‘Oh,’ the King said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Now that’s interesting. I believe that is a story that you might wish to tell me. Start at the beginning Jeanne and tell me all about yourself.’
And so, in a strange and unusual diversion from the reality of my small life, on that gentle summer’s day, I sat with King Louis XI and told him my story. From the time when I was a babe and my mother wrapped me in her red velvet coat and hid me in the old tree trunk to save my life, to the time Colin was dragged away and imprisoned after I had taken out the Italian mercenary garrison.
And the King listened, entranced.
The first spectators had arrived by midday the next day and secured themselves places. They brought chairs and footstools, pillows, wine, food and children with them. Even the peasants from the surrounding countryside streamed in through the still smoking city gates. The King had ordered a parade to march through the town and he had asked the women of Beauvais to march ahead of the army. This was unheard of and there were a lot of miserable-looking men on the streets, but I had never seen the womenfolk so joyous and rowdy. Everything hummed and shimmered; it was like an enormous country fair. I watched it all from the carriage window as we began the most celebrated guild procession Beauvais had ever seen. People stood on balconies and hung from signposts, and middle-sized children squatted precariously atop walls. Townsfolk were pressed ten or twelve to a window. The strangest thing of all was that I was travelling with the King as the most honoured citizen of Beauvais. I looked across at the head of France in his fine white wig, his face touched with rouge, and smiled at him. He had assured me he would insist upon the release and pardon of Colin and that my father would be seen by the King’s own physician. Louis was a kind man.
As we turned into the main street leading to the hub of the city, the clatter of horse hooves on the cobblestones was swept away by the applause, which roared like a wash of raging flood water through the city streets. I was bedazzled by the spectacle of it all. I had never been in such a fancy coach, never mind a gilt-edged coach with a driver in a silk coat, liveried footmen and a mounted guard. The King waved to those who pressed close for a glimpse of him as he made a grand tour of the streets of Beauvais. The children and men cheered as the women who had fought led the parade. And it wasn’t the finest and most cultured women up front but the peasants and the working women.
Captain Balagny and Lieutenant Jean Lagoy were at the head of the guard, leading the army behind the women, alongside the best of the King’s men.
‘Where are we heading, Your Majesty?’ I asked again, hoping that he might enlighten me but he gave me the same cryptic smile. ‘Is there some ceremony or just a parade?’
Giselle and her servants were travelling in another small carriage at the rear of the cavalcade. She had set my hair in ringlets, with a smattering of tiny white baby’s breath dusted over it. A hint of rouge and a touch of peach paint on my lips had left me feeling soft and pretty. I wore my mother’s lace dress but had exchanged my slippers for a pair of satin ribboned shoes, which were uncomfortable as I was used to a pair of worn boots or bare feet. Over my mother’s lace dress, the only decent garment I owned, I wore the red cape.
‘We shall see, Jeanne,’ he smiled and winked at me like I was a good friend.
‘I assume your front guard knows where he is leading us,’ I smiled. ‘Or are we simply travelling around in circles so you can wave to every man, woman and child in Beauvais?’
The King winked again and went back to waving to the clamorous crowds.
The carriage stopped midway between a makeshift grandstand in the wide, fragrant park that was protected by what must have been a hastily constructed barricade, and the magnificent Cathedral, looming up like a palace of stone and stained glass before us. I could see that the grandstand was beginning to fill with rich gentlemen and beautiful women wearing big hats and shimmering clothes. It seemed as though the entire nobility from both town and country, far and wide, was on hand for the victory celebration. I saw a priest dressed in black stockings and a black hat running across the open expanse to the Cathedral, his black frock coat flapping so that he looked like a fluttering raven. A burst of music filled the air and all eyes were turned our way as the footmen opened the doors of the carriage.
King Louis accepted a helping hand down the three small steps to the red carpet that had been laid out for him. ‘We will have a victory Mass to praise God for the delivery of Beauvais, followed by a huge feast of celebration.’
I was completely surprised as he turned and held up his hand to help me down, steadying me. The entire crowd inhaled and gave a loud murmur of surprise to see the King of France make such a gesture to a common woman. Stepping out into the blinding sunlight, I blinked and then carefully walked in my uncomfortable shoes down to the carpet. A roar went up from the crowd. My surroundings were a blur and I felt as though I was dreaming. Everything around me was swirling. I felt dizzy.
With a herald of French horns, I walked with my halting little steps beside the King down the red carpet, smiling and nodding to the sea of faces screaming and shouting at us. I just managed to put one foot in front of another without falling over and was grateful for the King’s arm, which steadied me.
And then the noise seemed to be sucked away into a spiralling eddy, disappearing and yet still humming on the periphery of my hearing. At the top of the stone steps that led to the enormous arches of the doors of the Cathedral was Colin.
I stopped and held my breath, trying to wake myself up from this strange dream.
‘Jeanne,’ the King whispered and untangled his arm from mine. ‘A king may not be God, but sometimes he can make miracles happen.’
I shut my eyes, then opened them. Colin was still standing in front of me. He was wearing a blue frock coat, a white shirt, white silk stockings and black shoes with silver buckles. He was not bound. He was a free man.
