THE KNIGHT'S STORY
"_By a Woman Shall France Be Lost; By a Maid Shall
It Be Redeemed._"
_Old Prophecy._ MERLIN, THE MAGICIAN.
The house where Jeanne D'Arc lived was a stone cottage with the roof
sloping from a height on one side half way to the ground on the other. In
front there were but two windows, admitting but a scanty light. Close by
the door, as was usual in that country, were piles of faggots and farm
tools covered with mud and rust. The enclosure served also as kitchen
garden and orchard.
Beyond the cottage, scarce a stone's throw distant, only separated from
it by a small graveyard, stood the village church, and north of both
buildings there was a square towered monastery.
A streamlet that flowed down into the Meuse trickled noisily by the
cottage and church, dividing them from the other houses of the village.
Perhaps it was because of this fact that the church seemed to Jeanne to
belong more to her and to her family than it did to the other inhabitants
of Domremy. Born under its very walls, she was lulled in her cradle by
the chime of its bells, and cherished a passionate love for them in her
heart. Involuntarily the little girl paused with her hand on the latch to
cast a lingering, tender glance at the church before opening the door of
the cottage. Before she had crossed the threshold a tall woman, who was
stirring the contents of a large iron pot which hung on a tripod before
the fire, turned quickly at the sound of her sabots, and seeing that it
was Jeanne hastily left her task and drew the maid once more without the
door. It was Isabeau Romee,[2] the wife of Jacques D'Arc. In marriage the
wife always retained her maiden name, so Jeanne's mother was always
spoken of as Isabeau Romee of Vauthon, her native village. She was mild
in manner, but her usual serenity was at this moment disturbed by
anxiety.
"Right glad am I that you have come, Jeanne," she remarked. "Your Gossip
Beatrix has been asking for you. She came this afternoon. And but a short
time since two men-at-arms came, asking for supper and bed. Gentles they
are, who have but escaped from the hands of the Burgundians, having been
prisoners for many months. Sup them I will right gladly, but bed them I
can not. The house is full. It galls your father that we must refuse
them."
"And why not bed them, mother? Let little Catherine sleep with you, and I
can lie upon the floor before the hearth. Then the gentles may have my
bed."
"But you are wearied from your play, my little one, and to-morrow we go
to the river to wash the clothes. You will need a good rest."
"Fear not, mother; I shall sleep well," answered Jeanne cheerily. "If the
poor men have but escaped from prison perchance they have had naught but
the cold stones of a dungeon to lie upon. Do let it be as I say,
mother."
"As you will then, my little one. In truth it would have grieved me
sorely to refuse the bed, but I knew not what to do. You have a good
heart, child. Go now, and carry in more faggots for the fire. The night
grows chill, though the day was so warm. A bundle will not be too much
for the chimney. Then bring forth the drinking cups and the knife for
cutting the bread and put them upon the table. I will go to the oven for
another loaf."
"The dear child," mused the mother as Jeanne obediently gathered up a
large bundle of the faggots and turned toward the cottage. "The dear
child! Ever ready is she to give up her own comfort for that of others.
May our Lady watch over her!"
Meantime Jeanne had hastened into the house, and had thrown her bundle of
faggots into the great chimney, over which hung a white stone mantel
shaped somewhat like a pent house. On one side of the hearth flags sat an
elderly woman who was amusing Jeanne's sister, Catherine, a child a few
years younger than she. Jeanne returned the woman's warm greeting
affectionately, then drew the deal table before the hearth, glancing as
she did so at the two men who sat at the far end of the hearth flags.
One was a man of thirty-five or so; the other looked to be ten years his
junior. That they were well born was apparent from their bearing and
manner, but their armour and clothing were in sad condition. Their
hucques[3] were in tatters, and only the closest inspection revealed that
they had been of velvet. They wore no helmets, and many plates were
missing from their rusty armour, leaving their bodies fair marks for
arrows or cross bolts. Noting all this Jeanne was startled to observe
that from the right arm of the younger knight a tiny stream of blood
trickled through the steel sleeve. She was a timid girl with strangers,
therefore it was a full minute before she could muster courage to
approach the young man.
