The hostel of the Ane Raye poured from its upper and lower windows
a flood of light into the gathering August dusk. It stood, a little
withdrawn among its beeches, at a cross-roads, where the main route
southward from the Valois cut the highway from Paris to Rheims and
Champagne. The roads at that hour made ghostly white ribbons, and the
fore-court of dusty grasses seemed of a verdure which daylight would
disprove. Weary horses nuzzled at a watertrough, and serving-men in a
dozen liveries made a bustle around the stables, which formed two
sides of the open quadrangle. At the foot of the inn signpost beggars
squatted--here a leper whining monotonously, there lustier vagrants
dicing for supper. At the main door a knot of young squires stood
talking in whispers--impatient, if one judged from the restless clank of
metal, but on duty, as appeared when a new-comer sought entrance and was
brusquely denied. For in an upper room there was business of great folk,
and the commonalty must keep its distance.
That upper room was long and low-ceiled, with a canopied bed in a corner
and an oaken table heaped with saddle-bags. A woman sat in a chair by
the empty hearth, very bright and clear in the glow of the big iron
lantern hung above the chimney. She was a tall girl, exquisitely
dressed, from the fine silk of her horned cap to the amethyst buckles
on her Spanish shoes. The saddle-bags showed that she was fresh from a
journey, but her tirewoman's hands must have been busy, for she bore no
marks of the road.
Her chin was in her hands, and the face defined by the slim fingers was
small and delicate, pale with the clear pallor of perfect health, and
now slowly flushing to some emotion. The little chin was firm, but the
mouth was pettish. Her teeth bit on a gold chain, which encircled her
neck and held a crystal reliquary. A spoiled pretty child, she looked,
and in a mighty ill temper.
The cause of it was a young man who stood disconsolately by a settle a
little way out of the lantern's glow. The dust of the white roads lay
on his bodyarmour and coated the scabbard of his great sword. He played
nervously with the plume of a helmet which lay on the settle, and lifted
his face now and then to protest a word. It was an honest face, ruddy
with wind and sun and thatched with hair which his mislikers called red
but his friends golden.
The girl seemed to have had her say. She turned wearily aside, and drew
the chain between her young lips with a gesture of despair.
“Since when have you become Burgundian, Catherine?” the young man asked
timidly. The Sieur Guy de Laval was most notable in the field but he had
few arts for a lady's chamber.
“I am no Burgundian,” she said, “but neither am I Armagnac. What
concern have we in these quarrels? Let the Kings who seek thrones do
the fighting. What matters it to us whether knock-kneed Charles or fat
Philip reign in Paris?”
The young man shuddered as if at a blasphemy “This is our country of
France. I would rid it of the English and all foreign bloodsuckers.”
“And your way is to foment the quarrel among Frenchmen? You are a fool,
Guy. Make peace with Burgundy and in a month there will be no Goddams
left in France.”
“It is the voice of La Tremouille.”
“It is the voice of myself, Catherine of Beaumanoir. And if my kinsman
of La Tremouille say the same, the opinion is none the worse for that.
You meddle with matters beyond your understanding.... But have done with
statecraft, for that is not the heart of my complaint. You have broken
your pledged word, sir. Did you not promise me when you set out that you
would abide the issue of the Bourbon's battle before you took arms? Yet
I have heard of you swashbuckling in that very fight at Rouvray, and
only the miracle of God brought you out with an unbroken neck.”
“The Bourbon never fought,” said de Laval sullenly. “Only Stewart and
his Scots stood up against Fastolf's spears. You would not have me stay
idle in face of such odds. I was not the only French knight who charged.
There was La Hire and de Saintrailles and the Bastard himself.”
“Yet you broke your word,” was the girl's cold answer. “Your word to me.
You are forsworn, sir.”
The boy's face flushed deeply. “You do not understand, my sweet
Catherine. There have been mighty doings in Touraine, which you have not
heard of in Picardy. Miracles have come to pass. Orleans has been saved,
and there is now a great army behind Charles. In a little while we shall
drive the English from Paris, and presently into the sea. There is
hope now and a clear road for us Frenchmen. We have heard the terrible
English 'Hurra' grow feeble, and 'St. Denis' swell like a wind in
heaven. For God has sent us the Maid....”
The girl had risen and was walking with quick, short steps from hearth
to open window.
“Tell me of this maid,” she commanded.
“Beyond doubt she is a daughter of God,” said de Laval.
“Beyond doubt. But I would hear more of her.”
