A MONK OF FIFE
A Romance of the Days of Jeanne D'Arc - Joan of Arc
by Andrew Lang
CHAPTER XXVI
HOW, AND BY WHOSE DEVICE, THE MAID WAS TAKEN AT
COMPIEGNE
"Verily and indeed the Maid is of wonderful excellence," quoth
Father Francois to me, in my chamber at the Jacobins, where I was
healing of my hurts.
"Any man may know that, who is in your company," the father went on
speaking.
"And how, good father?" I asked him; "sure I have caught none of her
saintliness."
"A saint I do not call you, but I scarce call you a Scot. For you
are a clerk."
"The Maid taught me none of my clergy, father, nor have I taught her
any of mine."
"She needs it not. But you are peaceful and gentle; you brawl not,
nor drink, nor curse . . . "
"Nay, father, with whom am I to brawl, or how should I curse in your
good company? Find you Scots so froward?"
"But now, pretending to be our friends, a band of them is harrying
the Sologne country . . . "
"They will be Johnstons and Jardines, and wild wood folk of
Galloway," I said. "These we scarce reckon Scots, but rather Picts,
and half heathen. And the Johnstons and Jardines are here belike,
because they have made Scotland over hot to hold them. We are a
poor folk, but honest, let by the clans of the Land Debatable and of
Ettrick Forest, and the Border freebooters, and the Galloway Picts,
and Maxwells, and Glendinnings, and the red-shanked, jabbering
Highlanders and Islesmen, and some certain of the Angus folk, and,
maybe, a wild crew in Strathclyde."
"Yours, then, is a very large country?"
"About the bigness of France, or, may be, not so big. And the main
part of it, and the most lawful and learned, is by itself, in a
sort, a separate kingdom, namely Fife, whence I come myself. The
Lothians, too, and the shire of Ayr, if you except Carrick, are well
known for the lands of peaceful and sober men."
"Whence comes your great captain, Sir Hugh Kennedy?"
"There you name an honourable man-at-arms," I said, "the glory of
Scotland; and to show you I was right, he is none of your marchmen,
or Highlanders, but has lands in Ayrshire, and comes of a very
honourable house."
"It is Sir Hugh that hath just held to ransom the King's good town
of Tours, where is that gracious lady the mother of the King's wife,
the Queen of Sicily."
Hereat I waxed red as fire.
"He will be in arrears of his pay, no doubt," I made answer.
"It is very like," said Father Francois: "but considering all that
you tell me, I crave your pardon if I still think that the Blessed
Maid has won you from the common ways of your countrymen."
To which, in faith, I had no answer to make, but that my fortune was
like to be the happier in this world and the next.
"Much need have all men of her goodness, and we of her valour," said
the father, and he sighed. "This is now the fourth siege of
Compiegne I have seen, and twice have the leads from our roofs and
the metal of our bells been made into munition of war. Absit omen
Domine! And now they say the Duke of Burgundy has sworn to slay
all, and spare neither woman nor child."
"A vaunt of war, father. Call they not him the Good Duke? When we
lay before Paris, the English put about a like lying tale concerning
us, as if we should sack and slay all."
"I pray that you speak sooth," said Father Francois.
On the next day, being May the twentieth, he came to me again, with
a wan face.
"Burgundians are in Claroix," said he, "across the river, and yet
others, with Jean de Luxembourg, at Margny, scarce a mile away, at
the end of the causeway through the water meadows, beyond the
bridge. And the Duke is at Coudun, a league off to the right of
Claroix, and I have clomb the tower-top, and thence seen the English
at Venette, on the left hand of the causeway. All is undone."
"Nay, father, be of better cheer. Our fort at the bridge end is
stronger than Les Tourelles were at Orleans. The English shot can
scarce cross the river. Bridge the enemy has none, and northward
and eastward all is open. Be of better heart, Heaven helps France."
"We have sent to summon the Maid,' said he, "from Crepy-en-Valois.
In her is all my hope; but you speak lightly, for you are young, and
war is your trade."
"And praying is yours, father, wherefore you should be bolder than
I."
But he shook his head.
So two days passed, and nothing great befell, but in the grey dawn
of May the twenty-third I was held awake by clatter of horsemen
riding down the street under the window of my chamber. And after
matins came Father Francois, his face very joyful, with the tidings
that the Maid, and a company of some three hundred lances of hers,
had ridden in from Crepy-en-Valois, she making her profit of the
darkness to avoid the Burgundians.
