Joan of the Sword Hand

by S. R. Crockett

  CHAPTER L

  THE DIN OF BATTLE

  It was a strange uncouth band that Joan had got together in a handful ofminutes in order to accompany her to the field upon which, sullenlyretiring before a vastly more numerous enemy, Conrad and his little armystood at bay. Raw lathy lads, wide-hammed from sitting cross-legged intailors' workshops; prentices too wambly and knock-kneed to be taken atthe first draft; old men who had long leaned against street corners andrubbed the doorways of the cathedral smooth with their backs; asprinkling of stout citizens, reluctant and much afraid, but still moreafraid of the wrath of Joan of the Sword Hand.

  Joan was still scouring the lanes and intricate passages for laggardswhen Boris and Jorian entered the little square where this company wereassembled, most of them embracing their arbalists as if they had beensweeping besoms, and the rest holding their halberds as if they fearedthey would do themselves an injury.

  The nose of fat Jorian went so high into the air that, without intendingit, he found himself looking up at Boris; and at that moment Borischanced to be glancing at Jorian down the side of his high arched beak.

  To the herd of the uncouth soldiery it simply appeared as though the twowar-captains of Plassenburg looked at each other. An observer on theopposite side would have noted, however, that the right eye of Jorianand the left eye of Boris simultaneously closed.

  Yet when they turned their regard upon the last levy of the city ofCourtland their faces were grave.

  "Whence come these churchyard scourings, these skulls and crossbones setup on end?" cried Jorian in face of them all. And this saying from sostout a man made their legs wamble more than ever.

  "Rotboss rascals, rogues in grain," Boris took up the tale, "faith, itmakes a man scratch only to look at them! Did you ever see theirmarrow?"

  The two captains turned away in disgust. They walked to and fro a littleapart, and Boris, who loved all animals, kicked a dog that came his way.Boris was unhappy. He avoided Jorian's eye. At last he broke out.

  "We cannot let our Lady Joan set forth for field with such a compost ofmumpers and tun-barrels as these!" he said.

  Boris confided this, as it were to the housetops. Jorian apparently didnot listen. He was clicking his dagger in its sheath, but from his nextword it was evident that his mind had not been inactive.

  "What excuse could we make to Hugo, our Prince?" he said at last."Scarcely did he believe us the last time. And on this occasion we havehis direct orders."

  "Are we not still Envoys?" queried Boris.

  "Extraordinary!" twinkled Jorian, catching his comrade's idea as a bushof heather catches moorburn.

  "And as Envoys of a great principality like Plassenburg--representativesof the most noble Prince and Princess in this Empire, should we not ridewith retinue due and fitting? That is not taking the Palace Guard intobattle. It is only affording due protection to their Excellencies'representatives."

  "That sounds well enough," answered Boris doubtfully, "but will it standprobation, think you, when Hugo scowls at us from under his brows, andyou see the bar of the fifteen Red Axes of the Wolfmark stand red acrosshis forehead?"

  "Tut, man, his anger is naught to that of Karl the Miller's Son. Youand I have stood that. Why should we fear our quiet Hugo?"

  "Aye, aye; in our day we have tried one thing and then another upon Karland have borne up under his anger. But then Karl only cursed and usedgreat horned words, suchlike as in his youth he had heard the waggonersuse to encourage their horses up the mill brae. But Hugo--when he isangry he says nought, only the red bar comes up slowly, and as it growsdark and fiery you wish he would order you to the scaffold at once, andbe done with it!"

  "Well," said Jorian, "at all events, there is always our Helene. Iopine, whatever we do, she will not forget old days--the night at theearth-houses belike and other things. I think we may risk it!"

  "True," meditated Boris, "you say well. There is always Helene. TheLittle Playmate will not let our necks be stretched! Not at least forsuccouring a Princess in distress."

  "And a woman in love?" added Jorian, who, though he followed the lead ofthe long man in great things, had a shrewder eye for some more intimatematters.

