Merlin's Ring

by H. Warner Munn

  “What has happened?” Gwalchmai anxiously dreaded the answer.

  “What? You may well ask. I can answer in three words. Misery—tragedy—death. She has recanted. There is no faith .in anyone in the world, L’Aiglon. Not that I blame her, poor weary love.” He hastily added, “Woe to her tormentors!-

  Agony to her King—her do-nothing King! I swear Charles shall pay dearly for this. I will have him off his throne!

  “Yet, who would burn if a cross marked on a scrap of parchment could prevent it? But to finally surrender! It is unbelievable.”

  “A cross? Let me see the message/‘ Gwalchmai hastily scanned Manchon’s report. ”Why, this is three days old. And look—.“ He smiled and handed it back. ”Examine the cross closely. See where it was placed. Manchon must have made an exact copy of the transcript.

  “She has not surrendered. She has won one more battle. Her Saints promised her deliverance through a great victory. She is still waiting for that promise to come true. She has gained a little more time for us to help her.

  “The cross! You have forgotten. The cross was our sign that any missive so marked should be known as false, if she was ever captured.”

  De Rais brightened. An almost holy expression swept across his face. “I knew she was unswerving. When the time comes, she will repudiate her-confession. They will take her out to burn her then—but we will be there. If there is no other way, there is always the mercy of the knife.”

  He turned the page. His hand shook uncontrollably. He stared and let it fall. Gwalchmai snatched up the sheet and read aloud the last few lines. Manchon had added:

  “What they mean to do, I know not, but if you mean to help her in any way, my Lord Baron, it should be done quickly. Faggots are being brought into the Old Marketplace and there is no other burning toward that I know on.”

  De Rais ripped the letter into shreds. “It seems the time is now. Come. We too, shall take faggots into Rouen.”

  23 The ^Marketplace of T^ouen

  There need not have been this misery Had a certain man had more pride. The only King in Christendie Who dares not with his army ride!

  So

  Iron bells, brazen bells, bells bright as gold— Swing where you are hanging Sob, as you are clanging, Never forget how our darling was sold!

  Songs of Huon

  During Gwalchmai’s absence, De Rais had made some preparations. He laid by the outfit and arms of an English pikeman for himself. For the other two, he now procured the simple clothing of woodcutters, bought a donkey and a small cart and enough wood to fill it.

  Master Jean took his culverin apart, wrapping the barrel tightly inside one bundle of faggots and hiding the long stock and rest for it in another. Powder, slugs, and cleaning took were bundled and concealed in a third.

  Thus equipped and disguised, the three men entered Rouen without difficulty, just before the gates closed on the eve of the twenty-fifth of May.

  They found the city in a state of excitement. It was not until they had found a stable for the donkey, attached to the inn where they obtained quarters looking out from an upper window on the Old Marketplace, that their worst fears were confirmed.

  The hostler looked at them in surprise. “Where have you been that you have not heard? Your forest must be far away. The witch has relapsed. You will be able to sell your wood tomorrow.”

  When he left, they quickly tore apart the bundles, wrapped sections of the musket-cannon in some old sacks, and smuggled everything up to their room. De Rais paid the innkeeper in advance for a week’s lodging for the woodcutters, saying that he owed them a debt and would pay it in that way. He haggled over the cost, got a reduction, and stipulated that he should have a refund if the burning took place earlier— insisting, in that case, that the two should leave before the week was up.

  De Rais hoped all this would disabuse the host of any suspicions he might have had at seeing an English pikeman in such company. Later, after ostensibly reporting to an imaginary unit, De Rais returned, bought a bottle of wine in the common room, and went upstairs to his friends. He thought no one noticed that he did not leave.

  His hope was vain. With the intention of making no mistake and attracting no attention, the three plotters did both, simply by remaining in their room most of the day.

  Time did not hang heavy on their hands. There was much bustle in the square, where seats were being erected directly across from the inn. Knowing this to be the customary spot for those who came to enjoy executions, De Rais had insisted upon a room with as good a view of the stands as of the stake.