‘But before the Mass,’ the King said, leaning toward my ear, ‘before the feasting, we are to have a wedding. And what a thing, Jeanne Laisné, ma petite Hachette, because this one will be born of love! Your father is waiting inside. My men dressed him up and brought him on a cart.’
I looked at King Louis, a man of such infinite benevolence, tenderness and compassion, then back to the crowds, to Giselle waving at me, to Jean Lagoy glaring from atop his horse, and then to Colin who looked so small framed by the entrance to the Cathedral. With the voices of my fellow Beauvaisi in my ears, raised and hollering in celebration of courage and valour and honour and love, I shouted, too, with joy and relief and disbelief, as I ran, trying not to trip over my dainty slippers, wearing my mother’s lace wedding dress and her red cape, to Colin.
To my chicken boy.
As we rode into dusk we climbed and crossed the darkening fields, sheltering behind farmhouses and small shadowy thickets. Gunshot and smoke and the sounds of clashing metal and men’s shouts rang out through the air whenever we neared the roads. As soon as we heard human noises we veered back into the darkness, like night creatures, and waited until they passed before we moved again. Each time I shut my eyes hard as my heart hammered in my chest, and prayed that we would make it to Bangor safely.
‘They will maraud through the night, chasing down the rebels,’ George said as we converged on a small thread of shepherd’s tracks. The moon was dusted with bruises and looked angry, shining down from above. A wood hen stirred and clucked, running from the undergrowth, startling us all.
‘I know a family along Ballycreen Road,’ Will told us, his voice betraying his feelings of desperation. ‘The Armstrong family. They are mindful of the cause but Samuel’s wife is an Englishwoman and they are under no suspicion. They may let us rest in their stables until morning.’
‘But we cannot travel through the day,’ I worried aloud. ‘It will be too dangerous and there are many miles to cover to get to Bangor. And I want to say goodbye to Da on the way.’
I thought of his sister, Mary Ann. My heart broke for her. She was the strongest, smartest woman I knew and she’d ridden north to support him.
‘How long must we stay in Scotland?’ I asked, forcing myself to think of practical thoughts like the small matter that I had not packed any clothes or belongings at all. ‘I am empty-handed and what of our horses?’
I reached down and gave Finn McCool a rub over his mane. He had sustained some cuts and abrasions during the battle, but nothing that could not be patched up with some vinegar and rest.
‘I say we leave the horses to themselves,’ George said softly. ‘And travel on foot. We will be less conspicuous that way and can hide in smaller spots.’
‘We’ll travel slower,’ Will said, thinking carefully, running his hands through his unruly hair. ‘But you are right. All our rides have telltale nicks and grazes. Perhaps if they are found and identified, it will be assumed we have met a dastardly fate. Yes, this could be a good ruse.’
The thought of setting Finn McCool loose to paddock to perhaps be recruited by the British broke my heart.
‘Just let them go to wander?’ I said, beginning to cry. I felt as fragile as blown glass that was beginning to crack.
‘They are good strong stock and will be well cared for, wherever they end up. You know that, Betsy,’ Will said gently. ‘They will be safe. It is our hides I am more worried about.’
In a gently sloping field, under the uneven shadows of a clump of fir pines, we dismounted, took a sword each and nothing more. I walked Finn McCool away to the cool and darkest recess of the grove, with tears rolling over my dirty cheeks. I could see the glint of his eye in the moonlight and I put my forehead to his, the warmth of his head against my own.
‘We’ve been together for a long time, boy,’ I said softly, feeling his breath come in warm gusts against my chest. ‘You were with me today and every day and no matter where I go I will never forget you. I love you, Finn McCool. Be safe and strong. I am letting you go for your own good … not because … I’m so sorry, Finn.’
I just couldn’t say any more words. They clenched up in my throat. I was bereft. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to run away. This was my Ireland. Why did I have to run? The tears came like a torrent. I wanted to put my arms around the neck of my horse and never let go. Da had brought him home to me after Mammy passed away. Finn McCool’s mane had soaked up my tears then too. For ten years he had been my very best friend; the beast had loved me unconditionally for most of the life I could remember.
‘Come on, Betsy,’ Will said, walking over to us, rubbing my shoulders. ‘We will let them graze and roam together. They all know each other well.’
I clung to my horse for a few more moments and pulled back, still crying, as Finn gave a long whinny and shook his head and shuddered. He nudged my hand and knocked it up so that I could rustle his long white hair one last time.
‘I’ll find you again, Finn McCool.’ I sobbed as Will led me away. ‘I promise. I will come back for you.’
I cried quietly as the two boys led me away, each holding one of my hands. In the darkness we travelled over hill and dell. We crept through thickets and under bushes, sticking to the undergrowth and the most inaccessible spots. If we heard the sound of angry men’s voices or marching or violence, we rolled our bodies up into balls like animals and wedged ourselves up against boulders to blend in. The moonlight knew no colours, which made it harder to trace the contours of the terrain we crossed. It covered the land with a dirty grey, strangling me with its monotony. The world was moulded in lead. Nothing moved but a light breeze and there was no scent but that of the naked earth and the distant hint of smoke.
