The wind swept into its folds. It flared wide for all to see. Gwalchmai felt a surge of exultation. Jt was the banner he had seen in the opal, being carried toward a mighty bastion, half-hidden in rolling smoke and cannon flame. He had hunted it down across a world. He knew now that destiny was coming to a fulfillment. The banner was in the hand of its bearer! -
Impulsively he raised a shout. It was seized upon. It roared through the ranks. “Hail, Jeanne! Jeanne, of Dom-remy! Our oriflamme!”
She colored prettily. D’Alencon cried, “It is because of you, Maid, that we are gathered here. It is for you to give the order to march!”
Jeanne shook her head, smiling. Then she stiffened, accepting the honor. The banner snapped in the wind. Her clear, girlish voice rang out, strong and true, “To Orldans! For our God and our King! Sound trumpets and to horse!”
For one breathless instant everything was very still. An ascending lark carried its notes of happy courage high into the blue. A trumpet sang and men swung into the saddles.
Bustle began throughout the field. Whips cracked, commands rang out—the priests, marching at the head of the moving column, swung their incense, chanting Veni Creator Spiritus‘—and the convoy fell into line behind the moving banner.
Food for the hungry! Powder for the guns! Men for the walls! Forward now! No turning back! Three thousand men on the road to the beleaguered city of Orleans, bent upon as mad a venture as history records.
The last army of France was taking the field, the sweepings of the kingdom, most of whom had not thought to ever bear arms again. It marched to battle as a forlorn hope, to recapture disaffected cities hi an occupied country. It meant to crown a king who doubted not only his own courage—for he had none—but also his legitimate title to the throne.
It was led by a seventeen-year-old maiden who had said to her Saints in dismay, “I am but a poor girl who knows nothing of riding or of war.”
But she had said, in her secret heart, “We will take the king with us and fight our way through!”
The Dauphin and his retinue watched them all march away—priests chanting, drums beating, pennons flying; then he returned to Chinon, to the relaxing pleasures of the court.
If this enterprise failed, there would not be another.
The success or failure of the desperate mission concerned Gwalchmai as little as it did Charles. He sought every opportunity to exchange a few words with the Maid, hoping to find some common meeting point. Finally, in despair, he bluntly brought up the subject of Alata, Merlin, and his own mission. She listened attentively.
“Did you ever hear of the prophecy of Merlin, that France should be ruined by a-woman and restored by a Maid who would come from an oak wood, on the Marches of Lorraine?
“I often played with other girls near the Fairy Tree, which stands near a stream in an oak wood, and France has surely been ruined by the Queen of Charles the Seventh. So much of the prophecy is true, at least. It is said that Philip of Burgundy would not have allied himself with the English and split the country if it had not been for hating her.
“What a wonderful thing, if out of all this bloodshed and despair some common interest might reunite the Duke with my King and bring back his great dominions. Together, they could hurl the English into the sea.”
“Is the Dauphin truly a Christian monarch?” Gwalchmai was mindful of Merlin’s adjuration.
She straightened indignantly in the saddle, weariness and armor bruises forgotten. “My King is the noblest of all Christians!”
“Then, perhaps, if this war is won and he regains his kingdom, through your good graces he might grant you the favor of some ships? He could send colonists to this land of Alata, to take and hold it for the glory of Our Lord.
“Do you think that Duke Philip would forget his quarrel and unite with the King in such a venture?”
Her shoulders sagged. Sometimes dreamer, always the realist, she frankly admitted, “I fear me that Burgandy will never make peace, except at the point of a lance, but I will surely send word when we arrive at Orleans and ask that the letter be sent on to him, when I summon the English forts to surrender.”
“What shall you ask for reward, Maid, at the coronation?”
“Only that the people of- Domremy and Greux need never pay taxes again. They are so poor. They work so hard.”
“Nothing for yourself?”
“I have’never asked anything for myself, except from my Saints. I asked them, when everything was over, that they would take me with them to Paradise. This they have promised to do.