"You bleed, messire," she said, touching him shyly on the shoulder.
"Eh? What?" The young man started quickly, for he had been dozing in his
chair. "Oh! The wound?" following her glance at his arm. "'Tis naught.
The scratch has but broken out anew."
"It should be dressed," asserted the little girl with concern. "I like
not to see French blood flow."
"She speaks truth, Bertrand," interjected the older man. "A green wound
tingles and burns, and there may be many a fray before us ere we behold
Chalons. Here! I will be your squire for the nonce, and unbuckle your
armour. 'Tis a good little maid!"
The young man addressed as Bertrand rose, and let his friend assist him
to remove his armour, protesting against the need of it as he did so.
Jeanne meantime brought a basin of water, and when the knight had pushed
back the sleeve of his doublet she washed the blood from the wound
gently. Then, with all the deftness that Isabeau had taught her--for many
were the wounded who had experienced their services--she applied a
compress of oil, and bandaged the arm with bands of serge.
"I thank you, my little maid," spoke the young man gratefully. "It does
in truth feel better, and though but a scratch, was indeed painful. What
is your name?"
"Jeanne, messire."
"I will remember it, Jeanne. Who taught you to be so deft in such
matters?"
"My mother, messire." Jeanne blushed at being so interrogated.
"You have a gentle touch. If my arm does not heal quickly under such
ministration it does not belong to Bertrand de Poulengy."
Jeanne blushed again and withdrew quickly, carrying the basin with her.
After placing a tall flagon, the wooden drinking cups, and the knife for
cutting the bread upon the table she went to her godmother's side, and
sat down.
As she did so her father and mother entered. Upon her arm Isabeau carried
a large ring of black bread, while Jacques brought another armful of
faggots. They were a hard working, devout couple who strove to bring up
their children,--of which there were five: three sons, Jacquemin, Jean,
and Pierre; and two daughters, Jeanne and Catherine,--to love work and
religion. Jacques D'Arc was a doyen; that is, a village elder; the chief
man in Domremy after the mayor. He was of such substance that he was
enabled to raise his family in comfort, and to give alms and hospitality
to the poor wandering friars, and other needy wayfarers then so common in
the land.
"Sit up, messires," cried Jacques as his wife emptied the contents of the
iron pot into a platter which she set on the table. "Eat, for you must be
hungry. Ay! and thirsty too, I doubt not."
"By our Lady, but that hath a welcome sound, honest Jacques," cried the
elder knight, starting up eagerly. "We are both hungry and thirsty.
Neither of us has broken his fast since morning, and then the repast was
but meagre. Bertrand, man, does not the flavor of that stew assail your
nostrils deliciously?"
"It does indeed, Louis. Methinks that I shall do justice to it. The Duke
of Lorraine does not regale his prisoners on such fare."
"You were prisoners to the Duke of Lorraine?" questioned Jacques as he
and his guests drew up to the table. The women and children sat apart
waiting to eat later.
"Ay! and have been for these many weary months, Jacques. It seems like a
miracle that we did at last escape, but so it has fallen out."
"Tell of the manner of your taking and escape, if it please you,
messire," spoke Jacques. "'Twill enliven the hour, and we are of the
King's party here."
"Right well do we know that, Jacques D'Arc, else we would not have
tarried here. Domremy is well known to be for the King."
"Ay! for the King and France. Save for one man the entire village is
against the Burgundians and the English invaders."
