Liberty

  In the fine home of my future husband, I sat in the window box and looked out over the rooves of the other houses in the best quarter of town. The air was much fresher in this part of town; a vase of roses on the side table sent wafts of perfume around me. The room taunted me with its prettiness. It was early morning and I looked at the tray of food that had been delivered. I could not stomach a morsel. I felt sick and knew that I should eat but I could not bring myself to try. Part of me wanted to never eat again. I could just waste away to nothing and disappear. It felt like a pleasant thought.

  A gentle knock came at the door and it opened. Giselle poked her head in, smiling at me.

  ‘Jeanne? May I come in? The Lieutenant sent me up to measure you for your wedding dress.’

  I gave her a resigned nod. I felt like a prisoner in a tower in that room, despite its calico floral walls and a bed with coverlets that looked like clouds. Lieutenant Jean Lagoy had sent for me early on Tuesday morning, the day that the Burgundians had begun to retreat and march away westward, leaving Beauvais scarred but safe. A brutish, silent guard had installed me in the top room of Lagoy’s manor house. My not-so-dearly beloved fiancé had not yet come to see me. That was one thing I could be grateful for.

  ‘The enemy have gone and the peasants are returning to their villages,’ Giselle said breathlessly as she came in with her sewing basket and a long roll of pearl satin under her arm. ‘I can finally feel safe and sleep well.’

  I shut my eyes and sighed, letting a small smile play on my lips although I cared not. Had the Burgundians continued their assault on the city, my impending nuptials might have been postponed, but now I was sitting in solitary confinement awaiting my fate like a condemned criminal facing execution. I was to be married to Lagoy by the end of the week.

  ‘This is the very finest material,’ Giselle said, going to the cedar bureau and laying the satin out for me to see.

  I looked across to the corner where my old wooden trunk sat, the metal straps rusted and worn. Wearing only my plain cotton night-shift, I gave Giselle a tired look and crossed the room.

  ‘I was looking through my mother’s things,’ I told her. ‘And I wondered … what do you think, Giselle?’ I opened the clasp and took out a folded lace dress and held it up. ‘It’s my late mother’s wedding dress.’ I felt the sting of tears and my jaw ached as I tried to hold back crying. I swallowed hard and tried to contain myself. ‘She was a well-born woman who married down but I think it is fine enough for my wedding to the Lieutenant.’

  Giselle came over to me and her fingers touched the delicate lace.

  ‘It is beautiful.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘So intricate and elegant. The lace is exquisite.’

  ‘It would mean a lot to me to be able to wear it,’ I said softly. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded ‘Most definitely.’

  I had become fond of Giselle. She was tall and her skin was like bone china. The bruising on her face from our foray into battle had almost completely faded. She was a girl who had been born with a silver spoon firmly planted in her mouth yet she had a wildness of spirit simmering beneath the surface. Her bold defiance of her mother when she took up arms alongside me had forever bonded me to her. In my new life as the wife of a lieutenant, I knew she would be a welcome ally. In the previous days she had taught me so much: how to navigate my way through the proper cutlery and crockery during a banquet, how to breathe beneath a corset and many other foolish things that were going to be necessary if I was to not embarrass my husband. Giselle had instructed me in the basic poses, gestures and dance steps that I would need for my social debut at my wedding.

  ‘The Lieutenant had the silk sent up from the haberdasher but I think this is far more special,’ she said, taking the dress and holding it up in front of me. ‘It looks like it will fit but I can make any adjustments necessary. It may need the hem taken up. Let’s get you to try it on and we’ll see.’

  I felt the first flutter of happiness in a very long time. That I might be able to wear my mother’s wedding dress was a beam of sunlight in my grey world. According to the sumptuary law, as a pauper it was forbidden that I wear such a dress, but as I was marrying up, and to a lieutenant at that, I was permitted to wear lace or satin or silk, even ermine. I undid the pearl clasp buttons down the back of the dress and Giselle helped me as I stepped into it. I held my breath, praying that it would fit and I felt a sense of relief wash over me as Giselle carefully buttoned up the dress. It fit me perfectly, almost as if it had been cut to my shape.