  They studied the situation from behind drawn shutters. Master Jean set his support firmly into the rough plank floor of the chamber and fastened the culverin into it. Directing it toward the platform, which, held the stake with chains dangling from its top and sides, he pulled a nail at the bottom of one of the narrow boards hi a shutter. Allowing the board to swing aside, suspended thus, he obtained a perfect sighting and was well hidden.

  It was now that the secret of Master Jean’s phenomenal accuracy was revealed. Other handgunners placed the butts of their portable cannons between arm and body, or against the breastbone. They pointed in the general direction of the enemy, closed their eyes against the flash in the pan, when the fuse came down, and prayed for good luck.

  Master Jean had a small point sticking up on the end of the six-foot barrel. There was no rear sight, but as the barrel was not bellmouthed, he could squint along it as he held the stock against his shoulder, protected by a heavy woolen pad against the recoil.

  He swung the little point along the row of seats, until it centered chest high on anyone who would be standing on the platform. He moved it along the row of seats and pondered.

  He laid out a measured charge of powder and six small slugs. He arranged his rammer,, his screw for withdrawing the charge, the touch-powder for the firing pan, and his fuse for lighting it.

  He weighed a much heavier single slug in his hand, tossing it absently and catching it, and as he did so, he looked ever and anon across the square. He estimated the distance and he frowned.

  De Rais watched him impatiently. The gunner shook his head and muttered under his breath.

  “What is the matter? Is it too far for your engine?”

  The Lorrainer grunted. “I fear me so, Lord Baron. Too great for accuracy. ‘Tis a good fifty feet beyond my usual range.”

  “Then put in more powder!”

  “That is not the answer. The lead will reach, but the charge may spread into the crowd.”

  De Rais snorted with contempt. “So be it that we blow the foul lives out of my Lord Bedford and Bishop, the swine, who will be as loving as two snakes in the winter. I care not who else is struck. We have no friends in the stands.”

  “You perceive not the problem. If the charge spreads, those two will be unharmed. The slugs will go by them, left and right. With a single ball I can slay either one you will and create consternation, for you to attempt the rescue. You cannot have both and there will be no time to reload. We must flee the inn at the instant the shot is fired.”

  De Rais was at a loss. He absently stroked his naked chin. Gwalchmai said, “Master Jean, do you mix your own powder?”

  “That I do, Sir! Whom else would I trust? The best corned powder in France, mixed of the finest ingredients, wetted with the purest water, caked, rolled, and sifted with my own hands and measured out to my own scrupulous exactness. There is no other gunner as precise as I am.”

  “I know. I believe you well. And I know there is no gunner so accurate. Tell me, is it not true that with greater strength of powder, your bullets would fly forth with increased force and speed and mayhap have no time to spread?”

  “That is a fact Well known to all of us.” Master Jean hung his head. “Even though I have charcoal of limewood, the purest of sulphur, and thrice-crystallized saltpetre, I gain no greater strength.”

  De Rais had been following the discourse with interest. Now he interrupted. “Gu
nner, you spoke of saltpetre. Is it true that this is refined from human urine? No wonder they call it villainous!”

  The Lorrainer nodded. “Nitre is found in caves, or under piles of manure as yellow crystals, but by far the best is distilled from the wastes you speak of. A beer drinker’s urine is good, a wine drinker’s is better, according to his appetites. The urine of a cardinal or a bishop is best of all, because they drink the best of wines.”

  De Rais was aghast. “By the slavering fangs of Cerberus! Do you mean that Bishop Cauchon is good for something after all? I would never have believed it!”

  Gwalchmai found this conversation reminiscent of that he had held with the hapless Wu, of Cathay. He had no intention of personally meddling again, either with ingredients or composition, but only asked, “If your finest of all powders is the touch-powder and if you have sufficient, you might try a blend of half of each to gain both the strength and range you desire.”

  Master Jean’s dour expression cleared. He beamed. “It may work. It is worth trying.” He set about the blending and made two charges.

