by Dan Davis
Walt scoffed. “What, some little girl marching with soldiers, dressed as a page boy, is going to save France?”
Rob looked up at the sky, as if seeking inspiration. “They say she is no longer dressed as a page but now wears full plate armour and helm. Just as it is foretold in the prophecy.”
“Prophecy,” Walt said, spitting again.
“I suppose it does seem rather unlikely,” I allowed.
“Do you believe in prophecy, sir?” Rob said. “That events is preordained by God?”
“I have been assured by a number of priests and monks, including dear Stephen, that mankind is given free will, to make what choices we will. If this is the case, how can there exist such a thing as predestined actions?”
Rob frowned. “Can’t God do what He wants?”
“I am sure He can. I believe this is what we would call a miracle.”
“This whore from Lorraine ain’t a miracle,” Walt said. “Some cunning sod has tarted up his little piece in fancy armour and is dragging her here hoping we take fright and run away. Won’t work, Richard. Look around you. Look at the miserable, hard-faced bastards we have here. All they want is to get inside them walls over there, finally, and have at the wine and the women therein. Ain’t no sodding witch going to turn these sons of war from them there walls, no, sir. You wait and see.”
I thought he was probably quite right about all of that.
We soon knew, as did the citizens of Orléans, that this maiden from Lorraine had been brought before the Dauphin himself. Reports were confused but by the end of March we heard that she was marching in a suit of plate armour, mounted on a warhorse, flying her own banner while attended by pages, heralds, servants, and high-born knights serving as her bodyguard.
It was fantastical. We could not quite credit the rumours we were hearing.
And then her first letters arrived addressed to our commanders.
Begone, or I will make you go.
The missives were signed, La Pucelle, which meant the Maiden.
It was all so strange. A peasant girl, by all accounts, addressing great lords and giving them ultimatums. The men jeered and cursed her and mocked the French for falling for the ruse. But underneath it all, I sensed a disquiet among the English. Perhaps it was only I who felt such anxiety but, knowing what later occurred, I do not believe I was mistaken in noting the rising apprehension.
At the end of April, a messenger arrived at the fort of St. Laurent, his horse shuddering and the man himself sweating. I rushed over to the commander’s position in the hope that I would hear of what was occurring.
“My lord,” he said to Sir John Talbot, speaking with all urgency. “A great supply column approaches from Blois. From the south, on the other side of the Loire.”
“Indeed?” Talbot cried and turned to his men with a smile on his face. “We shall send word to the bastilles guarding the bridge to intercept them.”
His knights smiled also, for if we stopped the convoy, as we had done to many others, it would mean additional supplies for the men and quite possibly additional wealth for the lords.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the messenger said, catching his breath. “I must also report that the convoy is escorted by five hundred soldiers.”
The grin fell from Talbot’s face. “Five hundred? Are you certain, man?”
“It is five hundred, my lord, at the least.”
“And…” the messenger continued, then paused.
“And?” Talbot cried. “Out with it, man.”
“And they say that the Maiden of Lorraine is with them, my lord. The Maiden what has been sending letters, I mean, my lord. The Maiden who they say is beloved by God and who is destined to—”
“We know what damned maiden you speak of,” Sir John Fastolf snapped. “Be silent.”
“By God,” Talbot muttered, turning to his men. “We shall allow this convoy to pass. It is a shame but it cannot be helped. On the next occasion, assuming they are not so well defended, we shall take the supplies.”
“Are you mad?”
They turned to me as one and I realised I had spoken aloud without thinking.
“Hold your tongue, sir!” Sir John Fastolf roared. “How dare you?”
I stepped forward toward the group of outraged lords and addressed Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, directly. “Forgive me, my lord. But surely we must make every effort to stop these supplies entering the city? It otherwise might extend the siege beyond the summer and into the winter and who knows what might occur if we tarry here another year?”
“Tarry?” Fastolf said. “Control yourself, sir, or I shall have you removed from my presence.”
Talbot was quiet, though, as he regarded me and when he spoke it was with condescension. “Our only soldiers on that side of the river are the ones manning the bastilles that guard the bridge. If I order the men out of those forts, the garrison from the city will assault the bridge and with no men to defend them, we will lose them. What is more, taking such action is unnecessary, because there will be no way for this convoy to cross the river and so they will retreat, just as so many other convoys have done in previous months. Now, young man, I know it may be difficult for you to understand but this is the best course of action. You, Richard, are an able commander of a small company and carry out your duties guarding the perimeter and escorting messengers perfectly well. But you will allow your betters to dictate matters of strategy, will you not? You are dismissed, sir.”
I scoffed and looked at him, at Fastolf, and at the furious knights all around them.
“Thank you, my lord,” I said, bowing.
Later that day, the supply column came at the city from the south just as the messenger had warned. Unable to approach our forts at the bridge, they instead made to cross the river by boat opposite our fort of Saint-Loup on the north bank.
And from afar we watched upriver and heard reports as they came in. While French skirmishers kept the garrison of Saint-Loup on the north bank contained, a fleet of boats from Orléans sailed down to the landing to pick up the supplies, and the soldiers, and the Maiden.
