A Monk of Fife
None the less we endured, despite the murmuring of the commons, so strong are men’s hearts; moreover, all France lay staked on this one cast of the dice, no less than at Orleans in the year before.
Somewhat we were kept in heart by tidings otherwise bitter. For word came that the Maid, being in ward at Beaurevoir, a strong place of Jean de Luxembourg, had leaped in the night from the top of the tower, and had, next morning, been taken up all unhurt, as by, miracle, but astounded and bereft of her senses. For this there was much sorrow, but would to God that He had taken her to Himself in that hour!
Nevertheless, when she was come to herself again, she declared, by inspiration of the Saints, that Compiègne should be delivered before the season of Martinmas. Whence I, for one, drew great comfort, nor ever again despaired, and many were filled with courage when this tidings came to our ears, hoping for some miracle, as at Orleans.
Now, too, God began to take pity upon us; for, on August the fifteenth, the eighty-fifth day of the siege, came news to the Duke of Burgundy that Philip, Duke of Brabant, was dead, and he must go to make sure of that great heritage. The Duke having departed, the English Earls had far less heart for the leaguer; I know not well wherefore, but now, at least, was seen the truth of that proverb concerning the “eye of the master.” The bastille, too, which our enemies had made to prevent us from going out by our Pierrefonds Gate on the landward side, was negligently built, and of no great strength. All this gave us some heart, so much that my hosts, the good Jacobins, and the holy sisters of the Convent of St. John, stripped the lead from their roofs, and bestowed it on the town, for munition of war. And when I was in case to walk upon the walls, and above the river, I might see men and boys diving in the water and searching for English cannon-balls, which we shot back at the English.
It chanced, one day, that I was sitting and sunning myself in the warm September weather, on a settle in a secure place hard by the Chapel Gate. With me was Barthélemy Barrette, for it was the day of Our Lady’s Feast, that very day whereon we had failed before Paris last year, and there was truce for the sacred season. We fell to devising of what had befallen that day year, and without thought I told Barthélemy of my escape from prison, and so, little by little, I opened my heart to him concerning Brother Thomas and all his treasons.
Never was man more astounded than Barthélemy; and he bade me swear by the Blessed Trinity that all this tale was true.
“Mayhap you were fevered,” he said, “when you lay in the casement seat, and saw the Maid taken by device of the cordelier.”
“I was no more fevered than I am now, and I swear, by what oath you will, and by the bones of St. Andrew, which these sinful hands have handled, that Flavy’s face was set the other way when that cry came, ‘Down portcullis, up drawbridge, close gates!’ And now that I have told you the very truth, what should I do?”
“Brother Thomas should burn for this,” quoth Barthélemy; “but not while the siege endures. He carries too many English lives in his munition-box. Nor can you slay him in single combat, or at unawares, for the man is a priest. Nor would Flavy, who knows you not, listen to such a story.”
So there he sat, frowning, and plucking at his beard. “I have it,” he said; “D’Aulon is no further off than Beaulieu, where Jean de Luxembourg holds him till he pays his ransom. When the siege is raised, if ever we are to have succour, then purchase safe-conduct to D’Aulon, take his testimony, and bring it to Flavy.”
As he spoke, some stir in the still air made me look up, and suddenly throw my body aside; and it was well, for a sword swept down from the low parapet above our heads, and smote into the back of that settle whereon we were sitting.
Ere I well knew what had chanced, Barthélemy was on his feet, his whinger flew from his hand, and he, leaping up on to the parapet, was following after him who smote at me.
In the same moment a loud grating voice cried —
“The Maid shall burn, and not the man,” and a flash of light went past me, the whinger flying over my head and clipping into the water of the moat below.
Rising as I best might, but heedfully, I spied over the parapet, and there was Barthélemy coming back, his naked sword in his hand.
“The devil turned a sharp corner and vanished,” he said. “And now where are we? We have a worse foe within than all the men of Burgundy without. There goes the devil’s tally!” he cried, and threw the little carven rod far from him into the moat, where it fell and floated.
“No man saw this that could bear witness; most are in church, where you and I should have been,” I said.
Then we looked on each other with blank faces.
“My post is far from his, and my harness is good,” said Barthélemy; “but for you, beware!” Thenceforth, if I saw any cowl of a cordelier as I walked, I even turned and went the other way.