Then I deemed that the enemy would soon have news of her, and all
that day I heard the bells ring merry peals, and the trumpets
sounding. About three hours after noonday Father Francois came
again, and told me that the Maid would make a sally, and cut the
Burgundians in twain; and now nothing would serve me but I must be
borne in a litter to the walls, and see her banner once more on the
wind.
So, by the goodwill of Father Francois, some lay brethren bore me
forth from the convent, which is but a stone's-throw from the
bridge. They carried me across the Oise to a mill hard by the
boulevard of the Bridge fort, whence, from a window, I beheld all
that chanced. No man sitting in the gallery of a knight's hall to
see jongleurs play and sing could have had a better stance, or have
seen more clearly all the mischief that befell.
The town of Compiegne lies on the river Oise, as Orleans on the
Loire, but on the left, not the right hand of the water. The bridge
is strongly guarded, as is custom, by a tower at the further end,
and, in front of that tower, a boulevard. All the water was gay to
look on, being covered with boats, as if for a holiday, but these
were manned by archers, whom Guillaume de Flavy had set to shoot at
the enemy, if they drove us back, and to rescue such of our men as
might give ground, if they could not win into the boulevard at the
bridge end.
Beyond the boulevard, forth to the open country, lay a wide plain,
and behind it, closing it in, a long, low wall of steep hills. On
the left, a mile and a half away, Father Francois showed me the
church tower of Venette, where the English camped; to the right, a
league off, was the tower of Clairoix; and at the end of a long
raised causeway that ran from the bridge across the plain, because
of the winter floods, I saw the tower and the village of Margny.
All these towns and spires looked peaceful, but all were held by the
Burgundians. Men-at-arms were thick on the crest of our boulevard,
and on the gate-keep, all looking across the river towards the town,
whence the Maid should sally by way of the bridge. So there I lay
on a couch in the window and waited, having no fear, but great joy.
Nay, never have I felt my spirit lighter within me, so that I
laughed and chattered like a fey man. The fresh air, after my long
lying in a chamber, stirred me like wine. The May sun shone warm,
yet cooled with a sweet wind of the west. The room was full of
women and maids, all waiting to throw flowers before the Maid, whom
they dearly loved. Everything had a look of holiday, and all was to
end in joy and great victory. So I laughed with the girls, and
listened to a strange tale, how the Maid had but of late brought
back to life a dead child at Lagny, so that he got his rights of
Baptism, and anon died again.
So we fleeted the time, till about the fifth hour after noon, when
we heard the clatter of horses on the bridge; and some women waxed
pale. My own heart leaped up. The noise drew nearer, and presently
She rode across and forth, carrying her banner in the noblest
manner, mounted on a grey horse, and clad in a rich hucque of
cramoisie; she smiled and bowed like a queen to the people, who
cried, "Noel! Noel!" Beside her rode Pothon le Bourgignon (not
Pothon de Xaintrailles, as some have falsely said), her confessor
Pasquerel on a palfrey; her brother, Pierre du Lys, with his new
arms bravely blazoned; and her maitre d'hotel, D'Aulon. But of the
captains in Compiegne no one rode with her. She had but her own
company, and a great rude throng of footmen of the town that would
not be said nay. They carried clubs, and they looked, as I heard,
for no less than to take prisoner the Duke of Burgundy himself.
Certain of these men also bore spades and picks and other tools; for
the Maid, as I deem, intended no more than to take and hold Margny,
that so she might cut the Burgundians in twain, and sunder from them
the English at Venette. Now as the night was not far off, then at
nightfall would the English be in sore straits, as not knowing the
country and the country roads, and not having the power to join them
of Burgundy at Clairoix. This, one told me afterwards, was the
device of the Maid.
Be this as it may, and a captain of hers, Barthelemy Barrette, told
me the tale, the Maid rode gallantly forth, flowers raining on her,
while my heart longed to be riding at her rein. She waved her hand
to Guillaume de Flavy, who sat on his horse by the gate of the
boulevard, and so, having arrayed her men, she cried, "Tirez avant!"
and made towards Margny, the foot-soldiers following with what speed
they might, while I and Father Francois, and others in the chamber,
strained our eyes after them. All the windows and roofs of the
houses and water-mills on the bridge were crowded with men and
women, gazing, and it came into my mind that Flavy had done ill to
leave these mills and houses standing. They wrought otherwise at
Orleans. This was but a passing thought, for my heart was in my
eyes, straining towards Margny. Thence now arose a great din, and
clamour of trumpets and cries of men-at-arms, and we could see
tumult, blown dust, and stir of men, and so it went for it may be
half of an hour. Then that dusty cloud of men and horses drove,
forward ever, out of our sight.
