A MONK OF FIFE




PREFACE



Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, whose narrative the reader has in his
hands, refers more than once to his unfinished Latin Chronicle.
That work, usually known as "The Book of Pluscarden," has been
edited by Mr. Felix Skene, in the series of "Historians of Scotland"
(vol. vii.).  To Mr. Skene's introduction and notes the curious are
referred.  Here it may suffice to say that the original MS. of the
Latin Chronicle is lost; that of six known manuscript copies none is
older than 1480; that two of these copies contain a Prologue; and
that the Prologue tells us all that has hitherto been known about
the author.

The date of the lost Latin original is 1461, as the author himself
avers.  He also, in his Prologue, states the purpose of his work.
At the bidding of an unnamed Abbot of Dunfermline, who must have
been Richard Bothwell, he is to abbreviate "The Great Chronicle,"
and "bring it up to date," as we now say.  He is to recount the
events of his own time, "with certain other miraculous deeds, which
I who write have had cognisance of, seen, and heard, beyond the
bounds of this realm.  Also, lastly, concerning a certain marvellous
Maiden, who recovered the kingdom of France out of the hands of the
tyrant, Henry, King of England.  The aforesaid Maiden I saw, was
conversant with, and was in her company in her said recovery of
France, and till her life's end I was ever present."  After "I was
ever present" the copies add "etc.," perhaps a sign of omission.
The monkish author probably said more about the heroine of his
youth, and this the copyists have chosen to leave out.

The author never fulfilled this promise of telling, in Latin, the
history of the Maid as her career was seen by a Scottish ally and
friend.  Nor did he ever explain how a Scot, and a foe of England,
succeeded in being present at the Maiden's martyrdom in Rouen.  At
least he never fulfilled his promise, as far as any of the six Latin
MSS. of his Chronicle are concerned.  Every one of these MSS.--
doubtless following their incomplete original--breaks off short in
the middle of the second sentence of Chapter xxxii. Book xii.  Here
is the brief fragment which that chapter contains:-

"In those days the Lord stirred up the spirit of a certain
marvellous Maiden, born on the borders of France, in the duchy of
Lorraine, and the see of Toul, towards the Imperial territories.
This Maiden her father and mother employed in tending sheep; daily,
too, did she handle the distaff; man's love she knew not; no sin, as
it is said, was found in her, to her innocence the neighbours bore
witness . . . "

Here the Latin narrative of the one man who followed Jeanne d'Arc
through good and evil to her life's end breaks off abruptly.  The
author does not give his name; even the name of the Abbot at whose
command he wrote "is left blank, as if it had been erased in the
original" (Mr.  Felix Skene, "Liber Pluscardensis," in the
"Historians of Scotland," vii. p. 18).  It might be guessed that the
original fell into English hands between 1461 and 1489, and that
they blotted out the name of the author, and destroyed a most
valuable record of their conqueror and their victim, Jeanne d'Arc.

Against this theory we have to set the explanation here offered by
Norman Leslie, our author, in the Ratisbon Scots College's French
MS., of which this work is a translation.  Leslie never finished his
Latin Chronicle, but he wrote, in French, the narrative which
follows, decorating it with the designs which Mr. Selwyn Image has
carefully copied in black and white.

Possessing this information, we need not examine Mr. W. F. Skene's
learned but unconvincing theory that the author of the fragmentary
Latin work was one Maurice Drummond, out of the Lennox.  The
hypothesis is that of Mr. W. F. Skene, and Mr. Felix Skene points
out the difficulties which beset the opinion of his distinguished
kinsman.  Our Monk is a man of Fife.

As to the veracity of the following narrative, the translator finds
it minutely corroborated, wherever corroboration could be expected,
in the large mass of documents which fill the five volumes of M.
Quicherat's "Proces de Jeanne d'Arc," in contemporary chronicles,
and in MSS. more recently discovered in French local or national
archives.  Thus Charlotte Boucher, Barthelemy Barrette, Noiroufle,
the Scottish painter, and his daughter Elliot, Capdorat, ay, even
Thomas Scott, the King's Messenger, were all real living people,
traces of whose existence, with some of their adventures, survive
faintly in brown old manuscripts.  Louis de Coutes, the pretty page
of the Maid, a boy of fourteen, may have been hardly judged by
Norman Leslie, but he certainly abandoned Jeanne d'Arc at her first
failure.

So, after explaining the true position and character of our monkish
author and artist, we leave his book to the judgment which it has
tarried for so long.



CHAPTER I--HOW THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN, AND HOW NORMAN LESLIE FLED OUT
OF FIFE



It is not of my own will, nor for my own glory, that I, Norman
Leslie, sometime of Pitcullo, and in religion called Brother Norman,
of the Order of Benedictines, of Dunfermline, indite this book.  But
on my coming out of France, in the year of our Lord One thousand
four hundred and fifty-nine, it was laid on me by my Superior,
Richard, Abbot in Dunfermline, that I should abbreviate the Great
Chronicle of Scotland, and continue the same down to our own time.
{1}  He bade me tell, moreover, all that I knew of the glorious Maid
of France, called Jeanne la Pucelle, in whose company I was, from
her beginning even till her end.

Obedient, therefore, to my Superior, I wrote, in this our cell of
Pluscarden, a Latin book containing the histories of times past, but
when I came to tell of matters wherein, as Maro says, "pars magna
fui," I grew weary of such rude, barbarous Latin as alone I am
skilled to indite, for of the manner Ciceronian, as it is now
practised by clerks of Italy, I am not master:  my book, therefore,
I left unfinished, breaking off in the middle of a sentence.  Yet,
considering the command laid on me, in the end I am come to this
resolve, namely, to write the history of the wars in France, and the
history of the blessed Maid (so far at least as I was an eyewitness
and partaker thereof), in the French language, being the most
commonly understood of all men, and the most delectable.  It is not
my intent to tell all the story of the Maid, and all her deeds and
sayings, for the world would scarcely contain the books that should
be written.  But what I myself beheld, that I shall relate,
especially concerning certain accidents not known to the general, by
reason of which ignorance the whole truth can scarce be understood.
For, if Heaven visibly sided with France and the Maid, no less did
Hell most manifestly take part with our old enemy of England.  And
often in this life, if we look not the more closely, and with the
eyes of faith, Sathanas shall seem to have the upper hand in the
battle, with whose very imp and minion I myself was conversant, to
my sorrow, as shall be shown.

First, concerning myself I must say some few words, to the end that
what follows may be the more readily understood.

I was born in the kingdom of Fife, being, by some five years, the
younger of two sons of Archibald Leslie, of Pitcullo, near St.
Andrews, a cadet of the great House of Rothes.  My mother was an
Englishwoman of the Debatable Land, a Storey of Netherby, and of me,
in our country speech, it used to be said that I was "a mother's
bairn."  For I had ever my greatest joy in her, whom I lost ere I
was sixteen years of age, and she in me:  not that she favoured me
unduly, for she was very just, but that, within ourselves, we each
knew who was nearest to her heart.  She was, indeed, a saintly
woman, yet of a merry wit, and she had great pleasure in reading of
books, and in romances.  Being always, when I might, in her company,
I became a clerk insensibly, and without labour I could early read
and write, wherefore my father was minded to bring me up for a
churchman.  For this cause, I was some deal despised by others of my
age, and, yet more, because from my mother I had caught the Southron
trick of the tongue.  They called me "English Norman," and many a
battle I have fought on that quarrel, for I am as true a Scot as
any, and I hated the English (my own mother's people though they
were) for taking and holding captive our King, James I. of worthy
memory.  My fancy, like that of most boys, was all for the wars, and
full of dreams concerning knights and ladies, dragons and
enchanters, about which the other lads were fain enough to hear me
tell what I had read in romances, though they mocked at me for
reading.  Yet they oft came ill speed with their jests, for my
brother had taught me to use my hands:  and to hold a sword I was
instructed by our smith, who had been prentice to Harry Gow, the
Burn-the-Wind of Perth, and the best man at his weapon in broad
Scotland.  From him I got many a trick of fence that served my turn
later.

But now the evil time came when my dear mother sickened and died,
leaving to me her memory and her great chain of gold.  A bitter
sorrow is her death to me still; but anon my father took to him
another wife of the Bethunes of Blebo.  I blame myself, rather than
this lady, that we dwelt not happily in the same house.  My father
therefore, still minded to make me a churchman, sent me to Robert of
Montrose's new college that stands in the South Street of St.
Andrews, a city not far from our house of Pitcullo.  But there, like
a wayward boy, I took more pleasure in the battles of the "nations"-
-as of Fife against Galloway and the Lennox; or in games of catch-
pull, football, wrestling, hurling the bar, archery, and golf--than
in divine learning--as of logic, and Aristotle his analytics.

Yet I loved to be in the scriptorium of the Abbey, and to see the
good Father Peter limning the blessed saints in blue, and red, and
gold, of which art he taught me a little.  Often I would help him to
grind his colours, and he instructed me in the laying of them on
paper or vellum, with white of egg, and in fixing and burnishing the
gold, and in drawing flowers, and figures, and strange beasts and
devils, such as we see grinning from the walls of the cathedral.  In
the French language, too, he learned me, for he had been taught at
the great University of Paris; and in Avignon had seen the Pope
himself, Benedict XIII., of uncertain memory.

Much I loved to be with Father Peter, whose lessons did not irk me,
but jumped with my own desire to read romances in the French tongue,
whereof there are many.  But never could I have dreamed that, in
days to come, this art of painting would win me my bread for a
while, and that a Leslie of Pitcullo should be driven by hunger to
so base and contemned a handiwork, unworthy, when practised for
gain, of my blood.

Yet it would have been well for me to follow even this craft more,
and my sports and pastimes less:  Dickon Melville had then escaped a
broken head, and I, perchance, a broken heart.  But youth is given
over to vanities that war against the soul, and, among others, to
that wicked game of the Golf, now justly cried down by our laws, {2}
as the mother of cursing and idleness, mischief and wastery, of
which game, as I verily believe, the devil himself is the father.

It chanced, on an October day of the year of grace Fourteen hundred
and twenty-eight, that I was playing myself at this accursed sport
with one Richard Melville, a student of like age with myself.  We
were evenly matched, though Dickon was tall and weighty, being great
of growth for his age, whereas I was of but scant inches, slim, and,
as men said, of a girlish countenance.  Yet I was well skilled in
the game of the Golf, and have driven a Holland ball the length of
an arrow-flight, there or thereby.  But wherefore should my sinful
soul be now in mind of these old vanities, repented of, I trust,
long ago?

As we twain, Dickon and I, were known for fell champions at this
unholy sport, many of the other scholars followed us, laying wagers
on our heads.  They were but a wild set of lads, for, as then, there
was not, as now there is, a house appointed for scholars to dwell in
together under authority.  We wore coloured clothes, and our hair
long; gold chains, and whingers {3} in our belts, all of which
things are now most righteously forbidden.  But I carried no whinger
on the links, as considering that it hampered a man in his play.  So
the game went on, now Dickon leading "by a hole," as they say, and
now myself, and great wagers were laid on us.

Now, at the hole that is set high above the Eden, whence you see far
over the country, and the river-mouth, and the shipping, it chanced
that my ball lay between Dickon's and the hole, so that he could in
no manner win past it.

"You laid me that stimy of set purpose," cried Dickon, throwing down
his club in a rage; "and this is the third time you have done it in
this game."

"It is clean against common luck," quoth one of his party, "and the
game and the money laid on it should be ours."

"By the blessed bones of the Apostle," I said, 'no luck is more
common.  To-day to me, to-morrow to thee!  Lay it of purpose, I
could not if I would."

"You lie!" he shouted in a rage, and gripped to his whinger.

It was ever my father's counsel that I must take the lie from none.
Therefore, as his steel was out, and I carried none, I made no more
ado, and the word of shame had scarce left his lips when I felled
him with the iron club that we use in sand.

"He is dead!" cried they of his party, while the lads of my own
looked askance on me, and had manifestly no mind to be partakers in
my deed.

Now, Melville came of a great house, and, partly in fear of their
feud, partly like one amazed and without any counsel, I ran and
leaped into a boat that chanced to lie convenient on the sand, and
pulled out into the Eden.  Thence I saw them raise up Melville, and
bear him towards the town, his friends lifting their hands against
me, with threats and malisons.  His legs trailed and his head wagged
like the legs and the head of a dead man, and I was without hope in
the world.

At first it was my thought to row up the river-mouth, land, and make
across the marshes and fields to our house at Pitcullo.  But I
bethought me that my father was an austere man, whom I had vexed
beyond bearing with my late wicked follies, into which, since the
death of my mother, I had fallen.  And now I was bringing him no
college prize, but a blood-feud, which he was like to find an ill
heritage enough, even without an evil and thankless son.  My
stepmother, too, who loved me little, would inflame his anger
against me.  Many daughters he had, and of gear and goods no more
than enough.  Robin, my elder brother, he had let pass to France,
where he served among the men of John Kirkmichael, Bishop of
Orleans--he that smote the Duke of Clarence in fair fight at Bauge.

Thinking of my father, and of my stepmother's ill welcome, and of
Robin, abroad in the wars against our old enemy of England, it may
be that I fell into a kind of half dream, the boat lulling me by its
movement on the waters.  Suddenly I felt a crashing blow on my head.
It was as if the powder used for artillery had exploded in my mouth,
with flash of light and fiery taste, and I knew nothing.  Then, how
long after I could not tell, there was water on my face, the blue
sky and the blue tide were spinning round--they spun swiftly, then
slowly, then stood still.  There was a fierce pain stounding in my
head, and a voice said -

"That good oar-stroke will learn you to steal boats!"

I knew the voice; it was that of a merchant sailor-man with whom, on
the day before, I had quarrelled in the market-place.  Now I was
lying at the bottom of a boat which four seamen, who had rowed up to
me and had broken my head as I meditated, were pulling towards a
merchant-vessel, or carrick, in the Eden-mouth.  Her sails were
being set; the boat wherein I lay was towing that into which I had
leaped after striking down Melville.  For two of the ship's men,
being on shore, had hailed their fellows in the carrick, and they
had taken vengeance upon me.

"You scholar lads must be taught better than your masters learn
you," said my enemy.

And therewith they carried me on board the vessel, the "St.
Margaret," of Berwick, laden with a cargo of dried salmon from Eden-
mouth.  They meant me no kindness, for there was an old feud between
the scholars and the sailors; but it seemed to me, in my
foolishness, that now I was in luck's way.  I need not go back, with
blood on my hands, to Pitcullo and my father.  I had money in my
pouch, my mother's gold chain about my neck, a ship's deck under my
foot, and the seas before me.  It was not hard for me to bargain
with the shipmaster for a passage to Berwick, whence I might put
myself aboard a vessel that traded to Bordeaux for wine from that
country.  The sailors I made my friends at no great cost, for indeed
they were the conquerors, and could afford to show clemency, and
hold me to slight ransom as a prisoner of war.

So we lifted anchor, and sailed out of Eden-mouth, none of those on
shore knowing how I was aboard the carrick that slipped by the
bishop's castle, and so under the great towers of the minster and
St. Rule's, forth to the Northern Sea.  Despite my broken head--
which put it comfortably into my mind that maybe Dickon's was no
worse--I could have laughed to think how clean I had vanished away
from St. Andrews, as if the fairies had taken me.  Now having time
to reason of it quietly, I picked up hope for Dickon's life,
remembering his head to be of the thickest.  Then came into my mind
the many romances of chivalry which I had read, wherein the young
squire has to flee his country for a chance blow, as did Messire
Patroclus, in the Romance of Troy, who slew a man in anger over the
game of the chess, and many another knight, in the tales of
Charlemagne and his paladins.  For ever it is thus the story opens,
and my story, methought, was beginning to-day like the rest.

Now, not to prove more wearisome than need be, and so vex those who
read this chronicle with much talk about myself, and such accidents
of travel as beset all voyagers, and chiefly in time of war, I found
a trading ship at Berwick, and reached Bordeaux safe, after much
sickness on the sea.  And in Bordeaux, with a very sore heart, I
changed the links of my mother's chain that were left to me--all but
four, that still I keep--for money of that country; and so, with a
lighter pack than spirit, I set forth towards Orleans and to my
brother Robin.

On this journey I had good cause to bless Father Peter of the Abbey
for his teaching me the French tongue, that was of more service to
me than all my Latin.  Yet my Latin, too, the little I knew, stood
me in good stead at the monasteries, where often I found bed and
board, and no small kindness; I little deeming that, in time to
come, I also should be in religion, an old man and weary, glad to
speak with travellers concerning the news of the world, from which I
am now these ten years retired.  Yet I love even better to call back
memories of these days, when I took my part in the fray.  If this be
a sin, may God and the Saints forgive me, for if I have fought, it
was in a rightful cause, which Heaven at last has prospered, and in
no private quarrel.  And methinks I have one among the Saints to
pray for me, as a friend for a friend not unfaithful.  But on this
matter I submit me to the judgment of the Church, as in all
questions of the faith.



CHAPTER II--HOW NORMAN LESLIE MET NOIROUFLE THE CORDELIER, CALLED
BROTHER THOMAS IN RELIGION:  AND OF MIRACLES WROUGHT BY BROTHER
THOMAS



The ways were rude and long from Bordeaux town to Orleans, whither I
had set my face, not knowing, when I left my own country, that the
city was beleaguered by the English.  For who could guess that lords
and knights of the Christian faith, holding captive the gentle Duke
of Orleans, would besiege his own city?--a thing unheard of among
the very Saracens, and a deed that God punished.  Yet the news of
this great villainy, namely, the leaguer of Orleans, then newly
begun, reached my ears on my landing at Bordeaux, and made me
greatly fear that I might never meet my brother Robin alive.  And
this my doubt proved but too true, for he soon after this time fell,
with many other Scottish gentlemen and archers, deserted shamefully
by the French and by Charles de Bourbon, Comte de Clermont, at the
Battle of the Herrings.  But of this I knew nothing--as, indeed, the
battle was not yet fought--and only pushed on for France, thinking
to take service with the Dauphin against the English.  My journey
was through a country ruinous enough, for, though the English were
on the further bank of the Loire, the partisans of the Dauphin had
made a ruin round themselves and their holds, and, not being paid,
they lived upon the country.

The further north I held, by ways broken and ruined with rains and
suns, the more bare and rugged grew the whole land.  Once, stopping
hard by a hamlet, I had sat down to munch such food as I carried,
and was sharing my meal with a little brown herd-boy, who told me
that he was dinnerless.  A few sheep and lean kine plucked at such
scant grasses as grew among rocks, and herbs useless but sweet-
scented, when suddenly a horn was blown from the tower of the little
church.  The first note of that blast had not died away, when every
cow and sheep was scampering towards the hamlet and a kind of
"barmkyn" {4} they had builded there for protection, and the boy
after them, running with his bare legs for dear life.  For me, I was
too amazed to run in time, so lay skulking in the thick sweet-
smelling herbs, whence I saw certain men-at-arms gallop to the crest
of a cliff hard by, and ride on with curses, for they were not of
strength to take the barmkyn.