I was of no avail against this wolf, whom all men praised, so serviceable was he to the town.
Once an arbalest bolt struck my staff from my hand as I walked, and I was fain to take shelter of a corner, yet saw not whence the shot came.
Once a great stone fell from a turret, and broke into dust at my feet, and it is not my mind that a cannon-ball had loosened it.
Thus my life went by in dread and watchfulness. No more bitter penance may man dree than was mine, to be near this devil, and have no power to avenge my deadly quarrel. There were many heavy hearts in the town; for, once it was taken, what man could deem his life safe, or what woman her honour? But though they lay down and rose up in fear, and were devoured by desire of revenge, theirs was no such thirst as mine.
So the days went on, and darkened towards the promised season of Martinmas, but there dawned no light of hope. Now, on the Wednesday before All Saints, I had clambered up into the tower of the Church of the Jacobins, on the north-east of the city, whence there was a prospect far and wide. With me were only two of the youngest of the fathers. I looked down into the great forest of Pierrefonds, and up and down Oise, and beheld the army of our enemies moving in divers ways. The banners of the English and their long array were crossing the Duke of Burgundy’s new bridge of wood, that he had builded from Venette, and with them the men of Jean de Luxembourg trooped towards Royaulieu. On the crest of their bastille, over against our Pierrefonds Gate, matches were lighted and men were watching in double guard, and the same on the other side of the water, at the Gate Margny. Plainly our foes expected a rescue sent to us of Compiègne by our party. But the forest, five hundred yards from our wall, lay silent and peaceable, a sea of brown and yellow leaves.
Then, while the English and Burgundian men-at-arms, that had marched south and east, were drawn up in order of battle away to the right between wood and water, behold, trumpets sounded, faint enough, being far off. Then there was a glitter of the pale sun on long lines of lance-points, under the banners of French captains, issuing out from the forest, over against the enemy. We who stood on the tower gazed long at these two armies, which were marshalled orderly, with no more than a bowshot and a half between them, and every moment we looked to see them charge upon each other with the lance. Much we prayed to the Saints, for now all our hope was on this one cast. They of Burgundy and of England dismounted from their horses, for the English ever fight best on foot, and they deemed that the knights of France would ride in upon them, and fall beneath the English bows, as at Azincour and Crecy. We, too, looked for nought else; but the French array never stirred, though here and there a knight would gallop forth to do a valiance. Seldom has man seen a stranger sight in war, for the English and Burgundians could not charge, being heavy-armed men on foot, and the French would not move against them, we knew not wherefore.
All this spectacle lay far off, to the south, and we could not be satisfied with wondering at it nor turn away our eyes, when, on the left, a trumpet rang out joyously. Then, all of us wheeling round as one man, we saw the most blessed sight, whereto our backs had been turned; for, into the Chapel Gate – that is, far to the left of the Pierrefonds Gate on the north-east – were streaming cattle, sheep and kine, pricked on and hastened by a company of a hundred men-at-arms. They had come by forest paths from Choisy way, and anon all our guns on the boulevard of the Pierrefonds Gate burst forth at once against the English bastille over against it. Now this bastille, as I have said, had never been strongly builded, and, in some sort, was not wholly finished.
After one great volley of guns against the bastille, we, looking down into our boulevard of the Pierrefonds Gate, saw the portcullis raised, the drawbridge lowered, and a great array of men-at-arms carrying ladders rush out, and charge upon the bastille. Then, through the smoke and fire, they strove to scale the works, and for the space of half an hour all was roar of guns; but at length our men came back, leaving many slain, and the running libbards grinned on the flag of England.
I might endure no longer, but, clambering down the tower stairs as best I might, for I was still lame, I limped to my lodgings at the Jacobins, did on my harness, and, taking a horse from the stable, I mounted and rode to the Pierrefonds Gate. For Brother Thomas and his murderous ways I had now no care at all.
Never, sure, saw any man such a sight. Our boulevard was full, not only of men-at-arms, but of all who could carry clubs, burgesses armed, old men, boys, yea, women and children, some with rusty swords, some with carpenters’ axes, some bearing cudgels, some with hammers, spits, and knives, all clamouring for the portcullis to rise and let them forth. Their faces were lean and fierce, their eyes were like eyes of wolves, for now, they cried, was the hour, and the prophecy of the Maid should be fulfilled! Verily, though she lay in bonds, her spirit was with us on that day!