The sun was now red and sinking above the low wall of the western
hills, and the air was thicker than it had been, and confused with a
yellow light. Despite the great multitude of men and women on the
city walls, there came scarcely a sound of a voice to us across the
wide river, so still they kept, and the archers in the boats beneath
us were silent: nay, though the chamber wherein I lay was thronged
with the people of the house pressing to see through the open
casement, yet there was silence here, save when the father prayed.
A stronger wind rising out of the west now blew towards us with a
sweet burden of scent from flowers and grass, fragrant upon our
faces. So we waited, our hearts beating with hope and fear.
Then I, whose eyes were keen, saw, blown usward from Margny, a cloud
of flying dust, that in Scotland we call stour. The dust rolled
white along the causeway towards Compiegne, and then, alas! forth
from it broke little knots of our men, foot-soldiers, all running
for their lives. Behind them came more of our men, and more, all
running, and then mounted men-at-arms, spurring hard, and still more
and more of these; and ever the footmen ran, till many riders and
some runners had crossed the drawbridge, and were within the
boulevard of the bridge. There they stayed, sobbing and panting,
and a few were bleeding. But though the foremost runaways thus won
their lives, we saw others roll over and fall as they ran, tumbling
down the sides of the causeway, and why they fell I knew not.
But now, in the midst of the causeway, between us and Margny, our
flying horsemen rallied under the Maiden's banner, and for the last
time of all, I heard that clear girl's voice crying, "Tirez en
avant! en avant!"
Anon her horsemen charged back furiously, and drove the Picards and
Burgundians, who pursued, over a third part of the raised roadway.
But now, forth from Margny, trooped Burgundian men-at-arms without
end or number, the banner of the Maid waved wildly, now up, now
down, in the mad mellay, and ever they of Burgundy pressed on, and
still our men, being few and outnumbered, gave back. Yet still some
of the many clubmen of the townsfolk tumbled over as they ran, and
the drawbridge was choked with men flying, thrusting and thronging,
wild and blind with the fear of death. Then rose on our left one
great cry, such as the English give when they rejoice, or when they
charge, and lo! forth from a little wood that had hidden them, came
galloping and running across the heavy wet meadowland between us and
Venette, the men-at-arms and the archers of England. Then we nigh
gave up all for lost, and fain I would have turned my eyes away, but
I might not.
Now and again the English archers paused, and loosed a flight of
clothyard shafts against the stream of our runaways on the bridge.
Therefore it was that some fell as they ran. But the little company
of our horsemen were now driven back so near us that I could plainly
see the Maid, coming last of all, her body swung round in the saddle
as she looked back at the foremost foemen, who were within a lance's
length of her. And D'Aulon and Pierre du Lys, gripping each at her
reins, were spurring forward. But through the press of our clubmen
and flying horsemen they might not win, and now I saw, what never
man saw before, the sword of the Maid bare in battle! She smote on
a knight's shield, her sword shivered in that stroke, she caught her
steel sperthe into her hand, and struck and hewed amain, and there
were empty saddles round her.
And now the English in the meadow were within four lances' lengths
of the causeway between her and safety. Say it I must, nor cannon-
ball nor arrow-flight availed to turn these English. Still the
drawbridge and the inlet of the boulevard were choked with the
press, and men were leaping from bank and bridge into the boats, or
into the water, while so mixed were friends and foes that Flavy, in
a great voice, bade archers and artillerymen hold their hands.
Townsfolk, too, were mingled in the throng, men who had come but to
gape as curious fools, and among them I saw the hood of a cordelier,
as I glanced from the fight to mark how the Maid might force her way
within. Still she smote, and D'Aulon and Pierre du Lys smote
manfully, and anon they gained a little way, backing their horses,
while our archers dared not shoot, so mixed were French, English,
and Burgundians.
Flavy, who worked like a man possessed, had turned about to give an
order to the archers above him; his back, I swear, was to the press
of flying men, to the inlet of the boulevard, and to the drawbridge,
when his own voice, as all deemed who heard it, cried aloud, "Up
drawbridge, close gates, down portcullis!" The men whose duty it
was were standing ready at the cranks and pulleys, their tools in
hand, and instantly, groaning, the drawbridge flew up, casting into
the water them that were flying across, down came the portcullis,
and slew two men, while the gates of the inlet of the boulevard were
swung to and barred, all, as it might he said, in the twinkling of
an eye.
