the next day, Sunday, May 8, the English advanced to the moats of the
city as if to offer battle. Some of the French leaders wished to accept
their challenge, but Joan ran to the city gates, and bade them desist
"for the love and honor of holy Sunday."
"It is God's good-will and pleasure," she said, "that they be allowed to
get them gone if they be minded to go away; if they attack you, defend
yourselves boldly; you will be the masters."
An altar was raised at her suggestion; mass was celebrated, and hymns of
thanksgiving chanted. While this was being done, the English turned and
marched away, with banners flying. Their advance had been an act of
bravado.
"See," cried Joan, "are the English turning to you their faces, or
verily their backs? Let them go; my Lord willeth not that there be any
fighting this day; you shall have them another time."
Her words were true; the English were in full retreat; the siege of
Orleans was raised. So hastily had they gone that they had left their
sick and many of their prisoners behind, while the abandoned works were
found to be filled with provisions and military supplies. The Maid had
fulfilled her mission. France was saved.
History contains no instance to match this. A year before, Joan of Arc,
a low-born peasant girl, had occupied herself in tending sheep and
spinning flax; her hours of leisure being given to dreams and visions.
Now, clad in armor and at the head of an army, she was gazing in triumph
on the flight of a hostile army, driven from its seemingly assured prey
by her courage, intrepidity, and enthusiasm, while veteran soldiers
obeyed her commands, experienced leaders yielded to her judgment. Never
had the world seen its like. The Maid of Orleans had made her name
immortal.
Three days afterward Joan was with the king, at Tours. She advanced to
meet him with her banner in her hand, her head uncovered, and making a
deep obeisance over her horse's head. Charles met her with the deepest
joy, taking off his cap and extending his hand, while his face beamed
with warm gratitude.
She urged him to march at once against his flying enemies, and to start
without delay for Rheims, there to be crowned, that her mission might be
fulfilled.
"I shall hardly last more than a year," she said, with prophetic
insight; "we must think of working right well this year, for there is
much to do."
Charles hesitated; hesitation was natural to him. He had many advisers
who opposed Joan's counsel. There were no men, no money, for so great a
journey, they said. Councils were held, but nothing was decided on. Joan
grew impatient and impetuous. Many supported her. Great lords from all
parts of France promised their aid. One of these, Guy de Laval, thus
pictures the Maid:
"It seems a thing divine to look on her and listen to her. I saw her
mount on horseback, armed all in white armor, save her head, and with a
little axe in her hand, on a great black charger, which, at the door of
her quarters, was very restive and would not let out her mount. Then
said she, 'Lead him to the cross,' which was in front of the neighboring
church, on the road. There she mounted him without his moving, and as if
he were tied up; and turning towards the door of the church, which was
very nigh at hand, she said, in quite a womanly voice, 'You priests and
churchmen, make procession and prayers to God!' Then she resumed her
road, saying, 'Push forward, push forward!'"
Push forward it was. The army was infected with her enthusiasm,
irresistible with belief in her. On the 10th of June she led them to the
siege of the fortified places which lay around Orleans. One by one they
fell. On Sunday, June 12, Jargeau was taken. Beaugency next fell.
Nothing could withstand the impetuosity of the Maid and her followers,
Patay was assailed.
"Have you good spurs?" she asked her captains.
"Ha! must we fly, then!" they demanded.
"No, surely; but there will be need to ride boldly; we shall give a good
account of the English, and our spurs will serve us famously in pursuing
them."
The French attacked, by order of Joan.
"In the name of God, we must fight," she said. "Though the English were
suspended from the clouds, we should have them, for God has sent us to
punish them. The gentle king shall have to-day the greatest victory he
has ever had; my counsel has told me that they are ours."
Her voices counselled well. The battle was short, the victory decisive.
The English were put to flight; Lord Talbot, their leader, was taken.
"Lord Talbot, this is not what you expected this morning," said the Duke
d'Alençon.
"It is the fortune of war," answered Talbot, coolly.
Joan returned to the king and demanded that they should march instantly
for Rheims. He hesitated still. His counsellors advised delay. The
impatient Maid left the court and sought the army. She was mistress of
the situation. The king and his court were obliged to follow her. On
June 29 the army, about twelve thousand strong, began the march to
Rheims.
