In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  In Chécy it appeared that the entire population had left the city to greet Jeanne the Maid, who was coming from the north. When Dunois and his men rode out of the gates, they found the full force of auxiliary and commissariat troops standing and waiting for them in the fields.

  “By my faith, a vanguard of priests!” La Hire roared with laughter.

  Indeed, the front lines of Jeanne’s army seemed to consist of nothing but friars, led by an Augustine monk who carried a banner depicting the crucified Christ. Dunois paid no attention to la Hire’s curses and jeers; he ran his eyes swiftly over the ranks. A white banner was moving toward him, painted with gold lilies and brightly-colored figures. The troops parted to make way for a small procession: a horseman in a white breastplate on a black horse, followed by two shieldbearers and a few armored knights with their grooms and pages. Dunois dismounted and walked to meet them. He saw that the rider in the white cuirass holding the banner was Jeanne. She reined in her horse and looked down upon him with grave bright eyes.

  “Are you the Bastard of Orléans?”

  “Yes, I am hé.” Dunois returned her searching look. “Your arrival pleases me more than I can say.”

  Jeanne frowned; a shadow passed over her open, strong young face.

  “Is it true that you gave orders to the captains who came with me from Blois to lead me along the river bank and make sure that I did not do what / wanted—that is to go directly to the place where Talbot and Suffolk and their English are camping?”

  “Certainly, I did that.” Dunois nodded. “It seemed to me and to men who are much more experienced in these matters than I, that it would be wise to avoid a confrontation with the English now.”

  “In God’s name!” cried Jeanne heatedly and so loud that everyone near them hushed to listen. “Do you claim to know more than God, our supreme Lord and Sovereign? I bring you the help and support of God, a greater help does not exist. And God does not do it because of me, but because of the intercession of Saint Louis and Charlemagne. He will not let the English conquer Orléans. He will restore our Duke, Monseigneur d’Orléans to freedom.”

  ‘That would be a great blessing—for me and for France,” Dunois said earnestly. He was careful not to smile at these childish words, spoken with such fervent conviction. “I have no more heart felt wish than this, that God should allow my unfortunate brother to return to us.”

  Jeanne stared at him fixedly with her large, very bright hazel eyes. “That He will surely do, Bastard, for after Monseigneur the Dauphin, He loves the Duke of Orléans best. And I tell you that in coming battles, I shall capture many important Englishmen, prisoners of war, whom we can offer in exchange for Monseigneur. It is a great outrage that the English should attack Monseigneur’s cities and dominions now that he cannot defend them. They do not understand the meaning of chivalry.”

  Dunois turned his head away. He was both amused and touched. The word “chivalry” sounded odd enough in the mouth of a peasant girl who had once spent her time tending sheep. It was obvious that she did not have the slightest understanding of military operations, of politics and strategy, of the art of war. That did not surprise him—how could she know anything about it? What she surely possessed in large measure was that indescribable, inexplicable quality which a leader has: the air of quiet authority, the ability to overcome opposition, the steadfast self-assurance, all the more remarkable in a girl whose grandparents had been serfs. She looked the way an archangel might be thought to look: radiant and militant. Above the white breastplate, her fresh broad face with its strong features shone with the same inner light that must have illumined the faces of Saint Michael and Saint George when they slew the dragon. Over her head with its thick short brown hair fluttered the snow-white banner, painted on one side with the image of God the Father sitting on a rainbow, and on the other with the golden lilies of France. She sat her horse well, erect, her long legs stretched to the stirrups. Behind her, her shieldbearer carried her weapons and a second ensign depicting Our Lady. A number of prominent captains in the King’s army had come with her from Blois.

  Dunois could not hide his pleasure and satisfaction; if anyone could breathe new life into the enterprise, even if it were only by her presence, it would be the Maid. He could not and he did not wish to lose himself in the question of whether she had really been sent by God or even whether she had the gift of prophecy. He knew only that she had arrived at a crucial moment. At this time of deep distress the words of kings, the commands of generals, the inspiration and blessing of the church were no longer important. This, he thought, was Jeanne’s greatest strength, that her arrival, her bear ing and her appearance were unlike anything that had ever been seen before. She was completely new, utterly original and as unexpected as miracles always are.