  My mother had been the same age as me when she married my father. Almost seventeen. I wondered how she must have felt when she put the dress on for the first time. Had she been excited? Nervous? She had married for love. It was a rare thing and something most young girls could only dream about. I was flooded with thoughts of Colin’s smile and his embrace. To think of him wallowing in a dungeon while I dressed up in fine lace made me feel ill.

  ‘Ohhh!’ Giselle smiled as I turned around to show her. ‘You look beautiful.’ Her face was glowing and her words made me feel a little brighter.

  ‘I wish my mama could see me,’ I whispered. ‘But, Giselle, I know she would have hoped for me to be happy and I am not.’

  ‘But Jean Lagoy is so handsome and—’

  ‘I care not for his good looks,’ I said sullenly. ‘I do not love him.’

  ‘I did not love my husband when we were first married,’ Giselle said, straightening my collar as she spoke. ‘But he is a good man and I have come to care for him. As you become more familiar it will grow on you.’

  ‘Like a wart!’ I groaned and we both laughed.

  ‘You look like a princess,’ Giselle said, more seriously, after we had calmed down. ‘Let me braid your hair for you.’

  I sat again at the window and watched the pale blue sky playing host to a feathering of white clouds. I rested my hands on the delicate lace embroidery in my lap. Giselle brushed my dark hair and I let myself enjoy her touch as she wove my hair into place.

  ‘Can you read?’ I asked her dreamily.

  ‘That is a strange question.’ She laughed. ‘Yes. Of course. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I was never taught,’ I told her, a little ashamed. ‘My father did not know how and could not teach me and with my mama gone …’

  ‘I could teach you!’ Giselle said, sounding excited by the idea.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Well, I suppose you could. Though, I’ve never thought to read and yet I have a book. Let me show you.’

  I went to the trunk, rummaged around and took out an old book. It was bound in some kind of skin, softer than leather, and had strange markings on it that looked like a bird had walked across it before it had set, like plaster.

  ‘This belonged to my mother. She could read but I don’t know what all the words say. It is very strange.’

  Giselle and I sat on the end of the bed, the book between us, and I watched as Giselle took it and began very gently turning the pages.

  ‘They are names,’ she said, sounding amazed. ‘All names. All women’s names.’ Her fingers traced over the words running down the pages, branching out like the limbs of a tree. She came to the final page of writing although there were more pages left blank after it.

  ‘Here is your name: Jeanne Laisné. And above it, Alice Fourquet.’

  ‘My mother’s maiden name,’ I said, biting my bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

  Giselle went back through the names, each one written in different ink and different handwriting. Some letters sloped forward, others back. Some of the names were written in small, dark, neat letters and others were scrawled in a large and flamboyant hand.

  ‘This looks like your mother’s family, running back through the female bloodline. Jeanne, darling, this is incredible. Here is your cousin Aimee’s name as well, on the same line as yours. Look back here. Isa
belle Romée. Jeanne d’Arc. Oh my, Jeanne. You have the blood of heroines in your veins.’

  I put a hand over my mouth for a moment, thinking of the stories my father told me about being related to the French heroine Jeanne d’Arc. I’d never really believed it deep down. I spoke in a halting voice, choked with emotion. ‘Read me the names. All of them.’

  Giselle read them aloud. Starting with my name. Then my mother’s. Then my grandmother’s. And on and on backwards and I let myself bathe in the glorious names of the women who were the threads that were sewn together with stitches of time and blood to make up the garment that was me. Beautiful names, strange-sounding names. All the way back to the first one, which was written in letters that Giselle could not understand.

  ‘These first ones are such ancient markings that I cannot decipher them,’ Giselle smiled. ‘This must be a very old book before common writing or letters came to be. See, beside some names is a place. Beside your name is Beauvais.’

  I marvelled at the markings in ink. Each name represented a life. A woman. Every one of them had lived and loved and eaten and cooked and sewn; some had daughters and those names rolled on like roots, seeding other lines. Some names stopped. I supposed that some of those lives had been cut short or perhaps had simply not borne female fruit. But where a line finished, a new one sprouted, perhaps with a sister, cousin or aunt.