Such was the face of France in many counties.  The fields lay weedy
and untilled; the starving peasant-folk took to the highway, every
man preying on his neighbour.  Woods had grown up, and broken in
upon the roads.  Howbeit, though robbers harboured therein, none of
them held to ransom a wandering poor Scots scholar.

Slowly I trudged, being often delayed, and I was now nearing
Poictiers, and thought myself well on my road to Chinon, where, as I
heard, the Dauphin lay, when I came to a place where the road should
have crossed a stream--not wide, but strong, smooth, and very deep.
The stream ran through a glen; and above the road I had long noted
the towers of a castle.  But as I drew closer, I saw first that the
walls were black with fire and roofless, and that carrion birds were
hovering over them, some enemy having fallen upon the place:  and
next, behold, the bridge was broken, and there was neither ford nor
ferry!  All the ruin was fresh, the castle still smouldering, the
kites flocking and yelling above the trees, the planks of the bridge
showing that the destruction was but of yesterday.

This matter of the broken bridge cost me little thought, for I could
swim like an otter.  But there was another traveller down by the
stream who seemed more nearly concerned.  When I came close to him,
I found him standing up to his waist in the water, taking soundings
with a long and heavy staff.  His cordelier's frock was tucked up
into his belt, his long brown legs, with black hairs thick on them,
were naked.  He was a huge, dark man, and when he turned and stared
at me, I thought that, among all men of the Church and in religion
whom I had ever beheld, he was the foulest and most fierce to look
upon.  He had an ugly, murderous visage, fell eyes and keen, and a
right long nose, hooked like a falcon's.  The eyes in his head shone
like swords, and of all eyes of man I ever saw, his were the most
piercing and most terrible.  On his back he carried, as I noticed at
the first, what I never saw on a cordelier's back before, or on any
but his since--an arbalest, and he had bolts enough in his bag, the
feathers showing above.

"Pax vobiscum," he cried, in a loud, grating voice, as he saw me,
and scrambled out to shore.

"Et cum anima tua," I answered.

"Nom de Dieu!" he said, "you have bottomed my Latin already, that is
scarce so deep as the river here.  My malison on them that broke the
bridge!"  Then he looked me over fiercely.

"Burgundy or Armagnac?" he asked.

I thought the question strange, as a traveller would scarce care to
pronounce for Burgundy in that country.  But this was a man who
would dare anything, so I deemed it better to answer that I was a
Scot, and, so far, of neither party.

"Tug-mutton, wine-sack!" he said, these being two of many ill names
which the French gave our countrymen; for, of all men, the French
are least grateful to us, who, under Heaven and the Maid, have set
their King on his throne again.

The English knew this, if the French did not; and their great King,
Harry the Fifth, when he fell ill of St. Fiacre's sickness, after
plundering that Scots saint's shrine of certain horse-shoes, silver-
gilt, said well that, "go where he would, he was bearded by Scots,
dead or alive."  But the French are not a thankful people.

I had no answer very ready to my tongue, so stepped down silent to
the water-edge, and was about taking off my doublet and hose,
meaning to carry them on my head and swim across.  But he barred the
way with his staff, and, for me, I gripped to my whinger, and
watched my chance to run in under his guard.  For this cordelier was
not to be respected, I deemed, like others of the Order of St.
Francis, and all men of Holy Church.

"Answer a civil question," he said, "before it comes to worse:
Armagnac or Burgundy?"

"Armagnac," I answered, "or anything else that is not English.
Clear the causeway, mad friar!"

At that he threw down his staff.

"I go north also," he said, "to Orleans, if I may, for the foul
"manants" and peasant dogs of this country have burned the castle of
Alfonse Rodigo, a good knight that held them in right good order
this year past.  He was worthy, indeed, to ride with that excellent
captain, Don Rodrigo de Villandradas.  King's captain or village
labourer, all was fish that came to his net, and but two days ago I
was his honourable chaplain.  But he made the people mad, and a
great carouse that we kept gave them their opportunity.  They have
roasted the good knight Alfonse, and would have done as much for me,
his almoner, frock and all, if wine had any mastery over me.  But I
gave them the slip.  Heaven helps its own!  Natheless, I would that
this river were between me and their vengeance, and, for once, I
dread the smell of roast meat that is still in my nostrils--pah!"

And here he spat on the ground.

"But one door closes," he went on, "and another opens, and to
Orleans am I now bound, in the service of my holy calling."

"There is, indeed, cause enough for the shriving of souls of
sinners, Father, in that country, as I hear, and a holy man like you
will be right welcome to many."

"They need little shriving that are opposite my culverin," said this
strange priest.  "Though now I carry but an arbalest, the gun is my
mistress, and my patron is the gunner's saint, St. Barbara.  And
even with this toy, methinks I have the lives of a score of goddams
in my bolt-pouch."

I knew that in these wild days many clerics were careless as to that
which the Church enjoins concerning the effusion of blood--nay, I
have named John Kirkmichael, Bishop of Orleans, as having himself
broken a spear on the body of the Duke of Clarence.  The Abbe of
Cerquenceaux, also, was a valiant man in religion, and a good
captain, and, all over France, clerics were gripping to sword and
spear.  But such a priest as this I did not expect to see.

"Your name?" he asked suddenly, the words coming out with a sound
like the first grating of a saw on stone.

"They call me Norman Leslie de Pitcullo," I answered.  "And yours?"

"My name," he said, "is Noiroufle"--and I thought that never had I
seen a man so well fitted with a name;--"in religion, Brother
Thomas, a poor brother of the Order of the mad St. Francis of
Assisi."

"Then, Brother Thomas, how do you mean to cross this water which
lies between you and the exercise of your holy calling?  Do you
swim?"

"Like a stone cannon-ball, and, for all that I can find, the cursed
water has no bottom.  Cross!" he snarled.  "Let me see you swim."

I was glad enough to be quit of him so soon, but I noticed that, as
I stripped and packed my clothes to carry in a bundle on my head,
the holy man set his foot in the stirrup of his weapon, and was
winding up his arbalest with a windlass, a bolt in his mouth,
watching at the same time a heron that rose from a marsh on the
further side of the stream.  On this bird, I deemed, he meant to try
his skill with the arbalest.

"Adieu, Brother Thomas," I said, as I took the water; and in a few
strokes I was across and running up and down on the bank to get
myself dry.  "Back!" came his grating voice--"back! and without your
clothes, you wine-sack of Scotland, or I shoot!" and his arbalest
was levelled on me.

I have often asked myself since what I should have done, and what
was the part of a brave man.  Perchance I might have dived, and swum
down-stream under water, but then I had bestowed my bundle of
clothes some little way off, and Brother Thomas commanded it from
his side of the stream.  He would have waited there in ambush till I
came shivering back for hose and doublet, and I should be in no
better case than I was now.  Meanwhile his weapon was levelled at
me, and I could see the bolt-point set straight for my breast, and
glittering in a pale blink of the sun.  The bravest course is ever
the best.  I should have thrown myself on the earth, no doubt, and
so crawled to cover, taking my chance of death rather than the shame
of obeying under threat and force.  But I was young, and had never
looked death in the face, so, being afraid and astonished, I made
what seemed the best of an ill business, and, though my face reddens
yet at the thought of it, I leaped in and swam back like a dog to
heel.

"Behold me," I said, making as brave a countenance as I might in
face of necessity.

"Well done, Norman Leslie de Pitcullo," he snarled, baring his
yellow teeth.  "This is the obedience which the young owe to the
Church.  Now, ferry me over; you are my boat."

"You will drown, man," I said.  "Not while you swim."

Then, unbuckling his frock, he packed it as he had seen me do, bade
me put it on my head, and so stepped out into the water, holding
forth his arm to put about my neck.  I was for teaching him how to
lay it on my shoulder, and was bidding him keep still as a plank of
wood, but he snarled -

"I have sailed on a boat of flesh before to-day."

To do him justice, he kept still as a log of wood, and so, yielding
partly to the stream, I landed him somewhat further down than the
place where my own clothes were lying.  To them he walked, and very
quietly picking up my whinger and my raiment that he gathered under
his arm, he concealed himself in a thick bush, albeit it was
leafless, where no man could have been aware of him.  This amazed me
not a little, for modesty did not seem any part of his nature.

"Now," says he, "fetch over my arbalest.  Lying where I am you have
no advantage to shoot me, as, nom de Dieu! I would have shot you had
you not obeyed.  And hark ye, by the way, unwind the arbalest before
you cross; it is ever well to be on the safe side.  And be sure you
wet not the string."  He pushed his face through the bush, and held
in his mouth my naked whinger, that shone between his shining eyes.

Now again I say it, I have thought over this matter many a time, and
have even laughed aloud and bitterly, when I was alone, at the
figure of me shivering there, on a cold February day, and at my
helpless estate.  For a naked man is no match for a man with a
whinger, and he was sitting on my clothes.  So this friar, unworthy
as he was of his holy calling, had me at an avail on every side, nor
do I yet see what I could do but obey him, as I did.  And when I
landed from this fifth voyage, he laughed and gave me his blessing,
and, what I needed more, some fiery spirits from a water-gourd, in
which Father Thomas carried no water.

"Well done, my son," he said, "and now we are comrades.  My life was
not over safe on yonder side, seeing that the "manants" hate me, and
respect not my hood, and two are better company than one, where we
are going."

This encounter was the beginning of many evils, and often now the
picture shines upon my eyes, and I see the grey water, and hear the
cold wind whistle in the dry reeds of the river-bank whereon we sat.

The man was my master, Heaven help me! as surely as Sathanas was
his.  And though, at last, I slipped his clutches, as you shall hear
(more readily than, I trow, he will scape his lord in the end, for
he still lives), yet it was an ill day that we met--an ill day for
me and for France.  Howbeit we jogged on, he merrily enough singing
a sculdudery song, I something surly, under a grey February sky,
with a keen wind searching out the threadbare places in our raiment.
My comrade, as he called himself, told me what passages he chose in
the history of his life:  how he came to be frocked (but 'cucullus
non facit monachum'), and how, in the troubles of these times, he
had discovered in himself a great aptitude for the gunner's trade,
of which he boasted not a little.  He had been in one and another of
these armed companies that took service with either side, for hire,
being better warriors and more skilled than the noblesse, but a
curse to France:  for, in peace or war, friend or foe, they
plundered all, and held all to ransom.  With Rodrigo de
Villandradas, that blood-hound of Spain, he had been high in favour,
but when Rodrigo went to harry south and east, he had tarried at
Ruffec, with another thief of that nation, Alfonse Rodigo.  All his
talk, as we went, was of slaying men in fight; whom he slew he cared
not much, but chiefly he hated the English and them of Burgundy.  To
him, war was what hunting and shooting game is to others; a cruel
and bloody pastime, when Christians are the quarry!

"John the Lorrainer, and I, there are no others to be named with us
at the culverin," he would brag.  "We two against an army, give us
good cover, and powder and leaden balls enough.  Hey!  Master John
and I must shoot a match yet, against English targets, and of them
there are plenty under Orleans.  But if I make not the better speed,
the town will have fallen, or yielded, rescue or no rescue, and of
rescue there is no hope at all.  The devil fights for the English,
who will soon be swarming over the Loire, and that King of Bourges
of ours will have to flee, and gnaw horse's fodder, oats and barley,
with your friends in Scotland."

This was one of the many ungenerous taunts which the French made
often against us Scots, that have been their ancient and leal
brethren in arms since the days of King Achaius and Charlemagne.

"The Dauphin," he went on, "for King he is none, and crowned he will
never be, should be in Orleans, leading his men; and lo! he is tied
to the belt of fat La Tremouille, and is dancing of ballets at
Chinon--a murrain on him, and on them that make his music!"  Then he
fell to cursing his King, a thing terrible to hear, and so to asking
me questions about myself.  I told him that I had fled my own
country for a man-slaying, hoping, may Heaven forgive me! to make
him think the higher of me for the deed.

"So we all begin," said he; "a shrewd blow, or a fair wench; a
death, or a birth unlawful, 'tis all one forth we are driven to the
world and the wars.  Yet you have started well,--well enough, and
better than I gave your girl's face credit for.  Bar steel and rope,
you may carry some French gold back to stinking Scotland yet."

He gave me so much credit as this for a deed that deserved none, but
rather called for rebuke from him, who, however unworthy, was in
religion, and wore the garb of the Blessed Francis.  But very far
from fortifying me in virtuous courses, as was his bounden duty,
there was no wickedness that he did not try to teach me, till partly
I hated him, and partly, I fear, I admired one so skilled in evil.
The truth is, as I said, that this man, for that time, was my
master.  He was learned in all the arts by which poor and wandering
folk can keep their bellies full wandering by the way.  With women,
ugly and terrible of aspect as he was, he had a great power:  a
pious saying for the old; a way with the young which has ever been a
mystery to me, unless, as some of the learned think, all women are
naturally lovers of wickedness, if strength and courage go with it.
What by wheedling, what by bullying, what by tales of pilgrimages to
holy shrines (he was coming from Jerusalem by way of Rome, so he
told all we met), he ever won a welcome.

Other more devilish cantrips he played, one of them at the peasant's
house where we rested on the first night of our common travel.  The
Lenten supper which they gave us, with no little kindness, was
ended, and we were sitting in the firelight, Brother Thomas
discoursing largely of his pilgrimages, and of his favour among the
high clergy.  Thus, at I know not what convent of the Clarisses, {5}
in Italy, the holy Sisters had pressed on him a relic of Monsieur
St. Aignan, the patron of the good town of Orleans.  To see this
relic, the farmer, his wife, and his sons and daughters crowded
eagerly; it was but a little blackened finger bone, yet they were
fain to touch it, as is the custom.  But this he would not yet
allow.

"Perchance some of you," he said, "are already corrupt, not knowing
it, with the poisonous breath of that damnable Hussite heresy, which
is blowing from the east like wind of the pestilence, and ye may
have doubts concerning the verity of this most holy and miraculous
relic?"

They all crossed themselves, protesting that no such wicked whisper
of Sathanas had ever come into their minds, nor had they so much as
heard of Huss and his blasphemies.

"Nay," said Brother Thomas, "I could scarcely blame you if it were
partly as I said.  For in this latter time of the world, when I have
myself met Jews flocking to Babylon expecting the birth of
Antichrist, there be many false brethren, who carry about feigned
relics, to deceive the simple.  We should believe no man, if he be,
as I am, a stranger, unless he shows us a sign, such as now I will
show you.  Give me, of your grace, a kerchief, or a napkin."  The
goodwife gave him a clean white napkin from her aumbry, and he tore
it up before their eyes, she not daring to stay his hand.

"Now note this holy relic and its wonderful power," he said, holding
the blackened bone high in his left hand, and all our eyes were
fixed on it.  "Now mark," he said again, passing it over the napkin;
and lo! there was a clean white napkin in his hands, and of the torn
shreds not a trace!

We were still gaping, and crossing ourselves with blessings on this
happy day and our unworthy eyes that beheld a miracle, when he did a
thing yet more marvellous, if that might be, which I scarce expect
any man will believe.  Going to the table, and catching up a glass
vessel on which the goodwife set great store, he threw it against
the wall, and we all plainly heard it shiver into tinkling pieces.
Then, crossing the room into the corner, that was dusky enough, he
faced us, again holding the blessed relic, whereon we stared, in
holy fear.  Then he rose, and in his hand was the goodwife's glass
vessel, without crack or flaw! {6}

"Such," he said, "are the properties of this miraculous relic; there
is nothing broken but it will mend, ay, a broken limb, as I can
prove on my own sinful body,"--thrusting out his great brown leg,
whereon, assuredly, were signs of a fracture; "ay, a broken leg, or,
my dear daughters, a broken heart."  At this, of course, they were
all eager to touch the blessed relic with their poor rings of base
metal, such as they wear who are not rich.  Nay, but first, he said,
they must give their mites for a convent of the Clarisses, that was
building at Castres, by the care of the holy Colette, whom he might
call his patroness, unworthy as he was.

Then he showed us a safe-conduct, signed with that blessed woman's
own hand, such as she was wont to give to the religious of the Order
of St. Francis.  By virtue of this, he said (and, by miracle, for
once he said truly, as I had but too good cause to learn), he could
go freely in and out among the camps of French, English, and
Burgundians.

You may conceive how joyous they were in that poor cottage, on a
night so blessed, and how Brother Thomas told us of the holy
Colette, that famous nun and Mother in Christ, as he that had often
been in her company.  He had seen her body lifted in the air while
she remained in a pious ecstasy, her mind soaring aloft and her
fleshly body following it some way.

He had often watched that snow-white beast which followed her, such
a creature as is known in no country of the sinful world, but is a
thing of Paradise.  And he had tried to caress this wondrous
creature of God, but vainly, for none but the holy sister Colette
may handle it.  Concerning her miracles of healing, too, he told us,
all of which we already knew for very truth, and still know on
better warranty than his.

Ye may believe that, late and at last, Brother Thomas had his choice
of the warmest place to sleep in--by the "four," as is the wont of
pilgrims, for in his humility this holy man would not suffer the
farmer's wife and the farmer to give him their bed, as they desired.
I, too, was very kindly entreated by the young lads, but I could
scarcely sleep for marvelling at these miracles done by one so
unworthy; and great, indeed, I deemed, must be the virtue of that
relic which wrought such signs in the hands of an evil man.  But I
have since held that he feigned all by art magic and very sorcery,
for, as we wended next morning on our road, he plainly told me,
truly or falsely, that he had picked up the blackened finger-bone
out of the loathly ashes of the dead in the burned castle near
Ruffec.

Wherefore I consider that when Brother Thomas sold the grace of his
relic, by the touching of rings, he dealt in a devilish black
simony, vending to simple Christians no grace but that of his
master, Sathanas.  Thus he was not only evil (if I guess aright,
which I submit to the judgment of my ecclesiastical superiors, and
of the Church), but he had even found out a new kind of wickedness,
such as I never read of in any books of theology wherein is much to
be learned.  I have spoken with some, however, knights and men of
this world, who deemed that he did but beguile our eyes by craft and
sleight-of-hand.

This other hellish art he had, by direct inspiration, as I hold, of
his master Behemoth, that he could throw his voice whither he would,
so that, in all seeming, it came from above, or from below, or from
a corner of a room, fashioning it to resemble the voice of whom he
would, yet none might see his lips move.  With this craft he would
affray the peasants about the fire in the little inns where we
sometimes rested, when he would be telling tales of bogles and
eldritch fantasies, and of fiends that rout and rap, and make the
tables and firkins dance.  Such art of speech, I am advised, is
spoken of by St. Jerome, in his comment on the holy prophet the
saint Isaiah, and they that use it he calls "ventriloqui," in the
Latin, or "belly-speakers," and he takes an unfavourable sense of
them and their doings.  So much I have from the learned William de
Boyis, Prior of Pluscarden, where now I write; with whom I have
conversed of these matters privately, and he thinks this art a thing
that men may learn by practice, without dealing in nigromancy and
the black magic.  This question I am content to leave, as is
fitting, to the judgment of my superiors.  And indeed, as at that
time, Brother Thomas spake not in his belly except to make sport and
affray the simple people, soon turning their fears to mirth.
Certainly the country folk never misdoubted him, the women for a
holy man, the men for a good fellow; though all they of his own
cloth shrank from him, and I have seen them cross themselves in his
presence, but to no avail.  He would say a word or two in their
ears, and they straightway left the place where he might be.  None
the less, with his tales and arts, Brother Thomas commonly so
wrought that we seldom slept "e la belle etoile" in that bitter
spring weather, but we ordinarily had leave to lie by the hearth,
and got a supper and a breakfast.  The good peasants would find
their hen-roosts the poorer often, for all that he could snap up was
to him fortune of war.