  There are able and brave men enough in the army, thought Dunois, staring at Jeanne, but let her come with us. She will give us the unity, the driving force, the enthusiasm which we lost a hundred years ago. She will be for us what the holy banner of the oriflamme was, a mark of God’s favor; at least our men must feel that way. And I don’t doubt that they will.

  “Come, ride beside me, Bastard,” said Jeanne suddenly, with a gesture that would have become a king. “And now and later be my right hand when we must fight. You are my friend and brother-at-arms.”

  While they rode over the road from Checy to the ferry dock opposite Orléans, Jeanne pursued the conversation.

  “Where do the English lie now?” she asked, looking across the Loire.

  “Wait till we reach the bend in the river,” Dunois replied. “Then we can make out their flags on the fortress of Tourelles.”

  “They will not wave there much longer,” Jeanne smiled, staring before her with wide eyes. Dunois, wanting to discover the secret source of her confidence, said softly, “I ask myself this question: if God wanted to help us, why didn’t He drive out the English before this?”

  La Hire, riding directly behind Dunois, overheard this and began to laugh, although less boisterously than usual; he could not help being somewhat impressed by Jeanne’s imposing demeanor. She won’t be able to answer that question so easily, he thought, leaning forward in the saddle to listen intendy.

  Jeanne became annoyed.

  “It is as plain and clear as the day,” she said. For the first time her Lorraine accent was noticeable. “If we fight gallandy, God will surely give us the victory. If we remain united and sin neither by word nor by deed against God’s commandments, He will help us. We shall not receive the victory as a gift; we shall have to sacrifice blood and sweat for it, Bastard.”

  “Mort de ma foi, she can talk,” said the Breton captain, shoving back his leather casque to scratch his head. Jeanne looked back at him.

  “La Hire can swear,” she remarked calmly.

  “By the eternal pain of Hell! How did you know my name is la Hire?”

  “In my troop no one swears any more,” she said, still looking back at la Hire. “I have forbidden it. And the very first day I drove away the whores and kept women who bring disgrace upon the army. I tolerate no lewdness and no dirty talk among my men. If you wish to serve in my troop, la Hire, you must leave off cursing. This is a holy struggle.”

  “Thunder and the Devil! Then I won’t be able to open my mouth any more!” La Hire was too taken aback to be offended.

  “Say rather, ‘by my staff!5 55 Jeanne advised him good-naturedly, pointing to the captain’s truncheon which la Hire, like Dunois and the other commanders, wore on his belt. “Then we will both have our way and God will not be offended.”

  “By my…staff!” mumbled la Hire, dumbfounded at his own docility.

  “You manage soldiers well, Jeanne,” said Dunois. “That is important. And yet you have always lived far away from war and fighting men, there in Domremy.”

  “That’s not true, Bastard.” Jeanne turned back to look gravely at him. “Year in, year out, our place swarmed with fugitives who had been driven out of their villages and farm
s by the English and the Burgundians. Many is the time we have given shelter to starving, exhausted people. And we ourselves were once driven into the forests. When we came back, they had set our church on fire and plundered our houses. No, I know very well what war is. I would sit and weep for France if I did not know that my task is to fight for my country instead of spending my time wailing. That is why I was born, you see. I must free France and fetch the Dauphin to Reims—and that I will do. But quick, Bastard, quick, for my time is short.”

  “Why, Jeanne?” Dunois asked, amazed. But she shook her head and closed her eyes as though in sudden pain. It was clear that she did not want to talk further about it.

  Dunois continued, “I wish that you could transfer some of your courage to our King. He has bitter need of it.”

  Jeanne’s eyes lit up again with joy.

  “Oh, he feels certain now, Bastard, believe me. He is our sovereign, the lawful heir of France.”

  “Did you tell him that when you spoke with him at Chinon?”

  Jeanne did not answer, although she continued to smile. At a bend in the river Dunois extended his arm. “There lies Orléans.”

  She stood in the stirrups and looked in the direction he pointed.

  “Why don’t the English attack us?” she asked, after a few moments. “I thought they would stop us from entering the city.”

