THE BANNERS OF BURGUNDY
The yellow dawn, rippling over Paris, found her streets strangely
silent, strangely quiet. A few good citizens were abed, but most
good citizens were abroad on that kindly June morning, for there was
business doing outside the walls of Paris which tempted every man
inside the walls to those walls, and that business was the battle
that was raging, and had raged since nightfall, between the troops
of King Louis on one side under the Grand Constable of France, and
the troops of the Duke of Burgundy and his allies on the other.
Paris might have been that strange city of slumber told of by the
wanderer in the Arabian tale, or that poppied palace where the
sleeping beauty and her court lay waiting the coming of the hero. If
Asmodeus whisking his way on the wings of the wind with any
astonished travelling companion in tow had paused over Paris and
unroofed it for the benefit of his fellow-voyager, most of the rooms
would have been found as empty as the streets.
But there was one spot in the city--an open place by the river,
between an ancient gate and the church of the Celestins--which was
alive and busy with a strange activity of its own. It was empty
enough and the windows of its houses stared vacantly upon its
emptiness, but there were two men in possession of its tranquillity
who had been toiling hard at a singular piece of work. They were
putting the finishing touches to the erection of a tall, gaunt
gallows with its steps and platform, which occupied a space midway
between the gateway and the grey old Gothic church. In curious
contrast to the sinister grimness of the gibbet, there rose opposite
to it on the side of the church a dais, richly draped with royal
velvet, splendidly spangled with fleur-de-lis and brave with
armourial bearings.
The two men who were working at the gallows having finished their
job, came out into the open space and stretched themselves. One was
a tall, thin, grave, poplar-tree of a man, clad in sad-coloured
clothes and conspicuous for a long rosary of enormous beads which he
carried around his neck and which from time to time he handled with
ostentatious sanctimony. The other was as complete a contrast to his
companion as could be desired by the humorous painter. He was a
plump, spry little fellow, brightly dressed and bubbling over with
merry, roguish spirits, which formed the most fantastic foil to the
lugubriousness of his fellow-worker. Any good citizen of Paris,
arising belated, if any such there may have been, and hurrying to
the walls to know how things went for the king's cause, would have
recognized readily enough in these two strange opposites two of the
most dreaded of the myrmidons of Tristan l'Hermite, no less than his
two chief hangmen, Trois-Echelles and Petit-Jean. Trois-Echelles was
the long, cadaverous hangman; Petit-Jean was the stout, droll
hangman, but when it came to a push and a pinch, both were hangmen
and hung in the same manner, if not with the same manners.
Petit-Jean pulled a flagon of wine from under the platform of the
gallows, lifted it to his lips, drained a mighty draught, sighed
with satisfaction, and held out the bottle to his brother craftsman.
"Drink and be merry."
Trois-Echelles, making gestures of protestation with his head but
taking the bottle with his hand none the less, drew a deep draught
from its throttle and sighed as sadly as his friend sighed gladly.
"I will drink but I cannot be merry. What's the good of building a
noble gallows if nobody looks at it? One might as well be building a
church."
Petit-Jean laughed good-naturedly.
"All Paris is on the walls watching the battle. Lucky Paris!"
Trois-Echelles laughed ill-humoredly.
"Not so lucky if we don't win the battle."
Petit-Jean was complacent.
"Whichever wins will need us to hang the losers. Look at the bright
side, man."
Trois-Echelles fumbled his beads furtively.
"I've lost heart, I tell you. I haven't hanged a man for a week."
As he mourned over this melancholy retrospect, the door of a little
house hard by the church opened and an old woman, propping herself
on a crutch stick, came hobbling slowly across the open space
towards the church. Petit-Jean knew her well enough, for they both
lodged in the same house and both on the same floor of attics. He
knew she was the mother of the greatest scapegrace in all Paris, a
rascal named François Villon, who had disappeared, Heaven alone knew
where, to the old lady's great despair. He saluted her good
humoredly.
"Good morrow to your nightcap, mother. Have you found your lost
sheep?"
Mother Villon shook her head wistfully.
"They say he is banished, but he has sent me money, bless him!
though I touch none of it, lest it be badly come by."
Trois-Echelles stopped fumbling his beads and advanced towards her,
extending his hand.
"Give it to me to spend on masses?" he asked sanctimoniously.
Petit-Jean danced between them.