Her tone was ominously soft, and the young man was deceived by it. He
launched into a fervid panegyric of Jeanne of Arc. He told of her doings
at Orleans, when her standard became the oriflamme of France, and her
voice was more stirring than trumpets; of her gentleness and her wisdom.
He told of his first meeting with her, when she welcomed him in her
chamber. “She sent for wine and said that soon she would drink it with
me in Paris. I saw her mount a plunging black horse, herself all in
white armour, but unhelmeted. Her eyes were those of a great captain,
and yet merciful and mild like God's Mother. The sight of her made the
heart sing like a May morning. No man could fear death in her company.
They tell how...”
But he got no farther. The girl's face was pale with fury, and she tore
at her gold neck-chain till it snapped.
“Enough of your maid!” she cried. “Maid, forsooth! The shame of her has
gone throughout the land. She is no maid, but a witch, a light-of-love,
a blasphemer. By the Rood, Sir Guy, you choose this instant between me
and your foul peasant. A daughter of Beaumanoir does not share her lover
with a crack-brained virago.”
The young man had also gone pale beneath his sunburn. “I will not
listen,” he cried. “You blaspheme a holy angel.”
“But listen you shall,” and her voice quivered with passion. She marched
up to him and faced him, her slim figure as stiff as a spear. “This very
hour you break this mad allegiance and conduct me home to Beaumanoir.
Or, by the Sorrows of Mary, you and I will never meet again.”
De Laval did not speak, but stood gazing sadly at the angry loveliness
before him. His own face had grown as stubborn as hers.
“You do not know what you ask,” he said at length. “You would have me
forswear my God, and my King, and my manhood.”
“A fig for such manhood,” she cried with ringing scorn. “If that is a
man's devotion, I will end my days in a nunnery. I will have none of it,
I tell you. Choose, my fine lover--choose between me and your peasant.”
The young man looked again at the blazing eyes and then without a word
turned slowly and left the room. A moment later the sound of horses told
that a company had taken the road.
The girl stood listening till the noise died away. Then she sank all
limp in a chair and began to cry. There was wrath in her sobs, and
bitter self-pity. She had made a fine tragedy scene, but the glory of it
was short. She did not regret it, but an immense dreariness had followed
on her heroics. Was there ever, she asked herself, a more unfortunate
lady?
And she had been so happy. Her lover was the bravest gallant that
ever came out of Brittany; rich too, and well beloved, and kin to de
Richemont, the Constable. In the happy days at Beaumanoir he was
the leader in jousts and valiances, the soul of hunting parties, the
lightest foot in the dance. The Beaumanoirs had been a sleepy stock,
ever since that Sir Aimery, long ago, who had gone crusading with Saint
Louis and ridden out of the ken of mortals. Their wealth had bought them
peace, and they had kept on good terms alike with France and Burgundy,
and even with the unruly captains of England. Wars might sweep round
their marches, but their fields were unravaged. Shrewd, peaceable
folk they were, at least the males of the house. The women had been
different, for the daughters of Beaumanoir had been notable for beauty
and wit and had married proudly, till the family was kin to half the
nobleness of Artois and Picardy and Champagne. There was that terrible
great-aunt at Coucy, and the aunts at Beaulieu and Avranches, and the
endless cousinhood stretching as far south as the Nivernais.... And now
the main stock had flowered in her, the sole child of her father, and
the best match to be found that side of the Loire.
She sobbed in the chagrin of a new experience. No one in her soft
cushioned life had ever dared to gainsay her. At Beaumanoir her word
was law. She had loved its rich idleness for the power it gave her.
Luxurious as she was, it was no passive luxury that she craved, but the
sense of mastery, of being a rare thing set apart. The spirit of the
women of Beaumanoir burned fiercely in her... She longed to set her
lover in the forefront of the world. Let him crusade if he chose, but
not in a beggars' quarrel. And now the palace of glass was shivered, and
she was forsaken for a peasant beguine. The thought set her pacing to
the window.
There seemed to be a great to-do without. A dozen lanterns lit up the
forecourt, and there was a tramping of many horses. A shouting, too, as
if a king were on the move. She hurriedly dried her eyes and arranged
her dress, tossing the reliquary and its broken chain on the table. Some
new guests; and the inn was none too large. She would have the landlord
flayed if he dared to intrude on the privacy which she had commanded.
Nay, she would summon her people that instant and set off for home, for
her company was strong enough to give security in the midnight forests.
She was about to blow a little silver whistle to call her steward when a
step at the door halted her. A figure entered, a stranger. It was a tall
stripling, half armed like one who is not for battle but expects a brush
at any corner of the road. A long surcoat of dark green and crimson fell
stiffy as if it covered metal, and the boots were spurred and defended
in front with thin plates of steel. The light helm was open and showed a
young face. The stranger moved wearily as if from a long journey.