I loved these manners little, but leave him I could not.  His eye
was ever on me; if I stirred in the night he was awake and watching
me, and by day he never let me out of a bolt's flight.  To cut the
string of his wicked weapon was a thought often in my mind, but he
was too vigilant.  My face was his passport, he said; my face,
indeed, being innocent enough, as was no shame to me, but an endless
cause of mirth and mockery to him.  Yet, by reason of the
serviceableness of the man in that perilous country, and my constant
surprise and wonder at what he did and said, and might do next
(which no man could guess beforehand), and a kind of foolish pride
in his very wickedness, so much beyond what I had ever dreamed of,
and for pure fear of him also, I found myself following with him day
by day, ever thinking to escape, and never escaping.

I have since deemed that, just as his wickedness was to a boy (for I
was little more), a kind of charm, made up of a sort of admiring
hate and fear, so my guilelessness (as it seemed to him) also
wrought on him strangely.  For in part it made sport for him to see
my open mouth and staring eyes at the spectacle of his devilries,
and in part he really hated me, and hated my very virtue of
simplicity, which it was his desire and delight to surprise and
corrupt.

On these strange terms, then, now drawn each to other, and now
forced apart, we wended by Poictiers towards Chinon, where the
Dauphin and his Court then lay.  So we fared northwards, through
Poitou, where we found evil news enough.  For, walking into a
village, we saw men, women, and children, all gathered, gaping about
one that stood beside a horse nearly foundered, its legs thrust
wide, its nostrils all foam and blood.  The man, who seemed as weary
as his horse, held a paper in his hands, which the priest of that
parish took from him and read aloud to us.  The rider was a royal
messenger, one Thomas Scott of Easter Buccleuch, in Rankel Burn,
whom I knew later, and his tidings were evil.  The Dauphin bade his
good towns know that, on the 12th of February, Sir John Stewart,
constable of the Scottish forces in France, had fallen in battle at
Rouvray, with very many of his company, and some Frenchmen.  They
had beset a convoy under Sir John Fastolf, that was bringing meat to
the English leaguered about Orleans.  But Fastolf had wholly routed
them (by treachery, as we later learned of the Comte de Clermont),
and Sir John Stewart, with his brother Sir William, were slain.
Wherefore the Dauphin bade the good towns send him money and men, or
all was lost.

Such were the evil tidings, which put me in sore fear for my brother
Robin, one that, in such an onfall, would go far, as beseemed his
blood.  But as touching his fortunes, Thomas Scott could tell me
neither good nor bad, though he knew Robin, and gave him a good name
for a stout man-at-arms.  It was of some comfort to me to hear a
Scots tongue; but, for the rest, I travelled on with a heavier
heart, deeming that Orleans must indeed fall ere I could seek my
brother in that town.



CHAPTER III--WHAT BEFELL OUTSIDE OF CHINON TOWN



My old nurse, when I was a child, used to tell me a long story of a
prince who, wandering through the world, made friends with many
strange companions.  One she called Lynx-eye, that could see through
a mountain; one was Swift-foot, that could outrun the wind; one was
Fine-ear, that could hear the grass growing; and there was Greedy-
gut, that could swallow a river.  All these were very serviceable to
this gracious prince, of I know not what country, in his adventures;
and they were often brought into my mind by the companions whom we
picked up on the grass-grown roads.

These wanderers were as strange as the friends of the prince, and
were as variously, but scarce as honourably, gifted.  There was the
one-armed soldier, who showed his stump very piteously when it was a
question of begging from a burgess, but was as well furnished with
limbs as other men when no burgess was in sight.  There was a
wretched woman violer, with her jackanapes, and with her husband, a
hang-dog ruffian, she bearing the mark of his fist on her eye, and
commonly trailing far behind him with her brat on her back.  There
was a blind man, with his staff, who might well enough answer to
Keen-eye, that is, when no strangers were in sight.  There was a
layman, wearing cope and stole and selling indulgences, but our
captain, Brother Thomas, soon banished him from our company, for
that he divided the trade.  Others there were, each one of them a
Greedy-gut, a crew of broken men, who marched with us on the roads;
but we never entered a town or a house with these discreditable
attendants.

Now, it may seem strange, but the nearer we drew to Chinon and the
Court, the poorer grew the country, for the Court and the men-at-
arms had stripped it bare, like a flight of locusts.  For this
reason the Dauphin could seldom abide long at one place, for he was
so much better known than trusted that the very cordwainer would not
let him march off in a new pair of boots without seeing his money,
and, as the song said, he even greased his old clouted shoon, and
made them last as long as he might.  For head-gear he was as ill
provided, seeing that he had pawned the fleurons of his crown.
There were days when his treasurer at Tours (as I myself have heard
him say) did not reckon three ducats in his coffers, and the heir of
France borrowed money from his very cook.  So the people told us,
and I have often marvelled how, despite this poverty, kings and
nobles, when I have seen them, go always in cloth of gold, with rich
jewels.  But, as you may guess, near the Court of a beggar Dauphin
the country-folk too were sour and beggarly.

We had to tighten our belts before we came to the wood wherein
cross-roads meet, from north, south, and east, within five miles of
the town of Chinon.  There was not a white coin among us; night was
falling, and it seemed as if we must lie out under the stars, and be
fed, like the wolves we heard howling, on wind.  By the roadside, at
the crossways, but not in view of the road, a council of our ragged
regiment was held in a deep ditch.  It would be late ere we reached
the town, gates would scarce open for us, we could not fee the
warders, houses would be shut and dark; the King's archers were apt
to bear them unfriendly to wandering men with the devil dancing in
their pouches.  Resource we saw none; if there was a cottage, dogs,
like wolves for hunger and fierceness, were baying round it.  As for
Brother Thomas, an evil bruit had gone before us concerning a
cordelier that the fowls and geese were fain to follow, as wilder
things, they say, follow the blessed St. Francis.  So there sat
Brother Thomas at the cross-roads, footsore, hungry, and sullen, in
the midst of us, who dared not speak, he twanging at the string of
his arbalest.  He called himself our Moses, in his blasphemous way,
and the blind man having girded at him for not leading us into the
land of plenty, he had struck the man till he bled, and now stood
stanching his wound.

Suddenly Brother Thomas ceased from his twanging, and holding up his
hand for silence, leaned his ear to the ground.  The night was
still, though a cold wind came very stealthily from the east.

"Horses!" he said.

"It is but the noise of the brook by the way," said the blind man,
sullenly.

Brother Thomas listened again.

"No, it is horses," he whispered.  "My men, they that ride horses
can spare somewhat out of their abundance to feed the poor."  And
with that he began winding up his arbalest hastily.  "Aymeric," he
said to one of our afflicted company, "you draw a good bow for a
blind man; hide yourself in the opposite ditch, and be ready when I
give the word "Pax vobiscum."  You, Giles," he spoke to the one-
armed soldier, "go with him, and, do you hear, aim low, at the third
man's horse.  From the sound there are not more than five or six of
them.  We can but fail, at worst, and the wood is thick behind us,
where none may pursue.  You, Norman de Pitcullo, have your whinger
ready, and fasten this rope tightly to yonder birch-tree stem, and
then cross and give it a turn or two about that oak sapling on the
other side of the way.  That trap will bring down a horse or twain.
Be quick, you Scotch wine-bag!"

I had seen many ill things done, and, to my shame, had held my
peace.  But a Leslie of Pitcullo does not take purses on the high-
road.  Therefore my heart rose in sudden anger, I having all day
hated him more and more for his bitter tongue, and I was opening my
mouth to cry "A secours!"--a warning to them who were approaching,
when, quick as lightning, Brother Thomas caught me behind the knee-
joints, and I was on the ground with his weight above me.  One cry I
had uttered, when his hand was on my mouth.

"Give him the steel in his guts!" whispered the blind man.

"Slit his weasand, the Scotch pig!" said the one-armed soldier.

They were all on me now.

"No, I keep him for better sport," snarled Brother Thomas.  "He
shall learn the Scots for 'ecorcheurs' (flayers of men) "when we
have filled our pouches."

With that he crammed a great napkin in my mouth, so that I could not
cry, made it fast with a piece of cord, trussed me with the rope
which he had bidden me tie across the path to trip the horses, and
with a kick sent me flying to the bottom of the ditch, my face being
turned from the road.

I could hear Giles and Aymeric steal across the way, and the
rustling of boughs as they settled on the opposite side.  I could
hear the trampling hoofs of horses coming slowly and wearily from
the east.  At this moment chanced a thing that has ever seemed
strange to me:  I felt the hand of the violer woman laid lightly and
kindly on my hair.  I had ever pitied her, and, as I might, had been
kind to her and her bairn; and now, as it appears, she pitied me.
But there could be no help in her, nor did she dare to raise her
voice and give an alarm.  So I could but gnaw at my gag, trying to
find scope for my tongue to cry, for now it was not only the
travellers that I would save, but my own life, and my escape from a
death of torment lay on my success.  But my mouth was as dry as a
kiln, my tongue was doubled back till I thought that I should have
choked.  The night was now deadly still, and the ring of the weary
hoofs drew nearer and nearer.  I heard a stumble, and the scramble
of a tired horse as he recovered himself; for the rest, all was
silent, though the beating of my own heart sounded heavy and husky
in my ears.

Closer and closer the travellers drew, and soon it was plain that
they rode not carelessly, nor as men who deemed themselves secure,
for the tramp of one horse singled itself out in front of the
others, and this, doubtless, was ridden by an "eclaireur," sent
forward to see that the way ahead was safe.  Now I heard a low growl
of a curse from Brother Thomas, and my heart took some comfort.
They might be warned, if the Brother shot at the foremost man; or,
at worst, if he was permitted to pass, the man would bear swift
tidings to Chinon, and we might be avenged, the travellers and I,
for I now felt that they and I were in the same peril.

The single rider drew near, and passed, and there came no cry of
"Pax vobiscum" from the friar.  But the foremost rider had,
perchance, the best horse, and the least wearied, for there was even
too great a gap between him and the rest of his company.

And now their voices might be heard, as they talked by the way, yet
not so loud that, straining my ears as I did, I could hear any
words.  But the sounds waxed louder, with words spoken, ring of
hoofs, and rattle of scabbard on stirrup, and so I knew, at least,
that they who rode so late were men armed.  Brother Thomas, too,
knew it, and cursed again very low.

Nearer, nearer they came, then almost opposite, and now, as I
listened to hear the traitorous signal of murder--"Pax vobiscum"--
and the twang of bow-strings, on the night there rang a voice, a
woman's voice, soft but wondrous clear, such as never I knew from
any lips but hers who then spoke; that voice I heard in its last
word, "Jesus!" and still it is sounding in my ears.

That voice said -

"Nous voile presqu'arrives, grace e mes Freres de Paradis."

Instantly, I knew not how, at the sound of that blessed voice, and
the courage in it, I felt my fear slip from me, as when we awaken
from a dreadful dream, and in its place came happiness and peace.
Scarce otherwise might he feel who dies in fear and wakes in
Paradise.

On the forest boughs above me, my face being turned from the road,
somewhat passed, or seemed to pass, like a soft golden light, such
as in the Scots tongue we call a "boyn," that ofttimes, men say,
travels with the blessed saints.  Yet some may deem it but a
glancing in my own eyes, from the blood flying to my head; howsoever
it be, I had never seen the like before, nor have I seen it since,
and, assuredly, the black branches and wild weeds were lit up bare
and clear.

The tramp of the horses passed, there was no cry of "Pax vobiscum,"
no twang of bows, and slowly the ring of hoofs died away on the road
to Chinon.  Then came a rustling of the boughs on the further side
of the way, and a noise of footsteps stealthily crossing the road,
and now I heard a low sound of weeping from the violer woman, that
was crouching hard by where I lay.  Her man struck her across the
mouth, and she was still.

"You saw it?  Saints be with us!  You saw them?" he whispered to
Brother Thomas.

"Fool, had I not seen, would I not have given the word?  Get you
gone, all the sort of you, there is a fey man in this company, be he
who he will.  Wander your own ways, and if ever one of you dogs
speak to me again, in field, or street, or market, or ever mention
this night . . . ye shall have my news of it.  Begone!  Off!"

"Nay, but, Brother Thomas, saw'st thou what we saw?  What sight
saw'st thou?"

"What saw I?  Fools, what should I have seen, but an outrider, and
he a King's messenger, sent forward to warn the rest by his fall, if
he fell, or to raise the country on us, if he passed, and if
afterward they passed us not.  They were men wary in war, and
travelling on the Dauphin's business.  Verily there was no profit in
them."

"And that was all?  We saw other things."

"What I saw was enough for me, or for any good clerk of St.
Nicholas, and of questions there has been more than enough.  Begone!
scatter to the winds, and be silent."

"And may we not put the steel in that Scotch dog who delayed us?
Saints or sorcerers, their horses must have come down but for him."

Brother Thomas caught me up, as if I had been a child, in his arms,
and tossed me over the ditch-bank into the wood, where I crashed on
my face through the boughs.

"Only one horse would have fallen, and that had brought the others
on us.  The Scot is safe enough, his mouth is well shut.  I will
have no blood to-night; leave him to the wolves.  And now, begone
with you:  to Fierbois, if you will; I go my own road--alone."

They wandered each his own way, sullen and murmuring, starved and
weary.  What they had seen or fancied, and whether, if the rest saw
aught strange, Brother Thomas saw nought, I knew not then, and know
not till this hour.  But the tale of this ambush, and of how they
that lay in hiding held their hands, and fled--having come, none
might say whence, and gone, whither none might tell--is true, and
was soon widely spoken of in the realm of France.

The woods fell still again, save for the babble of the brook, and
there I lay, bound, and heard only the stream in the silence of the
night.

There I lay, quaking, when all the caitiffs had departed, and the
black, chill night received me into itself.  At first my mind was
benumbed, like my body; but the pain of my face, smarting with
switch and scratch of the boughs through which I had fallen, awoke
me to thought and fear.  I turned over to lie on my back, and look
up for any light of hope in the sky, but nothing fell on me from
heaven save a cold rain, that the leafless boughs did little to ward
off.  Scant hope or comfort had I; my whole body ached and
shuddered, only I did not thirst, for the rain soaked through the
accursed napkin on my mouth, while the dank earth, with its
graveyard smell, seemed to draw me down into itself, as it drags a
rotting leaf.  I was buried before death, as it were, even if the
wolves found me not and gave me other sepulture; and now and again I
heard their long hunting cry, and at every patter of a beast's foot,
or shivering of the branches, I thought my hour was come--and I
unconfessed!  The road was still as death, no man passing by it.
This night to me was like the night of a man laid living in the
tomb.  By no twisting and turning could I loosen the rope that
Brother Thomas had bound me in, with a hand well taught by cruel
practice.  At last the rain in my face grew like a water-torture,
always dropping, and I half turned my face and pressed it to the
ground.

Whether I slept by whiles, or waked all night, I know not, but
certainly I dreamed, seeing with shut eyes faces that came and went,
shifting from beauty such as I had never yet beheld, to visages more
and more hideous and sinful, ending at last in the worst--the fell
countenance of Noiroufle.  Then I woke wholly to myself, in terror,
to find that he was not there, and now came to me some of that ease
which had been born of the strange, sweet voice, and the strange
words, "Mes Freres de Paradis."

"My brethren of Paradise"; who could she be that rode so late in
company of armed men, and yet spoke of such great kinsfolk?  That it
might be the holy Colette, then, as now, so famous in France for her
miracles, and good deeds, and her austerities, was a thought that
arose in me.  But the holy Sister, as I had heard, never mounted a
horse in her many wanderings, she being a villein's daughter, but
was carried in a litter, or fared in a chariot; nor did she go in
company with armed men, for who would dare to lay hands on her?
Moreover, the voice that I had heard was that of a very young girl,
and the holy Sister Colette was now entered into the vale of years.
So my questioning found no answer.

And now I heard light feet, as of some beast stirring and scratching
in the trees overhead, and there with a light jingling noise.  Was
it a squirrel?  Whatever it was, it raced about the tree, coming
nearer and going further away, till it fell with a weight on my
breast, and, shivering with cold, all strained like a harp-string as
I was, I could have screamed, but for the gag in my mouth.  The
thing crawled up my body, and I saw two red eyes fixed on mine, and
deemed it had been a wild cat, such as lives in our corries of the
north--a fell beast if brought to bay, but otherwise not hurtful to
man.

There the red eyes looked on me, and I on them, till I grew giddy
with gazing, and half turned my head with a stifled sob.  Then there
came a sharp cry which I knew well enough, and the beast leaped up
and nestled under my breast, for this so dreadful thing was no worse
than the violer woman's jackanapes, that had slipped its chain, or,
rather, had drawn it out of her hand, for now I plainly heard the
light chain jingle.  This put me on wondering whether they had
really departed; the man, verily, thirsted for my life, but he would
have slain me ere this hour, I thought, if that had been his
purpose.  The poor beast a little helped to warm me with the heat of
his body, and he was a friendly creature, making me feel less alone
in the night.  Yet, in my own misery, I could not help but sorrow
for the poor woman when she found her jackanapes gone, that was
great part of her living:  and I knew what she would have to bear
for its loss from the man that was her master.

As this was in my mind, the first grey stole into the sky so that I
could see the black branches overhead; and now there awoke the cries
of birds, and soon the wood was full of their sweet jargoning.  This
put some hope into my heart; but the morning hours were long, and
colder than the night, to one wet to the bone with the rains.  Now,
too, I comforted myself with believing that, arrive what might, I
was wholly quit of Brother Thomas, whereat I rejoiced, like the man
in the tale who had sold his soul to the Enemy, and yet, in the end,
escaped his clutches by the aid of Holy Church.  Death was better to
me than life with Brother Thomas, who must assuredly have dragged me
with him to the death that cannot die.  Morning must bring
travellers, and my groaning might lead them to my aid.  And, indeed,
foot-farers did come, and I did groan as well as I could, but, like
the Levite in Scripture, they passed by on the other side of the
way, fearing to meddle with one wounded perchance to the death, lest
they might be charged with his slaying, if he died, or might anger
his enemies, if he lived.