But still our portcullis was down, and the long tail of angry people stretched inwards, from the inner mouth of the boulevard, along the street, surging like a swollen loch against its barrier.
On the crest of the boulevard was Flavy, baton in hand, looking forth across field and forest, watching for I knew not what, while still the people clamoured to be let go. But he stood like the statue of a man-at-arms, and from the bastille of the Burgundians the arrows rained around him, who always watched, and was still. Now the guards of the gate had hard work to keep the angry people back, who leaped and tore at the men-at-arms arrayed in front of them, and yelled for eagerness to issue forth and fight.
Suddenly, on the crest of the boulevard, Flavy threw up his arm and gave one cry —
“Xaintrailles!”
Then he roared to draw up portcullis and open gates; the men-at-arms charged forth, the multitude trampled over each other to be first in field, I was swept on and along with them through the gate, and over the drawbridge, like a straw on a wave, and, lo! a little on our left was the banner of Pothon de Xaintrailles, his foremost men dismounting, the rearguard just riding out from the forest. The two bands joined, we from Compiègne, the four hundred of Xaintrailles from the wood, and, like two swollen streams that meet, we raced towards the bastille, under a rain of arrows and balls. Nothing could stay us: a boy fell by my side with an arrow thrilling in his breast, but his brother never once looked round. I knew not that I could run, but run I did, though not so fast as many, and before I reached the bastille our ladders were up, and the throng was clambering, falling, rising again, and flowing furiously into the fort. The townsfolk had no thought but to slay and slay; five or six would be at the throat of one Burgundian man-at-arms; hammers and axes were breaking up armour, knives were scratching and searching for a crevice; women, lifting great stone balls, would stagger up to dash them on the heads of the fallen. Of the whole garrison, one-half, a hundred and sixty men-at-arms, were put to the sword. Only Pothon de Xaintrailles, and the gentlemen with him, as knowing the manner of war, saved and held to ransom certain knights, as Messire Jacques de Brimeu, the Seigneur de Crepy, and others; while, for my own part, seeing a knight assailed by a knot of clubmen, I struck in on his part, for gentle blood must ever aid gentle blood, and so, not without shrewd blows on my salade, I took to ransom Messire Collart de Bertancourt.
Thereafter, very late, and in the twilight of October the twenty-fifth, we turned back to Compiègne, leaving the enemies’ bastille in a flame behind us, while in front were blazing the bonfires of the people of the good town. And, in Compiègne, we heard how the English and the main army of Burgundians had turned, late in the day, and crossed by the Duke of Burgundy’s bridge, leaving men to keep guard there. So our victory was great, and wise had been the prudence of the French captains, subtlety being the mother of victory; for, without a blow struck, they had kept Jean de Luxembourg, and the Earls of Huntingdon and Arundel, waiting idle all day, while their great bastille was taken by Xaintrailles and the townsfolk, and food was brought into Compiègne. Thus for the second time I passed a night of joy in a beleaguered town, for there was music in every street, the churches full of people praising God for this great deliverance, men and maids dancing around bonfires, yet good watch was kept at the gates and on the towers. Next day we expected battle, but our spies brought in tidings that Burgundians and English had decamped in the dawn, their men deserting. That day was not less joyful than the night had been; for at Royaulieu, in the abbey where Jean de Luxembourg had lain, the townsfolk found all manner of meat, and of wine great plenty, so right good cheer we made, for it cost us nothing.
CHAPTER XXVIII – HOW THE BURGUNDIANS HUNTED HARES, WITH THE END OF THAT HUNTING
“Tell me, what tidings of him?” Barthélemy Barrette asked me, on the day after that unbought feast at Royaulieu.
He was sitting in the noonday sun on the bridge of Compiègne, and strange it was to see the place so battered yet so peaceful after five months of war. The Oise sliding by and rippling on the piers was not more quiet than this bridge of many battles, yet black in places with dried-up blood of men slain. “Tidings can I find none,” I answered. “He who saw the cordelier last was on guard in the boulevard during the great charge. He marked Brother Thomas level his couleuvrine now and again, as we ran for the bastille, and cried out to him to aim higher, for that the ball would go amongst us.”
