THE WAVES OF WAR REACH DOMREMY
"_Bright shone the sun, the birds sang cheerfully,
And all the fields seemed joyous in the Spring:
But to Domremy wretched was that day;
For there was lamentation, and the voice
Of anguish, and the deeper agony
That spake not._"
SOUTHEY. "_Joan of Arc._" _Book I._
The condition of France in this year of grace, 1424, was deplorable in
the extreme. For more than one hundred years war had raged between
England and France. The kingdom which had been strong and splendid under
the great Charlemagne had fallen into disintegration. Unity had no
existence. By the treaty of Troyes, signed by the mad King, Charles VI,
influenced by his unscrupulous queen, Isabella of Bavaria, Henry Fifth of
England was made Regent of France during the lifetime of Charles, and
assured of the full possession of the French throne after the mad King's
death, thus disinheriting the Dauphin. Of the fourteen provinces left by
Charles Fifth to his successor only three remained in the power of the
French crown.
It was Henry Fifth's fond hope that by this treaty and by his marriage
with a French princess the war would cease, and France would lie forever
at the foot of England. For a time it seemed as though these hopes were
to be justified. Then, in 1422 both he and the French king died, and the
war broke out again.
The Duke of Bedford, Henry Fifth's brother, assumed the regency of France
until the young son of Henry Fifth, Henry Sixth, was old enough to be
crowned. Charles, the Dauphin, meantime declared himself king and
rightful heir, and many upheld his claim. But there were some, among them
the Duke of Burgundy, the most powerful of the princes of France, who
because of private injuries suffered at the hands of the Dauphin,
sustained the claim of the English. Thus the country presented the sad
spectacle of French princes warring against each other and the king more
furiously than they did against the invader. Frenchmen were not
Frenchmen; they were Burgundians, Armagnacs, Bretons, or Provencaux. The
country was torn in pieces with different causes and cries. Bands of
mercenaries and freebooters ravaged and pillaged the people with a
cheerful disregard of the political party to which they belonged.
Under such conditions the distress of the country was great. Many regions
were depopulated; in many the wild wood had over run the cultivated soil;
in others agriculture could be practised only near castles and walled
towns. Under the sound of the warning horn or church bell the cattle
would run of themselves to places of refuge. When the country was so
harried and devastated it behooved the villages and towns to keep a
watchman ever on the lookout for the glitter of lances that the
inhabitants might have time to gather their cattle and retreat to a place
of safety.
Nor had the march of Lorraine and Champagne, as the valley of the
river was called, been exempt from the common woe. It was long an
object of contention between monarch and duke, but had finally passed
into the hands of the crown, so that its people were directly subject
to the King. The march was not only the highroad to Germany, but it was,
too, the frontier between the two great parties: near Domremy was one
of the last villages that held to the Burgundians; all the rest were for
Charles, the Dauphin. In all ages the valley had suffered cruelly from
war: first, the war between duke and monarch for its possession; and now,
the war between the Burgundians and the Armagnacs. At a time when the
whole of Christendom was given up to pillage the men-at-arms of the
Lorraine-Marches were renowned as the greatest plunderers in the world.
Therefore, life at Domremy was one perpetual alarm. All day and all
night a watchman was stationed on the square tower of the monastery, and
the inhabitants held themselves ready to fly at a moment's warning. And
yet men sowed and reaped; women spun and wove; children romped and sang;
and all the occupations of a rural people went on.
In the midst of these anxieties life at the house of Jacques D'Arc seemed
calm and serene. March passed, and dewy April too had been gathered into
the Book of Months. It was May. The trees were masses of foliage, the
meadows starry with wild flowers, and the greenish water of the winding
river was almost hidden by the dense clumps of rushes that grew upon its
banks. Vallis Colorum, the Valley of Colors, the Romans had called it,
and truly in this fair May it was so radiant, and fragrant, and flowery
that it well deserved the designation.
"Jeanne," said Jacques D'Arc one morning as the little girl rose from the
breakfast table and took her place before the spinning wheel, "you can
not spin to-day. I need Pierrelot in the field, so that you must mind the
sheep. Seedtime is short, and if we do not get the sowing done soon we
can not reap a harvest."
"Very well, father," said Jeanne, rising. Taking her distaff, for the
time spent in watching the flock was not to be passed in idleness, she
went at once to the fold to lead out the sheep. Usually the stock of the
villagers was kept in sheds attached to the houses, but the D'Arc family
kept their animals in a separate building. It was still early, but the
sheep were to be taken to the uplands, which lay beyond the common that
could not now be used for pasturing because of the growing hay, so an
early start was necessary.
There were already several little shepherdesses on the upland, and Jeanne
waved her hand to Hauviette and Mengette, who were nearest. They too had
their distaffs, and soon the three friends were seated together near the
oak wood pulling the threads for spinning, chatting gaily, and ever and
anon casting watchful glances at the browsing sheep. They were careful
little maids, knowing well the value of the flocks they tended.