"Lend it to me for drink money," he urged.
The old woman paid no heed to their proposals. Her tired eyes had
caught sight of the grim structure in wood which usurped a place in
a familiar scene. She shaded her eyes and peered at it, asking:
"For whom do you build this gallows?"
The glum hangman answered gloomily:
"Oddly enough, we don't know. 'Make me a gallows here,' says the
Constable, 'in the open place, and sieges for the king and his
courtiers.'"
Mother Villon, her simple curiosity easily satisfied, dropped her
informant a curtsey and hobbled slowly up the steps into the church.
Petit-Jean stretched himself again and yawned.
"I'll to sleep and dream of hanging a king."
Trois-Echelles put a lean finger to his lean chin.
"Treason, friend, if Tristan heard you."
Petit-Jean's eyes twinkled.
"Well, let's say an archbishop," he said.
Trois-Echelles nodded approvingly.
"An archbishop ought to make a good end."
His mind pleased itself with the picture of so high a dignitary of
the church in his full canonicals coming under his tender care and
being exhorted by his pious counsels.
The two hangmen climbed on the platform of the grisly erection, and,
calmly indifferent to the nature of their bed, were in a few moments
fast asleep and snoring as merrily as if every man in the world had
been hung and there was nothing else for them to do but to take it
easy for the rest of their days.
The hard weariness of work and the easy weariness of wine had made
them so heavy-headed that their slumbers were not disturbed by the
sound of footfalls, though the footfalls echoed strangely loud in
the lonely deserted place-the footfalls of a woman, swift and
impatient, the footfalls of a man swiftly pursuing. In another
moment the woman and the man came into the open space, now bright
and shining with the risen sun. The woman was Katherine de
Vaucelles; the man was Noel le Jolys.
As Katherine entered the silent square, she paused for a moment a
few paces from the church, and turning, looked at her silent
follower.
"Why do you follow me?" she asked, and Noel le Jolys, who had dogged
her footsteps from the palace, answered her briskly:
"You should not walk unguarded. Therefore I shadow you."
Katherine scorned him.
"You may well play the shadow, for you cast no shadow of your own.
The streets are very idle--the streets are very quiet. I would
sooner have my loneliness than your company. Let me pass to my
prayers." For Noel had glided between her and the church, and stood
barring her passage deferentially.
"For your lover?" he asked, and Katherine flashed at him:
"You have a small mind to ask, yet I have a great mind to answer. My
prayers are for a brave gentleman whom I shall never see again."
As she spoke, the cup of her heart seemed to run over with red
tears, and the bitter waters trembled in her eyes. Her thoughts
wandered over the long white night and her sleepless sorrow, and her
vigil by the window, looking out into the rose garden, and her tired
eyes straining in vain through the dark for any sight, and her tired
ears straining in vain for any sound of the battle in which the lord
of her heart was risking his life. For she knew it now; she had
learned it through those age-long hours of agony, that he whom she
called her enemy was the lord of her heart, that in spite of all her
rage at the cheat that had been put upon her, she loved, not the
great noble who had done so much to save France--no, nor the ragged
poet who had lent her his sword-arm and his sword, but just the man,
by whatever name he might be called and in whatever way of life his
wheel of fortune might spin, whose hand had proved to be of the
right size to hold her heart in its hollow. The Katherine of
yesterday seemed to be dead and buried, to have died a fiery death
of fierce thoughts, fierce agonies, fierce exultations, and from
that travail a new Katherine had come into being with cleansed eyes
to see the world truly and with a cleansed soul to know a great
soul's truth.
Noel watched her silence but it meant nothing to him, and he tripped
into her high thoughts cheerfully.
"I am a brave gentleman," he said, patting himself approvingly upon
the breast. "I slew Thibaut d'Aussigny last night. The king has
taken me back into favour. If I played the fool's part yesterday, I
can play the wise man's part to-morrow. I was a bubble and a gull
and a dunce, if you like, but I meant no harm to the king, and the
king smiles on me. Cannot you do the like?"
Katherine came out of her dream and stood upon the earth again, and
disdained him.
"No, for you envy a great spirit and your envy makes you a base
thing."
Noel protested pettishly:
"He is no man-angel. He is made of Adam's clay like the rest of us."