Flavy turned in wrath and great amaze: "In God's name, who cried?"
he shouted. "Down drawbridge, up portcullis, open gates! To the
front, men-at-arms, lances forward!"
For most of the mounted men who had fled were now safe, and on foot,
within the boulevard.
All this I heard and saw, in a glance, while my eyes were fixed on
the Maid and the few with her. They were lost from our sight, now
and again, in a throng of Picards, Englishmen, Burgundians, for all
have their part in this glory. Swords and axes fell and rose,
steeds countered and reeled, and then, they say, for this thing I
myself did not see, a Picard archer, slipping under the weapons and
among the horses' hoofs, tore the Maid from saddle by the long
skirts of her hucque, and they were all upon her. This befell
within half a stone's-throw of the drawbridge. While Flavy himself
toiled with his hands, and tore at the cranks and chains, the Maid
was taken under the eyes of us, who could not stir to help her. Now
was the day and the hour whereof the Saints told her not, though she
implored them with tears. Now in the throng below I heard a laugh
like the sound of a saw on stone, and one struck him that laughed on
the mouth. It was the laugh of that accursed Brother Thomas!
I had laid my face on my hands, being so weak, and was weeping for
very rage at that which my unhappy eyes had seen, when I heard the
laugh, and lifting my head and looking forth, I beheld the hood of
the cordelier.
"Seize him!" I cried to Father Francois, pointing down at the
cordelier. "Seize that Franciscan, he has betrayed her! Run, man,
it was he who cried in Flavy's voice, bidding them raise drawbridge
and let fall portcullis. The devil gave him that craft to
counterfeit men's voices. I know the man. Run, Father Francois,
run!"
"You are distraught with very grief," said the good father, the
tears running down his own cheeks; "that is Brother Thomas, the best
artilleryman in France, and Flavy's chief trust with the
couleuvrine. He came in but four days agone, and there was great
joy of his coming."
Thus was the Maid taken, by art and device of the devil and Brother
Thomas, and in no otherwise. They who tell that Flavy sold her,
closing the gates in her face, do him wrong; he was an ill man, but
loyal to France, as was seen by the very defence he made at
Compiegne, for there was none like it in this war. But of what
avail was that to us who loved the Maid? Rather, many times, would
I have died in that hour than have seen what I saw. For our enemies
made no more tarrying, nor any onslaught on the boulevard, but rode
swiftly back with the prize they had taken, with her whom they
feared more than any knight or captain of France. This page whereon
I work, in a hand feeble and old, and weary with much writing, is
blotted with tears that will not be held in. But we must bow humbly
to the will of God and of His Saints. "Dominus dedit, et Dominus
abstulit; benedictum sit nomen Domini."
Wherefore should I say more? They carried me back in litter over
the bridge, through the growing darkness. Every church was full of
women weeping and praying for her that was the friend of them, and
the playmate of their children, for all children she dearly loved.
Concerning Flavy, it was said, by them who loved him not, that he
showed no sign of sorrow. But when his own brother Louis fell,
later in the siege, a brother whom he dearly loved, none saw him
weep, or alter the fashion of his countenance; nay, he bade
musicians play music before him.
I besought the Prior, when I was borne home, that I might be carried
to Flavy, and tell him that I knew. But he forbade me, saying that,
in very truth, I knew nought, or nothing that could be brought
against a Churchman, and one in a place of trust. For I had not
seen the lips of the cordelier move when that command was given--
nay, at the moment I saw him not at all. Nor could I even prove to
others that he had this devilish art, there being but my oath
against his, and assuredly he would deny the thing. And though I
might be assured and certain within myself, yet other witness I had
none at all, nor were any of my friends there who could speak with
me. For D'Aulon, and Pasquerel, and Pierre du Lys had all been
taken with the Maid. It was long indeed before Pierre du Lys was
free, for he had no money to ransom himself withal. Therefore
Flavy, knowing me only for a wounded Scot of the Maid's, would think
me a brainsick man, and as like as not give me more of Oise river to
drink than I craved.
With these reasonings it behoved me to content myself. The night I
passed in prayers for the Maid, and for myself, that I might yet do
justice on that devil, or, at least, might see justice done. But
how these orisons were answered shall be seen in the end, whereto I
now hasten.
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