The light was now fully come, and some rays of the blessed sun fell
upon me, whereon I said orisons within myself, commanding my case to
the saints.  Devoutly I prayed, that, if I escaped with life, I
might be delivered from the fear of man, and namely of Brother
Thomas.  It were better for me to have died by his weapon at first,
beside the broken bridge, than to have lived his slave, going in
dread of him, with a slave's hatred in my heart.  So now I prayed
for spirit enough to defend my honour and that of my country, which
I had borne to hear reviled without striking a blow for it.  Never
again might I dree this extreme shame and dishonour.  On this head I
addressed myself, as was fitting, to the holy Apostle St. Andrew,
our patron, to whom is especially dear the honour of Scotland.

Then, as if he and the other saints had listened to me, I heard
sounds of horses' hoofs, coming up the road from Chinon way, and
also voices.  These, like the others of the night before, came
nearer, and I heard a woman's voice gaily singing.  And then awoke
such joy in my heart as never was there before, and this was far the
gladdest voice that ever yet I heard, for, behold, it was the speech
of my own country, and the tune I knew and the words.


"O, we maun part this love, Willie,
That has been lang between;
There's a French lord coming over sea
To wed me wi' a ring;
There's a French lord coming o'er the sea
To wed and take me hame!"


"And who shall the French lord be, Elliot?" came another voice, a
man's this time, "though he need not cross the sea for you, the
worse the luck.  Is it young Pothon de Xaintrailles?  Faith, he
comes often enough to see how his new penoncel fares in my hands,
and seems right curious in painting."

It may be deemed strange that, even in this hour, I conceived in my
heart a great mislike of this young French lord, how unjustly I soon
well understood.


"O, nae French lord for me, father,
O, nae French lord for me,
But I'll ware my heart on a true-born Scot,
And wi' him I'll cross the sea."


"Oh, father, lo you, I can make as well as sing, for that is no word
of the old ballant, but just came on to my tongue!"

They were now right close to me, and, half in fear, half in hope, I
began to stir and rustle in the grass, for of my stifled groaning
had hitherto come no profit.  Then I heard the horses stop.

"What stirring is that in the wood, father?  I am afraid," came the
girl's voice.

"Belike a fox shifting his lair.  Push on, Maid Elliot."  The horses
advanced, when, by the blessing of the saints, the jackanapes woke
in my breast.

The creature was used to run questing with a little wooden bowl he
carried for largesse, to beg of horsemen for his mistress.  This
trick of his he did now, hearing the horses' tramp.  He leaped the
ditch, and I suppose he ran in front of the steeds, shaking his
little bowl, as was his wont.

"Oh, father," sounded the girl's voice, "see the little jackanapes!
Some travelling body has lost him.  Let me jump down and catch him.
Look, he has a little coat on, made like a herald's tabard, and
wears the colours of France.  Here, hold my reins."

"No, lass.  Who can tell where, or who, his owner is?  Take you my
reins, and I will bring you the beast."

I heard him heavily dismount.

"It will not let itself be caught by a lame man," he said; and he
scrambled up the ditch bank, while the jackanapes fled to me, and
then ran forward again, back and forth.

"Nom Dieu, whom have we here?" cried the man, in French.

I turned, and made such a sound with my mouth as I might, while the
jackanapes nestled to my breast.

"Why do ye not speak, man?" he said again; and I turned my eyes on
him, looking as pitifully as might be out of my blood-bedabbled
face.

He was a burly man, great of growth, with fresh red cheeks, blue
eyes, reddish hair, and a red beard, such as are many in the Border
marches of my own country, the saints bless them for true men!
Withal he dragged his leg in walking, which he did with difficulty
and much carefulness.  He "hirpled," as we say, towards me very
warily; then, seeing the rope bound about me, and the cloth in my
mouth, he drew his dagger, but not to cut my bonds.  He was over
canny for that, but he slit the string that kept the cursed gag in
my mouth, and picked it out with his dagger point; and, oh the
blessed taste of that first long draught of air, I cannot set it
down in words!  "What, in the name of all the saints, make you here,
in this guise?" he asked in French, but with a rude Border accent.

"I am a kindly Scot," I said in our own tongue, "of your own
country.  Give me water."  And then a dwawm, as we call it, or
fainting-fit, came over me.

When I knew myself again, I was lying with my head in a maiden's
lap, and well I could have believed that the fairies had carried me
to their own land, as has befallen many, whereof some have returned
to earth with the tale, and some go yet in that unearthly company.

"Gentle demoiselle, are you the gracious Queen of Faerie?" I asked,
as one half-wakened, not knowing what I said.  Indeed this lady was
clad all in the fairy green, and her eyes were as blue as the sky
above her head, and the long yellow locks on her shoulders were
shining like the sun.

"Father, he is not dead," she said, laughing as sweet as all the
singing-birds in March--"he is not dead, but sorely wandering in his
mind when he takes Elliot Hume for the Fairy Queen."

"Faith, he might have made a worse guess," cried the man.  "But now,
sir, now that your bonds are cut, I see nothing better for you than
a well-washed face, for, indeed, you are by ordinary "kenspeckle,"
and no company for maids."

With that he brought some water from the burn by the road, and
therewith he wiped my face, first giving me to drink.  When I had
drunk, the maid whom he called Elliot got up, her face very rosy,
and they set my back against a tree, which I was right sorry for, as
indeed I was now clean out of fairyland and back in this troublesome
world.  The horses stood by us, tethered to trees, and browsed on
the budding branches.

"And now, maybe," he said, speaking in the kindly Scots, that was
like music in my ear--"now, maybe, you will tell us who you are, and
how you came into this jeopardy."

I told him, shortly, that I was a Scot of Fife; whereto he answered
that my speech was strangely English.  On this matter I satisfied
him with the truth, namely, that my mother was of England.  I gave
my name but not that of our lands, and showed him how I had been
wandering north, to take service with the Dauphin, when I was set
upon, and robbed and bound by thieves, for I had no clearness as to
telling him all my tale, and no desire to claim acquaintance with
Brother Thomas.

"And the jackanapes?" he asked, whereto I had no better answer than
that I had seen the beast with a wandering violer on the day before,
and that she having lost it, as I supposed, it had come to me in the
night.

The girl was standing with the creature in her arms, feeding it with
pieces of comfits from a pouch fastened at her girdle.

"The little beast is not mine to give," I went on, seeing how she
had an affection to the ape, "but till the owner claims it, it is
all the ransom I have to pay for my life, and I would fain see it
wear the colours of this gentle maid who saved me.  It has many
pretty tricks, but though to-day I be a beggar, I trow she will not
let it practise that ill trick of begging."

"Sooner would I beg myself, fair sir," she said, with such a courtly
reverence as surprised me; for though they seemed folks well to see
in the world, they were not, methought, of noble blood, nor had they
with them any company of palfreniers or archers.

"Elliot, you feed the jackanapes and let our countryman hunger,"
said the man; and, blushing again, she made haste to give me some of
the provision she had made for her journey.

So I ate and drank, she waiting on me very gently; but now, being
weary of painful writing, and hearing the call to the refectory, and
the brethren trampling thither, I must break off, for, if I be late,
they will sconce me of my ale.  Alas! it is to these little cares of
creature comforts that I am come, who have seen the face of so many
a war, and lived and fought on rat's flesh at Compiegne.



CHAPTER IV--IN WHAT COMPANY NORMAN LESLIE ENTERED CHINON; AND HOW HE
DEMEANED HIMSELF TO TAKE SERVICE



Not seemly, was it, that I should expect these kind people, even
though they were of my own country, to do more for me than they had
already done.  So, when I had eaten and drunk, I made my obeisance
as if I would be trudging towards Chinon, adding many thanks, as
well I might.

"Nay, countryman," said the man, "for all that I can see, you may as
well bide a while with us; for, indeed, with leave of my graceless
maid, I think we may even end our wild-goose chase here and get us
back to the town."

Seeing me marvel, perhaps, that any should have ridden some four
miles or five, and yet speak of returning, he looked at the girl,
who was playing with the jackanapes, and who smiled at him as he
spoke.  "You must know," said he, "that though I am the father of
your Fairy Queen, I am also one of the gracious Princess's obedient
subjects.  No mother has she, poor wench," he added, in a lower
voice; "and faith, we men must always obey some woman--as it seems
now that the King himself must soon do and all his captains."

"You speak," I said, "of the gracious Queen of Sicily and
Jerusalem?"--a lady who was thought to be of much avail, as was but
right, in the counsels of her son-in-law, the Dauphin, he having
married her gentle daughter.

"Ay; Queen Yolande is far ben {7} with the King--would he had no
worse counsellors!" said he, smiling; "but I speak of a far more
potent sovereign, if all that she tells of herself be true.  You
have heard, or belike you have not heard, of the famed Pucelle--so
she calls herself, I hope not without a warranty--the Lorrainer
peasant lass, who is to drive the English into the sea, so she gives
us all fair warning?"

"Never a word have I heard, or never marked so senseless a bruit if
I heard it; she must be some moonstruck wench, and in her wits
wandering."

"Moon-struck, or sun-struck, or saint-struck, she will strike down
our ancient enemy of England, and show you men how it is not wine
and wickedness that make good soldiers!" cried the girl whom he
called Elliot, her face rose-red with anger; and from her eyes two
blue rays of light shot straight to mine, so that I believe my face
waxed wan, the blood flying to my heart.

"Listen to her! look at her!" said her father, jestingly.  "Elliot,
if your renowned maid can fright the English as you have affrayed a
good Scot, the battle is won and Orleans is delivered."

But she had turned her back on us pettishly, and was talking in a
low voice to her jackanapes.  As for me, if my face had been pale
before, it now grew red enough for shame that I had angered her, who
was so fair, though how I had sinned I knew not.  But often I have
seen that women, and these the best, will be all afire at a light
word, wherein the touchiest man-at-arms who ever fought on the turn
of a straw could pick no honourable quarrel.

"How have I been so unhappy as to offend mademoiselle?" I asked, in
a whisper, of her father, giving her a high title, in very
confusion.

"Oh, she will hear no bourde nor jest on this Pucelle that all the
countryside is clashing of, and that is bewitching my maid,
methinks, even from afar.  My maid Elliot (so I call her from my
mother's kin, but her true name is Marion, and the French dub her
Heliote) hath set all her heart and her hope on one that is a young
lass like herself, and she is full of old soothsayings about a
virgin that is to come out of an oak-wood and deliver France--no
less!  For me, I misdoubt that Merlin, the Welsh prophet on whom
they set store, and the rest of the soothsayers, are all in one tale
with old Thomas Rhymer, of Ercildoune, whose prophecies our own folk
crack about by the ingle on winter nights at home.  But be it as it
may, this wench of Lorraine has, these three-quarters of a year,
been about the Sieur Robert de Baudricourt, now commanding for the
King at Vaucouleurs, away in the east, praying him to send her to
the Court.  She has visions, and hears voices--so she says; and she
gives Baudricourt no peace till he carries her to the King.  The
story goes that, on the ill day of the Battle of the Herrings, she,
being at Vaucouleurs--a hundred leagues away and more,--saw that
fight plainly, and our countrymen fallen, manlike, around the
Constable, and the French flying like hares before a little pack of
English talbots.  When the evil news came, and was approved true,
Baudricourt could hold her in no longer, and now she is on the way
with half a dozen esquires and archers of his command.  The second-
sight she may have--it is common enough, if you believe the red-
shanked Highlanders; but if maiden she set forth from Vaucouleurs,
great miracle it is if maiden she comes to Chinon."  He whispered
this in a manner that we call "pauky," being a free man with his
tongue.

"This is a strange tale enough," I said; "the saints grant that the
Maid speaks truly!"

"But yesterday came a letter of her sending to the King," he went
on, "but never of her writing, for they say that she knows not "A"
from "B," if she meets them in her voyaging.  Now, nothing would
serve my wilful daughter Elliot (she being possessed, as I said,
with love for this female mystery), but that we must ride forth and
be the first to meet the Maid on her way, and offer her shelter at
my poor house, if she does but seem honest, though methinks a
hostelry is good enough for one that has ridden so far, with men for
all her company.  And I, being but a subject of my daughter's, as I
said, and this a Saint's Day, when a man may rest from his paints
and brushes, I even let saddle the steeds, and came forth to see
what ferlies Heaven would send us."

"Oh, a lucky day for me, fair sir," I answered him, marvelling to
hear him speak of paint and brushes, and even as I spoke a thought
came into my mind.  "If you will listen to me, sir," I said, "and if
the gentle maid, your daughter, will pardon me for staying you so
long from the road, I will tell you that, to my thinking, you have
come over late, for that yesterday the Maiden you speak of rode,
after nightfall, into Chinon."

Now the girl turned round on me, and, in faith, I asked no more than
to see her face, kind or angry.  "You tell us, sir, that you never
heard speak of the Maid till this hour, and now you say that you
know of her comings and goings.  Unriddle your riddle, sir, if it
pleases you, and say how you saw and knew one that you never heard
speech of."

She was still very wroth, and I knew not whether I might not anger
her yet more, so I louted lowly, cap in hand, and said -

"It is but a guess that comes into my mind, and I pray you be not
angry with me, who am ready and willing to believe in this Maid, or
in any that will help France, for, if I be not wrong, last night her
coming saved my life, and that of her own company."

"How may that be, if thieves robbed and bound you?"

"I told you not all my tale," I said, "for, indeed, few would have
believed the thing that had not seen it.  But, upon my faith as a
gentleman, and by the arm-bone of the holy Apostle Andrew, which
these sinful eyes have seen, in the church of the Apostle in his own
town, somewhat holy passed this way last night; and if this Maid be
indeed sent from heaven, that holy thing was she, and none other."

"Nom Dieu! saints are not common wayfarers on our roads at night.
There is no "wale" of saints in this country," said the father of
Elliot; "and as this Pucelle of Lorraine must needs pass by us here,
if she is still on the way, even tell us all your tale."

With that I told them how the "brigands" (for so they now began to
call such reivers as Brother Thomas) were, to my shame, and maugre
my head, for a time of my own company.  And I told them of the
bushment that they laid to trap travellers, and how I had striven to
give a warning, and how they bound me and gagged me, and of the
strange girl's voice that spoke through the night of "mes Freres de
Paradis," and of that golden "boyn" faring in the dark, that I
thought I saw, and of the words spoken by the blind man and the
soldier, concerning some vision which affrayed them, I know not
what.

At this tale the girl Elliot, crossing herself very devoutly, cried
aloud -

"O father, did I not tell you so?  This holy thing can have been no
other but that blessed Maiden, guarded by the dear saints in form
visible, whom this gentleman, for the sin of keeping evil company,
was not given the grace to see.  Oh, come, let us mount and ride to
Chinon, for already she is within the walls; had we not ridden forth
so early, we must have heard tell of it."

It seemed something hard to me that I was to have no grace to behold
what others, and they assuredly much more sinful men than myself,
had been permitted to look upon, if this damsel was right in that
she said.  And how could any man, were he himself a saint, see what
was passing by, when his head was turned the other way?  Howbeit,
she called me a gentleman, as indeed I had professed myself to be,
and this I saw, that her passion of anger against me was spent, as
then, and gone by, like a shower of April.

"Gentleman you call yourself, sir," said her father; "may I ask of
what house?"

"We are cadets of the house of Rothes," I answered.  "My father,
Leslie of Pitcullo, is the fourth son of the third son of the last
laird of Rothes but one; and, for me, I was of late a clerk studying
in St. Andrews."

"I will not ask why you left your lore," he said; "I have been young
myself, and, faith, the story of one lad varies not much from the
story of another.  If we have any spirit, it drives us out to fight
the foreign loons in their own country, if we have no feud at home.
But you are a clerk, I hear you say, and have skill enough to read
and write?"

"Yea, and, if need were, can paint, in my degree, and do fair
lettering on holy books, for this art was my pleasure, and I learned
it from a worthy monk in the abbey."

"O day of miracles!" he cried.  "Listen, Elliot, and mark how finely
I have fallen in luck's way!  Lo you, sir, I also am a gentleman in
my degree, simple as you see me, being one of the Humes of Polwarth;
but by reason of my maimed leg, that came to me with scars many,
from certain shrewd blows got at Verneuil fight, I am disabled from
war.  A murrain on the English bill that dealt the stroke!  To make
up my ransom (for I was taken prisoner there, where so few got
quarter) cost me every crown I could gather, so I even fell back on
the skill I learned, like you, when I was a lad, from a priest in
the Abbey of Melrose.  Ashamed of my craft I am none, for it is
better to paint banners and missals than to beg; and now, for these
five years, I am advanced to be Court painter to the King himself,
thanks to John Kirkmichael, Bishop of Orleans, who is of my far-away
kin.  A sore fall it is, for a Hume of Polwarth; and strangely
enough do the French scribes write my name--"Hauves Poulvoir," and
otherwise, so please you; but that is ever their wont with the best
names in all broad Scotland.  Lo you, even now there is much ado
with banner-painting for the companies that march to help Orleans,
ever and again."

"When the Maiden marches, father, you shall have banner-painting,"
said the girl.

"Ay, lass, when the Maid marches, and when the lift falls and smoors
the laverocks we shall catch them in plenty. {8} But, Maid or no
Maid, saving your presence, sir, I need what we craftsmen (I pray
you again to pardon me) call an apprentice, and I offer you, if you
are skilled as you say, this honourable post, till you find a
better."

My face grew red again with anger at the word "apprentice," and I
know not how I should have answered an offer so unworthy of my
blood, when the girl broke in -

"Till this gentleman marches with the flower of France against our
old enemy of England, you should say, father, and helps to show them
another Bannockburn on Loire-side."

"Ay, well, till then, if it likes you," he said, smiling.  "Till
then there is bed, and meat, and the penny fee for him, till that
great day."

"That is coming soon!" she cried, her eyes raised to heaven, and so
fair she looked, that, being a young man and of my complexion
amorous, I could not bear to be out of her company when I might be
in it, so stooped my pride to agree with him.

"Sir," I said, "I thank you heartily for your offer.  You come of as
good a house as mine, and yours is the brag of the Border, as mine
is of the kingdom of Fife.  If you can put your pride in your pouch,
faith, so can I; the rather that there is nothing else therein, and
so room enough and to spare.  But, as touching what this gentle
demoiselle has said, I may march also, may I not, when the Maid
rides to Orleans?"

"Ay, verify, with my goodwill, then you may," he cried, laughing,
while the lass frowned.

Then we clapped hands on it, for a bargain, and he did not insult me
by the offer of any arles, or luck penny.

The girl was helped to horse, setting her foot on my hand, that
dirled as her little shoe sole touched it; and the jackanapes rode
on her saddle-bow very proudly.  For me, I ran as well as I might,
but stiffly enough, being cold to the marrow, holding by the
father's stirrup-leather and watching the lass's yellow hair that
danced on her shoulders as she rode foremost.  In this company,
then, so much better than that I had left, we entered Chinon town,
and came to their booth, and their house on the water-side.  Then,
of their kindness, I must to bed, which comfort I sorely needed, and
there I slept, in fragrant linen sheets, till compline rang.