  "Eh, what's that you say?" said Boris, turning quickly upon him. He hadbeen regarding with interest a shackled-kneed varlet holding a halberdin his arms as if it had been a fractious bairn.

  But Jorian was already addressing the company before him.

  "Here, ye unbaked potsherds--dismiss, if ye know what that means. Get yeto the walls, and if ye cannot stand erect, lean against them, and holdbrooms in your hands that the Muscovite may take them for muskets andyou for men if he comes nigh enough. Our Lady is not Joan of theDishclout, that such draught-house ragpickers as you should be pinned toher tail. Set bolsters stuffed with bran on the walls! Man the gateswith faggots. Cleave beech billets half in two and set them athwartwooden horses for officers. But insult not the sunshine by letting yourshadows fall outside the city. Break off! Dismiss! Go! Get out o'this!"

  As Jorian stood before the levies and vomited his insults upon them, agleam of joy passed across chops hitherto white like fish-bellies withthe fear of death. Bleared eyes flashed with relief. And there ran amurmur through the ragged ranks which sounded like "Thank you, greatcaptain!"

  * * * * *

  In a short quarter of an hour the drums of the Plassenburg Palace Guardhad beaten to arms. From gate to gate the light sea-wind had borne thecheerful trumpet call, and when Joan returned, heartless and downcast,with half a dozen more mouldy rascals, smelling of muck-rakes and dampstable straw, she found before her more than half the horsemen ofPlassenburg armed cap-a-pie in burnished steel. Whereat she could onlylook at Boris in astonishment.

  "Your Highness," said that captain, saluting gravely, "we are only ableto accompany you as Envoys Extraordinary of the Prince and Princess ofPlassenburg. But as such we feel it our duty in order properly tosupport our state, to take with us a suitable attendance. We are surethat neither Prince Hugo nor yet his Princess Helene would wish itotherwise!"

  Before Joan could reply a messenger came springing up the long narrowstreets along which the disbanded levies, so vigorously contemned ofJorian, were hurrying to their places upon the walls with a detail ofthe Plassenburg men behind them, driving them like sheep.

  Joan took the letter and opened it with a jerk.

  "From High Captain von Orseln to the Princess Joan.

  "Come with all speed, if you would be in time. We are hard beset. The enemy are all about us. Prince Conrad has ordered a charge!"

  The face of the woman whitened as she read, but at the same moment thefingers of Joan of the Sword Hand tightened upon the hilt. She read theletter aloud. There was no comment. Boris cried an order, Joriandropped to the rear, and the retinue of the Envoys Extraordinary swungout on the road towards the great battle.

  Outnumbered and beaten back by the locust flock which spread to eitherside, far outflanking and sometimes completely enfolding his small army,Prince Conrad still maintained himself by good generalship and the highpersonal courage which stimulated his followers. The hardy Kernsbergers,both horse and foot, whom Maurice had brought up, proved the backbone ofthe defence. Besides which Werner von Orseln had striven by rebuke andchastening, as well as by appeals to their honour, to impart somesteadiness into the Courtland ranks. But save the free knights from thelandward parts, who were driven wild by the sight of the ever-spreadingMuscovite desolation, there was little stamina among the burghers. Theywere, indeed, loud and turbulent upon occasion, but they understood butill any concerted action. In this they differed conspicuously from theirfellows of the Hansa League, or even from the clothweavers of theNetherland cities.

  As Joan and the war-captains of Plassenburg came nearer they heard a lowgrowling roar like the distant sound of the breakers on the outer shoreat Isle Rugen. It rose and fell as the fitful wind bore it towards them,but it never entirely ceased.

  The
y dashed through the fords of the Alla, the three hundred lances ofthe Plassenburg Guard clattering eagerly behind them. Joan led, on ablack horse which Conrad had given her. The two war-captains with onemind set their steel caps more firmly on their heads, and as his steedbreasted the river bank Jorian laughed aloud. Angrily Joan turned in hersaddle to see what the little man was laughing at. But with quickinstinct she perceived that he laughed only as the war-horse neighs whenhe scents the battle from afar. He was once more the born fighter ofmen. Jorian and his mate would never be generals, but they were the besttools any general could have.