"'Tis good to hear such report, Jacques. And now if you wish to hear the
tale it pleases me well to tell it. Know then that in August last, I,
Louis De Lude, and Bertrand de Poulengy here with six other men-at-arms
did set forth from the town of Chalons for that of Tours, being sadly in
need of armour. You must know that for armour there be none in all France
that can compare with the smiths of Tours. Through fear of being set upon
by either the enemy, or marauding bands, we travelled at night, avoiding
the frequented roads and the towns known to be in possession of the
hostile party. Thus we went for ten days with no untoward event
happening, and on the morning of the eleventh day we broke into
gratulation, for then we came in sight of the walls of Tours.
"The sun was an hour high, and all the gates of the town were open.
Through them the country folk were passing with milk and fruit for the
market. The sight was a welcome one to travellers weary of the road and
road fare. With cries of pleasure we spurred our horses forward. When
within a half league of the city the joyous exclamations died on our
lips, for suddenly the gates were closed, leaving us and a few poor
market people outside. The country people ran distractedly toward the
town, uttering loud outcries as the watchman appeared on the ramparts,
shouting something that we were not near enough to understand. Wondering
at the action of the town, and the apparent terror of the people we
wheeled, and saw the cause.
"The frequented road from the town wound a short distance away between
two low hills, and over the green shoulder of one of these a dozen bright
points caught and reflected the morning light. Even as we looked the
points lifted, and became spears. Ten, twenty, thirty, still they came
until we could no longer count them. We turned to make a dash back in the
way we had come, and behold! springing up in front of us were other
spears. We were caught; and, outnumbered though we were, there was
nothing for it but to fight. And fight we did, for in a moment they were
upon us.
"'Tis hard to know just what is happening when one is in the thick of
combat. There were yells and wild cries as the two forces came together
in a huddle of falling or rearing horses, of flickering weapons, of
thrusting men, of grapples hand to hand. Who it was fell, stabbed through
and through, or who still fought single combat I could not tell. It was
over presently, and as I yielded up my sword in surrender I glanced about
me; and lo! of our little band but three remained: Bertrand here, Jean
Laval, and myself. We had fallen into the hands of Sabbat, the
freebooter, the terror of Anjou and Touraine.
"He did not take us to his garrison at Langeais, but retreated to those
same low hills by the road, and there cast us into a pit to be held for
ransom. Ransom? In sooth, he deserved none, for he took from us the
livres we had for our armour. One hundred and twenty-five livres tournois
did Bertrand and I have each for that purpose, and he took them. Ay! and
likewise he robbed our comrades who were dead. But our armour they left
us, because it was old. Three months we stayed in that pit waiting for
ransom, with bread and water for our daily fare. And truly it was the
bread of sadness and the water of affliction. Jean died of his wounds,
but Bertrand and I came through.
"And then it fell upon a day that some of my Lord Duke, Charles of
Lorraine's, retainers passed by the robbers' lair on their way from Tours
to Lorraine. Sabbat's men set upon them even as they had done upon us.
But the Duke's men worsted them, and carried away not only many
freebooters as prisoners but those also who were held captive by the
marauders. Finding that Bertrand and I were Armagnacs, of the King's
party, they took us to the ducal palace at Nancy to be held for ransom.
We were thrown into a dungeon there to await the return of the messenger
to our friends, but whether money was ever sent either to Duke Charles or
to Sabbat we know not. All that we know is that we lay waiting, waiting
in that vile dungeon for weary days. So the time went by; long months
that sapped our vigour, but which whetted our appetites for vengeance.
"We were not upon parole, though my Lord Charles had striven to put us
there, so we watched for a chance to escape, as is the right of every
prisoner. It came at length. Two days ago the old man, who was our
keeper, came to us at eventide bearing the black bread that formed our
meals. He had not brought the water, and Bertrand made a cry for it,
grumbling loudly because it had not been fetched, saying that he was
athirst. It confused the old man, because he had in very truth forgot the
water, which he was loath to acknowledge. For this reason he neglected
his usual caution of backing out of the dungeon with his face toward us,
and turned his back upon us. Instantly we sprang upon him, and easily
overcame him. We bound him with his own garments, and then, possessing
ourselves of his keys, went forth boldly. To our amazement we found our
way into the courtyard without encountering any one. There were sounds of
revelry from the palace, and creeping near we found that it was the
anniversary of his birthnight, so Duke Charles held high carnival. It was
the night of all nights favorable to an escape.