“They say that I must be a good girl and God will help me. They say it will not be very long‘ and my Dauphin must use me quickly. But he is surrounded by false councilors. It is so hard for me to convince him!” Her voice broke in a little sob, and Gwalchmai asked, quickly, “Is it because you know your Saints will protect you, Jeanne, that you are not afraid to ride thus into battle?”
She had gained control and answered with spirit. “I am in as much danger as any other soldier. They will protect the men as much as me. As for fear, I am afraid of nothing but treachery!”
But, as Gwalchmai turned his horse’s head away, thinking: “There, if ever, spoke my own warrior maid!” his side glance read Jeanne’s lips, which moved in the very faintest of private whispers: “And the fire!”
He was not meant to hear it. He gave no sign that he had.
In later years, that tiny instant of self-revelation meant more to Gwalchmai than any of the other incidents he was to live through within the city of Orleans.
Once arrived, Jeanne began promptly to make her power evident to her captains, who would have used her as a tool for their own plans. Knowing that the English momentarily expected reinforcements, she was roused to fury when the herald she sent out to summon surrender was held prisoner.
The only time Gwalchmai saw her smile in the early days of intrigue was when Louis de Coutes, her page, called them both to the arrow slit from which he had been watching. They saw a Frenchman stick his head up from behind a merlon and take careful aim with his culverin at the nearest fort.
This hand cannon, with a heavy rest, took some time to adjust. Before he could fire the monstrous musket, a shot came from the enemy. He leapt up with a loud cry, flinging his arms wide. Flat on his back, his legs kicked out dramatically. Only his lower limbs and feet were in plain view of the English, who craned their necks to watch the twitching, which went on, Gwalchmai thought, unreasonably long.
Jeanne was appalled at his suffering. She turned to the page.
“Find someone to bring him to safety. This is shameful!”
“Wait, Mistress!” Louis hastily seized her sleeve. “I have been hearing about him. He doesn’t need any help. Just watch. That’s Master Jean, the Ixirrainer!”
The feet were imperceptibly being drawn in. On the op-. posing parapet, the English were standing, clearly exposed, the sniper modestly taking his plaudits—a group of his friends surrounding him and clapping his back.
Suddenly the culverin bellowed. The spreading charge of small shot knocked down three of the group. Others staggered away, holding on to themselves. The sniper lay still.
“See! That’s Master Jean. He does it somewhere every day. Sometimes more than once. Ma Foil Those Godams never learn. He has died like that more than forty times.”
Gwalchmai went over to admire the redoubtable weapon. It was a deadly instrument of great beauty. It was also capable of exquisite precision, as the Lorrainer demonstrated by firing single aimed slugs. He took considerable pains in measuring the powder and choosing the proper bullet.
Gwalchmai smiled to himself, remembering the unfortunate Wu. Ambitions come to naught through carelessness. He made a quick friend of Jean by deliberately acting as decoy. Many an unsuspecting Englishman exposed himself —never more than once.
When reinforcements finally came in, through the one free gate left to Orleans, the city went wild. None had arrived for the English. Jeanne rode out with h
er Household—crack troops she had personally selected—and convoyed in the provision wagons.
She retired in the heat of the afternoon. D’Aulon lay down in the anteroom and both were soon asleep. Excited people nulled about the streets, bragging, shouting, drinking, telling each other what they would do to the English the next day.
Gwalchmai walked around for a while. He breathed in the excitement, before retiring to his own quarters, almost upon the other side of the city. He awoke to the sound of cannon.
His upstairs lodging fronted on a wide boulevard, emptier than he had yet seen it. He hastily slipped on his boots and ran downstairs, not stopping for helmet or body armor, buckling on his sword as he reached the street.
The intermittent thudding beyond the city wall was not coming closer, but a growing uproar drew him in that direction. Soon he met a crowd of wild-eyed frantic people rushing down the boulevard. Many were wounded, some staggering about as though blinded, with their hands to their eyes.
Great blisters covered the faces and exposed skin of those who stumbled and screamed. Gwalchmai knew from long experience that unslaked lime, scalding water, or boiling oil was the cause.