“Good even to you, sister,” said the voice, a musical voice with the
broad accent of Lorraine. “Help me to get rid of this weariful harness.”
Catherine's annoyance was forgotten in amazement. Before she knew what
she did her fingers were helping the bold youth to disarm. The helm was
removed, the surcoat was stripped, and the steel corslet beneath it.
With a merry laugh the stranger kicked off the great boots which were
too wide for his slim legs.
He stretched himself, yawning, and then laughed again. “By my staff,”
he said, “but I am the weary one.” He stood now in the full glow of the
lantern, and Catherine saw that he wore close-fitting breeches of fine
linen, a dark pourpoint, and a tunic of blue. The black hair was cut
short like a soldier's, and the small secret face had the clear tan
of one much abroad in wind and sun. The eyes were tired and yet merry,
great grey eyes as clear and deep as a moorland lake.... Suddenly she
understood. It may have been the sight of the full laughing lips, or the
small maidenly breasts outlined by the close-fitting linen. At any rate
she did not draw back when the stranger kissed her cheek.
“Ah, now I am woman again,” said the crooning voice. The unbuckled sword
in its leather sheath was laid on the table beside the broken reliquary.
“Let us rest side by side, sister, for I long for maids' talk.”
But now Catherine started and recoiled. For on the blue tunic she had
caught sight of an embroidered white dove bearing in its beak the
scroll De par le Roy du ciel. It was a blazon the tale of which had gone
through France.
“You are she!” she stammered. “The witch of Lorraine!”
The other looked wonderingly at her. “I am Jeanne of Arc,” she said
simply. “She whom they call the Pucelle. Do you shrink from me, sister?”
Catherine's face was aflame. She remembered her lost lover, and the
tears scarcely dry. “Out upon you!” she cried. “You are that false woman
that corrupt men's hearts.” And again her fingers sought the silver
whistle.
Jeanne looked sadly upon her. Her merry eyes had grown grave.
“I pray you forbear. I do not heed the abuse of men, but a woman's
taunts hurt me. They have spoken falsely of me, dear sister. I am no
witch, but a poor girl who would fain do the commands of God.”
She sank on the settle with the relaxed limbs of utter fatigue. “I was
happy when they told me there was a lady here. I bade Louis and Raymond
and the Sieur d'Aulon leave me undisturbed till morning, for I would
fain rest. Oh, but I am weary of councils! They are all blind. They will
not hear the plain wishes of God.... And I have so short a time! Only a
year, and now half is gone!”
The figure had lost all its buoyancy, and become that of a sad,
overwrought girl. Catherine found her anger ebbing and pity stealing
into her heart. Could this tired child be the virago against whom she
had sworn vengeance? It had none of a woman's allure, no arts of the
light-of-love. Its eyes were as simple as a boy's.... She looked almost
kindly at the drooping Maid.
But in a moment the languor seemed to pass from her. Her face lit up,
as to the watcher in the darkness a window in a tower suddenly becomes
a square of light. She sank on her knees, her head thrown back, her
lips parted, the long eyelashes quiet on her cheeks. A sudden stillness
seemed to fall on everything. Catherine held her breath, and listened to
the beating of her heart.
Jeanne's lips moved, and then her eyes opened. She stood up again, her
face entranced and her gaze still dwelling on some hidden world... Never
had Catherine seen such happy radiance.
“My Brothers of Paradise spoke with me. They call me sometimes when I
am sad. Their voices said to me, 'Daughter of God, go forward. We are at
your side.'”
Catherine trembled. She seemed on the edge of a world of which in
all her cosseted life she had never dreamed, a world of beautiful and
terrible things. There was rapture in it, and a great awe. She had
forgotten her grievances in wonder.
“Do not shrink from me,” said the voice which seemed to have won an
unearthly sweetness. “Let us sit together and tell our thoughts. You are
very fair. Have you a lover?”
The word brought the girl to earth. “I had a lover, but this night I
dismissed him. He fights in your company, and I see no need for this
war.”
Jeanne's voice was puzzled. “Can a man fight in a holier cause than to
free his country?”
“The country...” But Catherine faltered. Her argument with Guy now
seemed only pettishness.
“You are a great lady,” said Jeanne, “and to such as you liberty
may seem a little thing. You are so rich that you need never feel
constraint. But to us poor folk freedom is life itself. It sweetens
the hind's pottage, and gives the meanest an assurance of manhood....