CHAPTER V--OF THE FRAY ON THE DRAWBRIDGE AT CHINON CASTLE



During supper, to which they called me, my master showed me the best
countenance that might be, and it was great  joy to me to eat off
clean platters once again, on white linen strewn with spring
flowers.  As the time was Lent, we had fare that they called meagre:
fish from the Vienne water, below the town, and eggs cooked in
divers fashions, all to the point of excellence, for the wine and
fare of Chinon are famous in France.  As my duty was, I waited on my
master and on the maid Elliot, who was never silent, but babbled of
all that she had heard since she came into the town; as to where the
Pucelle had lighted off her horse (on the edge-stone of a well, so
it seemed), and where and with what goodwife she lodged, and how as
yet no message had come to her from the castle and the King; and
great joy it was to watch and to hear her.  But her father mocked,
though in a loving manner; and once she wept at his bourdes, and
shone out again, when he fell on his knees, offering her a knife and
baring his breast to the stroke, for I have never seen more love
between father and child, my own experience being contrary.  Yet to
my sisters my father was ever debonnair; for, as I have often
marked, the mothers love the sons best and the sons the mothers, and
between father and daughters it is the same.  But of my mother I
have spoken in the beginning of this history.

When supper was ended, and all things made orderly, I had no great
mind for my bed, having slept my fill for that time.  But the maid
Elliot left us early, which was as if the light had been taken out
of the room.

Beside the fire, my master fell to devising about the state of the
country, as burgesses love to do.  And I said that, if I were the
Dauphin, Chinon Castle should not hold me long, for my "spur would
be in my horse's side, and the bridle on his mane," {9} as the old
song of the Battle of Harlaw runs, and I on the way to Orleans.
Thereto he answered, that he well wished it were so, and, mocking,
wished that I were the Dauphin.

"Not that our Dauphin is a coward, the blood of Saint Louis has not
fallen so low, but he is wholly under the Sieur de La Tremouille,
who was thrust on him while he was young, and still is his master,
or, as we say, his governor.  Now, this lord is one that would fain
run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, and this side of him is
Burgundian and that is Armagnac, and on which of the sides his heart
is, none knows.  At Azincour, as I have heard, he played the man
reasonably well.  But he waxes very fat for a man-at-arms, and is
fond of women, and wine, and of his ease.  Now, if once the King
ranges up with the Bastard of Orleans, and Xaintrailles, and the
other captains, who hate La Tremouille, then his power, and the
power of the Chancellor, the Archbishop of Rheims, is gone and
ended.  So these two work ever to patch up a peace with Burgundy,
but, seeing that the duke has his father's death to avenge on our
King, they may patch and better patch, but no peace will come of it.
And the captains cry "Forward!" and the archbishop and La Tremouille
cry "Back!" and in the meantime Orleans will fall, and the Dauphin
may fly whither he will, for France is lost.  But, for myself, I
would to the saints that I and my lass were home again, beneath the
old thorn-tree at Polwarth on the green, where I have been merry
lang syne."

With that word he fell silent, thinking, I doubt not, of his home,
as I did of mine, and of the house of Pitcullo and the ash-tree at
the door, and the sea beyond the ploughed land of the plain.  So,
after some space of silence, he went to his bed, and I to mine,
where for long I lay wakeful, painting on the dark the face of
Elliot, and her blue eyes, and remembering her merry, changeful
ways.

Betimes in the morning I was awakened by the sound of her moving
about through the house, and having dressed and gone forth from my
little chamber, I found her in the house-place, she having come from
early Mass.  She took little heed of me, giving me some bread and
wine, the same as she and her father took; and she was altogether
less gay and wilful than she had been, and there seemed to be
something that lay heavy on her mind.  When her father asked her if
the gossips at the church door had given her any more tidings of the
Maid, she did but frown, and soon left the chamber, whence my master
led me forth into his booth, and bade me show him my hand in
writing.  This pleased him not ill, and next I must grind colours to
his liking; and again he went about his business, while I must mind
the booth, and be cap in hand to every saucy page that came from the
castle with an order from his lord.

Full many a time my hand was on my whinger, and yet more often I
wished myself on the free road again, so that I were out of ill
company, and assuredly the Lorrainer Maid, whatever she might be,
was scarcely longing more than I for the day when she should unfurl
her banner and march, with me at her back, to Orleans.  For so
irksome was my servitude, and the laying of colours on the ground of
banners for my master to paint, and the copying of books of Hours
and Missals, and the insolence of customers worse born than myself,
that I could have drowned myself in the Vienne water but for the
sight of Elliot.  Yet she was become staid enough, and betimes sad;
as it seemed that there was no good news of her dear Maid, for the
King would not see her, and all men (it appeared), save those who
had ridden with her, mocked the Pucelle for a bold ramp, with a bee
in her bonnet.  But the two gentlemen that had been her escort were
staunch.  Their names were Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulengy,
good esquires.

Of me Elliot made ofttimes not much more account than of her
jackanapes, which was now in very high favour, and waxing fat, so
that, when none but her father could hear her, she would jest and
call him La Tremouille.

Yet I, as young men will, was forward in all ways to serve her, and
to win her grace and favour.  She was fain to hear of Scotland, her
own country, which she had never seen, and I was as fain to tell
her.  And betimes I would say how fair were the maidens of our own
country, and how any man that saw her would know her to be a Scot,
though from her tongue, in French, none might guess it.  And,
knowing that she loved wildflowers, I would search for them and
bring them to her, and would lead her to speak of romances which she
loved, no less than I, and of pages who had loved queens, and all
such matters as young men and maids are wont to devise of; and now
she would listen, and at other seasons would seem proud, and as if
her mind were otherwhere.  Young knights many came to our booth, and
looked ill-pleased when I served them, and their eyes were ever on
the inner door, watching for Elliot, whom they seldom had sight of.

So here was I, in a double service, who, before I met Brother
Thomas, had been free of heart and hand.  But, if my master's
service irked me, in that other I found comfort, when I could devise
with Elliot, as concerning our country and her hopes for the Maid.
But my own hopes were not high, nor could I mark any sign that she
favoured me more than another, though I had the joy to be often in
her company.  And, indeed, what hope could I have, being so young,
and poor, and in visible station no more than any 'prentice lad?  My
heart was much tormented in these fears, and mainly because we heard
no tidings that the Maid was accepted by the Dauphin, and that the
day of her marching, and of my deliverance from my base craft of
painting, was at hand.

It so fell out, how I knew not, whether I had shown me too
presumptuous for an apprentice, or because of any other reason, that
Elliot had much forborne my company, and was more often in church at
her prayers than in the house, or, when in the house, was busy in
divers ways, and I scarce ever could get word of her.  Finding her
in this mood, I also withdrew within myself, and was both proud and
sorely unhappy, longing more than ever to take my own part in the
world as a man-at-arms.  Now, one day right early, I being alone in
the chamber, copying a psalter, Elliot came in, looking for her
father.  I rose at her coming, doffing my cap, and told her, in few
words, that my master had gone forth.  Thereon she flitted about the
chamber, looking at this and that, while I stood silent, deeming
that she used me in a sort scarce becoming my blood and lineage.

Suddenly she said, without turning round, for she was standing by a
table gazing at the pictures in a Book of Hours -

"I have seen her!"

"The Pucelle?--do you speak of her, gentle maid?"

"I saw her and spoke to her, and heard her voice"; and here her own
broke, and I guessed that she was near to weeping.  "I went up
within the castle precinct, to the tower Coudraye," she said, "for I
knew that she lodged hard by, with a good woman who dwells there.  I
passed into the chapel of St. Martin on the cliff, and there heard
the voice of one praying before the image of Our Lady.  The voice
was even as you said that day--the sweetest of voices.  I knelt
beside her, and prayed aloud for her and for France.  She rested her
hand on my hair--her hair is black, and cut "en ronde" like a man's.
It is true that they say, she dresses in man's garb.  We came forth
together, and I put my hand into hers, and said, "I believe in you;
if none other believes, yet do I believe."  Then she wept, and she
kissed me; she is to visit me here to-morrow, la fille de Dieu--"

She drew a long sob, and struck her hand hard on the table; then,
keeping her back ever towards me, she fled swiftly from the room.  I
was amazed--so light of heart as she commonly seemed, and of late
disdainful--to find her in this passion.  Yet it was to me that she
had spoken--to me that she had opened her heart.  Now I guessed
that, if I was ever to win her, it must be through this Pucelle, on
whom her mind was so strangely bent.  So I prayed that, if it might
be God's will, He would prosper the Maid, and let me be her loyal
servitor, and at last bring me to my desire.

Something also I dreamed, as young men will who have read many
romances, of myself made a knight for great feats of arms, and
wearing in my salade my lady's favour, and breaking a spear on
Talbot, or Fastolf, or Glasdale, in some last great victory for
France.

Then shone on my eyesight, as it were, the picture of these two
children, for they were little more, Elliot and the Maid, kneeling
together in the chapel of St. Martin, the gold hair and the black
blended; and what were they two alone against this world and the
prince of this world?  Alas, how much, and again how little, doth
prayer avail us!  These thoughts were in my mind all day, while
serving and answering customers, and carrying my master's wares
about the town, and up to the castle on the cliff, where the
soldiers and sentries now knew me well enough, and the Scots archers
treated me kindly.  But as for Elliot, she was like her first self
again, and merrier than common with her father, to whom, as far as
my knowledge went, she said not a word about the meeting in the
crypt of St. Martin's chapel, though to me she had spoken so freely.
This gave me some hope; but when I would have tried to ask her a
question, she only gazed at me in a manner that abashed me, and
turned off to toy with her jackanapes.  Whereby I went to my bed
perplexed, and with a heavy heart, as one that was not yet
conversant with the ways of women--nay, nor ever, in my secular
life, have I understood what they would be at.  Happier had it been
for my temporal life if I had been wiser in woman's ways.  But
commonly, when we have learned a lesson, the lore comes too late.

Next day my master had business at the castle with a certain lord,
and took me thither to help in carrying his wares.  This castle was
a place that I loved well, it is so old, having first been builded
when the Romans were lords of the land; and is so great and strong
that our bishop's castle of St. Andrews seems but a cottage compared
to it.  From the hill-top there is a wide prospect over the tower
and the valley of the Vienne, which I liked to gaze upon.  My
master, then, went in by the drawbridge, high above the moat, which
is so deep that, I trow, no foeman could fill it up and cross it to
assail the walls.  My master, in limping up the hill, had wearied
himself, but soon passed into the castle through the gateway of the
bell-tower, as they call it, while I waited for him on the further
end of the bridge, idly dropping morsels of bread to the swans that
swam in the moat below.

On the drawbridge, standing sentinel, was a French man-at-arms, a
young man of my own age, armed with a long fauchard, which we call a
bill or halberd, a weapon not unlike the Lochaber axes of the
Highlandmen.  Other soldiers, French, Scottish, Spaniards, Germans,
a mixed company, were idling and dicing just within the gate.

I was throwing my last piece of crust to a swan, my mind empty of
thought, when I started out of my dream, hearing that rare woman's
voice which once I had heard before.  Then turning quickly, I saw,
walking between two gentlemen, even those who had ridden with her
from Vaucouleurs, one whom no man could deem to be other than that
much-talked-of Maid of Lorraine.  She was clad very simply, like the
varlet of some lord of no great estate, in a black cap with a little
silver brooch, a grey doublet, and black and grey hose, trussed up
with many points; a sword of small price hung by her side. {10} In
stature she was something above the common height of women, her face
brown with sun and wind, her eyes great, grey, and beautiful,
beneath black brows, her lips red and smiling.  In figure she seemed
strong and shapely, but so slim--she being but seventeen years of
age--that, were it not for her sweet girl's voice, and for the
beauty of her grey eyes, she might well have passed for a page, her
black hair being cut "en ronde," as was and is the fashion among
men-at-arms.  Thus much have I written concerning her bodily aspect,
because many have asked me what manner of woman was the blessed
Maid, and whether she was beautiful.  I gazed at her like one moon-
struck, then, remembering my courtesy, I doffed my cap, and louted
low; and she bowed, smiling graciously like a great lady, but with
such an air as if her mind was far away.

She passed, with her two gentlemen, but the French sentinel barred
the way, holding his fauchard thwartwise.

"On what business come you, and by what right?" he cried, in a rude
voice.

"By the Dauphin's gracious command, to see the Dauphin," said one of
the gentlemen right courteously.  "Here is his own letter, and you
may know the seal, bidding La Pucelle to come before him at this
hour."

The fellow looked at the seal, and could not but acknowledge the
arms of France thereon.  He dropped his fauchard over his shoulder,
and stood aside, staring impudently at the Maiden, and muttering
foul words.

"So this is the renowned Pucelle," he cried; "by God's name" . . .
and here he spoke words such as I may not set down in writing,
blaspheming God and the Maid.

She turned and looked at him, but as if she saw him not; and then, a
light of joy and love transfiguring her face, she knelt down on the
drawbridge, folding her hands, her face bowed, and so abode while
one might count twenty, we that beheld her being amazed.  Then she
rose and bent as if in salutation to one we saw not; next,
addressing herself to the sentinel, she said, very gently -

"Sir, how canst thou take in vain the name of God, thou that art in
this very hour to die?"

So speaking, she with her gentlemen went within the gate, while the
soldier stood gazing after her like a man turned to stone.

The Maid passed from our sight, and then the sentinel, coming to
himself, turned in great wrath on me, who stood hard by.

"What make you gaping here, you lousy wine-sack of Scotland?" he
cried; and at the word, my prayer which I had made to St. Andrew in
my bonds came into my mind, namely, that I should not endure to hear
my country defamed.

I stopped not to think of words, wherein I never had a ready wit,
but his were still in his mouth when I had leaped within his guard,
so that he might not swing out his long halberd.

"Blasphemer and liar!" I cried, gripping his neck with my left hand,
while with two up-cuts of my right I sent his lies down his throat
in company, as I deem, with certain of his teeth.

He dropped his halberd against the wooden fence of the bridge, and
felt for his dagger.  I caught at his right hand with mine; cries
were in my ears--St. Denis for France!  St. Andrew for Scotland!--as
the other men on guard came running forth to see the sport.

We gripped and swayed for a moment, then the staff of his fauchard
coming between his legs, he tripped and fell, I above him; our
weight soused against the low pales of the bridge side, that were
crazy and old; there was a crash, and I felt myself in mid-air,
failing to the moat far below us.  Down and down I whirled, and then
the deep water closed over me.



CHAPTER VI--HOW NORMAN LESLIE ESCAPED OUT OF CHINON CASTLE



Down and down I sank, the water surging up into my nostrils and
sounding in my ears; but, being in water, I was safe if it were but
deep enough.  Presently I struck out, and, with a stroke or two,
came to the surface.  But no sooner did my head show above, and I
draw a deep breath or twain, looking for my enemy, than an arbalest
bolt cleft the water with a clipping sound, missing me but narrowly.
I had but time to see that there was a tumult on the bridge, and
swords out (the Scots, as I afterwards heard, knocking up the
arbalests that the French soldiers levelled at me).  Then I dived
again, and swam under water, making towards the right and the castle
rock, which ran sheer down to the moat.  This course I chose because
I had often noted, from the drawbridge, a jutting buttress of rock,
behind which, at least, I should be out of arrow-shot.  My craft was
to give myself all the semblance of a drowning man, throwing up my
arms, when I rose to see whereabout I was and to take breath, as men
toss their limbs who cannot swim.  On the second time of rising
thus, I saw myself close to the jut of rock.  My next dive took me
behind it, and I let down my feet, close under the side of this
natural buttress, to look around, being myself now concealed from
the sight of those who were on the bridge.

To my surprise I touched bottom, for I had deemed that the water was
very deep thereby.  Next I found that I was standing on a step of
hewn stone, and that a concealed staircase, cut in the rock, goes
down, in that place, to the very bottom of the moat; for what
purpose I know not, but so it is. {11}  I climbed up the steps,
shook myself, and wrung the water out of my hair, looking about the
while for any sign of my enemy, who had blasphemed against my
country and the Maiden.  But there was nothing to see on the water
save my own cloth cap floating.  On the other side of the fosse,
howbeit, men were launching a pleasure-boat, which lay by a stair at
the foot of the further wall of the fosse.  The sight of them made
me glad to creep further up the steps that rounded a sharp corner,
till I came as far as an iron wicket-gate, which seemed to cut off
my retreat.  There I stopped, deeming that the wicket must be
locked.  The men were now rowing the boat into the middle of the
water, so, without expecting to find the gate open, I tried the
handle.  It turned, to my no little amazement; the gate swang
lightly aside, as if its hinges had been newly oiled, and I followed
the stair-case, creeping up the slimy steps in the half-dark.  Up
and round I went, till I was wellnigh giddy, and then I tripped and
reeled so that my body struck against a heavy ironed door.  Under my
weight it yielded gently, and I stumbled across the threshold of a
room that smelled strangely sweet and was very warm, being full of
the sun, and the heat of a great fire.

"Is that you, Robin of my heart?" said a girl's voice in French;
and, before I could move, a pair of arms were round my neck.  Back
she leaped, finding me all wet, and not the man she looked for; and
there we both stood, in a surprise that prevented either of us from
speaking.

She was a pretty lass, with brown hair and bright red cheeks, and
was dressed all in white, being, indeed, one of the laundresses of
the castle; and this warm room, fragrant with lavender, whereinto I
had stumbled, was part of the castle laundry.  A mighty fire was
burning, and all the tables were covered with piles and flat baskets
of white linen, sweet with scented herbs.

Back the maid stepped towards the door, keeping her eyes on mine;
and, as she did not scream, I deemed that none were within hearing:
wherein I was wrong, and she had another reason for holding her
peace.

"Save me, gentle maid, if you may," I cried at last, falling on my
knees, just where I stood:  "I am a luckless man, and stand in much
peril of my life."

"In sooth you do," she said, "if Robert Lindsay of the Scottish
Archers finds you here.  He loves not that another should take his
place at a tryst."

"Maiden," I said, beginning to understand why the gate was unlocked,
and wherefore it went so smooth on its hinges, "I fear I have slain
a man, one of the King's archers.  We wrestled together on the draw-
bridge, and the palisade breaking, we fell into the moat, whence I
clomb by the hidden stairs."

"One of the archers!" cried she, as pale as a lily, and catching at
her side with her hand.  "Was he a Scot?"

"No, maid, but I am; and I pray you hide me, or show me how to
escape from this castle with my life, and that speedily."

"Come hither!" she said, drawing me through a door into a small,
square, empty room that jutted out above the moat.  "The other maids
are at their dinner," she went on, "and I all alone--the season
being Lent, and I under penance, and thinking of no danger."

For which reason, I doubt not, namely that the others had gone
forth, she had made her tryst at this hour with Robin Lindsay.  But
he, if he was, as she said, one of the Scottish archers that guarded
the gate, was busy enough belike with the tumult on the bridge, or
in seeking for the body of mine enemy.