Katherine's thoughts had wandered away from her escort; her mind's
eyes were busy with waving banners, the shock of meeting lances, the
glitter of steel coats and the beating of steel upon steel. Through
all the melley, her fancy spied one shining figure in bright armour
like, so it seemed to her, Archangel Michael or Archangel Gabriel,
riding in the pride of the fight with a smile on his lips, sorrow in
his heart, and a token of white ribbon between his breast-plate and
his breast.
She answered, not Noel's words, but her thoughts:
"My pride has the right to hate him, but I think he is still my
soul's man."
Noel was about to speak again, when he suddenly fell back and doffed
his bonnet. Perched on the steps of the church stood the stooped
sable figure of the king, just coming from his matinal devotions. In
the shadow behind him stood his shadows--Tristan and Olivier.
Katherine, her attention swerved by Noel's glance, turned and swayed
a reverence to Louis as he slowly descended the steps. The king
surveyed them sardonically.
"Good morning, friends," he said. Then turning to Noel, he ordered,
"Take the top of your speed to St. Anthony's gate and bring hot news
of the battle."
Noel bowed and sped on his errand. Katherine requested:
"Have I your majesty's leave?"
Tristan and Olivier withdrew themselves discreetly apart, under the
shadow of the gallows, that building of all human buildings which
was most dear to their hearts and most sacred in their eyes.
Louis came very close to the pale girl and whispered:
"Are you so hungry for your devotions that you cannot waste some
worldly words on me? Are you still angry with me for the trick I
played on you?"
Katherine's pale face flushed a little as she answered:
"It is wasted spirit to be angry with a king."
Louis grinned.
"You are as pat with your answers as a clerk at matins. Could you
give me your heart now if I bent my knee?"
Katherine stifled a great sigh.
"I lost my heart last night; I have not found it again."
Louis flung up his hands in contemptuous amusement.
"The fellow was a fool to blab so glibly. I would have carried the
jest farther. But he stood on the punctilio and would not win you
without confession."
The girl's heart swelled.
"I am glad he had so much honour," she said, and the shining figure
in the bright armour seemed more archangel-like than ever.
Louis looked at her intently, tickling his chin with his forefinger.
"If you wait in the church for his homecoming, you will see how the
jest ends," he said.
Katherine made the king a profound reverence and slowly entered the
church, every pulse of her body pleading in prayer for her lost
lover. She scarcely heeded an old, bowed woman who tottered out,
propped on a crutch stick, and who dropped the great lady a
respectful curtsey as she passed and went her ways into the silent
streets. So the two women in the world whom Villon loved met for the
firsf time.
Louis, left alone, beckoned to Tristan and Olivier, who hurried down
to him.
"There goes a brave lady, gossips, a fair lady, a chaste lady. She
sails in the high latitudes of lore and deserves to find the
Fortunate Islands. Are there not better things to do with Master
Villon than to hang him?"
Olivier protested:
"This Villon is such a damnable double dealer that the ass-headed
populace loves him better than you."
The king's visage soured.
"That is enough to hang him. Yet I have a kind of liking for the
fellow, and my dream troubles me--the star that fell from heaven."
Tristan commented bluffly:
"Hang the rascal while you can and thank heaven you are well rid of
him."
Even as he spoke the world seemed suddenly to be full of many noises
and many voices. From beyond the gate on the ways that led to the
city walls came the clamour of hoarse shouts and cries and the
thudding din of running feet. From the other side, from the street
that led to the Louvre, came the ordered tramp of soldiers.
Olivier interpreting one interruption, said:
"The people are coming from the walls."
And Tristan interpreted the other.
"The queen, sire," he announced.
Through the narrow space that led into the open square there came a
line of soldiers escorting a number of splendidly caparisoned
litters--the carriages of the queen and the queen's chief ladies.
Louis advanced to the first litter, and extending his hand, assisted
the queen to descend and conducted her with an elaborate display of
polite affection to the gorgeous dais by the side of the church,
where they sat side by side on the small thrones that had been
prepared for them. The ladies and gentlemen of the court ranged
themselves in their places behind the royal pair and the Scottish
archers formed a solid force in front. Through the open gateway came
a few running, shouting enthusiasts, outstrippers of the mass of
citizens who were returning from the walls. Even the heavy sleep of
Trois-Echelles and Petit-Jean was not proof against all this tumult.