Likewise it is God's will. My Holy Ones have told me that sweet France
shall be purged from bondage. They have bidden me see the King crowned
and lead him to Paris.... After that they have promised me rest.”
She laid an arm round Catherine's neck and looked into her eyes.
“You are hungry, sister mine,” she said.
The girl started. For the eyes were no longer those of a boy, but of a
mother--very wise, very tender. Her own mother had died so long ago
that she scarcely remembered her. A rush of longing came over her for
something she had never known. She wanted to lay her head on that young
breast and weep.
“You are hungry--and yet I think you have been much smiled on by
fortune. You are very fair, and for most women to be beautiful is to be
happy. But you are not content, and I am glad of it. There is a hunger
that is divine....”
She broke off, for the girl was sobbing. Crumpled on the floor, she bent
her proud head to the Maid's lap “What must I do?” she cried piteously.
“The sight of you makes me feel my rottenness. I have been proud of
worthless things and I have cherished that wicked pride that I might
forget the doubts knocking on my heart. You say true, I am not content.
I shall never be content, I am most malcontent with myself.... Would to
God that like you I had been born a peasant!”
The tragic eyes looked up to find the Maid laughing--a kind, gentle
merriment. Catherine flushed as Jeanne took her tear-stained face in her
hands.
“You are foolish, little sister. I would I had been born to your
station. My task would have been easier had I been Yoland of Sicily or
that daughter of the King of Scots from whom many looked for the succour
of France. Folly, folly! There is no virtue in humble blood. I would I
had been a queen! I love fine clothes and rich trappings and the great
horse which d'Alencon gave me. God has made a brave world and I would
that all His people could get the joy of it. I love it the more because
I have only a little time in it.”
“But you are happy,” said the girl, “and I want such happiness.”
“There is no happiness,” said the Maid, “save in doing the will of God
our Father.”
“But I do not know His will.... I am resolved now. I will take the vows
and become a religious, and then I shall find peace. I am weary of all
this confusing world.”
“Foolish one,” and Jeanne played with the little curls which strayed
around Catherine's ear. “You were not born for a nunnery. Not that way
God calls you.”
“Show me His way,” the girl implored.
“He shows His way privily to each heart, and His ways are many. For some
the life of devout contemplation, but not for you, sister. Your blood is
too fiery and your heart too passionate.... You have a lover? Tell me
his name.”
Docilely Catherine whispered it, and Jeanne laughed merrily.
“Sir Guy! My most loyal champion. By my staff, you are the blessed maid.
There is no more joyous knight in all the fields of France.”
“I do not seek wedlock. Oh, it is well for you who are leading armies
and doing the commands of God. Something tells me that in marriage I
shall lose my soul.”
The girl was on her knees with her hands twined. “Let me follow you,”
she cried. “I will bring a stout company behind me. Let me ride with you
to the freeing of France. I promise to be stalwart.”
The Maid shook her head gently.
“Then I take the vows.” The obstinate little mouth had shut and there
were no tears now in the eyes.
“Listen, child,” and Jeanne took the suppliant hands in hers. “It is
true that God has called me to a holy task. He has sent His angels to
guide me and they talk with me often. The Lady of Fierbois has given me
a mystic sword. I think that in a little while this land will be free
again.... But I shall not see it, for God's promise is clear, and for me
it does not give length of days. I did not seek this errand of mine. I
resisted the command, till God was stern with me and I submitted with
bitter tears. I shall die a maid, and can never know the blessedness
of women. Often at night I weep to think that I shall never hold a babe
next my heart.”
The face of Jeanne was suddenly strained with a great sadness. It was
Catherine's turn to be the comforter. She sat herself beside her and
drew her head to her breast.
“For you I see a happier fate--a true man's wife--the mother of sons.
Bethink you of the blessedness. Every wife is like the Mother of
God--she has the hope of bearing a saviour of mankind. She is the
channel of the eternal purpose of Heaven. Could I change--could I
change! What fortunate wife would envy a poor maid that dwells in the
glare of battle?... Nay, I do not murmur. I do God's will and rejoice in
it. But I am very lonely.”
For a little there was silence, an ecstatic silence. Something
hard within Catherine melted and she felt a gush of pity. No longer
self-pity, but compassion for another. Her heart grew suddenly warm.
It was as if a window had been opened in a close room to let in air and
landscape.
“I must rest, for there is much ado to-morrow. Will you sleep by me, for
I have long been starved of a woman's comradeship?”