"How to get you forth I know not," she said, "seeing that from
yonder room you pass into the kitchen and thence into the guard-
room, and thence again by a passage in the wall behind the great
hall, and so forth to the court, and through the gate, and thereby
there is no escape:  for see you the soldiers must, and will avenge
their comrade."

Hearing this speech, I seemed to behold myself swinging by a tow
from a tree branch, a death not beseeming one of gentle blood.  Up
and down I looked, in vain, and then I turned to the window,
thinking that, as better was not to be, I might dive thence into the
moat, and take my chance of escape by the stairs on the further
side.  But the window was heavily barred.  Yet again, if I went
forth by the door, and lurked on the postern stair, there was Robin
Lindsay's dirk to reckon with, when he came, a laggard, to his love-
tryst.

"Stop!  I have it," said the girl; and flying into the laundry, she
returned with a great bundle of white women's gear and a gown of
linen, and a woman's white coif, such as she herself wore.

In less time than a man would deem possible, she had my wet hair,
that I wore about my shoulders, as our student's manner was, tucked
up under the cap, and the clean white smock over my wet clothes, and
belted neatly about my middle.

"A pretty wench you make, I swear by St. Valentine," cried she,
falling back to look at me, and then coming forward to pin up
something about my coif, with her white fingers.

I reckoned it no harm to offer her a sisterly kiss.

"'Tis lucky Robin Lindsay is late," cried she, laughing, "though
even were he here, he could scarce find fault that one maid should
kiss another.  Now," she said, snatching up a flat crate full of
linen, "carry these, the King's shirts, and sorely patched they are,
on your head; march straight through the kitchen, then through the
guard-room, and then by the door on the left into the long passage,
and so into the court, and begone; they will but take you for a
newly come blanchisseuse.  Only speak as little as may be, for your
speech may betray you."  She kissed me very kindly on both cheeks,
for she was as frank a lass as ever I met, and a merry.  Then,
leading me to the door of the inner room, she pushed it open, the
savoury reek of the kitchen pouring in.

"Make good speed, Margot!" she cried aloud after me, so that all
could hear; and I walked straight up the King's kitchen, full as it
was of men and boys, breaking salads, spitting fowls, basting meat
(though it was Lent, but doubtless the King had a dispensation for
his health's sake), watching pots, tasting dishes, and all in a
great bustle and clamour.  The basket of linen shading my face, I
felt the more emboldened, though my legs, verily, trembled under me
as I walked.  Through the room I went, none regarding me, and so
into the guard-room, but truly this was another matter.  Some
soldiers were dicing at a table, some drinking, some brawling over
the matter of the late tumult, but all stopped and looked at me.

"A new face, and, by St. Andrew, a fair one!" said a voice in the
accent of my own country.

"But she has mighty big feet; belike she is a countrywoman of
thine," quoth a French archer; and my heart sank within me as the
other cast a tankard at his head.

"Come, my lass," cried another, a Scot, with a dice-box in his hand,
catching at my robe as I passed, "kiss me and give me luck," and,
striking up my basket of linen, so that the wares were all scattered
on the floor, he drew me on to his knee, and gave me a smack that
reeked sorely of garlic.  Never came man nearer getting a sore
buffet, yet I held my hand.  Then, making his cast with the dice, he
swore roundly, when he saw that he had thrown deuces.

"Lucky in love, unlucky in gaming.  Lug out your losings," said his
adversary with a laugh; and the man left hold of my waist and began
fumbling in his pouch.  Straightway, being free, I cast myself on
the floor to pick up the linen, and hide my face, which so burned
that it must have seemed as red as the most modest maid might have
deemed seemly.

"Leave the wench alone; she is new come, I warrant, and has no
liking for your wantonness," said a kind voice; and, glancing up, I
saw that he who spoke was one of the gentlemen who had ridden with
the Maiden from Vaucouleurs.  Bertrand de Poulengy was his name;
belike he was waiting while the King and the nobles devised with the
Maiden privately in the great hall.

He stooped and helped me to pick up my linen, as courteously as if I
had been a princess of the blood; and, because he was a gentleman, I
suppose, and a stranger, the archers did not meddle with him, save
to break certain soldiers' jests, making me glad that I was other
than I appeared.

"Come," he said, "my lass, I will be your escort; it seems that
Fortune has chosen me for a champion of dames."

With these words he led the way forth, and through a long passage
lit from above, which came out into the court at the stairs of the
great hall.

Down these stairs the Maiden herself was going, her face held high
and a glad look in her eyes, her conference with the King being
ended.  Poulengy joined her; they said some words which I did not
hear, for I deemed that it became me to walk forward after thanking
him by a look, and bending my head, for I dared not trust my foreign
tongue.

Before I reached the gateway they had joined me, which I was glad
of, fearing more insolence from the soldiers.  But these men held
their peace, looking grave, and even affrighted, being of them who
had heard the prophecy of the Maiden and seen its fulfilment.

"Have ye found the body of that man?" said Poulengy to a sergeant-
at-arms.

"Nay, sir, we deem that his armour weighed him down, for he never
rose once, though that Scot's head was seen thrice and no more.
Belike they are good, peaceful friends at the bottom of the fosse
together."

"Of what man speak you?" asked the Maiden of Poulengy.

"Of him that blasphemed as we went by an hour ago.  Wrestling with a
Scot on some quarrel, they broke the palisade, and--lo! there are
joiners already mending it.  'Tis old and frail.  The gentle Dauphin
is over poor to keep the furnishings of his castle as a king should
do."

The Maiden grew wan as sun-dried grass in summer when she heard this
story told.  Crossing herself, she said -

"Alas!  I warned him, but he died unconfessed.  I will do what I may
to have Masses said for the repose of his soul, poor man:  and he so
young!"

With that she wept, for she wept readily, even for a less thing than
such a death as was that archer's.

We had now crossed the drawbridge, whereat my heart beat more
lightly, and the Maiden told Poulengy that she would go to the house
where she lodged, near the castle.

"And thence," she said, "I must fare into the town, for I have
promised to visit a damsel of my friends, one Heliote Poulvoir, if I
may find my way thither.  Know you, gentle damsel," she said to me,
"where she abides?  Or perchance you can lead me thither, if it lies
on your way."

"I was even going thither, Pucelle," I said, mincing in my speech;
whereat she laughed, for of her nature she was merry.

"Scots are Heliote and her father, and a Scot are not you also,
damsel? your speech betrays you," she said; "you all cling close
together, you Scots, as beseems you well, being strangers in this
sweet land of France"; and her face lighted up as she spoke the name
she loved, and my heart worshipped her with reverence.

"Farewell," she cried to Poulengy, smiling graciously, and bowing
with such a courtesy as a queen might show, for I noted it myself,
as did all men, that this peasant girl had the manners of the Court,
being schooled, as I deem, by the greatest of ladies, her friends
St. Margaret and St. Catherine.

Then, with an archer, who had ridden beside her from Vaucouleurs,
following after her as he ever did, the Maiden and I began to go
down the steep way that led to the town.  Little she spoke, and all
my thought was to enter the house before Elliot could spy me in my
strange disguise.



CHAPTER VII--CONCERNING THE WRATH OF ELLIOT, AND THE JEOPARDY OF
NORMAN LESLIE



The while we went down into the city of Chinon, a man attired as a
maid, a maiden clad as a man--strange companions!--we held but
little converse.  Her mind, belike, was on fire with a great light
of hope, of which afterwards I learned, and the end of the days of
trouble and of men's disbelief seemed to her to be drawing near.  We
may not know what visions of victory and of auxiliary angels, of her
King crowned, and fair France redeemed and at peace, were passing
through her fancy.  Therefore she was not fain to talk, being at all
times a woman of few words; and in this, as in so many other
matters, unlike most of her sex.

On my side I had more than enough to think of, for my case and
present jeopardy were enough to amaze older and wiser heads than
mine.  For, imprimis, I had slain one of the King's guards; and,
moreover, had struck the first blow, though my adversary, indeed,
had given me uttermost provocation.  But even if my enemies allowed
me to speak in my own defence, which might scarcely be save by
miracle, it was scantly possible for me to prove that the other had
insulted me and my country.  Some little hope I had that Sir Patrick
Ogilvie, now constable of the Scottish men-at-arms in France, or Sir
Hugh Kennedy, or some other of our knights, might take up my
quarrel, for the sake of our common blood and country, we Scots
always backing each the other when abroad.  Yet, on the other hand,
it was more probable that I might be swinging, with a flock of crows
pecking at my face, before any of my countrymen could speak a word
for me with the King.

It is true that they who would most eagerly have sought my life
deemed me already dead, drowned in the fosse, and so would make no
search for me.  Yet, as soon as I went about my master's affairs, as
needs I must, I would be known and taken; and, as we say in our
country proverb, "my craig would ken the weight of my hurdies." {12}
None the less, seeing that the soldiers deemed me dead, I might
readily escape at once from Chinon, and take to the roads again, if
but I could reach my master's house unseen, and get rid of this
foolish feminine gear of cap and petticoat which now I wore to my
great shame and discomfort.

But on this hand lay little hope; for, once on the road, I should be
in a worse jeopardy than ever before, as an apprentice fled from my
master, and, moreover, with blood on my hands.  Moreover, I could
ill brook the thought of leaving Elliot, to whom my heart went forth
in love, and of missing my chance to strike a blow in the wars for
the Maiden, and against the English; of which reward I had the
promise from my master.  Fortune, and fame, and love, if I were to
gain what every young man most desires, were only to be won by
remaining at Chinon; but there, too, the face of death was close to
mine--as, indeed, death, or at least shame and poverty, lay ambushed
for me on all sides.

Here I sadly remembered how, with a light heart, I had left St.
Andrews, deeming that the story of my life was now about to begin,
as it did for many young esquires of Greece and other lands,
concerning whom I had read in romances.  Verily in the tale of my
adventures hitherto there had been more cuffs than crowns, more
shame than honour; and, as to winning my spurs, I was more in point
to win a hempen rope, and in my end disgrace my blood.

Now, as if these perils were not enough to put a man beside himself,
there was another risk which, even more than these, took up my
thoughts.  Among all my dangers and manifold distresses, this raised
its head highest in my fancy, namely, the fear that my love should
see me in my outlandish guise, clad in woman's weeds, and carrying
on my head a woman's burden.  It was not so much that she must needs
laugh and hold me in little account.  Elliot laughed often, so that
now it was not her mirth, to which she was ever ready, but her wrath
(whereto she was ready also) that I held in awful regard.  For her
heart and faith, in a marvellous manner passing the love of women,
were wholly set on this maid, in whose company I now fared.  And, if
the Maid went in men's attire (as needs she must, for modesty's
sake, who was about men's business, in men's company), here was I
attending her in woman's gear, as if to make a mock of her, though
in my mind I deemed her no less than a sister of the saints.  And
Elliot was sure to believe that I carried myself thus in mockery and
to make laughter; for, at that time, there were many in France who
mocked, as did that soldier whose death I had seen and caused.  Thus
I stood in no more danger of death, great as was that risk, than in
jeopardy of my mistress's favour, which, indeed, of late I had been
in some scant hope at last to win.  Thus, on all hands, I seemed to
myself as sore bestead as ever man was, and on no side saw any hope
of succour.

I mused so long and deep on these things, that the thought which
might have helped me came to me too late, namely, to tell all my
tale to the Maiden herself, and throw me on her mercy.  Nay, even
when at last and late this light shone on my mind, I had shame to
speak to her, considering the marvellous thing which I had just
beheld of her, in the fulfilment of her prophecy.  But now my
master's house was in sight, at the turning from the steep stairs
and the wynd, and there stood Elliot on the doorstep, watching and
waiting for the Maid, as a girl may wait for her lover coming from
the wars.

There was no time given me to slink back and skulk in the shadow of
the corner of the wynd; for, like a greyhound in speed, Elliot had
flown to us and was kneeling to the Maid, who, with a deep blush and
some anger in her face--for she loved no such obeisances--bade her
rise, and so kissed and embraced her, as young girls use among
themselves when they are friends and fain of each other.  I had
turned myself to go apart into the shadow of the corner, as secretly
as I might, when I ran straight into the arms of the archer that
followed close behind us.  On this encounter he gave a great laugh,
and, I believe, would have kissed me; but, the Maiden looking round,
he stood erect and grave as a soldier on guard, for the Maiden would
suffer no light loves and daffing.

"Whither make you, damsel, in such haste?" she cried to me.  "Come,
let me present you to this damsel, my friend--and one of your own
country-women.  Elliot, ma mie," she said to my mistress, "here is
this kind lass, a Scot like yourself, who has guided me all the way
from the castle hither, and, faith, the way is hard to find.  Do you
thank her for me, and let her sit down in your house:  she must be
weary with the weight of her basket and her linen"--for these, when
she spoke to me, I had laid on the ground.  With this she led me up
to Elliot by the hand, who began to show me very gracious
countenance, and to thank me, my face burning all the while with
confusion and fear of her anger.

Suddenly a new look, such as I had never seen before on her face in
her light angers, came into her eyes, which grew hard and cold, her
mouth also showing stiff; and so she stood, pale, gazing sternly,
and as one unable to speak.  Then -

"Go out of my sight," she said, very low, "and from my father's
house!  Forth with you for a mocker and a gangrel loon!"--speaking
in our common Scots,--"and herd with the base thieves from whom you
came, coward and mocking malapert!"

The storm had fallen on my head, even as I feared it must, and I
stood as one bereft of speech and reason.

The Maid knew no word of our speech, and this passion of Elliot's,
and so sudden a change from kindness to wrath, were what she might
not understand.

"Elliot, ma mie," she said, very sweetly, "what mean you by this
anger?  The damsel has treated me with no little favour.  Tell me, I
pray, in what she has offended."

But Elliot, not looking at her, said to me again, and this time
tears leaped up in her eyes--"Forth with you! begone, ere I call
that archer to drag you before the judges of the good town."

I was now desperate, for, clad as I was, the archer had me at an
avail, and, if I were taken before the men of the law, all would be
known, and my shrift would be short.

"Gracious Pucelle," I said, in French, turning to the Maiden, "my
life, and the fortune of one who would gladly fight to the death by
your side, are in your hands.  For the love of the blessed saints,
your sisters, and of Him who sends you on your holy mission, pray
this demoiselle to let me enter the house with you, and tell my tale
to you and her.  If I satisfy you not of my honour and good intent,
I am ready, in this hour, to go before the men of law, and deliver
myself up to their justice.  For though my life is in jeopardy, I
dread death less than the anger of this honourable demoiselle.  And
verily this is a matter of instant life or death."

So saying, I clasped my hands in the manner of one in prayer,
setting all my soul into my speech, as a man desperate.

The Maiden had listened very gravely, and sweetly she smiled when my
prayer was ended.

"Verily," she said to me, "here is deeper water than I can fathom.
Elliot, ma mie, you hear how gently, and in what distress, this fair
lass beseeches us."

"Fair lass!" cried Elliot:  and then broke off between a sob and a
laugh, her hand catching at her side.

"If you love me," said the Maid, looking on her astonished, and not
without anger--"if you love me, as you have said, you that are the
first of my comforters, and, till this day, my only friend in your
strange town, let the lass come in and tell us her tale.  For, even
if she be distraught, and beside herself, as I well deem, I am sent
to be a friend of all them that suffer.  Moreover, ma mie, I have
glad tidings for you, which I am longing to speak, but speak it I
will never, while the lass goes thus in terror and fear of death or
shame."

In saying these last words, the fashion of her countenance was
changed to a sweet entreaty and command, such as few could have
beheld and denied her what she craved, and she laid her hand lightly
on Elliot's shoulder.

"Come," said Elliot, "be it as you will; come in with me; and you"--
turning to myself--"do you follow us."

They passed into the house, I coming after, and the archer waiting
at the door.

"Let none enter," said the Maiden to her archer, "unless any come to
me from the King, or unless it be the master of the house."

We passed into the chamber where my master was wont to paint his
missals and psalters when he would be alone.  Then Elliot very
graciously bade the Maiden be seated, but herself stood up, facing
me.

"Gracious Maiden, and messenger of the holy saints," she said, "this
lass, as you deem her, is no woman, but a man, my father's
apprentice, who has clad himself thus to make of you a mockery and a
laughing-stock, because that you, being a maid, go attired as a man,
by the will of Them who sent you to save France.  Have I said
enough, and do I well to be angry?" and her eyes shone as she spoke.

The Maiden's brows met in wrath; she gazed upon me steadfastly, and
I looked--sinful man that I am!--to see her hand go to the hilt of
the sword that she wore.  But, making no motion, she only said -

"And thou, wherefore hast thou mocked at one who did thee no evil,
and at this damsel, thy master's daughter?"

"Gentle Maiden," I said, "listen to me for but a little moment.  It
may be, when thou hast heard all, that thou wilt still be wroth with
me, though not for mockery, which was never in my mind.  But the
gentle damsel, thy friend, will assuredly pardon me, who have
already put my life in peril for thy sake, and for the sake of our
dear country of Scotland and her good name."

"Thy life in peril for me!  How mean you?  I stood in no danger, and
I never saw your face before."

"Yet hast thou saved my life," I said; "but of that we may devise
hereafter.  I am, indeed, though a gentleman by blood and birth, the
apprentice of the father of this damsel, thy friend, who is himself
a gentleman and of a good house, but poverty drives men to strange
shifts.  This day I went with my master to the castle, and I was on
the drawbridge when thou, with the gentlemen thy esquires, passed
over it to see the King.  On that bridge a man-at-arms spoke to thee
shameful words, blaspheming the holy name of God.  No sooner hadst
thou gone by than he turned on me, reviling my native country of
Scotland.  Then I, not deeming that to endure such taunts became my
birth and breeding, struck him on his lying mouth.  Then, as we
wrestled on the bridge, we both struck against the barrier, which
was low, frail, and old, so that it gave way under our weight, and
we both fell into the moat.  When I rose he was not in sight,
otherwise I would have saved him by swimming, for I desire to have
the life of no man on my hands in private quarrel.  But the archers
shot at me from the drawbridge, so that I had to take thought for
myself.  By swimming under the water I escaped, behind a jutting
rock, to a secret stair, whence I pushed my way into a chamber of
the castle.  Therein was a damsel, busy with the linen, who, of her
goodwill, clad me in this wretched apparel above my own garb, and
so, for that time, saved my life, and I passed forth unknown; but
yet hath caused me to lose what I prize more highly than life--that
is, the gracious countenance of this gentle lady, thy friend and my
master's daughter, whom it is my honour and duty in all things to
please and serve.  Tell me, then, do I merit your wrath as a jester
and a mock-maker, or does this gentle lady well to be angry with her
servitor?"

The Maiden crossed herself, and murmured a prayer for the soul of
him who had died in the moat.  But Elliot instantly flew to me, and,
dragging off my woman's cap, tore with her fair hands at the white
linen smock about my neck and waist, so that it was rent asunder and
fell on the floor, leaving me clad in my wet doublet and hose.

At this sight, without word spoken, she broke out into the merriest
laughter that ever I heard, and the most welcome; and the Maid too,
catching the malady of her mirth, laughed low and graciously, so
that to see and hear her was marvel.