“You were his target, I make no doubt,” said Barthélemy, “but by reason of the throng he had no certain aim.”
“After we broke into the bastille, I can find no man who has set eyes on him,” and I cursed the cordelier for very rage.
“He is well away, if he stays away: you and I need scarce any longer pray for eyes in the backs of our heads. But what make we next?”
“I have but one thought,” I said: “to pluck the Maid out of the hands of the English, for now men say that she is sold to them by Jean of Luxembourg. They mean to take her to Arras, and so by Crotoy at the mouth of Seine, and across Normandy to Rouen. Save her France must, for the honour of France.”
“My mind is the same,” he said, and fell into a muse. “Hence the straight road, and the shortest,” he said at last, “is by Beauvais on to Rouen, where she will lie in chains,” and drawing his dagger he scratched lines on the bridge parapet with its point. “Here is Compiègne; there, far to the west, is the sea, and here is Rouen. That straight line,” which he scratched, “goes to Rouen from Compiègne. Here, midway, is Beauvais, whereof we spoke, which town we hold. But there, between us and Beauvais, is Clermont, held by Crêvecoeur for the Burgundians, and here, midway between Beauvais and Rouen, is Gournay, where Kyriel and the Lord Huntingdon lie with a great force of English. Do you comprehend? We must first take Clermont ere we can ride to rescue the Maid at Rouen!”
“The King should help us,” I said. “For what is the army that has delivered Compiègne but a set of private bands, under this gentleman’s flag or that, some with Boussac, some with Xaintrailles, some with a dozen others, and victuals are hard to come by.”
“Ay, many a peaceful man sits by the fire and tells how great captains should have done this, and marched there, never thinking that men fight on their bellies. And the King should help us, and march with D’Alençon through Normandy from the south, while our companies take Clermont if we may, and drive back the English and Burgundians. But you know the King, and men say that the Archbishop of Reims openly declares that the Maid is rightly punished for her pride. He has set up a mad shepherd-boy to take her place, Heaven help him! who can fight as well as that stone can swim,” and he dropped a loose stone over the bridge into the water.
“Whoever stays at home, we take the field,” I said; “let us seek counsel of Xaintrailles.”
We rose and went to the Jacobins, where Xaintrailles was lodged, and there found him at his déjeuner.
He was a tall young knight, straight as a lance, lean as a greyhound; for all his days his sword had won his meat; and he was hardy, keen, and bright, with eyes of steel in a scarred face, and his brow was already worn bald with the helmet. When he walked his legs somewhat straggled apart, by reason of his much riding.
Xaintrailles received us in the best manner, we telling him that we had ridden with the Maid, that I was of her own household, and that to save her we were willing to go far, and well knew that under no banner could we be so forward as under his.
“I would all my company were as honest as I take you twain to be,” he said, “and I gladly receive you under my colours with any men you can bring.”
“Messire, I have a handful of horse of the Maid’s company,” said Barthélemy, hardily; “but when do we march, for to-day is better than to-morrow.”
“As soon as may be,” said the knight; “the Maréchal de Boussac leads us against Clermont. That town we cannot leave behind us when we set forth from Beauvais. But, with these great bombards, which we have won from the Burgundians, we may have reason of Clermont, and then,” clapping his hands together, and looking up, “then for Rouen! We shall burst the cage and free the bird, God willing!”
He stood like one in prayer, crossing himself, and our hearts turned to him in loyalty.
“If but the King will send a force to join hands with La Hire in Louviers, the English shall have news of you, Messire!” I made bold to say.
“Ay, if!” quoth Xaintrailles, and his face grew darker, “but we must make good speedy for the midwinter draws nigh.”
Therewith we left him, and, in few days, were marching on Clermont, dragging with long trains of horses the great bombards of the Burgundians.
To our summons Messire de Crêvecoeur answered knightly, that Clermont he would hold till death or rescue, so we set to battering his house about his ears. But, alas! after four days a sentinel of ours saw, too late, an English knight with nine men slip through the vines, under cover of darkness, and win a postern gate in the town wall. Soon we heard a joy-fire of guns within Clermont town, and foreboded the worst. At midnight came a peasant to Xaintrailles, with tidings that a rescue was riding to Clermont, and next morning it was boots and saddles and away, so hastily that we left behind us the great bombards of the Burgundians. On this they made much mirth; but they laugh best who laugh last, as shall he seen.