They awoke, rubbed their eyes, then climbing briskly to their feet,
leaned over the platform on the handrails of the gallows and
surveyed the scene with interest.
Noel le Jolys pushed his way through the crowd aboat the gateway and
advanced to the king.
"Sire," he said, "the latest message from the battle: The day is
wholly ours. The Grand Constable returns in triumph. You can hear
his music now."
Louis nodded.
"It is very well," he affirmed gravely.
Through the gateway the crowd of people was pouring thick and fast,
shouting and cheering and filling the square in front of the dais
with a throng of enthusiastic men, women and children, all waving
their arms, flinging flowers and yelling welcomes at the topmost
pitch of their lungs. The sound of military music and the tramp of
marching men could be heard approaching louder and louder.
Five girls had forced their way to the very front row of the throne
and were applauding and shouting with the rest. These were the light
ladies of the Fircone, Isabeau, Jehanneton, Denise, and Blanche with
Guillemette, fat Robin Turgis' fat daughter. They were all in a
state of great excitement, for their lovers had vanished over night
and their Abbess had disappeared like a dream, and they knew not
what had become of them. They had little fear for their lovers, for
the good gentlemen of the Fellowship of the Cockleshell had a way of
diving into the deep waters of existence at intervals in order to
escape the too attentive eye and the too particular finger of the
law, and the girls had a vague idea of some great scheme on hand
which might easily result in trouble for the brotherhood. As for
their Abbess, they were none too sorry to be free from her somewhat
decisive authority, and they chattered and babbled like birds
escaped from a cage.
By this time the advance guard of the army began to pour in through
the narrow mouth of the gateway and to form a line in front of the
populace, thus leaving a wide open space between the assembled
people and the seated king. From every window heads were thrust and
hands extended waving scarfs of silk or scattering flowers. The
blare of the soldiers' music grew louder and louder, the tramp of
horse and men came nearer and nearer, and then, when the cheering
was at its shrillest and the rain of flowers thickest, Villon rode
in through the gateway on his great warhorse with his five ruffians
close at his heels. Villon's lifted hand gave the signal for a halt
and he leaped lightly off his horse and advanced towards the king, a
glorious figure to the eyes of the crowd in his shining armour with
a scarlet coif upon his helmet. If for a moment his glance rested on
the gaunt skeleton of the gallows there came no change in the proud
composure of his face. Immediately behind him followed the faithful
ragamuffins, each of whom bore vivid signs in slung arm, swathed leg
or bandaged forehead of the lusty work he had done in the king's
name upon the king's enemies. But the slings and swathes and
bandages were of no common sort, but splendid bits of silk of many
colours, bearing fantastic devices and rich in threads of gold and
silver.
As Villon and his fantastic escort strode towards the presence, Noel
interposed indignantly. He stretched a pair of protecting arms wide
out to ward off from the king the approach of so singular a
deputation, while he demanded angrily:
"In heaven's name, sir, who are these scarecrows who flaunt their
tatters in the presence of the king?"
The king nursed his chin with an amused smile as Villon answered:
"The scarecrows are rogues who have fought like gentlefolk and these
rags are the banners of the enemy."
Even as he spoke the rapscallions stripped the pieces of silk from
arm and leg and forehead, shook them out into such semblance of
their original shape as battle had left to them and flung them with
a gesture of imperial pride on the ground at the foot of the dais.
"Well answered," said Louis regally, while two pursuivants pounced
swiftly upon the bits of silk, and gathering them up with
reverential fingers, laid them upon the railing in front of the
king's chair to be examined with loving care by the queen. Standing
erect, Villon addressed the king: "Louis of France, we bring you
these silks for your carpet. An hour ago they wooed the wind from
Burgundian staves and floated over Burgundian helmets. I will make
no vain glory of their winning. Burgundy fought well, but France
fought better, and these trophies trail in our triumph. To a
mercer's eyes these bits of tissue are but so many squares of
damaged web. To a soldier's eye, they cover crowded graves with
honour. To a king's eye, they deck one throne with lonely splendour.
When we here, who breathe hard from fighting, and ye, who stand
there and marvel, are dust, when the king's name is but a golden
space in chronicles grey with age, these banners shall hang from
Cathedral arches and your children's children's children, lifted in
reverent arms, shall peep through the dim air at the faded colours,
and baby lips shall whisper an echo of our battle."