“You must stop them, my lords,” I urged Talbot and Fastolf. We watched the events from afar, on the north bank. “There is yet time to stop them before they embark.”
“Remove this man,” Talbot muttered, watching the fleet sail upstream to where the small army and the wagons waited as the sky darkened toward nightfall.
No one moved to do so but I fell silent. They would not listen to reason.
Walt edged forward at my elbow. “Do you see the Maiden, sir?” he whispered.
“Do not be absurd,” I said. “I can hardly make out one man from another at this distance.”
“I can’t see her, neither,” he grumbled.
“The winds blows east,” someone nearby said, with excitement in his voice. “And so they will not so readily return to the city against the wind.”
There were murmurs as the men all around concurred. Some even went so far as to celebrate the fact that the supplies would remain stranded on the south bank as night fell.
“Perhaps a limited number of companies might raid the convoy in the night,” Fastolf suggested to Talbot. “Take some for ourselves and help drive them off.”
Talbot nodded. “Raise the signal before dark,” he ordered.
But then one of Joan's reputed miracles occurred. The wind which had brought the boats upriver suddenly reversed itself, allowing them to sail back to Orléans smoothly under the cover of darkness and there was not a thing we could do about it.
It was no miracle, of course. The wind often changes as night falls, and though no man can say why it does, all men know that it is the most natural thing in all the world. No man alive has not noted the fact of it and yet the French were convinced that the Maiden had intervened with her prayers and then God had answered.
Either way, the long-awaited Joan of Lorraine had arrived.
The people of the city celebrated the arrival of
the prophesied Maiden, who was destined, so they said, to save them all.
“It’s a barrel load of arse-pimples,” Walt said again as we watched the boats of the convoy, little more than black shapes moving on the black water, heading up to the landing places at the city walls. “All that stuff about the Maiden. Ain’t it, Richard?”
“Certainly, it is,” I replied, the dark shapes bobbing in the distance becoming lost in coal-black shadow.
Only later would I discover that sitting hunched down beside the young woman in the bottom of one of those river boats as it landed in Orléans, was a nobleman in the finest armour, named Baron Gilles de Rais.
None of us could know at the time but it was the beginning of the end for the English in France.
9. Illumination
July 1440
“This is not enough,” the Bishop said, looking at the list of named witness depositions. He rolled it back up and tossed it onto the desk in his audience chamber.
Stephen and I exchanged a look.
We had taken more than three weeks to record almost thirty sworn statements from bereaved parents and other local people who felt brave enough to go through with it. Each one had taken time to locate and Stephen recorded their words. Some had changed their minds and refused to speak to us after all and we had crossed back and forth from Cholet to Challans, fifty miles from east to west, and twenty north to south. A vast area and we had run ourselves ragged. Our valets especially were exhausted. But I had driven my men hard, day after day, because those statements were the means of bringing Gilles de Rais to justice whether he was an immortal or human.
“Not enough?” I said, incredulous. “What in the name of God do you mean not enough? We did precisely as you wanted and now you say to us that it is not enough?”
The Bishop stared in astonishment and his clerks and servants muttered behind him. “How dare you, sir? How dare you speak to me in this fashion? I will have your apology, sir, or I will have your damned head on a pike.”
I scoffed. “If you are going back on your word, my lord, then I will end this in the way I am used to.”
“What in the world do you mean by that? If you are not careful, I will have you dragged from here and thrown in gaol.”
The two guards at the back of the room stepped forward, ready to do the Bishop’s bidding.
“Richard,” Stephen said, warning me.
I smiled at the Bishop. “You may certainly try.”
He scowled, his fat cheeks wobbling. He certainly had the authority to have me treated very badly, if he so wished. But after two and a half centuries of immortality, I was capable of quickly and accurately judging a man’s character. And the Bishop, though he blustered, was at heart a kind and decent man and I knew I could face him down.
“You say these are not enough, my lord?” Stephen said, stepping forward to pick up our list. “I suppose we could find a few more who are willing to make their sworn statements but it was something like a miracle that we have secured so many as this.”
“No,” the Bishop said. “I am sorry, Stephen. Depositions from peasants are not enough for us to issue a warrant for the Baron’s arrest.”
Stephen and I turned to look at each other in shock.
“Your pardon, Milord Bishop,” Stephen said, “but we followed your orders. You told us this was what you needed.”
“I did,” the Bishop replied. “And I have since spoken to the Duke. He is unwilling to act on this basis alone.”
“Unwilling?” I said, still speaking with too much passion. “So he may be persuaded to change his mind?”
The Bishop looked me up and down, as if suddenly recalling that I existed. It seemed as though he would pretend I had not spoken but then he deigned to reply. “I misspoke. He will absolutely not issue a warrant based on the depositions of peasants, no matter how many of them there are.”
“They are not peasants,” I said, snatching the roll of names from Stephen’s hand and brandishing it like a weapon. “Less than half are labourers, as you can see for yourself from the professions listed by the names. You have builders, embroiderers, fullers, carders, butchers, spinners, a cartwright, roofers, coopers, a herbier, potters, millers, a boat builder, and a physician, for God’s sake.” The Bishop had his hands up, palms facing me, to shut me up. “These are good and decent people who have bravely taken a stand for each other and for the sake of justice. I gave them my word that action would be taken if they spoke up. I gave my word that justice would be done.”