  “If there is time, I will use both. The first as you say, and the second through that door, because the hall will be full of English soldiers.”

  “Just get the Bishop and Lord Bedford,” snarled De Rais. “I will save the Maid from the fire, in one way or another.”

  The day wore on. When it was dark, after eating in the common room, they paced off the distance as though they were ordinary strollers. It proved to be, as Master Jean had feared, a good two hundred and fifty feet—bad for his problem.

  Absorbed in dismal thoughts, they returned to the inn, not noticing that the innkeeper followed at a discreet distance. He observed them with curiosity.

  These woodcutters and their English soldier friend were odd people, he thought, to have so little interest in city life. He knew they had not visited a church. He was aware that they had remained in their hot room all day. He followed them out and he trailed them back, suspicious and watchful.

  That night, the three heard creakings of floorboards in the hall outside, but as they did not speak to one another, whoever was listening soon went away. After a while, they slept.

  They dressed hastily to an uproar. Already a crowd, held back by pikemen, was overflowing the square, although it was not yet seven o’clock. Through their spy-hole they could see every window filled, the roofs clustered with people hanging to the gutters, the ridges, and the gables.

  De Rais cursed at the sight, but did not give up hope. He took command and snapped out crisp orders.

  “It may be impossible,” he finished, “but I shall try for the rescue. If I can reach her at the moment she is taken down from the cart, I will pretend to hold her fast for the executioner to bind on the chains.

  When I stab him—when you see him fall—shoot into the judges, if you cannot fix directly on Lord Bedford and his jackal. Kill as many as you can. In the excitement, I will run with her into the church of Saint-Sauveur, crying, ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!“

  “They will not dare refuse me entry. Before England can get her out again legally, her Saints may bring about a miracle. If those devils try to get her out without law, the people of Rouen will tear them apart, in fury at the sacrilege. They are still French!”

  Gwalchmai realized that De Rais was snatching at the faintest gleam of hope in formulating this mad plan.

  “You will only go to your death, my Lord Baron, if you expect the English to honor the laws of sanctuary. Those were outmoded two hundred years ago. Did not assassins slaughter Thomas a Becket in his own cathedral?”

  “He was English. The murderers were English. This is France and I know my French.”

  A great shouting brought them again to the window. The sad procession was entering the marketplace. The cart could hardly be seen, so closely were the soldiers of Jeanne’s guard ranked about it, striking right and left with their pike butts, as they had cleared passage all the way from her prison.

  A deep growl came up from the mass of the people, but it was not directed at the small girl in the long gown. Hearing it, Gwalchmai felt his heart leap. It would not take much to tip the emotions of a mob, in any direction. Perhaps, it might, just barely might, go the way that De Rais envisioned.

  She was praying, as the cart moved toward the platform. Those who could hear her words fell silent as it passed. Some sank to their knees and began to pray also.

  It was the moment De Rais awaited. He cast a terrible look upon the other two, sprang to the door, and in an instant they saw him fighting his way into the crowd, driving into a place among the marching men. They opened for him in his uniform, as though he was a latecomer to their ranks. The first step had been achieved.

  Master Jean was calmly making ready, talking to himself as he sighted the culverin at the platform. “Ah, my beauty— patience, my pretty one! Soon you shall preach to these proud churchmen out of your mouth of fire! So, a little powder in the pan—up goes the cover and it is waiting. A slow-match, comrade!”

  Gwalchmai handed him a smoking fuse and the gunner fixed it into the tube of the drawn-back serpentine-shaped trigger.

  “That is it—thus into the sear and soon into the pan and quickly go some souls flying fast into Hell! Do such as these have souls, I wonder? How black they must be!”

  The pyre was now ready. They could see that it was composed entirely of dry wood. It would be the torment of a bright fire, instead of the mercy of green wood and suffocating smoke.