  ‘Yes, I do want you to teach me to read, Giselle.’ I nodded. ‘I want to be able to read these names for myself and one day I will put my own daughters’ names in here and I will pass this book on to them.’

  Giselle closed the book and touched the markings on the cover.

  ‘Systir Saga,’ she read. ‘Perhaps it means the sister story? Yes, Jeanne. I will teach you to read all these names.’

  I looked at the markings and let my finger reach out to trace them. I pushed away the sadness that engulfed me to think that my daughters, should I have any, would wear the surname of Lagoy. I comforted myself that they would be a part of my mother’s bloodline and that was blood that I was very proud to have running through my veins.

  ‘I would have loved to have had a sister.’ I smiled to myself.

  ‘Let us be as sisters,’ Giselle said, squeezing my forearm. ‘Secret sisters. I have never had one either.’

  I leaned forward and kissed her cheek and she kissed mine.

  ‘Sisters.’

  Through the window the sound of a trumpet reverberated up from the street. It startled me and I felt my belly leap in surprise. Giselle gave a little jump as well and we both fell into a fit of giggles.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ She laughed.

  ‘I don’t know but it certainly gave me a fright.’

  Another burst of noise filtered up to us. This time it was more of a heralding tune. We frowned at one another and a few moments later we heard footsteps running through the hallway outside and a serving girl burst through the door without knocking.

  ‘Liesel!’ Giselle said, standing up, looking cross. ‘How dare you enter Jeanne’s room like that. Out!’

  ‘But Madame—’

  ‘No, Liesel,’ Giselle ordered the girl, pointing at the door. ‘Go back outside and do that properly. Go. Now.’

  We waited as the girl gave a nod and a curtsey and went back out of the door, closing it behind her. We waited. Nothing. A knock sounded at the door and we both giggled again.

  ‘That’s better!’ Giselle cried. ‘Now you may enter you naughty, naughty girl!’

  The door opened and the maid, Liesel, re-entered the room. ‘Your ladyship,’ she said, dipping into a deep curtsey before standing, red-faced. ‘Mademoiselle Jeanne has a visitor asking after her.’

  I frowned. A visitor? For me? I couldn’t think who might come knocking on Jean Lagoy’s front door looking for me. Giselle shrugged her shoulders at me as a very well-dressed man in a fashionably curled white wig stepped into the doorway, bowed to us, then stood aside and to attention, his arms held stiffly by his sides.

  ‘May I present Mademoiselle Jeanne Laisné, also known as Jeanne Hachette, the maiden who conquered Charles the Bold.’

  Before I could even wrap my thoughts around the words, a tall, imposing man entered my room. He was dressed in a blue silk coat and a white surcoat with a mantle of scarlet satin. He wore a cap with peacock feathers. His brows were low and tight and he had a prominent nose.

  ‘Mademoiselle Jeanne,’ the man said gently as he lowered his head and bent low, taking my hand. ‘I am indebted to you.’

  Beside me Giselle gasped loudly and fell into a curtsey that had her almost on the floor. I stared at the man, unable to move, my face prickling as if it were overrun with ants.

  Standing before me, bowing to me, was King Louis XI.

  I will never forget the feeling of when I first killed a man. I fired and he fell down dead. I shook all over and couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering. I heard myself saying to Will, ‘Oh look what I’ve done. I’ve killed the poor man.’ But it was easier the second time and by my third I had almost become deliberate and callous about it. It was hard work, loading the gun, fixing the priming, looking to the flints and adjusting the locks. Will and I had dragged the coffin of weapons into a small hedge behind the inn and hid them there. We’d taken our horses, a musket each and some ammunition and holed ourselves up in a small natural trench in a thicket just outside of Ballynahinch. We were not alone. The woods were thick with rebels who had seen the approaching King’s men from the lookout on the hill and had swarmed down in the shadows. The order had come from Munro that we were to take down every redcoat we could.