  They came nearer. A few wreaths of smoke, hanging over the yet distantfield, told where Russ and Teuton met in battle array. A solemnslumberous reverberation heard at intervals split the dull general roarapart. It was the new cannon which had come from the Margraf George tohelp beat back the common foe. Again and again broke in upon theiradvance that appalling sound, which set the inward parts of menquivering. Presently they began to pass limping men hasting cityward,then fleeing and panic-stricken wretches who looked over their shouldersas if they saw steel flashing at their backs.

  A camp-marshal or two was trying to stay these, beating them over thehead and shoulders with the flat of their swords; but not a man of thePlassenburgers even looked towards them. Their eyes were on that distanttossing line dimly seen amid clouds of dust, and those strange wreathsof white smoke going upward from the cannons' mouths. The roar grewlouder; there were gaps in the fighting line; a banner went down amidgreat shouting. They could see the glinting of sunshine upon armour.

  "Kernsberg!" cried Joan, her sword high in the air as she set spurs inher black stallion and swept onward a good twenty yards before the rushof the horsemen of Plassenburg.

  Now they began to see the arching arrow-hail, grey against the skylinelike gnat swarms dancing in the dusk of summer trees. The quarrelsbuzzed. The great catapults, still used by the Muscovites, twanged likethe breaking of viol cords.

  The horses instinctively quickened their pace to take the wounded intheir stride. There--there was the thickest of the fray, where the greatcannon of the Margraf George thundered and were instantly wrapped intheir own white pall.

  "The sturdy form of Werner von Orseln, bestriding thebody of a fallen knight." [_Page 351_]]

  Joan's quick glance about her for Conrad told her nothing of hiswhereabouts. But the two war-captains, more experienced, perceived thatthe Muscovites were already everywhere victorious. Their horsemenoutflanked and overlapped the slender array of Courtland. Only aboutthe cannon and on the far right did any seem to be making a stand.

  "There!" cried Jorian, couching his lance, "there by the cannon is wherewe will get our bellyful of fighting."

  He pointed where, amid a confusion of fighting-men, wounded andstruggling horses, and the great black tubes of the Margraf's cannon,they saw the sturdy form of Werner von Orseln, grown larger through thesmoke and dusty smother, bestriding the body of a fallen knight. Hefought as one fights a swarm of angry bees, striking every way with adesperate courage.

  The charging squadrons of Plassenburg divided to pass right and left ofthe cannon. Joan first of all, with her sword lifted and crying notKernsberg now, but "Conrad! Conrad!" drave straight into the heart ofthe Cossack swarm. At the trampling of the horses' feet the Muscoviteslifted their eyes. They had been too intent to kill to waste a thoughton any possible succour.

  Joan felt herself strike right and left. Her heart was crazed within herso that she set spurs to her steed and rode him forward, plunging andfurious. Then a blowing wisp of white plume was swept aside, and througha helmet (broken as a nut shell is cracked and falls apart) Joan saw thefair head of her Prince. A trickle of blood wetted a clinging curl onhis forehead and stole down his pale cheek. Werner von Orseln, begrimedand drunken with battle, bestrode the body of Prince Conrad. Hisdefiance rose above the din of battle.

  "Come on, cowards of the North! Taste good German steel! To me,Kernsberg! To me, Hohenstein! Curs of Courtland, would ye desert yourPrince? Curses on you all, swart hounds of the Baltic! Let me out ofthis and never a dog of you shall ever bite bread again!"

  And so, foaming in his battle anger, the ancient war-captain would havestricken down his mistress. For he saw all things red and his heart wasbitter within him.

  With all the power that was in her, right and left Joan smote to clearher way to Conrad, praying that if she could not save him she might atleast die with him.

  But by this time Captains Boris and Jorian, leaving their horsemen toride at the second line, had wheeled and now came thrusting their lancesfreely into Cossack backs. These last, finding themselves thus taken inthe rear, turned and fled.