"The guard was relaxed so, unchallenged, we succeeded in placing a
scaling ladder against the ramparts, and up we went. When we had reached
the top, however, we were seen, and a shower of arrows were shot at us,
wounding Bertrand. Two lance lengths high were the walls, but we dropped
from them to the outside, landing, by God's grace, on the edge of the
moat. We crept close to the walls, and the fast falling darkness hid us
from the view of the archers on the top.
"Doubtless they thought that we had fallen into the water, for presently
the hue and cry died down, and we heard no sound that denoted that search
was being made for us. Then cautiously we crossed the moat, fearful of
its waters, but Saint Catherine, the friend of escaping prisoners, was
with us, and reaching the other side we went forth free men once more.
How we obtained horses and the manner of coming here have nothing of mark
to relate. We did obtain them, and we came. And that, honest Jacques, is
the tale. A common one in France."
"Ay, messire; but too common," agreed Jacques, shaking his head
mournfully. "Truly, France has fallen upon evil days."
"It has! It has! And to none other than Isabella of Bavaria do we owe
them. By that infamous treaty of Troyes by which Charles, the Dauphin,
was disinherited in favor of Henry Fifth of England the Queen lost us
France."
"She lost us France," acquiesced Jacques. The younger knight spoke
abruptly:
"I was at Troyes when that treaty was signed. 'Twas four years ago, and
of April the ninth day. Well do I remember it; for at the same time the
ceremony that betrothed our Lady Catherine to Henry of England was
celebrated. The King, our poor mad King, was brought from his retreat to
be made to sign the treaty, and the streets and the ramparts of the town
were filled with people desirous of seeing him. The Dauphin was there,
looking like death, and well he might; for the kingdom which was his by
right, as well as his sister's, was to be given to the butcher of
Agincourt. His mother, Queen Isabella, was here, there, everywhere,
flaunting a robe of blue silk damask and a coat of black velvet into the
lining of which the skins of fifteen hundred minevers had gone.
Shamelessly she made a gala day of the matter, and after the ceremony
caused her singing birds, goldfinches, siskins, and linnets to be brought
for her entertainment. And now, the Duke of Bedford is Regent of France,
holding it for Henry Fifth's son; and the Dauphin, who should be king
since his father is dead, lies in retreat in Bruges. Isabella lost us
France. The shameless woman!"
"Shameless indeed, Bertrand, but take courage. Have you never heard that
though a woman should lose France, from the march of Lorraine a Virgin
shall come for its redemption?"
"'Tis Merlin's prophecy, Louis. 'A Maid who is to restore France, ruined
by a woman, shall come from the Bois Chesnu in the march of Lorraine,' is
the reading. Pouf! What could a maid do in such matters? I believe it
not."
"Nor I," ejaculated Jacques. He laughed outright suddenly. "Why, the Bois
Chesnu is our own wood out there," and he jerked his thumb over his
shoulder. "Messire, 'tis a prophecy that will fail."
"Scoff not, ye doubters," cried Louis. "With God all things are possible.
For my part, I would a Maid would come to the healing of France. But
there! 'tis long since I have slept on aught but stones, and fain would I
lie upon a bed. Good Jacques, if you have such a thing, show me it, I
pray you. I am weary."
"Then come, messires." Jacques lighted a candle and led the way to an
upper room, while Isabeau opened the doors of the cupboard bed on the far
side of the room, and made it ready. Then she drew her children round her
to hear their prayers and the Credo. After which the family went to their
beds.
But Jeanne lay down upon the floor before the hearth.
------
[2] Romee. So called by reason of a pilgrimage achieved either
by her or some member of her family to Rome.
[3] Hucques--Cloaks worn over the armour.