"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 brain-
sick 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.