There were obstacles on the road, but all gave way before her. The
strong town of Troyes, garrisoned by English and Burgundians, made a
show of resistance; but when her banner was displayed, and the assault
began, she being at the head of the troops, the garrison lost heart and
surrendered. On went the army, all opposition vanishing. On the 16th of
July, King Charles entered Rheims. The coronation was fixed for the
following day. "Make good use of my time," Joan repeated to the king,
"for I shall hardly last longer than a year."
In less than three months she had driven the English from before
Orleans, captured from them city after city, raised the sinking cause of
France into a hopeful state, and now had brought the prince to be
crowned in that august cathedral which had witnessed the coronation of
so many kings. On the 17th the ceremony took place with much grandeur
and solemnity. Joan rode between Dunois and the Archbishop of Rheims,
while the air rang with the acclamations of the immense throng.
"I have accomplished that which my Lord commanded me to do," said Joan,
"to raise the siege of Orleans and have the gentle king crowned. I
should like it well if it should please Him to send me back to my father
and mother, to keep their sheep and their cattle and do that which was
my wont."
It would have been well for her if she had done so, for her future
career was one of failure and misfortune. She kept in arms at the king's
desire. In September she attacked Paris, and was defeated, she herself
being pierced through the thigh with an arrow. It was her first repulse.
During the winter we hear little of her. Her family was ennobled by
royal decree, and the district of Domremy made free from all tax or
tribute. In the spring the enemy attacked Compiègne. Joan threw herself
into the town to save it. She had not been there many hours when, in a
sortie, the French were repulsed. Joan and some of her followers
remained outside fighting, while the drawbridge was raised and the
portcullis dropped by the frightened commandant. The Burgundians crowded
around her. Twenty of them surrounded her horse. One, a Picard archer,
"a tough fellow and mighty sour," seized her and flung her to the
ground. She was a prisoner in their hands.
The remaining history of Joan of Arc presents a striking picture of the
character of the age. It is beyond our purpose to give it. It will
suffice to say that she was tried by the English as a sorceress, dealt
with unfairly in every particular, and in the end, on May 30, 1431, was
burned at the stake. Even as the flames rose she affirmed that the
voices which she had obeyed came from God. Her voice was raised in
prayer as death approached, the last word heard from her lips being
"Jesus!"
"Would that my soul were where I believe the soul of that woman is!"
cried two of her judges, on seeing her die.
And Tressart, secretary to Henry VI. of England, said, on his return
from the place of execution, "We are all lost; we have burned a saint!"
A saint she was, an inspired one. She died, but France was saved.
_THE CAREER OF A KNIGHT-ERRANT._
Mediæval history would be of greatly reduced interest but for its
sprightly stories of knights and their doings. In those days when men,
"clad in complete steel," did their fighting with spear, sword, and
battle-axe, and were so enamoured of hard blows and blood-letting that
in the intervals of war they spent their time seeking combat and
adventure, much more of the startling and romantic naturally came to
pass than can be looked for in these days of the tyranny of commerce and
the dominion of "villanous saltpetre." This was the more so from the
fact that enchanters, magicians, demons, dragons, and all that uncanny
brood, the creation of ignorance and fancy, made knighthood often no
sinecure, and men's haunting belief in the supernatural were frequently
more troublesome to them than their armed enemies. But with this
misbegotten crew we have nothing to do. They belong to legend and
fiction, not to history, and it is with the latter alone that we are
here concerned. But as more than one example has been given of how
knights bore themselves in battle, it behooves us to tell something of
the doings of a knight-errant, one of those worthy fellows who went
abroad to prove their prowess in single combat, and win glory in the
tournament at spear's point.
Such a knight was Jacques de Lelaing, "the good knight without fear and
without doubt," as his chroniclers entitle him, a Burgundian by birth,
born in the château of Lelaing early in the fifteenth century. Jacques
was well brought up for a knight. Literature was cultivated in Burgundy
in those days, and the boy was taught the arts of reading and writing,
the accomplishments of French and Latin, and in his later life he
employed the pen as well as the sword, and did literary work of which
specimens still survive.