As he met and entered the retreating mob, he heard a galloping horse overtaking him at full speed. He cast a glance backward as he ran on toward the fighting.
It was Jeanne. Never had she looked more like his own warrior maid. She was leaning forward like a racer, her standard butt thrust deep into the saddle boot and the shaft firmly held in her small hand. The long war cloth streamed out behind, cracking like a whip in the wind.
She recognized Gwalchmai as she shot past without pausing, calling back, “Quickly! Quickly! Frenchmen are dying!”
They had almost reached the city gate. A tougher knot of people held this position, milling there uncertainly, looking over their shoulders as though the enemy was close.
As Jeanne came up, they raised a cheer. Gwalchmai was proud to see that they threw themselves in her way. From a retreating rabble, they took up an almost shapeless formation, but it was a fighting one.
“The English have come out of the fort! They are right behind us! Go back, Daughter of God!”
The great horse slowed to a heaving stop. Gwalchmai reached its side, just as a man fell against him, soaked with red from shoulder to waist. His face was a mask.
“Is that a Frenchman?” Someone cried, “Yes, Maid!”
“Ha! Never did I see French blood spilled, but my hair stood on end! Forward, men of Orleans! Follow me!”
She did not look to see if anyone came. Would they? Did any have the courage? She sank in the spurs. The charger rushed toward the sound of cannon fire. The irresolute group, Gwalchmai at its head, followed in a cheering surge.
High the banner! Fast and free in the wind! Horsemen pounded in its wake. Here rode D’Aulon, savage to protect his small charge. Close by came D’Alencon, affection and anger in his face, and beside him Jeanne’s brother, Pierre, jostling little fourteen-year-old Louis de Coutes, who had somewhere found a horse,
They followed the banner, over the dead, striking hard into the thick of the aghast English, who were drawn up before the open gate of their fort.
Gwalchmai passed a body. It was covered with tar and still burning. It might have been man—it might have been woman. It did not move.
“Forward, men of Orleans!” The crowd roared. It went forward, behind the banner. It crashed into and over the -English ranks. It swarmed through the gates of the fort.
When Gwalchmai came out of the fort, with De Rais beside him, both with dripping swords, they saw Jeanne sitting on the ground, holding the head of a wounded English soldier in her lap, cradling him in her arms. She was crying.
“Oh, Basque! He had no time to be shriven! He is only a boy! He was asking for his mother. In God’s name, why do not these people go back to their own country?”
Gwalchmai had no answer. He heard De Rais mutter,“ By the raddled honor of an immoral blue mouse! There has never been anyone like her before! I will prove me on the body of whoever says that there has.”
Gwalchmai did not reply, but in his heart, he thought, “Only one other. My fair lost love would have wept thus. Shall we ever meet again?”
And aloud, as he felt of the youth’s forehead and found it cold, “Come, Maid of Orleans. Let us return to the city. It is all over now.” He took her gently by the arm.
It was the first time that anyone had called her by that name. By morning the army had decided from whom it would take its future orders.
21
fyrenice—^At JFast
As we passed beneath Rheims’ trees, There like living fleur-de-lis Butterflies in merry dance, Clustered round the flag of France!
Songs of Huon
Jeanne paced the floor, impatiently striking her thigh with a gloved hand, framing the challenge to the English King and his Regent. Gwalchmai’s heart swelled with pride for this little cow-girl, who could rise so to every occasion. His ad-miration grew with every word, and he was especially delighted to see that, even in this critical hour, ‘she remembered the promise to him.
“Duke of Bedford, the Maid prays you not to bring about your own destruction. If you do her right, you may go in her company where the French shall do the finest deed that has yet been done for Christendom.
“If you will not believe this news from God and the Maid, wherever we find you, there we shall strike. We shall raise such a Ha-hey! as has not been heard in a thousand years.”
“There,” she clapped Gwalchmai heartily on the back, “that is the best I can do for you now, without giving away your secret to the English.” She beamed upon him. “We may find ships for you yet. Rest assured, Duke Philip will be informed later. If he shows any interest, we will tell him more after the English are thrust out. Now, find me an archer, Basque.”