  “The English have suffered many reverses lately. Then too, we now outnumber them. We have to thank our own spineless attitude since the Batrie of the Herrings for the fact that they can maintain their fortifications before Orléans. They have calmly spent the winter directly under the walls and we have done nothing to them worth mentioning. They are so certain of the victory that they do not even trouble to fight for it.”

  “Oh, they are mistaken.” Jeanne rode ahead more rapidly, her eyes fixed on the city on the other side of the water. The roofs and towers were outlined darkly against the translucent evening sky, streaked with red and yellow. The river was filled with ships crowded with soldiers and ordinary people who carried flags, banners, torches and garlands of light green leaves. In the evening glow, the auxiliary troops approached Orléans; the men moved in well-ordered ranks along the road, the ships of the convoy glided slowly over the river. What Dunois had hardly dared to hope for, he now saw with his own eyes: the people of Orléans were beside themselves with enthusiasm and joy.

  They stared at Jeanne as though she were God Himself; when she rode into the city after crossing the river with Dunois, the army captains and her retinue, the people awaited her in the streets in such vast numbers that the procession could advance only a step at a time. Everyone wanted to see Jeanne up close, to touch her horse or the skirt of her tunic. Many women and children fell to their knees, as was the custom when a religious procession was passing. Jeanne greeted everyone with a smile and spoke to those who crowded nearest to her.

  “We shall save Orléans! Be easy, God will drive the English from the land, but we must be brave and strive with all our might, people,” she said again and again as she lifted her banner high so that everyone could see the image of God the Father with a globe in His hand.

  As they rode through one of the squares, a priest emerged from a church porch holding a crucifix straight before him.

  “Stop!” Jeanne said to Dunois. “He thinks I am bewitched. Come here, brother,” she called in her clear, penetrating voice, as she stood in the stirrups. “I shall not fly away or vanish in a cloud of smoke!”

  To a group of women who offered her their rosaries to touch so that she could consecrate them, she said in good-natured mockery, “Do it yourselves, the rosaries will be just as good.”

  Dunois felt so happy that he had an urge to laugh aloud. It was almost too good to be true: Jeanne had courage and convictions and healthy good sense besides. During this ride through streets filled with elated, grateful people, a deep affection for Jeanne was born in Dunois’ heart. It was a wonderful feeling that in no way resembled the comradeship which Dunois had felt for some men or the passion aroused in him by women. In his eyes Jeanne was neither man nor woman; she seemed a creature of that order to which children and angels belong, serene and simple, without any real understanding of sin and darkness and, out of pure kindness, moved as quickly to pity as to joy.

  When he knelt beside her in the cathedral of Orléans, where a welcoming service was held in her honor, an inexplicable wave of fear and grief washed over him for an instant; through a haze of incense he saw the glow of the candle flames on the altar, many pointed fiery tongues quivering white and gold before the dull polished triptych; the voices of the choirboys rose ringing to the vaulted ceiling. Jeanne prayed aloud with open eyes. Glancing at her profile, Dunois suddenly realized that there was good reason for his fear. Those who differ so much from their fellowmen have a hard time in the world. Dunois, who intended to stand beside her and protect her as much as possible by sharing the exceptionally heavy task which she had taken upon herself, understood that there was great danger in success as well as in failure; he knew all too well the atmosphere at the court of Bourges, the King’s uncertainty and the inclination of the people in general to shout “Hosanna!” today and “Crucify him!” tomorrow. He put his hands together more firmly on the hilt of his sword and bowed his head in prayer.

  On the way to the dwelling of Jean Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orléans—Jeanne would spend the night there—she was at her most cheerful.

  “Tomorrow the rest of the convoy is arriving,” she said to Dunois as they rode through the dark streets accompanied by torch-bearers. “I go to meet the men as soon as it gets light. But this time I will do it my own way, Bastard. We enter Orléans along the left bank of the Loire, past the Beauce side between the English fortifications. Believe me now and wait, the English will not even shoot at us from their fortresses. They will not dare to harm us when my vanguard of priests sings “Veni Creator”. And when all the provisions are inside the city, we can make a sortie and conquer one of the strongholds. Don’t argue with me, Bastard, it will happen as I say. Courage and faith in the power of God—we don’t need anything more!”