  "Hey, Werner, good lad, do not slay your comrades! Down blade, oldThirsty. Hast thou not drunken enough blood this morning?" So cried thewar-captains as Werner dashed the blood and tears out of his eyes.

  "Back! back!" he cried, as soon as he knew with whom he had to do. "Goback! Conrad is slain or hath a broken head. They were lashing at him ashe lay to kill him outright? Ah, viper, would you sting?" (He thrust awounded Muscovite through as he was crawling nearer to Conrad with abroad knife in his hand.) "These beaten curs of Courtlanders broke atthe first attack. Get him to horse! Quick, I say. My Lady Joan, what doyou do in this place?"

  For even while he spoke Joan had dismounted and was holding Conrad'shead on her lap. With the soft white kerchief which she wore on her helmas a favour she wiped the wound on his scalp. It was long, but did notappear to be very deep.

  As Werner stood astonished, gazing at his mistress, Boris summoned thetrumpeter who had wheeled with him.

  "Sound the recall!" he bade him. And in a moment clear notes rang out.

  "He is not dead! Lift him up, you two!" Joan cried suddenly. "No, I willtake him on my steed. It is the strongest, and I the lightest. I alonewill bear him in."

  And before any could speak she sprang into the saddle without assistancewith all her old lightness of action, most like that of a lithe lad whochases the colts in his father's croft that he may ride them bareback.

  So Werner von Orseln lifted the head and Boris the feet, bearing himtenderly that they might set him upon Joan's horse. And so firm was herseat (for she rode as the Maid rode into Orleans with Dunois on one sideand Gilles de Rais on the other), that she did not even quiver as shereceived the weight. The noble black looked round once, and then, as ifunderstanding the thing that was required of him, he gentled himself andbegan to pace slow and stately towards the city. On either side walkedtall Boris and sturdy Werner, who steadied the unconscious Prince withthe palms of their hands.

  Meanwhile the Palace Guard, with Jorian at its head, defended the slowretreat, while on the flanks Maurice and his staunch Kernsbergerschecked the victorious advance of the Muscovites. Yet the disaster wascomplete. They left the dead, they left the camp, they left themunitions of war. They abandoned the Margraf's cannon and all his greatstore of powder. And there were many that wept and some that only groundteeth and cursed as they fell back, and heard the wailing of the womenand saw the fear whitening on the faces they loved.

  Only the Kernsbergers bit their lips and watched the eye of Maurice, bywhose side a slim page in chain-mail had ridden all day with visor down.And the men of the Palace Guard prayed for Prince Hugo to come.

  As for Joan, she cared nothing for victory or defeat, loss or gain,because that the man she loved leaned on her breast, bleeding and verystill.

  Yet with great gentleness she gave him down into loving hands, andafterwards stood marble-pale beside the couch while Theresa von Lynarunlaced his armour and washed his wounds. Then, nerving herself to seehim suffer, she murmured over to herself, once, twice, and a hundredtimes, "God help me to do so and more also to those who have wroughtthis--specially to Louis of Courtland and Ivan of Muscovy."

  "Abide ye, little one--be patient. Vengeance will come to both!" saidTheresa. "I, who do not promise lightly, promise it you!"

  And she laid her hand on the gir
l's shoulder. Never before had theDuchess Joan been called "little one!" Yet for all her brave deeds shelaid her head on Theresa's shoulder, murmuring, "Save him--save him! Icannot bear to lose him. Pray for him and me!"

  Theresa kissed her brow.

  "Ah," she said, "the prayers of such as Theresa von Lynar would availlittle. Yet she may be a weapon in the hand of the God of vengeance. Isit not written that they that take the sword shall perish by the sword?"

  But already Joan had forgotten vengeance. For now the surgeons ofCourtland stood about, and she murmured, "Must he die? Tell me, will hedie?"

  And as the wise men silently shook their heads, the crying of thevictorious Muscovites could be heard outside the wall.

  Then ensued a long silence, through which broke a gust of iron-throatedlaughter. It was the roar of the Margraf's captured cannon firing thesalvo of victory.