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To Angelo Catto, Archbishop of Vienna, from Philip de Comines, Lord of
Argenton:—
In the Memoirs which I have written, my good Lord Archbishop, at your
desire, I have spoken of an occurrence of little importance, it may
appear, and which was of small note among the great and mighty events
which took place then and thereafter. None the less, though I have there
written but a few words, (as thinking the relation of my own small
affairs of little value) matters of great import to me and mine
transpired which I shall here set forth, that you may, if you see fit,
relate them to my dear daughter, Joan, when I am no more.
In these Memoirs I have related that after the battle of Mont l’Hery the
horse I bestrode was old and tired, which thrusting by accident his head
into a bucket of wine, drank it and was thereby become lustier and more
serviceable than he was before. I have also there set down that on the
third day after the battle we took up our quarters in the village of
Mont l’Hery and that the inhabitants were in such consternation at our
approach that they fled, some into the church steeple, and some into the
castle, which held out against us and was not taken.
I have not set down the events of the first and second days after the
battle because, as you shall see, I could not know much of them, being
away on my own affairs.
After I had mounted this old, tired horse which I had ridden for several
days, I laid the reins upon his neck as was my wont. Straightway he
began to gallop, and when I sought to rein him in I found the bit
between his teeth, and he on a mad run. We burst through the ranks of
the men-at-arms, whereat I suffered not a little, being without armour
at the time, and galloped hard into the village. As we turned at the
church my old horse stumbled and fell and I was thrown violently into a
meadow at one side of the way.
Of what happened next I know only as it was related to me thereafter.
For a long time, it appeared, my wits were wandering. Then I opened my
eyes to look into the eyes of a young maid bending over me anxiously.
She smiled and said: “I am glad, good sir. You were as one dead. It was
an ugly fall.”
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You are in the house of my aunt’s nurse,” she replied. “She lies sick
in the room above. I had come to visit her and saw you fall. I fear some
of the King’s men saw you also and will do you a mischief.” With that
there came a knocking at the door and hoarse voices shouting: “Open in
the King’s name!”
She opened the door and I heard loud voices talking. Three archers were
there, sent, they said, to bring me to the Castle, but the maid denied
them. She averred I was in great pain and unfit to be moved. There was
much said that I did not fully hear (my wits not yet being fully
returned), but presently she closed the door and came back.
“I have staved them off for awhile,” she said, “but you must get back
your wits as soon as may be, for they will come again.” But I was in a
maze at the beauty of her and said no word. She seemed like an angel to
my sleepy eyes; for by now I felt dead tired and of a mind to sleep.
This she saw and said: “Sleep, fair Sir! I will fend them from you.” At
which I dropped off to sleep to dream of yellow-haired angels singing;
and when I awoke, of a truth she was singing in the chamber above. In a
few minutes she returned quietly and, seeing I was awake, said: “I have
now two patients, fair Sir, I pray you tell me how you do?”
“I am stronger,” I replied “but my arm pains me, and methinks a bone may
perchance be broken.”
“Not so,” said she, “but it is much bruised.”
Again there was a knocking at the door, and when she opened a rough
voice enquiring for me.
“He has been sleeping and is better, but he has been much bruised and
must stay the night.”
“Nay, Nay!” said the archer, “that must not be. I am bidden to bring him
straight to the Castle.”
“He is my patient,” she replied, “and I tell thee I will not have him
moved, Count or no Count.”
“You must even have your way, Lady,” said he, “But I see a heavy
reckoning to be paid if he come not soon.”
“I will answer,” said she.
When she returned: “I am beholden to you, Lady,” I said, “for your too
great kindness. But I must not lead you into danger. That would be a
poor return. Let me be led to the Count.”
“How say you?” she replied, “would you put your head in the noose? I
tell you the Count is bitterly angry with the Count de Charolois and
will hang all his men.”
“I care not,” said I, “I will not see you led into danger through my
fault;” so saying, I sought to rise but fell back almost fainting.
“See,” said she, “was I not right? You are unfit to go, and I will not
have you go until you are fit!” Here her eyes flashed and she stamped
her little foot fiercely.
I slept but poorly that night and a fierce fever consumed me. In the
morning she was much distressed and vowed again I should not be moved.
Shortly there came another knock and a voice saying:
“You little vixen! What matter if he die of a fever or be hanged?”
“Hanged he may be,” she replied, “and you will, but he must come to his
trial well. And you do force him to it I shall have your own head sooner
or later, and that I vow!”
“I warn you the King shall hear of this!” he said.
“Let him,” she said, “and let him do his worst. I have cared for many
wounded, and I have yet to ask whether they be rich or poor, or of high
or low degree.”