In warlike sports he excelled. He was still but a youth when the nephew
of Philip the Good of Burgundy (Philip the _Bad_ would have hit the mark
more nearly) carried him off to his uncle's court to graduate in
knighthood. The young adventurer sought the court of Philip well
equipped for his new duties, his father, William de Lelaing, having
furnished him with four fine horses, a skilful groom, and a no less
skilful valet; and also with some good advice, to the effect that,
"Inasmuch as you are more noble than others by birth, so should you be
more noble than they by virtues," adding that, "few great men have
gained renown for prowess and virtue who did not entertain love for some
dame or damoiselle."
The latter part of the advice the youthful squire seemed well inclined
to accept. He was handsome, gallant, bold, and eloquent, and quickly
became a favorite with the fair sex. Nor was he long in gaining an
opportunity to try his hand in battle, a squabble having arisen between
Philip and a neighboring prince. This at an end, our hero, stirred by
his "errant disposition," left Philip's court, eager, doubtless, to win
his spurs by dint of battle-axe and blows of blade.
In 1445 he appeared at Nancy, then occupied by the French court, which
had escorted thither Margaret of Anjou, who was to be taken to England
as bride to Henry VI. The occasion was celebrated by festivals, of which
a tournament was the principal feature, and here the Burgundian squire,
piqued at some disparaging remarks of the French knights, rode into the
lists and declared his purpose to hold them against all comers,
challenging the best knight there to unhorse him if he could.
The boastful squire was richly adorned for the occasion, having already
made friends among the ladies of the court, and wearing favors and
jewels received at the hands of some of the fairest there. Nor was his
boast an empty one. Not a man who faced him was able to hurl him from
the saddle, while many of them left the lists with bruised bodies or
broken bones.
"What manner of man will this be," said the onlookers, "who as a boy is
so firm of seat and strong of hand?"
At the banquet which followed Jacques was as fresh and gay as if newly
risen from sleep, and his conquests among the ladies were as many as he
had won among the knights. That night he went to his couch the owner of
a valuable diamond given him by the Duchess of Orleans, and of a ring
set with a precious ruby, the gift of the Duchess of Calabria. Verily,
the squire of Burgundy had made his mark.
The end of the year found our bold squire in Antwerp. Here, in the
cathedral of Notre Dame, he met an arrogant Sicilian knight named
Bonifazio, whose insolent bearing annoyed him. The Sicilian wore on his
left leg a golden fetter-ring fastened by a chain of gold to a circlet
above his knee, while his shield bore the defiant motto, "Who has fair
lady, let him look to her well."
Jacques looked at the swaggering fellow, liked his bearing but little,
and touched his shield by way of challenge, saying, "Thine is an
impertinent device."
"And thou art but a sorry squire, though with assurance enough for a
tried knight," answered the Sicilian.
"That is to prove," said Jacques, defiantly. "If my master, Duke Philip,
will give me leave to fight, thou durst not deny me, being, as we are,
on his Grace's territory."
Bonifazio accepted the challenge, and as the duke gave consent, a battle
between squire and knight was arranged, Ghent being the chosen place of
combat.
Two days it lasted, the first day's fight being a sort of horseback
prelude to the main combat. In this the squire bore himself so well
against his experienced antagonist, that Duke Philip judged he had
fairly won his spurs, and on the next day he was formally made a
knight, with the accolade and its attendant ceremonies.
This day the work displayed worthily followed the promising preface.
After a preliminary bout with spears, the combatants seized their
battle-axes, and hewed at each other with the vigor of two woodmen
felling a mighty oak. The edges of the axes being spoiled, the knights
drew their well-tempered swords and renewed the combat with the
lustihood of the heroes of the Round Table, fighting so fiercely that it
was not easy to follow the gleam of the swift-flashing blades. In the
end the Burgundian proved himself more than a match for the Sicilian,
driving him back, hewing rents in his armor, and threatening him with
speedy death. At this stage of the affray Duke Philip, at the request of
the Duke of Orleans, flung his truncheon into the lists and ended the
fight, in time to save the Sicilian knight.