"Begone!" cried Elliot--"begone, and shift thy dripping gear"; and,
as I fled swiftly to my chamber, I heard her laughter yet, though
there came a sob into it; but for the Maid, she had already stinted
in her mirth ere I left the room.

In this strange and unseemly fashion did I first come into the
knowledge of this admirable Maid--whom, alas! I was to see more
often sad than merry, and weeping rather than laughing, though, even
in her utmost need, her heart could be light and her mirth free:  a
manner that is uncommon even among brave men, but, in women, never
known by me save in her.  For it is the way of women to be very busy
and seriously concerned about the smallest things, whereat a man
only smiles.  But she, with her life at stake, could pluck gaiety
forth of danger, if the peril threatened none but herself.  These
manners of hers I learned to know and marvel at in the later days
that came too soon; but now in my chamber, I shifted my wet raiment
for dry with a heart wondrous light.  My craig {13} was in peril, as
we say, neither less nor more than half an hour agone, but I had
escaped the anger of Elliot; and even, as I deemed, had won more of
her good countenance, seeing that I had struck a blow for Scotland
and for her friend.  This thought made me great cheer in my heart;
as I heard, from the room below, the voices of the two girls
devising together very seriously for nigh the space of an hour.
But, knowing that they might have matters secret between themselves
to tell of, for the Maiden had said that she brought good tidings, I
kept coy and to myself in my little upper chamber.  To leave the
house, indeed, was more than my life was worth.  Now to fly and hide
was what I could not bring myself to venture; here I would stay
where my heart was, and take what fortune the saints might send.  So
I endured to wait, and not gladden myself with the sight of Elliot,
and the knowledge of how I now stood with her.  To me this was great
penance, but at last the voices ceased, and, looking secretly from
the window, I saw the Maiden depart, her archer following her.

Now I could no longer bridle in my desire to be with Elliot, and
learn whether I was indeed forgiven, and how I stood in her favour.
So, passing down the stair that led from my cubicle, I stood at the
door of the room wherein she was and knocked twice.  But none
answered, and, venturing to enter, I heard the sound of a stifled
sob.  She had thrown herself on a settle, her face turned to the
wall, and the afternoon sun was shining on her yellow hair, which
lay loose upon her shoulders.

I dared to say no word, and she only made a motion of her hand
towards me, that I should begone, without showing me the light of
her countenance.  On this I went forth stealthily, my heart again
very heavy, for the Maiden had spoken of learning good tidings; and
wherefore should my mistress weep, who, an hour agone, had been so
merry?  Difficult are the ways of women, a language hard to be
understood, wherefore "love," as the Roman says, "is full of anxious
fears."

Much misdoubting how I fared in Elliot's heart, and devising within
myself what this new sorrow of Elliot's might signify, I half forgot
my own danger, yet not so much as to fare forth of the doors, or
even into the booth, where customers might come, and I be known.
Therefore I passed into a room behind the booth, where my master was
wont to instruct me in my painting; and there, since better might
not be, I set about grinding and mixing such colours as I knew that
he required.

I had not been long about this task, when I heard him enter the
booth from without, whence he walked straight into my workroom.  I
looked up from my colours, whereat his face, which was ruddy, grew
wan, he staggered back, and, being lame, reeled against the wall.
There he brought up, crossing himself, and making the sign of the
cross at me.

"Avaunt!" he said, "in the name of this holy sign, whether thou art
a wandering spirit, or a devil in a dead man's semblance."

"Master," I said, "I am neither spirit nor devil.  Was it ever yet
heard that brownie or bogle mixed colours for a painter?  Nay, touch
me, and see whether I am not of sinful Scots flesh and blood"; and
thereon I laughed aloud, knowing what caused his fear, and merry at
the sight of it, for he had ever held tales of "diablerie," and of
wraiths and freits and fetches, in high scorn.

He sat him down on a chair and gaped upon me, while I could not
contain myself from laughing.

"For God's sake," said he, "bring me a cup of red wine, for my wits
are wandering.  Deil's buckie," he said in the Scots, "will water
not drown you?  Faith, then, it is to hemp that you were born, as
shall shortly be seen."

I drew him some wine from a cask that stood in the corner, on
draught.  He drank it at one venture, and held out the cup for more,
the colour coming back into his face.

"Did the archers tell me false, then, when they said that you had
fired up at a chance word, and flung yourself and the sentinel into
the moat?  And where have you been wasting your time, and why went
you from the bridge ere I came back, if the archers took another
prentice lad for Norman Leslie?"

"They told you truth," I said.

"Then, in the name of Antichrist--that I should say so!--how scaped
you drowning, and how came you here?"

I told him the story, as briefly as might be.

"Ill luck go with yon second-sighted wench that has bewitched
Elliot, and you too, for all that I can see.  Never did I think to
be frayed with a bogle, {14} and, as might have been deemed, the
bogle but a prentice loon, when all was done.  To my thinking all
this fairy work is no more true than that you are a dead man's
wraith.  But they are all wild about it, at the castle, where I was
kept long, doing no trade, and listening to their mad clatter."

He took out of his pouch a parcel heedfully wrapped in soft folds of
silk.

"Here is this Book of Hours," he said, "that I have spent my
eyesight, and gold, purple, and carmine, and cobalt upon, these
three years past; a jewel it is, though I say so.  And I had good
hope to sell it to Hugh Kennedy, for he has of late had luck in
taking two English knights prisoners at Orleans--the only profitable
trade that men now can drive,--and the good knight dearly loves a
painted book of devotion; especially if, like this of mine, it be
adorned with the loves of Jupiter, and the Swan, and Danae, and
other heathen pliskies.  We were chaffering over the price, and
getting near a bargain, when in comes Patrick Ogilvie with a tale of
this second-sighted Maid, and how she had been called to see the
King, and of what befell.  First, it seems, she boded the death of
that luckless limb of a sentinel, and then you took it upon you to
fulfil her saying, and so you and he were drowned, and I left
prenticeless.  Little comfort to me it was to hear Kennedy and
Ogilvie praise you for a good Scot and true, and say that it was
great pity of your death."

At this hearing my heart leaped for joy, first, at my own praise
from such good knights, and next, because I saw a blink of hope,
having friends at Court.  My master went on -

"Next, Ogilvie told how he had been in hall, with the Dauphin, the
Chancellor Tremouille, and some scores of knights and nobles, a
great throng.  They were all waiting on this Lorrainer wench, for
the Dauphin had been told, at last, that she brought a letter from
Baudricourt, but before he would not see her.  This letter had been
kept from him, I guess by whom, and there was other clash of marvels
wrought by her, I know not what.  So their wisdom was set on putting
her to a kind of trial, foolish enough!  A young knight was dressed
in jewels and a coronet of the King's, and the King was clad right
soberly, and held himself far back in the throng, while the other
stood in front, looking big.  So the wench comes in, and, walking
straight through the press of knights, with her head high, kneels to
the King, where he stood retired, and calls him "gentle Dauphin"!

""Nay, ma mie," says he, "'tis not I who am the Dauphin, but his
Highness yonder,"--pointing to the young knight, who showed all his
plumage like a muircock in spring.

"Nay, gentle Dauphin," she answers, so Ogilvie said, "it is to thee
that I am sent, and no other, and I am come to save the good town of
Orleans, and to lead thee to thy sacring at Rheims."

"Here they were all struck amazed, and the King not least, who then
had some words apart with the girl.  And he has given her rooms in
the Tour Coudraye within the castle; and the clergy and the doctors
are to examine her straitly, whether she be from a good airt, {15}
or an ill, and all because she knew the King, she who had never seen
him before.  Why should she never have seen him--who warrants me of
it?--she dwelling these last days nigh the castle!  Freits are
folly, to my thinking, and fools they that follow them.  Lad, you
gave me a gliff; pass me another stoup of wine!  Freits, forsooth!"

I served him, and he sat and chuckled in his chair, being pleasured
by the thought of his own wisdom.  "Not a word of this to Elliot,
though," he said suddenly; "when there is a woman in a house--
blessings on her!--it is anything for a quiet life!  But, "nom
Dieu!" what with the fright you gave me, sitting there, whereas I
deemed you were meat for eels and carp, and what with thy tale--ha,
ha!--and my tale, and the wine, maybe, I forgot your own peril, my
lad.  Faith, your neck is like to be longer, if we be not better
advised."

Hearing him talk of that marvellous thing, wrought through
inspiration by the Maid--whereat, as his manner was, he mocked, I
had clean forgotten my own jeopardy.  Now this was instant, for who
knew how much the archer might have guessed, that followed with the
Maid and me, and men-at-arms might anon be at our door.

"It may be," said I, "that Sir Patrick Ogilvie and Sir Hugh Kennedy
would say a word for me in the King's ear."

"Faith, that is our one chance, and, luckily for you, the lad you
drowned, though in the King's service, came hither in the following
of a poor knight, who might take blood-ransom for his man.  Had he
been La Tremouille's man, you must assuredly have fled the country."

He took up his Book of Hours, with a sigh, and wrapped it again in
its silken parcel.

"This must be your price with Kennedy," he said, "if better may not
be.  It is like parting with the apple of my eye, but, I know not
well how, I love you, my lad, and blood is thicker than water.  Give
me my staff; I must hirple up that weary hill again, and you, come
hither."

He led me to his own chamber, where I had never been before, and
showed me how, in the chimney-neuk, was a way into a certain black
hole of little ease, wherein, if any came in search for me, I might
lie hidden.  And, fetching me a cold fish (Lenten cheer), a loaf,
and a stoup of wine, whereof I was glad enough, he left me, groaning
the while at his ill-fortune, but laden with such thanks as I might
give for all his great kindness.

There then, I sat, when I had eaten, my ears pricked to listen for
the tramp of armed men below and the thunder of their summons at the
door.  But they came not, and presently my thought stole back to
Elliot, who, indeed, was never out of my mind then--nay, nor now is.
But whether that memory be sinful in a man of religion or not, I
leave to the saints and to good confession.  Much I perplexed myself
with marvelling why she did so weep; above all, since I knew what
hopeful tidings she had gotten of her friend and her enterprise.
But no light came to me in my meditations.  I did not know then that
whereas young men, and many lasses too, are like the Roman lad who
went with his bosom bare, crying "Aura veni," and sighing for the
breeze of Love to come, other maidens are wroth with Love when he
creeps into their hearts, and would fain cast him out--being in a
manner mad with anger against Love, and against him whom they
desire, and against themselves.  This mood, as was later seen, was
Elliot's, for her heart was like a wild bird trapped, that turns
with bill and claw on him who comes to set it free.  Moreover, I
have since deemed that her passion of faith in the Maid made war on
her love for me; one breast being scantly great enough to contain
these two affections, and her pride taking, against the natural
love, the part of the love which was divine.

But all these were later thoughts, that came to me in musing on the
sorrows of my days; and, like most wisdom, this knowledge arrived
too late, and I, as then, was holden in perplexity.



CHAPTER VIII--OF CERTAIN QUARRELS THAT CAME ON THE HANDS OF NORMAN
LESLIE



Belike I had dropped asleep, outwearied with what had befallen me,
mind and body, but I started up suddenly at the sound of a dagger-
hilt smitten against the main door of the house, and a voice crying,
"Open, in the name of the Dauphin."  They had come in quest of me,
and when I heard them, it was as if a hand had given my heart a
squeeze, and for a moment my breath seemed to be stopped.  This
past, I heard the old serving-woman fumbling with the bolts, and
peering from behind the curtain of my casement, I saw that the ways
were dark, and the narrow street was lit up with flaring torches,
the lights wavering in the wind.  I stepped to the wide ingle,
thinking to creep into the secret hiding-hole.  But to what avail?
It might have served my turn if my escape alive from the moat had
only been guessed, but now my master must have told all the story,
and the men-at-arms must be assured that I was within.  Thinking
thus, I stood at pause, when a whisper came, as if from within the
ingle -

"Unbar the door, and hide not."

It must be Elliot's voice, speaking through some tube contrived in
the ingle of the dwelling-room below or otherwise.  Glad at heart to
think that she took thought of me, I unbarred the door, and threw
myself into a chair before the fire, trying to look like one
unconcerned.  The bolts were now drawn below; I heard voices, rather
Scots than French, to my sense.  Then the step of one man climbed up
the stair, heavily, and with the tap of a staff keeping tune to it.
It was my master.  His face was pale, and falling into a chair, he
wiped the sweat from his brow.  "Unhappy man that I am!" he said, "I
have lost my apprentice."

I gulped something down in my throat ere I could say, "Then it is
death?"

"Nay," he said, and smiled.  "But gliff for gliff, {16} you put a
fear on me this day, and now we are even."

"Yet I scarce need a cup of wine for my recovery, master," I said,
filling him a beaker from the flagon on the table, which he drained
gladly, being sore wearied, so steep was the way to the castle, and
hard for a lame man.  My heart was as light as a leaf on a tree, and
the bitterness of shameful death seemed gone by.

"I have lost my prentice another way," he said, setting down the cup
on the table.  "I had much a do to see Kennedy, for he was at the
dice with other lords.  At length, deeming there was no time to
waste, I sent in the bonny Book of Hours, praying him to hear me for
a moment on a weighty matter.  That brought him to my side; he
leaped at the book like a trout at a fly, and took me to his own
chamber.  There I told him your story.  When it came to the wench in
the King's laundry, and Robin Lindsay, and you clad in girl's gear,
and kissed in the guard-room, he struck hand on thigh and laughed
aloud.

Then I deemed your cause as good as three parts won, and he could
not hold in, but led me to a chamber where were many lords, dicing
and drinking:  Tremouille, Ogilvie, the Bishop of Orleans--that holy
man, who has come to ask for aid from the King,--La Hire,
Xaintrailles, and I know not whom.  There I must tell all the
chronicle again; and some said this, and some that, and Tremouille
mocks, that the Maid uttered her prophecy to no other end but to
make you fulfil it, and slay her enemy for the sake of her "beaux
yeux."  The others would hear nothing of this, and, indeed, though I
am no gull, I wot that Tremouille is wrong here, and over cunning;
he trusts neither man nor woman.  Howsoever it be, he went with the
story to the King, who is keen to hear any new thing.  And, to be
short, the end of it is this:  that you have your free pardon, on
these terms, namely, that you have two score of masses said for the
dead man, and yourself take service under Sir Hugh Kennedy, that the
King may not lose a man-at-arms."

Never, sure, came gladder tidings to any man than these to me.  An
hour ago the rope seemed tight about my neck; one day past, and I
was but a prentice to the mean craft of painting and limning, arts
good for a monk, or a manant, but, save for pleasure, not to be
melled or meddled with by a man of gentle blood.  And now I was to
wear arms, and that in the best of causes, under the best of
captains, one of my own country--a lord in Ayrshire.

"Ay, even so," my master said, marking the joy in my face, "you are
right glad to leave us--a lass and a lameter. {17} Well, well, such
is youth, and eld is soon forgotten."

I fell on my knees at his feet, and kissed his hands, and I believe
that I wept.

"Sir," I said, "you have been to me as a father, and more than it
has been my fortune to find my own father.  Never would I leave you
with my will, and for the gentle demoiselle, your daughter--"  But
here I stinted, since in sooth I knew not well what words to say.

"Ay, we shall both miss you betimes; but courage, man!  After all,
this new life beseems you best, and, mark me, a lass thinks none the
worse of a lad because he wears not the prentice's hodden grey, but
a Scots archer's green, white, and red, and Charles for badge on
breast and sleeve, and a sword by his side.  And as for the bonny
Book of Hours--"Master," I said with shame, "was that my ransom?"

"Kennedy would have come near my price, and strove to make me take
the gold.  But what is bred in the bone will out; I am a gentleman
born, not a huckster, and the book I gave him freely.  May it profit
the good knight in his devotions!  But now, come, they are weary
waiting for us; the hour waxes late, and Elliot, I trow, is long
abed.  You must begone to the castle."

In the stairs, and about the door, some ten of Sir Hugh's men were
waiting, all countrymen of my own, and the noise they made and their
speech were pleasant to me.  They gave me welcome with shouts and
laughter, and clasped my hands:  "for him that called us wine-sacks,
you have given him water to his wine, and the frog for his butler,"
they said, making a jest of life and death.  But my own heart for
the nonce was heavy enough again, I longing to take farewell of
Elliot, which might not be, nor might she face that wild company.
Howbeit, thinking it good to have a friend at court, I made occasion
to put in the hand of the old serving-woman all of such small coins
as I had won in my life servile, deeming myself well quit of such
ill-gotten gear.  And thereafter, with great mirth and noise, they
set forth to climb the hill towards the castle, where I was led,
through many a windy passage, to the chamber of Sir Hugh Kennedy.
There were torches lit, and the knight, a broad-shouldered, fair-
haired man, with a stern, flushed face, was turning over and gazing
at his new Book of Hours, like a child busy with a fresh toy.  He
laid the book down when we entered, and the senior of the two
archers who accompanied me told him that I was he who had been
summoned.

"Your name?" he asked; and I gave it.

"You are of gentle blood?"  And I answering "Yes," he replied, "Then
see that you are ready to shed it for the King.  Your life that was
justly forfeit, is now, by his Royal mercy, returned to you, to be
spent in his service.  Rutherford and Douglas, go take him to
quarters, and see that to-morrow he is clad as beseems a man of my
command.  Now good night to you--but stay!  You, Norman Leslie, you
will have quarrels on your hand.  Wait not for them, but go to meet
them, if they are with the French men-at-arms, and in quarrel see
that you be swift and deadly.  For the townsfolk, no brawling,
marauding, or haling about of honest wenches.  Here we are
strangers, and my men must be respected."

He bowed his head:  his words had been curt, no grace or kindness
had he shown me of countenance.  I felt in my heart that to him I
was but a pawn in the game of battle.  Now I seemed as far off as
ever I was from my foolish dream of winning my spurs; nay, perchance
never had I sunk lower in my own conceit.  Till this hour I had
been, as it were, the hinge on which my share of the world turned,
and now I was no more than a wheel in the carriage of a couleuvrine,
an unconsidered cog in the machine of war.  I was to be lost in a
multitude, every one as good as myself, or better; and when I had
thought of taking service, I had not foreseen the manner of it and
the nature of the soldier's trade.  My head, that I had carried
high, somewhat drooped, as I saluted, imitating my companions, and
we wheeled forth of the room.

"Hugh has taken the pride out of you, lad, or my name is not Randal
Rutherford," said the Border man who had guided me.  "Faith, he has
a keen tongue and a short way with him, but there are worse
commanders.  And now you must to your quarters, for the hour is late
and the guard-room shut."

He led me to our common sleeping-place, where, among many snoring
men-at-arms in a great bare hall, a pallet was laid for me, and my
flesh crept as I remembered how this was the couch of him whom I had
slain.  Howbeit, being well weary, despite the strangeness of the
place, after brief orisons I slept sound till a trumpet called us in
the morning.