And the cause of our going was that the Earl of Huntingdon had ridden out of Gournay, in Normandy, with a great force of English, to deliver Clermont. Against foes within the town and foes without the town the captains judged that we were of no avail. So we departed, heavy at heart. Now the companies scattered, and Barthélemy and I, sorry enough, rode behind Xaintrailles, due north to Guermigny, whence we threatened Amiens.
At Guermigny, then, for a short season, lay Xaintrailles, gathering all the force he might along the Picardy marches, for the Duke of Burgundy was in Peronne, full of wrath and sorrow, so many evils had befallen him. For ourselves, we were in no gentler temper, having lost our hope of pushing on to Rouen.
I was glad, therefore, when Xaintrailles himself rode one day to the door of our lodging in Guermigny, strode clanging into our chamber, and asked if we were alone? We telling him that none was within ear-shot, he sat him down on the table, playing with his dagger hilt, and, with his hawk’s eye on Barthélemy, asked, “You know this land well?”
“I have ridden over it, in war or peace, since I was a boy.”
“How far to Lihons?”
“A matter of two leagues.”
“What manner of country lies between?”
“Chiefly plain, rude and untilled, because of the distresses of these times. There is much heath and long grasses, a great country for hares.”
“Know you any covert nigh the road?”
“There runs a brook that the road crosses by a bridge, midway between Guermigny and Lihons. The banks are steep, and well wooded with such trees and undergrowth as love water.”
“You can guide me thither?”
“There is no missing the road.”
“God could not have made this land better for me, if He had asked my counsel,” said Xaintrailles. “You can keep your own?”
“Nom Dieu, yea!” said Barthélemy.
“And your Scots friend I can trust. A good-day to you, and thanks many.”
Thereupon he went forth.
“What has he in his mind?” I asked Barthélemy.
“Belike an ambush. The Duke of Burgundy lies at Peronne, and has mustered a great force. Lihons is midway between us and Peronne, and is in the hands of Burgundy. I deem Xaintrailles has tidings that they intend to ride from Peronne to Lihons to-night, and thence make early onfall on us to-morrow. Being heavy-pated men of war, and bemused with their strong wine, they know not, belike, that we have more with us than the small garrison of Guermigny. And we are to await them on the road, I doubt not. You shall see men that wear your cross of St. Andrew, but not of your colour.”
I shame not to say that of bushments in the cold dawn I had seen as much as I had stomach for, under Paris. But if any captain was wary in war, and knew how to discover whatsoever his enemy designed, that captain was Xaintrailles. None the less I hoped in my heart that his secret tidings of the Burgundian onfall had not come through a priest, and namely a cordelier.
Dawn found us mounted, and riding at a foot’s-pace through the great plain which lies rough and untilled between Guermigny and Lihons. All grey and still it was, save for a cock crowing from a farmstead here and there on the wide wold, broken only by a line of trees that ran across the way.
Under these trees, which were mainly poplars and thick undergrowth of alders about the steep banks of a little brook, we were halted, and here took cover, our men lying down.
“Let no man stir, or speak, save when I speak to him, whatever befalls, on peril of his life,” said Xaintrailles, when we were all disposed in hiding. Then touching me on the shoulder that I should rise, he said —
“You are young enough to climb a tree; are your eyes good?”
“I commonly was the first that saw the hare in her form, when we went coursing at home, sir.”
“Then up this tree with you! keep outlook along the road, and hide yourself as best you may in the boughs. Throw this russet cloak over your harness.” It was shrewdly chill in the grey November morning, a hoarfrost lying white on the fields. I took the cloak gladly and bestowed myself in the tree, so that I had a wide view down Lihons way, whence we expected our enemies, the road running plain to see for leagues, like a ribbon, when once the low sun had scattered the mists. It was a long watch, and a weary, my hands being half frozen in my steel gauntlets. Many of our men slept; if ever a wayfarer crossed the bridge hard by he was stopped, gagged, and trussed in a rope’s end. But wayfarers were few, and all were wandering afoot. I was sorry for two lasses, who crossed on some business of their farm, but there was no remedy.