It seemed as though all of the inhabitants of the village were out in the
open, so many men, and boys, and women were there engaged in sowing the
fields, or busied in the vineyards on the hill slopes. The morning was
almost past when the quiet of the peaceful scene was broken by a hoarse
shout from the watchman on the square tower of the monastery:
"The Burgundians! The Burgundians are coming! To the fortress for your
lives."
As his voice died away the bells of the church sounded the alarm. Noisily
they pealed in a harsh and terrifying clamor, those bells which in turn
celebrated the births, tolled for the dead, and summoned the people to
prayer. Instantly the fields and vineyards became scenes of commotion and
confusion. Hoarse shouts and cries rent the air. Men, women, and children
ran frantically toward the village, carrying their farm tools, and
driving the cattle pell-mell before them. From the cottages there poured
forth the aged, the old men and women who could no longer work in the
fields and who therefore cared for the young children and the houses
while their juniors did the outside work. Both the old people and the
children bore whatever of value they could carry from the cottages, and
thus burdened all ran toward the castle.
As the watchman gave his cry Jeanne, Mengette, and Hauviette sprang
excitedly to their feet. Dropping their distaffs the two latter girls,
leaving their flocks, ran toward the fields where their elders were,
forgetful of everything but their own safety. But Jeanne stood still, a
little line of perplexity wrinkling her forehead. Sheep are nervous
animals, and these had lifted their heads as though startled, and were
beginning to bleat piteously. Once among the plunging, bellowing cattle
nothing could be done with them. Should they break and run into the
forest they would be devoured by wolves. If they scattered in the meadows
they would become the booty of the attacking party. In either case her
father would be the loser. Only a second did she remain inactive, and
then, clear and sweet, she sounded the shepherd's call:
"Cudday! Cudday! Cudday!"
Bell-like her voice rose above the confusion. The old bell-wether of the
flock recognized the tones of his shepherd, and started toward her.
Jeanne turned, and started toward the village, stopping frequently to
sound the call:
"Cudday! Cudday! Cudday!"
And quietly, confidently the old bell-wether followed her, bringing the
flock with him. Half way to the village she met Pierre, who came running
back to her. The lad was breathless and panting, but he managed to gasp:
"Father says, father says to leave the sheep, Jeanne."
"Nenni, nenni," returned Jeanne. "I can bring them in safely."
At this moment there came a ringing shout from Jacques D'Arc:
"Leave the cattle and sheep, friends! Make for the castle! The foe is
upon us."
The terrified people glanced down the highroad along which the
raiding party was approaching. There was but scant time to reach the
fortress, and, as Jacques D'Arc had seen, it could only be done
without encumbrance. Leaving the animals forthwith the villagers broke
into a run, while Jacques hastened to his children.
"Father, I know that I could--" began Jeanne, but her father interrupted
her vehemently,
"Talk not, but run, my little one. There is no time to lose."
The castle stood on an island formed by two arms of the Meuse. Belonging
to it was a courtyard provided with means of defense, and a large garden
surrounded by a moat wide and deep. It was commonly called the Fortress
of the Island. It had been the abode of those fair ladies and brave lords
who were wont in the olden time to dance about the Fairy Tree. The last
of the lords having died without children the property passed to his
niece. The lady married a baron of Lorraine with whom she went to reside
at the ducal court of Nancy, thus leaving it uninhabited. Wishing to have
a place of retreat from attacks of marauding parties Jacques D'Arc and
another man, on behalf of the villagers, leased the castle from the lady
for a term of nine years.
The precaution had been useful on many occasions, but upon this bright,
May morning it proved futile so far as the property of the villagers was
concerned. The approach of the marauders was too rapid to permit the poor
people to do more than to reach the castle in safety. Jacques D'Arc and
his two children were the last to cross the drawbridge, which was
instantly drawn up, and the gate was closed. They were safe, for it was a
place that ten could hold against ten hundred.
Through the loop-holes the villagers beheld the scene that followed. With
terrifying cries the raiders rode into the hamlet. Some rounded up the
cattle and sheep preparatory to driving them off; others hitched oxen to
carts and drove them to the middle of the village, where still others
piled the furniture from the cottages into the carts. Silent and tearless
the hapless inhabitants watched while the hearths of their homes were
torn up, and mantels demolished in the search for hidden treasure. Even
the church was not exempt from the pillage. And then, that no part of
misery might be spared to Domremy, the plunderers applied the torch to
the houses.
Women wrung their hands, some dry-eyed, others with sobs and cries at
sight of their blazing homes, while men gnashed their teeth, enraged that
they were powerless to prevent the disaster. At length the ruffian band
departed, carrying their booty with them.
Scarcely had they passed from view before the men were out and across the
drawbridge, and on to fight the flames. Some of the cottages were too far
consumed to be saved, but after the flames were extinguished a few were
found that could be used with some thatching.
Among these was the house of Jacques D'Arc.