in France, and that one day she must go into France and help the
country. She had visions with the Voices; visions first of St.
Michael, and then of St. Catherine and St. Margaret. "I saw them
with my bodily eyes, as I see you," she said to her judges," and
when they departed from me I wept, and well I wished that they had
taken me with them."
What are we to think about these visions and these Voices which
were with Joan to her death?
In 1428 only a very few small towns in the east still held out for
the Dauphin, and these were surrounded on every side by enemies.
Meanwhile the Voices came more frequently, urging Joan to go into
France and help her country. She asked how she, a girl, who could
not ride or use sword and lance, could be of any help? At the same
time she was encouraged by one of the vague old prophecies which
were common in France. A legend ran that France was to be saved
by a Maiden from the Oak Wood, and there was an Oak Wood (_le bois
chenu_) near Domremy. Some such prophecy had an influence on Joan,
and probably helped people to believe in her. The Voices often
commanded her to go to Vaucouleurs, a neighboring town which was
loyal, and there meet Robert de Baudricourt, who was captain of the
French garrison. Now, Robert de Baudricourt was a gallant soldier,
but a plain practical man, very careful of his own interest, and
cunning enough to hold his own among his many enemies, English,
Burgundian, and Lorrainers.
Joan had a cousin who was married to one Durand Lassois, at Burey
en Vaux, a village near Vaucouleurs. This cousin invited Joan
to visit her for a week. At the end of that time she spoke to her
cousin's husband. There was an old saying, as we saw, that France
would be rescued by a Maid, and she, as she told Lassois, was that
Maid. Lassois listened, and, whatever he may have thought of her
chances, he led her to Robert de Baudricourt.
Joan came, in her simple red dress, and walked straight up to the
captain. She told him that the Dauphin must keep quiet, and risk
no battle, for, before the middle of Lent next year (1423), God
would send him help. She added that the kingdom belonged, not to
the Dauphin, but to her Master, who willed that the Dauphin should
be crowned, and she herself would lead him to Reims, to be anointed
with the holy oil.
"And who is your Master?" said Robert.
"The King of Heaven!"
Robert, very naturally, thought that Joan was crazed, and shrugged
his shoulders. He bluntly told Lassois to box her ears and take her
back to her father. So she had to go home; but here new troubles
awaited her. The enemy came down on Domremy and burned it; Joan and
her family fled to Neufchateau, where they stayed for a few days.
When Joan looked from her father's garden to the church, she saw
nothing but a heap of smoking ruins. These things only made her
feel more deeply the sorrows of her country. The time was drawing
near when she had prophesied that the Dauphin was to receive help
from heaven--namely, in the Lent of 1429. On that year the season
was held more than commonly sacred, for Good Friday and the
Annunciation fell on the same day. So, early in January, 1429, Joan
turned her back on Domremy, which she was never to see again. Her
cousin Lassois came and asked leave for Joan to visit him again;
so she said good-by to her father and mother, and to her friends.
She went to her cousin's house at Burey, and there she stayed for
six weeks, hearing bad news of the siege of Orleans by the English.
A squire named Jean de Nouillompont met Joan one day.
"Well, my lass," said he, "is our king to be driven from France,
and are we all to become English?"
"I have come here," said Joan, "to bid Robert de Baudricourt lead
me to the king, but he will not listen to me. And yet to the king
I must go, even if I walk my legs down to the knees; for none in all
the world--king, nor duke, nor the King of Scotland's daughter--can
save France, but myself only. Certainly, I would rather stay and
spin with my poor mother, for to fight is not my calling; but I
must go and I must fight, for so my Lord will have it."
"And who is your Lord?" said Jean de Nouillompont.
"He is God," said the Maiden.
On February 12, the story goes, she went to Robert de Baudricourt.
"You delay too long," she said. "On this very day, at Orleans, the
gentle Dauphin has lost a battle."
Now the people of Vaucouleurs brought clothes for Joan to wear on
her journey to the Dauphin. They were such clothes as men wear--doublet,
hose, surcoat, boots, and spurs--and Robert de Baudricourt gave
Joan a sword. Her reason was that she would have to be living alone
among men-at-arms for a ten days' journey and she thought it was
more modest to wear armor like the rest. Also, her favorite saint,
St. Margaret, had done this once when in danger. Besides, in all
the romances of chivalry, we find fair maidens fighting in arms
like men, or travelling dressed as pages.
On February 23, 1429, the gate of the little castle of Vaucouleurs,
"the Gate of France," which is still standing, was thrown open. Seven
travellers rode out, among them two squires, Jean de Nouillompont
and Bertrand de Poulengy, with their attendants, and Joan the Maid.
"Go, and let what will come of it come!" said Robert de Baudricourt.
He did not expect much to come of it. It was a long journey--they
were eleven days on the road--and a dangerous. But Joan laughed
at danger. "God will clear my path to the king, for to this end I
was born." Often they rode by night, stopping at monasteries when
they could, Sometimes they slept out under the sky. Though she was
young and beautiful, these two gentlemen never dreamed of paying
their court to her and making love, as they do in romances, for
they regarded her "as if she had been an angel." They were in awe
of her, they said long afterward, and all the knights who had seen
her said the same.
From Fierbois, Joan made some clerk write to the king that she was
coming to help him, and that she would know him among all his men.
Probably it was here that she wrote to beg her parents pardon, and
they forgave her, she says. Meanwhile, news reached the people then
besieged in Orleans that a marvellous Maiden was riding to their
rescue. On March 6, Joan arrived in Chinon where for two or three
days the king's advisers would not let him see her. At last they
yielded, and she went straight up to him, and when he denied that
he was the king, she told him that she knew well who he was.
"There is the king," said Charles, pointing to a richly dressed
noble.
"No, fair sire. You are he!"
Still, it was not easy to believe. Joan stayed at Chinon in the
house of a noble lady. The young Duc d'Alençon was on her side from
the first.
Great people came to see her and question her, but when she was
alone, she wept and prayed.
Joan was weary of being asked questions. One day she went to Charles
and said, "Gentle Dauphin, why do you delay to believe me? I tell
you that God has taken pity on you and your people, at the prayer
of St. Louis and St. Charlemagne. And I will tell you by your
leave, something which will show you that you should believe me."
Then she told him secretly something which, as he said, none could
know but God and himself.
But the king to whom Joan brought this wonderful message, the
king whom she loved so loyally, and for whom she died, spoiled all
her plans. He, with his political advisers, prevented her from
driving the English quite out of France. These favorites were lazy,
comfortable, cowardly, disbelieving; in their hearts they hated the
Maid, who put them to so much trouble. Charles, to tell the truth,
never really believed in her; he never quite trusted her; he never
led a charge by her side; and in the end, he shamefully deserted
her, and left the Maid to her doom.