His signal victory won Sir Jacques much fame. His antagonist was a man
of mark, and the Burgundian knight gained from his prowess the
appellation of "The Good Knight," which he maintained throughout his
career. He now determined to take up the profession of knight-errant,
travelling from court to court, and winning smiles and fame wherever
lists were set up or men of prowess could be found. But first he sought
his home and the approval of his parents.
"Go on thy way, with God's blessing," said his stout sire, who had
cracked skulls in his day and was proud of his doughty son.
"Yes, go on thy way, Jacques," said his mother in milder tone, and with
moist eyes. "I have put a healing ointment in thy valise, that will cure
bruises. If thou shouldst break a bone, Heaven send thee a skilful
surgeon."
Into France rode Sir Jacques, well mounted, and with squire and page in
his train, in search of adventures and opponents, eager for fame and
profit. From his left arm, fastened by a chain of gold, hung a splendid
helmet, which he offered as a prize to any knight who could overcome him
in single combat. To this he added a diamond, which he agreed to present
to any lady whom his victor should name. Whoever should first drop his
axe in the combat was to bestow a bracelet on his opponent. To this
Jacques added a singular stipulation, significant of queer doings in
those days, that neither knight should be fastened to his saddle. For
all else, he put his trust in God and his own right arm, and in the aid
that came to him from the love of "the fair lady who had more power over
him than aught besides throughout the entire world."
Thus prepared and thus defying, Sir Jacques rode through Paris and the
other cities of France without meeting a knight ready to accept his
challenge. This was due to the king, however, rather than to his
knights; Charles VII. had forbidden any of his chevaliers to fight the
bold Burgundian, the fame of whose strength and prowess was already
wide-spread. Through southern France, then in the hands of the English,
rode our hero, with the same fortune. Many were ready to meet him at
the board, none in the field. Into Spain he passed on, still without an
adversary, and sore in temper despite his pride in his reputation.
At last, in the realm of the Dons, he found a knight ready to break
lances with him in the field, out of pure duty to his "much loved lady,"
as he affirmed. This was Don Diego de Guzman, grand master of Calatrava,
whom he met on the borders of Castile, and who at once accepted his
challenge. Yet single combat in those days was not quite the easy affair
we might imagine it, if we judged from fiction and legend. Before a
knight could indulge in mortal affray he was obliged to obtain the
consent of his sovereign, provided that peace ruled between his country
and that of his antagonist, as was the case between Spain and Burgundy.
The king of Spain was absent. An answer could not be had immediately.
While awaiting it, Sir Jacques rode into Portugal, followed by a
splendid retinue, and offered an open challenge to the knights of that
kingdom to take the field against him.
His ride was almost a royal procession. The story of his one combat
seemed to have gained Jacques world-wide fame. From the frontier to
Lisbon he was met with a continuous ovation, and in the capital, where a
ball was given in his honor, he was invited to open the dance with the
queen for partner. And so it went,--an abundance of merry-making,
unlimited feasting and dancing, but no fighting. Sir Jacques grew
melancholy. He pleaded with King Alphonso.
"I have had a turn in the dance with your queen," he said; "now let me
have a tourney with your knights."
"Burgundy is my good friend," answered the king, "and Heaven forbid that
a knight from that court should be roughly treated by any knights of
mine."
"By all the saints, I defy the best of them!" cried the irate knight.
"And so let it rest," said Alphonso, placably. "Ride back to Castile,
and do thy worst upon Guzman's hard head and strong ribs."
There being nothing better to do, Jacques complied, and made his way to
Valladolid, having learned that the king of Spain had graciously
consented to the combat. The 3d of February, 1447, was the day which had
been fixed for the battle between the two knights, "for the grace of God
and the love of their ladies," and on the advent of that day the city
named was so crowded with sport-loving Spaniards that its streets were
barely passable. A great day in the history of knight-errantry was
promised, and gentles and simples, lords and ladies alike, were anxious
to see the spectacle.
When the morning of the eventful day dawned all was bustle and
excitement in Valladolid, and multitudes gathered at the lists. The
Burgundian was on the ground and ready by ten o'clock, but it was three
before Don Guzman appeared, and then he came armed with an axe so
portentously long in the handle that the Spanish umpires themselves,
anxious as they were for his success, forbade its use. Yet the truculent
Don gave them no small trouble before he would consent to choose
another. This done, the knights were conducted to their tents, which
they were not to leave till the clarions had thrice sounded the signal
of battle.