Silence lay upon us as we wandered north under the blanket of darkness, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. I thought of my good horse and hoped he understood why I had abandoned him. He was intelligent. I had always seen that in his eyes and I liked to believe he understood everything I said to him. It must have been as traumatic for him as it was for me, being caught up in the battle that day and then the violent ambush that we’d only narrowly escaped. He was tall, strong, an asset for any man, soldier or farmer, and he would be well nurtured no matter where he ended up. People often cared more for horses than they did for folk.
‘There.’ Will pulled us up and pointed to a deep purple coiling cloud of smoke that was lit up in the glare of moonlight. ‘That’s the Armstrong farm.’
The cottage was nestled into a valley and beyond it I could see a stretch of road cut like a scar into the land, winding up to the north.
‘That’s Ballycreen Road.’ Will gestured. ‘If we can take rest for a day and keep out of sight, then travel by night off the main roads, and keep heading north past Newtownards and up to Bangor, we should be on a boat to Scotland by Wednesday.’
‘I’ve never been to Scotland,’ I whispered. ‘Is it like Ireland?’
‘It’s the same,’ George said wearily. ‘Less green, fewer Irishmen, less good ale, but more nooks and crannies to hide in. From there we will plan a route to France. There they welcome the Irish.’
The thought of all that travel made me feel exhausted and a sudden wash of weariness flooded me. I felt myself sink to the cool ground and lie there, looking up at the moon and the smattering of stars that winked and blinked down at me. At least, I thought, in Scotland, I could be with my sister once again. But with my father old and frail, I wondered if I might ever see him again. I looked over at my brother and Will standing there in the moonlight, two tall young men, and I thanked God for them.
‘When France comes to our aid with shiploads of re- inforcements, we will rise again,’ Will said aloud into the night sky. ‘With the French behind us we will succeed. We will take Ireland back.’
In those moments, I no longer cared. I just wanted to go home to Gransha and put the fire on and walk my hallway, gazing upon my ancestors, the wall of portraits. I wanted Brigit in the rocking chair knitting a cap for her daughter, her husband playing a card game of Switch with Da and George, all friends, no wall of religion or politics between us. Mammy in the kitchen cooking my favourite pie. And Finn McCool with his head poking in through the back kitchen door, looking for a vegetable peeling or a handful of sugar.
‘Come on, Betsy.’ Will came over and laughed, reaching out a hand to me. ‘Get up and we’ll rest once we have some safe shelter. They’ll give us a blanket and a cup of broth for sure.’
‘Start down the hill, you boys, and I’ll roll on down after you. I just want a moment.’
Truth was, I needed to water myself and didn’t want an audience. I didn’t have to explain. I waited until I saw them edging down the embankment before going to the darker area beneath a tree where I could tinkle in private. It was some sweet relief as I’d been holding on for the last mile or so. I breathed out, pulled off one glove with my teeth, used a leaf from the ground and tidied myself up before straightening my torn and dirty dress. I started after Will and George and that is when I heard a shout. The blood in my veins turned to stone and I stopped breathing.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’
Silence. A sudden rummaging through the grass, a thud, then silence. My heart shuddered and I stood as still as a statue, listening, poised, ready to run but unable to.
‘You there, stop or we’ll shoot.’
I groaned and began to shiver as if it was cold, although it wasn’t. It was a second voice and English and that meant there were two of them. I heard the thump of footsteps on the ground, running. I tried to peer into the
darkness to see what was happening but all I saw were shadows, flitting, rearing up, blending and disappearing. Figures loomed and vanished and as I took a shaky step forward in the grass, I could see two figures bounding down the incline and three others in pursuit. I held my breath and did not know what to do.
Realising that I could not stand there doing nothing, I dropped to the ground, feeling for my sword but then remembered I had laid it against the tree. I was missing one glove, which must have fallen when I’d heard the noise. I was too afraid to stand again so I crept like a badger through the grass, down and toward the road where the shadowy figures were stumbling and tripping. I was tasting grass and the fingers of my bare right hand were digging into the dusty dirt as I pulled myself down the hill, splitting my fingernails.
Near the road I heard voices raised and a heavy slap of fist on flesh and the guttural moan that comes from being winded. I was up on my hands and knees like a cat, peering into the dimness, breathing with a crackling wheeze, wanting to empty my bladder again.
‘You dog-meat Irish rebels,’ a voice growled. ‘I’m gonna enjoy disembowelling you little bastards.’
Another thud.
‘You can go to hell.’ I recognised Will’s voice but he said it breathlessly as if all but a little of his wind had been knocked out of him.
‘Here, let my sword show us what you ate for your last supper, eh?’ Another voice sliced through the darkness. I felt like I had been stabbed as I struggled to my feet and saw the flash of metal and heard Will’s cry of surprise and shock.
‘Noooo!’ I screamed and began running and falling further down the hill toward the sorry party of men.
I could feel them all look my way and heard a burst of laughter and another shout of horror that I knew spilled from my brother’s lips.
‘Betsy! Run!’ he cried. ‘Go!’
‘Yes!’ I yelled. ‘Come and get me, you English dogs.’
Liberty Page 27