In the great canopied bed the two girls lay till morning. Once in the
darkness Catherine started and found her arms empty. Jeanne was kneeling
by the window, her head thrown back and the moonlight on her upturned
face. When she woke in the dawn the Maid was already up, trussing the
points of her breeches and struggling with her long boots. She was
crooning the verse of a ballad:
“Serais je nonette' Crois que non--”
and looking with happy eyes at the cool morning light on the forest.
“Up, sleepy-head,” she cried. “Listen to the merry trampling of the
horses. I must start, if I would spare the poor things in the noon.
Follow me with your prayers, for France rides with me. I love you, sweet
sister. Be sure I will hasten to you when my work is done.”
So the Maid and her company rode off through the woods to Compiegne, and
a brooding and silent Catherine took the north road to Picardy.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The promise was kept. Once again Catherine saw and had speech of Jeanne.
It was nearly two years later, when she sat in a May gloaming in the
house of Beaumanoir, already three months a bride. Much had happened
since she had ridden north from the inn at the forest cross-roads. She
had summoned de Laval to her side, and the lovers had been reconciled.
Her father had died in the winter and the great fortune and wide manors
of the family were now her own. Her lover had fought with Jeanne in the
futile battles of the spring, but he had been far away when in the fatal
sortie at Compiegne the Maid was taken by her enemies. All the summer of
that year he had made desperate efforts at rescue, but Jeanne was
tight in English hands, and presently was in prison at Rouen awaiting
judgment, while her own king and his false councillors stirred not hand
or foot to save her. Sir Guy had hurled himself on Burgundy, and with a
picked band made havoc of the eastern roads, but he could not break the
iron cordon of Normandy. In February they had been wed, but after that
Beaumanoir saw him little, for he was reading Burgundy a lesson in the
Santerre.
Catherine sat at home, anxious, tremulous, but happy. A new-made wife
lives in a new world, and though at times she grieved for the shame of
her land, her mind was too full of housewifely cares, and her heart of
her husband, for long repining. But often the thought of Jeanne drove
a sword into her contentment.... So when she lifted her eyes from her
embroidery and saw the Maid before her, relief and gladness sent her
running to greet her.
Long afterwards till she was very old Catherine would tell of that hour.
She saw the figure outlined against a window full of the amethyst sky of
evening. The white armour and the gay surcoat were gone.
Jeanne was still clad like a boy in a coarse grey tunic and black
breeches, but her boots did not show any dust of the summer roads. Her
face was very pale, as if from long immurement, and her eyes were no
more merry. They shone instead with a grave ardour of happiness, which
checked Catherine's embrace and set her heart beating.
She walked with light steps and kissed the young wife's cheek--a kiss
like thistledown.
“You are free?” Catherine stammered. Her voice seemed to break
unwillingly in a holy quiet.
“I am free,” the Maid answered. “I have come again to you as I promised.
But I cannot bide long. I am on a journey.”
“You go to the King?” said Catherine.
“I go to my King.”
The Maid's hand took Catherine's, and her touch was like the fall of
gossamer. She fingered the girl's broad ring which had come from distant
ancestors, the ring which Sir Aimery of Beaumanoir had worn in the
Crusades. She raised it and pressed it to her.
Catherine's limbs would not do her bidding. She would fain have risen in
a hospitable bustle, but she seemed to be held motionless. Not by fear,
but by an exquisite and happy awe. She remembered afterwards that from
the Maid's rough clothes had come a faint savour of wood-smoke, as from
one who has been tending a bonfire in the autumn stubble.
“God be with you, lady, and with the good knight, your husband. Remember
my word to you, that every wife is like Mary the Blessed and may bear a
saviour of mankind. The road is long, but the ways of Heaven are sure.”
Catherine stretched out her arms, for a longing so fierce had awoke in
her that it gave her power to move again. Never in her life had she felt
such a hunger of wistfulness. But Jeanne evaded her embrace. She stood
poised as if listening.
“They are calling me. I go. Adieu, sweet sister.”
A light shone in her face which did not come from the westering sun. To
Catherine there was no sound of voices, but the Maid seemed to hear and
answer. She raised her hand as if in blessing and passed out.
Catherine sat long in an entranced silence. Waves of utter longing
flowed over her, till she fell on her knees and prayer passionately to
her saints, among whom not the least was that grey-tunicked Maid whose
eyes seemed doorways into heaven. Her tirewoman found her asleep on her
faldstool.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Early next morning there came posts to Beaumanoir, men on weary horses
with a tragic message. On the day before, in the market-place of Rouen,
the chief among the daughters of God had journeyed through the fire to
Paradise.