Robert, Gwalchmai’s earliest acquaintance, was delighted to be chosen. He pushed a tavern wench off his lap, hastily finished his mug, and as they quit the Inn of the Green Tabard and walked toward headquarters, he sheepishly admitted: “When my master and I escorted her here from Vaucouleurs, we planned to do away with her. She represented a terrible danger. The enemy had been warned to look out for her. Three hundred miles of enemy country to cross and armed bands out everywhere! We never thought we could do it.
“Then—she grew on us. So patient, never complaining— always so sure of herself. All of a sudden, she was our beloved little sister.”
Jeanne, Robert, and Gwalchmai went to the mantelets that had been raised to protect the Origans side of the broken bridge. They raised a white flag and stood out in the open to parley. Jeanne rolled the script tightly around an arrow shaft and tied it with a thread. Robert arched the arrow high, and as it fell within the wall of the Augustinian monastery the English had fortified, Jeanne cried, “Behold, here is news!”
“Hearken, all of ye! Beware!” mocked a jeering soldier. “Here is news from the Armagnac whore!”
Jeanne paled, then grew red. She cried out, indignantly, “You lie! I pity the souls of all of you!” The soldier spat on the message and threw it into the river.
Robert saw the tears in her eyes as she turned away hi shame. He had not caught the words. His grip on Gwalch-mai’s arm was iron. “What did he say to her? What did he say?”
Gwalchmai repeated the slander. “I know just which one it was,” gritted the archer. Heedless of the arrows that buzzed around him, Robert stepped out from the protection of the mantelet. He took careful aim. A scream attested to his accuracy.
“That one won’t laugh again!” said the man who had himself once plotted her death. They moved back to safety, knowing that reason and diplomacy had failed and that force of arms was now to be the only deciding issue.
Next morning the banner went forward to battle, through the Burgundy Gate. Gwalchmai felt himself fey, looking upon it, as it advanced upon the Augustinian monastery, which, outlined in the fire from spouting cannon, must be taken before the Tourell
es—the main objective—could be attacked.
Jeanne raised the banner high, trusting it to no one else, her face alight with confidence of victory to come. It seemed to Gwalchmai that something of this glow was reflected upon the silk itself. It shimmered like a living thing—this banner —as it moved across the water, on a hastily arranged bridge of boats, fastened together under fire.
It gleamed and rippled. De Rais and the grizzled old guerrilla captain La Hire lowered their lances for Jeanne’s protection as they clattered off the bridge. She spurred her horse and all three advanced upon the English drawn up in serried ranks before the walls.
Gwalchmai, close behind, under the leadership of De Rais, saw her turn in the saddle, waving them all to come on, crying, “In God’s name, forward! Forward boldly!”
Bullets and bolts tore through the cloth and rattled against armor. A few townsmen fell. The untrained militia faltered in its onrush.
Gwalchmai could not hold back while she was in danger and almost unsupported. He surged out of line.
“Keep your place, Basque!” shouted D’Aulon.
“You love her as a daughter, Intendant? Come then. She needs help!”
A Spaniard, also a man of De Rais’ company, sneered, “You are brave, Basque, but braver than you are obeying orders!”
“Then do you come with me! We will see who is bravest today!” Thus taunted, the Spaniard seized Gwalchmai’s hand. They rushed forward, where a giant Englishman stood in the entrance with a two-handed brpadsword, covering the retreat inward of the garrison.
By this tinie, Jeanne and De Rais had come under a merciless fire. De Rais thrust her behind him, taking the brunt of the missiles upon his excellent armor. In the vanguard, neither Gwalchmai nor the Spaniard could effect an entry. Suddenly, their adversary tottered and fell. Master Jean had come up with his culverin.
In rushed Gwalchmai, followed by his companion, cutting down those who struggled to close the gate. In rode Jeanne, striking hard with the flat of her sword, De Rais at her side slashing brutally, offering no quarter to those who flung down their arms. In swarmed the townsfolk and regulars, with ax, halberd, and knives. The monastery was soon French.
Merlin's Ring Page 34