Don Guzman, however, proved inconveniently brave and eager. At the first
trumpet blast out he sprang, and muttered fiercely when ordered back.
The second blast brought him out again, and this time the king himself
sent him back "with an ugly word." The third blast sounded. Out now flew
both combatants. Battle-axe in hand, they made at each other, and soon
the ring of axe on helmet delighted the ardent souls of the thousands of
lookers-on. At length, Diego's axe was hurled from his hand. Jacques,
with knightly courtesy, threw down his, and an interval of wrestling for
the mastery followed. Then they drew their swords, and assailed each
other with undiminished fierceness. What might have been the result it
is not easy to say; Sir Jacques had no carpet knight to deal with in Don
Diego; but the king ended the business by throwing his truncheon into
the lists, and refusing permission to the combatants to finish their
fight on horseback, as they wished. They thereupon shook hands, while
the air rang with the shouts of the spectators.
In the end Don Guzman behaved well. He praised the skill and courage of
his antagonist, and presented him with an Andalusian horse, covered
with rich trappings. In this Jacques was not to be outdone. He sent the
Don a charger of great beauty and value, whose coverings were of blue
velvet embroidered in gold, and the saddle of violet velvet. Banquets
and balls followed the combat; the combatants were feasted to their
hearts' content; and Sir Jacques at length left the court of Spain
loaded with presents and covered with honor.
And now the "good knight" turned his steps homeward, challenging all
champions as he went, but without finding an opponent. Feasting he found
in abundance; but no fighting. Stopping at Montpelier, he became the
guest of Jacques Coeur, silversmith and banker to Charles VII. His
worthy host offered him money freely, and engaged to redeem any
valuables which the wandering knight might have found it necessary to
pawn. Sir Jacques thanked him, but said,--
"My good master, the Duke of Burgundy, provides all that is necessary
for me, and allows me to want for nothing."
Soon after, our errant knight reached Philip's court, where he was
received with the highest honors. Then to his paternal castle he wended
his way, to be welcomed by his proud parents as gladly as if he had won
the Holy Grail. Dancing and rejoicing followed, in which all the
neighboring noble families participated, and many a fair damsel shed her
smiles--in vain it seems--on the famous and heart-whole knight.
We next hear of Jacques de Lelaing in 1449. In that year the herald
Charolais made his advent at the Scottish court, bearing a challenge
from the Burgundian knight to the whole clan of the Douglases. James
Douglas accepted the challenge, and Sir Jacques appeared in due time at
Stirling, where a battle took place in which the Burgundian again came
off victor. From Scotland Jacques sought England but failed to find in
that kingdom any knight willing to accept his challenge. Yet he had but
fairly got home again when an English knight, Sir Thomas Karr by name,
appeared at the court of Philip the Good, and challenged Jacques de
Lelaing to combat for the honor of old England.
As may well be imagined, this challenge was speedily accepted, the lists
being set in a field near Bruges. The English knight was the heavier,
but Jacques was the favorite, for once again he was fighting on his
native soil. Fierce was the combat. It ended in the Burgundian's favor.
Karr struck him a blow on the arm with his battle-axe which rendered
that arm useless, it being paralyzed or broken. But the valiant Jacques
dropped his axe, closed with his foe, and with the aid of his one arm
flung him to the ground, falling upon him. This ended the combat, the
Burgundian being pronounced victor. But as he had been the first to drop
his battle-axe, he presented Sir Thomas with a rich diamond, as he had
agreed in his challenge.
Jacques had been sorely hurt. His wound took a long time to heal. When
his arm had grown strong again he repaired to Châlons, where he opened
a tournament of his own, in which he held the lists against all comers.
This was in fulfilment of a vow which he had made that he would appear
in the closed lists thirty times before the completion of his thirtieth
year. Much fighting was done, much blood spilt, and much honor gained by
Sir Jacques. We cannot tell all that took place, but the noble
tournament at Châlons was long afterwards the talk of the country-side.