The Bishop sighed. “You should not have done that.”
He was right. I should not have done such a foolish thing. I had been caught up in the moment in the church and had wanted to give those desperate people the hope that they deserved. It was not even hope for the lives of their children but it was at least the hope that justice would be done and their murderers punished.
Right he may have been but still I was angry and ready to break the Bishop’s writing desk over his head.
Stephen stepped to my side and placed his fingers on my arm. “Our intentions were good, Milord Bishop. Whatever we have done, we have acted only on your instruction.”
“Oh?” he said, darkness clouding his expression. “Was it my instruction that led you to assault the Baron’s servants?”
I snapped at him. “They would have killed that boy if I had not acted.”
“It is a shame you could not have seized one of the servants. Perhaps if you had done so, we could have used him.”
“Seized one?” I said. “What do you mean, seized one? It was all I could do to get the boy to safety before he perished in my arms, Bishop. And as for seizing one, I would have killed the bloody lot of them if I had the—”
Stephen grabbed my wrist to shut me up and spoke over me. “If we had one of the servants in our possession, my lord, if we had one and brought him to you. Would that be enough to have the warrant issued?”
The Bishop pursed his lips. “It might… if the servant was to make a deposition that directly accused the Marshal of specific capital crimes. The servant would have to describe the Marshal committing murder and conducting heretical acts. Yes, that would be enough to persuade the Duke to issue an arrest warrant.” He sat back in his enormous, ornate chair. “But I fear you have by your actions quite ruined any chance of that. They will not venture from their castle now, I am sure.”
“They will come out, alright,” I said. “They have a need for blood that they will not be able to deny for long. And if they do not, well, I will simply storm the castle and tear the place down around them.”
The Bishop sat upright and banged a palm on the table. “You will commit no crimes, sir, or I shall have you dismissed at once from my service. Do you understand?”
I stepped forward and leaned down. “I will bring you one of his men. You will get a confession out of him and issue the warrant. Do we agree?”
He spluttered. “I do not make deals with underlings, sir. You do as I command, do you understand?”
“Do we agree, Milord Bishop?”
He glared at me, no doubt expecting that the authority of his office would intimidate me into submission. When it did not work, he sighed and leaned back again. “Yes, yes. Bring one here to Nantes. I will speak with the Inquisition and we shall do the rest.”
Stephen bowed and pulled me back. “Very well, Milord Bishop. We shall do so at once.”
He pulled at me again and I stepped back, bowing before I left.
“That bastard,” I said as we left the Bishop’s palace and stepped out into a steady rain. “That lying, treacherous bastard.”
Stephen glanced over his shoulder to check no one was in earshot and moved away across the courtyard, heading toward the gatehouse. “He has his hands tied as much as we do. His legal authority does not extend to arresting the Baron alone. Gilles de Rais is the Duke’s vassal and so the Bishop must satisfy the Duke’s requirements.”
I stared at him. “Yes, I know that, Stephen. Still, he could
have forced the matter and he would have done if he had a spine running through his body instead of a lump of wet cheese.”
“So, how do we find one of the servants?” he asked, grimacing at the sky and pulling up his hood.
“Let us speak to the others.”
Walt and Rob were waiting at our inn near the centre of the town and we found them with our valets drinking wine in the public rooms downstairs.
“Are we all set then, Richard?” Rob asked brightly as Stephen and I sat down, shedding rainwater from our clothes.
Walt elbowed Rob. “Look at them, Rob. You reckon those are happy faces? What’s gone wrong now, Richard?”
“We need to kidnap one of those servants and bring them back here.”
Our valets hung their heads, for no doubt they were enjoying their time in Nantes and were hoping they would not have to return to the wilderness near Tiffauges.
Rob and Walt looked at each other, then grinned.
“Can’t we just murder the bastards?” Walt asked, swirling the wine in his cup and squinting into it.
“Not all of them. We must return to the castle and grab one of the men when they leave.”
Stephen leaned in. “I would agree with one thing the Bishop said. They will surely be too alert to leave their castle undefended, following your recent brush with them. They know we are watching and so they will be ready for us.”
“He’s got a point there, Richard,” Walt said, raising his hand for the servant to bring him more wine.
“Two hundred soldiers in plate armour,” Rob said. “The Marshal’s got to be using them for something.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. “I would not be so certain of that. The Marshal spends money even faster than does Walt.” My men laughed at Walt’s wounded expression. “Those soldiers are pretty as a picture, are they not? With their polished steel and bright pennants and fancy riding in formation but I saw a few when I went to see the priest. Drinking, dicing, lounging about and totally unconcerned with the sight of me, a stranger, in their midst. I have not heard of these soldiers harming any villagers, have you? Not in any of the depositions we have taken. No, I am quite convinced that it is for show, I tell you. To impress upon his people that their lord is a great man. He acts like a king, you said it yourself, Walt. These soldiers are how he dominates his people but by overt demonstration of his wealth, not through strength of arms.”