  De Rais was nowhere to be seen. Gwalchmai wondered what had gone wrong. Jeanne, who had been continuing to pray, as the cart moved up to the stake, was now relieved of her hat, which had before hidden her face. He saw that her head had been shaven. Upon it, one of the Bishop’s serving men placed the paper mitre of shame and derision,

  HERETIC. RELAPSED SINNER. APOSTATE. IDOLATOR.

  She could not read the slander, but she knew what the words meant. She wept then—and with her wept many hi the crowd.

  Some of the judges covered their faces, clambered down from their platform and fled, pursued by curses. Even Bishop Cauchon squeezed out a tear. Jeanne gazed at him steadily and said, “Bishop, I die through you.” He could not meet her reproach and looked at the ground. It was her only word of blame.

  The executioner touched her shoulder gently. Two Dominican friars stood by him to escort her to the stake.

  “Is it time? I ask your pardon, reverend fathers, and you also, sir. I did not mean to keep you waiting.”

  She stood up. Supported by the executioner, she stepped down from the cart, but before mounting the stairs, she stopped and cried out, “A cross! Am I not to be given a cross?”

  There was a swirl in the array of pikemen and a man brSke free. An officer struck out, but he came on. It was De Rais.

  He swept up a couple of fallen twigs from the cobble stones, drew his “knife, and went up to the group, binding the crossed twigs together—the knife still bare in his hand, as he held out the little cross with the other.

  Jeanne recognized him, for even at that distance, Gwalch-mai saw her eyes widen. She smiled and took the cross and kissed it.

  He took a quick step closer toward her, swinging upon the executioner as he did so. The knife glittered. He reached— and the officer, with two burly sergeants close behind, had him in an iron grip, to hale him, struggling, fighting, cursing, back into the ranks.

  Jeanne, placing inside her gown the last gift that any friend could give her, mounted the stairs without looking back and was fastened to the stake.

  The second friar, who had run into the church, came back bearing the crucifix from the altar. He held it up so she could embrace it. She kissed it ardently.

  “Keep it, I pray you, in my sight until the end.” He could not speak, but with face twisted in grief and pity, merely nodded.

  While this was going on, Gwalchmai had come to a decision. He was far from being a fatalist, but he remembered that Corenice had said that a plan, of which the
y were but an infinitesimal part, was being followed. Was it possible that this was part of the plan?

  Jeanne had said, “I must do my devoir. It is for this that I was born.”

  Was it more than accident that De Rais had failed; that he himself now found it impossible to aid Jeanne, either by force of arms or magic?

  Without Merlin’s Ring, he was bereft of any aid that might be derived from sorcery. Had it been intended that he should be so disarmed? But it could not be necessary that she should suffer!

  He knew himself faced with the same dreadful choice Huon had once been forced to make.

  “Master Jean, the only thing that girl ever feared was the fire! Can you reach the stake with your culverin?”

  “Not with the six slugs. Perhaps with a single one. But I could never do it—I could not pull the trigger!”

  “Then in God’s name, make ready! Pull your charge! Aim your cannon at her heart and I will fire the shot She must not burn!”

  The gunner quickly dismounted the culverin. With a twist of his screw, he pulled the patch that held the loose shot and tipped them out. His fingers trembled as he dropped in one large slug to fill the barrel and drove it well home.

  Gwalchmai looked out upon the scene below. As though to confirm his thoughts concerning mystical interventions in the plans of man, he now saw an individual he recognized. It was the landlord of the inn where they were staying.

  He stepped out of the crowd and peered into the face of De Rais standing in the ranks, still held there under restraint. He said something to the officer and pointed up at the window where Gwalchmai was watching. Other faces lifted. Gwalchmai knew that they had come under suspicion.

  He turned on the gunner. “Hurry. We have been found out.”

  “Almost ready,” Jean panted. He pounded in another greased patch of linen with his ramrod, slammed the culverin back into its fork, and sighted upon the straight small figure leaning against the stake. The executioner was whirling his torch to fan it into flame.

  The Ixjrrainer stepped back. He motioned Gwalchmai to take the gun. Already the hall echoed with running feet A heavy body crashed against the chamber door. Jean hurled himself against it