  “Hm,” said Dunois, tongue in cheek. “It’s possible you’re right, Jeanne. You’re in command here. I won’t oppose you.”

  “Not I, but this banner leads the armies, Bastard!” Carefully, with her left hand, Jeanne touched the gilded fringe of the great flag. “It will lead us to victory. And then when the enemy is beaten and Monseigneur the Dauphin is crowned in Reims as is proper, we will go and free the Duke of Orléans. If I must, I will cross over to England to fetch him. I have told this to the Duke’s daughter and son-in-law too, Madame and Monseigneur d’Alençon whom I visited in Saumur. How long has the Duke been a prisoner in England, Bastard?”

  Dunois, his eyes fixed on the torch flames dancing before the procession, answered, “Fourteen years.”

  Nouvelles ont coum en France

  Par mains lieux que j’estoye mort;

  Dont avoient peu desplaisance

  Aucuns qui me hayent a tort;

  Autres en ont eu desconfort,

  Qui m’ayment de loyal vouloir,

  Comme mes bons et vrais amis.

  Si fais a toutes gens savoir

  Qu’encore est vive la souris!

  News has traveled in France

  In various places that I am dead;

  Some were hardly displeased by this,

  Those who hate me unfairly;

  Others have been discomforted

  Who are loyal and love me

  As good and tme friends.

  So I am letting everyone know.

  The mouse is still alive!

  Je n’ay eu ne mal ne grevance,

  Dieu mercy, mais suis sain et fort,

  Et passe temps en esperance

  Que paix, qui trop longuement dort,

  S’esveillera, et par accort

  A tous fera Hesse avoir.

  Pour ce, de Dieu soient maudis

  Ce
ulx qui sont dolens de veoir

  Qu’encore est vive la souris!

  I have been neither ill nor in pain,

  Thank God, but hale and strong,

  And pass the time hoping

  That peace, too long asleep,

  Will wake and by accord

  Give everyone cause to rejoice.

  So may God curse those

  Who are saddened to see

  That the mouse is still alive!

  Jeunesse sur moy a puissance,

  Mais Vieillesse fait son effort

  De m’avoir en sa gouvernance;

  A present faillira son sort.

  J e suis assez loing de son port,

  De pleurer vueil garder mon hoir;

  Loué soit Dieu de Paradis,

  Qui m’a donné force et povoir

  Qu’encore est vive la souris!

  Youth still holds me,

  But age is making the effort

  To take me in charge.

  Her attempt will fail now.

  I am far away from her port

  And wish to save my heir from tears;

  Praised be God in Paradise

  Who has given me strength and power

  That the mouse is still alive!

  Nul ne porte pour moy Ie noir,

  On vent meillieur marchié drap gris;

  Or tiengne chascun, pour tout voir,

  Qu’encore est vive la souris!

  No one should wear black for me,

  Grey can be bought more cheaply;

  Everyone must know it is true

  That the mouse is still alive!

  For Charles cTOrléans in Ampthill castle in the duchy of Bedford, the few letters from Dunois which reach him through Jean le Bras-seur and his little dog during the years 1430, 1431 and 1432, are landmarks in a wasteland of aimless time. It is true that his host and warden, the knight John Cornwall, Lord of Fanhope, allows him some freedom; he can walk, ride and hunt in the neighborhood under armed escort. In the castle a series of well-furnished chambers are at his disposal; he has French-speaking servants. Books he possesses in abundance, and if he wishes, he can socialize with nobles from Cornwall’s circle of friends. But there are no political discussions; news about the war, about affairs in France, is carefully kept from him. When le Brasseur visits him to submit accounts and documents for his signature, there are always a half dozen men in the room to cut off immediately any but a purely business discussion. Charles does not always succeed in appropriating the letters so artfully concealed under the dog’s long hair. More than once he is obliged to return the animal without success because he has not found the opportunity to redeem the message. Under no circumstances does he want his guards to discover this means of securing information; if le Brasseur can no longer visit him, all links between his half-brother and himself are broken forever.