’Tis said the Count was in awe of his Countess and of her niece, my
nurse. However this may be I know not. I do know that I was not more
disturbed that day.
On the morrow I was still feverish having passed but a poor night. In
the morning she visited me again, saying: “Fair Sir, I see but one way
by which I may save you from that murderer at the Castle. He is my
uncle, and were you but husband of mine he dare not touch you. Have you
a mind to wed?”
Verily, this I had not thought of, but the thought left me warm and not
cold. And yet I must hesitate for her sake. I dare not lest she regret.
So I said:
“Truly, my Lady, the honor you speak of is far beyond my just deserts.
Did I think you truly willing I should hurry on the match. But should
you regret, nothing would be left for me but death. Let me therefore die
the death at the hand of this dread Count rather than you should grant
so great a boon and then repent.”
“Say no more,” said she. “I have said you shall not be harmed, and by
God’s word no harm shall befall you.” So saying, without more ado, she
sent for the priest who said mass and married us.
Great was the wrath of the Count, her uncle. But what was done could not
be undone. When he was gone she turned her face to me in shame. “What
must you think of me?” she said.
“If you will but trust me,” said I, “you will see that I think well of
you. Before that you thus sacrificed your future for me I thought you an
angel. My life shall be devoted to winning and keeping your love.”
“How do you know I do not love you now?” said she—and fled.
When our army came up and I was well again she had disappeared. I saw
her no more for months, being detained from pursuing her by the war
which came to an end but slowly. After that I had served King Louis at
Peronne and had been taken into his service I heard much of her, but do
what I would, could never come near her. At last, despairing, I went to
the King and confessed my plight and sought his Majesty’s assistance.
“What would you?” said the King.
“Do but let me see her, your Majesty,” said I, “that I may at least have
speech of her.”
“That I will do right gladly,” said he.
About a week thereafter I was sent for to the Royal Cabinet and entering
found the King with my wife. “Did I not promise to bring you together?”
said the King. “Take now thy wife, de Comines and teach her her duty.
You may withdraw!”
I offered my hand to my Lady and we withdrew to an antechamber. Here she
would fain have left me, but I said: “Lady I am your humble slave. Will
you not listen to me?”
“Nay,” said she, “I have said and done unmaidenly things and I am
ashamed. Let me withdraw.”
“Not so,” said I, “your acts were acts only of pity which I would fain
turn into acts of love if you will only listen.”
“Men speak well of you,” said she, “they tell me you are kind of heart
and merciful and will spare my shame. But I ask not for pity. I will not
be companion to a man who does not love me without pity, that I may be
triumphant and without shame.”
“That you may well be,” said I, “if you will but listen.”
“It is not ears but eyes shall convince me,” said she.
“Set me any task,” said I.
“Nay,” she replied, “let me but see you. Do not pursue me. Let me see
you in your daily work. I am to be Lady in Waiting to the Queen, and I
may see you thus.”
“You are harsh,” said I, “What have I done to be treated so unkindly?”
“I will not listen,” said she, stopping her ears with her fingers and
running away.
For weeks thereafter I was condemned to see her daily but scarcely to
speak to her. The King and Queen sought to throw us together but failed
because she would not. At last I despaired. I went to the King and asked
that I might be allowed to depart to my estate in Flanders so that I
need no longer be on the rack. To this the King replied: “Do but let me
speak to her again!” to which I gave consent.
The next day I was sent for again to the King’s Cabinet, and entering
found her again. “Why will you not put an end to this severity?” said
the King, turning to her. “The poor fool pines daily. He loses flesh. He
sulks. He is as one distraught. Mend him or break him, but torture him
no longer.”
“He is my own husband,” said she, her eyes flashing defiance.
“Surely,” said the King, “treat him therefore as a man and not as a dog.
Now leave me. I am weary of your quarrel.”
Again we departed; as we reached the anteroom she whispered: “May I not
do as I please with you?”
“You may indeed,” said I, “but trample no longer upon my heart, I
beseech you.”
“Thou art but a poor fool,” said she, “why not make me be good since I
have loved thee from the first? Do I not love thy eyes and thy curly
hair and thy straight back and even thy coat and hat. Surely I love
thee, thou blind goose!”—and fled again. But this time I was too quick.
I caught her and I have held her ever since, and with her good will as
she declares and I believe. She has been my willing slave and I hers.
Hath any man ever had a more devoted mate? Did she not visit me each day
I spent in the iron cage at Loches? In rain, in fog, in sleet, in
sunshine; still she came, and she is mine and I am hers, forever.
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