  Long afternoon shadows crept out over the fields and the temperature dulled to a pleasant and tolerable warmth. Three small regiments of British soldiers had marched along the road and we had made good account of ourselves. My mark had been hit first and while I recovered, Will continued the assault. My soldier had fallen, his blood leaking out in a thick stain in the dirt on the road. Once I had composed myself and readied my weapon again, there were three bodies on the road and many injured, limping away as fast as they could, back toward the township. No sooner had another band of the King’s forces advanced within range than we peppered them with shot. The ground on each side of the road was divided into small fields with fences rising one above the other, forming a kind of amphitheatre. Here, ambuscaded behind the cover of fences, Munro had posted some of his best musketeers. Will had insisted that I be included, remembering my fine aim back in their hideaway.

  A lanky young officer named McCance was in charge of our division and had directed us to our places, ordering us to shoot redcoats on sight.

  ‘War is a dirty business,’ Will had told me, sombrely. ‘We have to do terrible things. If we don’t kill, we will be killed.’

  For almost an hour we kept the British advance in check and we were encouraged and emboldened as Nugent’s men went down in great numbers while we sustained not a single injury, tucked behind the safety of our fence-trenches, our horses hidden on higher ground. Gradually the onslaught discouraged the redcoats from taking that particular road and our targets dried up. By the time they had fully retreated I had taken three of them down like sacks and grazed a few others who’d staggered back down the road, leaking from the holes I’d put in them.

  ‘If only we had more cannons to fire at them,’ Will complained, wiping the sweat from his brow as he reloaded his weapon. ‘These few guns will not do us if they come at us in any great number.’

  George came up behind us as jittery as a headless chook.

  ‘The scouts are back and say that there are about seven hundred infantry, a hundred and fifty cavalry and five pieces of cannon down in Ballynahinch proper.’

  ‘Heavens above!’ Will exclaimed. ‘We’ve only got a few small ship guns, some six or eight, mounted onto country carts! And perhaps six medium cannons on rolling carts.’

  �
��Munro has ordered us to stay out of Ballynahinch as the English have seized it,’ George muttered. ‘We’ve been commanded to retreat from this hill because Nugent has changed tack and is sending covert troops out to surround us and isolate us here on Windmill Hill. So back up to Edenvady now. To regroup and plan.’

  Corporal McCance came up to us, loosening his neck-tie before using it to wipe the perspiration from his cheeks.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, grinning. ‘We’ve got word back in, fellows, that the bulk of the British troops left down in town are busy looting and plundering and burning cottages for sport and drinking the town dry! Most of them are already at the inn having a jolly party! Dusk is rolling in so we need to away. You did good, Betsy Gray! Nice marksmanship. Not just a pretty face, eh?’

  I smiled at his compliment.

  Night swallowed us up as we hurried our mounts back over the fields to the high hill of Edenvady. Darkness was dotted with so many lanterns that they looked like a scattering of tiny yellow stars. After I helped the other camp women prepare great vats of food, heated up over wild and open fires dug into the turf, I forced myself to eat some bread and meat to give me strength. I breathed in the smell of burning peat and took my food to the oak tree where Finn McCool was tethered and let him nibble some bread from my open palm. As I ate I saw some men shirt-fronting one another further along the rise, their voices raised and heated. Curious, I wandered over closer to see what was transpiring. It looked like a fist-fight was brewing between our own men. I could see that Will and George were in the affray and I wanted to know what it was all about. It would not do at all to have us infighting.

  Many of our men it seemed, including George and Will, were urging Henry Munro to let them filter down through the dark night into the town of Ballynahinch to pick off the drunken soldiers.

  ‘Our scouts have told us that many troops have taken advantage of the empty cottages and have made themselves right at home,’ George said, sounding impassioned and enthusiastic for the plan. ‘They are sleeping in vacant beds and draining the cellars. We could torch the buildings and take down any that flee, picking them off as easy as rabbits. We’d only need pikes and swords. They are in a right sorry state down there and will put up no steady defence.’