Concerning the strangeness of this waking, to me who had been gently
nurtured, and the rough life, and profane words which I must hear
(not, indeed, that they had been wholly banished from our wild days
at St. Andrews), it is needless that I should tell.  Seeing that I
was come among rude neighbours, I even made shift to fall back, in
semblance, on such manners as I had used among the students before I
left Scotland, though many perils, and the fear wherein I stood of
Brother Thomas, and the company of the maid Elliot, had caused me
half to forget my swaggering ways.  So, may God forgive me! I swore
roundly; I made as if I deemed lightly of that Frenchman's death,
and, in brief, I so bore me that, ere noon (when I behoved to go
into Chinon with Randal Rutherford, and there provide me with the
rich apparel of our company), I had three good quarrels on my hand.

First, there was the man-at-arms who had kissed me in the guard-
room.  He, in a "bourde" and mockery, making pretence that he would
repeat his insult, got that which was owing him, and with interest,
for indeed he could see out of neither of his squint eyes when I had
dealt with him.  And for this cause perforce, if he needed more
proof of my manhood than the weight of my fist, he must tarry for
the demonstration which he desired.

Then there was Robin Lindsay, and at his wrath I make no marvel, for
the tale of how he came late to tryst, and at second-hand (with many
such rude and wanton additions as soldiers use to make), was noised
abroad all over the castle.  His quarrel was no matter for
fisticuffs; so, being attired in helmet, vambrace rerebrace,
gauntlets, and greaves out of the armoury, where many such suits
were stored, I met him in a certain quiet court behind the castle,
where quarrels were usually voided.  And now my practice of the
sword at home and the lessons of our smith came handily to my need.
After much clashing of steel and smiting out of sparks, I chanced,
by an art known to me, to strike his sword out of his hand.  Then,
having him at an avail, I threw down my own blade, and so plainly
told him the plain truth, and how to his mistress I owed my life,
which I would rather lose now at his hand than hear her honour
blamed, that he forgave me, and we embraced as friends.  Neither was
this jest anew cast up against either of us, men fearing to laugh,
as we say, with the wrong side of their mouths.

After this friendly bout at point and edge, Robin and Randal
Rutherford, being off duty, must needs carry me to the Tennis Court,
where Tremouille and the King were playing two young lords, and that
for such a stake as would have helped to arm a hundred men for the
aid of Orleans.  It was pretty to see the ball fly about basted from
the walls, and the players bounding and striking; and, little as I
understood the game, so eager was I over the sport, that a gentleman
within the "dedans" touched me twice on the shoulder before I was
aware of him.

"I would have a word with you, sir, if your grace can spare me the
leisure."

"May it not be spoken here?" I asked, for I was sorry to lose the
spectacle of the tennis, which was new to me, and is a pastime
wherein France beats the world.  Pity it is that many players should
so curse and blaspheme God and His saints!

"My business," replied the stranger, "is of a kind that will hardly
endure waiting."

With that I rose and followed him out into the open courtyard, much
marvelling what might be toward.

"You are that young gentleman," said my man, "for a gentleman I take
you to be, from your aspect and common report, who yesterday were
the death of Gilles de Puiseux?"

"Sir, to my sorrow, and not by my will, I am he, and but now I was
going forth to have certain masses said for his soul's welfare":
which was true, Randal Rutherford having filled my purse against
pay-day.

"I thank you, sir, for your courtesy, and perchance may have
occasion to do the like gentle service for you.  Gilles de Puiseux
was of my blood and kin; he has none other to take up his feud for
him in this place, and now your quickness of comprehension will tell
you that the business wherewith I permit myself to break your
leisure will brook no tarrying.  Let me say that I take it not upon
me to defend the words of my cousin, who insulted a woman, and, as I
believe, a messenger from the blessed Saints that love France."

I looked at him in some amazement.  He was a young man of about my
own years, delicately and richly clad in furs, silks, and velvets, a
great gold chain hanging in loops about his neck, a gold brooch with
an ancient Roman medal in his cap.  But the most notable thing in
him was his thick golden hair, whence La Hire had named him
"Capdorat," because he was so blond, and right keen in war, and
hardy beyond others.  And here he was challenging me, who stood
before him in a prentice's hodden grey!

"Sir," I said, "I could wish you a better quarrel, but not more
courtesy.  Many a gentleman seeing me such as I am, would bid me
send, ere he crossed swords with me, to my own country for my bor-
brief, {18} which I came away in too great haste to carry with me.
Nay, I was but now to set forth and buy me a sword and other
accoutrements; natheless, from the armoury here they may equip me
with sword and body armour."

"Of body-armour take no thought," he answered, "for this quarrel is
of a kind that must needs be voided in our smocks"; he meaning that
it was "e outrance," till one of us fell.

Verily, now I saw that this was not to be a matter of striking
sparks from steel, as Robin and I had done, but of life and death.

"I shall be the more speedily at your service," I made answer; and
as I spoke Randal and Robin came forth from the "dedans," the sport
being over.  They joined me, and I told them in few words my new
business, my adversary tarrying, cap in hand, till I had spoken, and
then proclaiming himself Aymar de Puiseux, a gentleman of Dauphine,
as indeed my friends knew.

"I shall wait on you, with your leave, at the isle in the river,
where it is of custom, opposite the booths of the gold-workers,"
quoth he, "about the hour of noon"; and so, saluting us, he went, as
he said, to provide himself with friends.

"Blood of Judas!" quoth Robin, who swore terribly in his speech,
"you have your hands full, young Norman.  He is but now crept out of
the rank of pages, but when the French and English pages fought a
valliance of late, under Orleans, none won more praise than he, who
was captain of the French party."

"He played a good sword?" I asked.

"He threw a good stone!  Man, it was a stone bicker, and they had
lids of baskets for targes."

"And he challenges me to the field," I said hotly, "By St. Andrew!
I will cuff his ears and send him back to the other boys."

"Norman, my lad, when were you in a stone bicker last?" quoth
Randal; and I hung my head, for it was not yet six months gone since
the sailors and we students were stoning each other in North Street.

"Yet he does play a very good sword, and is cunning of fence, for
your comfort," said Randal.  So I hummed the old lilt of the
Leslies, whence, they say, comes our name -


Between the less lea and the mair,
He slew the knight and left him there; -


for I deemed it well to show a good face.  Moreover, I had some
conceit of myself as a swordsman, and Randal was laughing like a
foolbody at my countenance.

"Faith, you will make a spoon or spoil a horn, and--let me have my
laugh out--you bid well for an archer," said Randal; and Robin
counselling me to play the same prank on the French lad's sword as
late I had done on his own, they took each of them an arm of mine,
and so we swaggered down the steep ways into Chinon.

First I would go to the tailor and the cordwainer, and be fitted for
my new splendours as an archer of the guard.

They both laughed at me again, for, said they very cheerfully, "You
may never live to wear these fine feathers."

But Randal making the reflection that, if I fell, there would be
none to pay the shopmaster, they both shouted with delight in the
street, so that passers-by turned and marvelled at them.  Clearly I
saw that to go to fight a duel is one thing, and to go and look on
is another, and much more gay, for my heart had no desire of all
this merriment.  Rather would I have recommended my case to the
saints, and chiefly to St. Andrew, for whose cause and honour I was
about to put my life in jeopardy.  But shame, and the fear of
seeming fearful, drove me to jest with the others--such risks of
dying unconfessed are run by sinful men!

Howbeit, they helped me to choose cloth of the best colour and
fashion, laughing the more because I, being short of stature and
slim, the tailor, if I fell, might well find none among the archers
to purchase that for which, belike, I should have no need.

"We must even enlist the Pucelle in our guard, for she might wear
this apparel," quoth Randal.

Thus boisterously they bore themselves, but more gravely at the
swordsmith's, where we picked out a good cut-and-thrust blade, well
balanced, that came readily to my hand.  Then, I with sword at side,
like a gentleman, we made to the river, passing my master's booth,
where I looked wistfully at the windows for a blink of Elliot, but
saw none that I knew, only, from an open casement, the little
jackanapes mopped and mowed at me in friendly fashion.  Hard by the
booth was a little pier, and we took boat, and so landed on the
island, where were waiting for us my adversary and two other
gentlemen.  Having saluted each other, we passed to a smooth grassy
spot, surrounded on all sides by tall poplar trees.  Here in places
daffodils were dancing in the wind; but otherwhere the sward was
much trampled down, and in two or three spots were black patches
that wellnigh turned my courage, for I was not yet used to the sight
of men's blood, here often shed for little cause.

The friends of us twain adversaries, for enemies we could scarce be
called, chose out a smooth spot with a fair light, the sun being
veiled, and when we had stripped to our smocks, we drew and fell to
work.  He was very quick and light in his movements, bounding nimbly
to this side or that, but I, using a hanging guard, in our common
Scots manner, did somewhat perplex him, to whom the fashion was new.
One or two scratches we dealt each other, but, for all that, I could
see we were well matched, and neither closed, as men rarely do in
such a combat, till they are wroth with hurts and their blood warm.
Now I gashed his thigh, but not deeply, and with that, as I deemed,
his temper fired, for he made a full sweep at my leg above the knee.
This I have always reckoned a fool's stroke, as leaving the upper
part of the body unguarded, and avoiding with my right leg, I drove
down with all my force at his head.  But, even as I struck, came a
flash and the sudden deadness of a deep wound, for he had but
feinted, and then, avoiding me so that I touched him not, he drove
his point into my breast.  Between the force of my own blow and this
stab I fell forward on my face, and thence rolled over on my back,
catching at my breast with my hands, as though to stop the blood,
but, in sooth, not well knowing what I did.

He had thrown down his sword, and now was kneeling by my side.

"I take you to witness," he said, "that this has befallen to my
great sorrow, and had I been where this gentleman was yesterday, and
heard my cousin blaspheme, I would myself have drawn on him, but--"
And here, as I later heard, he fainted from loss of blood, my sword
having cut a great vein; and I likewise lost sense and knowledge.
Nor did I know more till they lifted me and laid me on a litter of
poplar boughs, having stanched my wound as best they might.  In the
boat, as they ferried us across the river, I believe that I fainted
again; and so, "between home and hell," as the saying is, I lay on
my litter and was carried along the street beside the water.  Folk
gathered around us as we went.  I heard their voices as in a dream,
when lo! there sounded a voice that I knew right well, for Elliot
was asking of the people "who was hurt?"  At this hearing I hove
myself up on my elbow, beckoning with my other hand; and I opened my
mouth to speak, but, in place of words, came only a wave of blood
that sickened me, and I seemed to be dreaming, in my bed, of Elliot
and her jackanapes; and then feet were trampling, and at length I
was laid down, and so seemed to fall most blessedly asleep, with a
little hand in mine, and rarely peaceful and happy in my heart,
though wherefore I knew not.  After many days of tossing on the
waves of the world, it was as if I had been brought into the haven
where I would be.  Of what was passing I knew or I remember nothing.
Later I heard that a good priest had been brought to my bedside, and
perchance there was made some such confession as the Church, in her
mercy, accepts from sinful men in such case as mine.  But I had no
thought of life or death, purgatory or paradise; only, if paradise
be rest among those we love, such rest for an unknown while, and
such sense of blissful companionship, were mine.  But whether it was
well to pass through and beyond this scarce sensible joy, or whether
that peace will ever again be mine and unending, I leave with
humility to them in whose hands are Christian souls.



CHAPTER IX--OF THE WINNING OF ELLIOT



The days of fever and of dreams went by and passed, leaving me very
weak, but not ignorant of where I was, and of what had come and
gone.  My master had often been by my bedside, and Elliot now and
again; the old housewife also watched me by night, and gave me drink
when I thirsted.  Most of the while I deemed I was at home, in the
house of Pitcullo; yet I felt there was something strange, and that
there was pain somewhere in the room.  But at length, as was said, I
came to knowledge of things, and could see Elliot and remember her,
when she knelt praying by my bed, as oft she did, whiles I lay
between life and death.  I have heard speak of men who, being
inflamed with love, as I had been, fell into a fever of the body,
and when that passed, lo! their passion had passed with it, and
their longing.  And so it seemed to be with me.  For some days I was
not permitted to utter a word, and later, I was as glad in Elliot's
company as you may have seen a little lad and lass, not near come to
full age, who go playing together with flowers and such toys.  So we
were merry together, the jackanapes keeping us company, and making
much game and sport.

Perchance these were my most blessed days, as of one who had
returned to the sinless years, when we are happier than we know, and
not yet acquainted with desire.  Now and again Rutherford and
Lindsay would come to visit me, seeming strangely still and gentle,
speaking little, but looking at me with kind eyes, and vowing that
my tailor should yet be paid for his labour.  Capdorat also came,
for he had but suffered a flesh wound with much loss of blood, and
we showed each other the best countenance.  So time went by, while I
grew stronger daily; and now it was ordained by the leech, a skilful
man, that I might leave my bed, and be clothed, and go about through
the house, and eat stronger food, whereof I had the greatest desire,
and would ever be eating like a howlet. {19}  Now, when I was to
rise, I looked that they should bring me my old prentice's gabardine
and hose, but on the morning of that day Elliot came, bearing in her
arms a parcel of raiment very gay and costly.

"Here is your fine clothing new come from the tailor's booth," she
cried merrily.  "See, you shall be as bright as spring, in green,
and white, and red!"

There was the bonnet, with its three coloured plumes, and the
doublet, with Charles wrought in silver on the arm and breast, and
all other things seemly--a joy to mine eyes.

She held them up before me, her face shining like the return of
life, with a happy welcome; and my heart beat to see and hear her as
of old it was wont to do.

"And wherefore should not I go to the wars," she cried, "and fight
beside the Maid?  I am as tall as she, if scantly so strong, and
brave--oh, I am very brave "Glacidas, I bid you beware!" she said,
putting the archer's bonnet gallantly cocked on her beautiful head,
and drawing forth the sword from his scabbard, as one in act to
fight, but in innocent unwarlike wise.

There she stood before me in the sunlight, like the Angel of
Victory, all glad and fair, and two blue rays from her eyes shot
into my heart, and lo! I was no more a child, but a man again and a
lover.

"O Elliot," I said, ere ever I wist what I was saying, and I caught
her left hand into mine--"O Elliot, I love you!  Give me but your
love, and I shall come back from the wars a knight, and claim my
love to be my lady."

She snatched her hand suddenly, as if angered, out of mine, and
therewith, being very weak, I gave a cry, my wound fiercely paining
me.  Then her face changed from rose-red to lily-white, she dropped
on her knees by my bed, and her arms were about my neck, and all
over my face her soft, sweet-scented hair and her tears.

"Oh, I have slain you, I have slain you, my love!" she sobbed,
making a low, sweet moan, as a cushat in the wild wood, for I lay
deadly still, being overcome with pain and joy.  And there I was, my
love comforting me as a mother comforts her child.

I moved my hand, to take hers in mine--her little hand; and so, for
a space, there was silence between us, save for her kind moaning,
and in my heart was such gladness as comes but once to men, and may
not be spoken in words of this world.

There was silence between us; then she rose very gently and tossed
back her hair, showing her face wet with tears, but rosy-red with
happiness and sweet shame.  Had it not been for that chance hurt,
how long might I have wooed ere I won her?  But her heart was molten
by my anguish.

"Hath the pain passed?" she whispered.

"Sweet was the pain, my love, and sweetly hast thou healed it with
thy magic."

Then she kissed me, and so fled from the room, as one abashed, and
came not back that day, when, indeed, I did not rise, nor for two
days more, being weaker than we had deemed.  But happiness is the
greatest leech on earth, and does the rarest miracles of healing; so
in three days' space I won strength to leave my bed and my room, and
could sit by the door, at noon, in the sun of spring, that is warmer
in France than in our own country.

Now it could not be but that Elliot and I must meet, when her father
was in town about his affairs, or busy in the painting-room, and
much work he had then on his hands.  But Elliot was right coy,
hiding herself from me, who watched warily, till one day, when my
master was abroad, I had the fortune to find her alone in the
chamber, putting spring flowers in a very fair vessel of glass.  I
made no more ado, but coming in stealthily, I caught her boldly
about the body, saying -

"Yield you, rescue or no rescue, and strive not against me, lest you
slay a wounded man-at-arms."

For very fear, as I believe, lest she might stir my wound again, she
was still as a bird that lies in your hands when once you have
caught it.  And all that passes of kiss and kind word between happy
lovers passed between us, till I prayed of her grace, that I might
tell her father how things stood, for well I had seen by his words
and deeds that he cherished me as a son.  So she granted this, and
we fell to devising as to what was to be in days to come.  Lackland
was I, and penniless, save for my pay, if I got it; but we looked to
the common fortune of young men-at-arms, namely, spoil of war and
the ransom of prisoners of England or Burgundy.  For I had set up my
resolve either to die gloriously, or to win great wealth and honour,
which, to a young man and a lover, seem things easily come by.  Nor
could my master look for a great fortune in marriage, seeing that,
despite his gentle birth, he lived but as a burgess, and by the work
of his hands.

As we thus devised, she told me how matters now were in the country,
of which, indeed, I still knew but little, for, to a man sick and
nigh upon death, nothing imports greatly that betides beyond the
walls of his chamber.  What I heard was this:  namely, that, about
Orleans, the English ever pressed the good town more closely,
building new bastilles and other great works, so as to close the way
from Blois against any that came thence of our party with victual
and men-at-arms.  And daily there was fighting without the walls,
wherein now one side had the better, now the other; but food was
scant in Orleans, and many were slain by cannon-shots.  Yet much was
spoken of a new cannonier, lately come to aid the men of Orleans,
and how he and John of Lorraine slew many of the hardiest of the
English with their couleuvrines.

At this telling I bethought me of Brother Thomas, but spoke no word
concerning him, for my mistress began very gladly to devise of her
dear Maid, concerning whom, indeed, she could never long be silent.
"Faithless heart and fickle," I said in a jest, "I believe you love
that Maid more than you love me, and as she wears sword at side,
like a man, I must even challenge her to fight in the island."

Here she stayed my speech in the best manner and the most gracious,
laughing low, so that, verily, I was clean besotted with love, and
marvelled that any could be so fair as she, and how I could have won
such a lady.

"Beware how you challenge my Maid," said she at last, "for she
fights but on horseback, with lance and sperthe, {20} and the Duc
d'Alencon has seen her tilt at the ring, and has given her the best
steed in his stables, whereon she shall soon lead her army to
Orleans."

"Then I must lay by my quarrel, for who am I to challenge my
captain?  But, tell me, hath she heard any word of thee and me?"

Elliot waxed rosy, and whispered -

"We had spoken together about thee, ere she went to Poictiers to be
examined and questioned by the doctors of law and learning, after
thou wert wounded."  Concerning this journey to Poictiers I knew
nothing, but I was more concerned to hear what the Maid had said
about Elliot and me.  For seeing that the Maid herself was vowed (as
men deemed) to virginity, it passed into my mind that she might
think holy matrimony but a low estate, and might try to set my
mistress's heart on following her own example.  And then, I thought,
but foolishly, Elliot's love for me might be weaker than her love
for the Maid.

"Yes," my lady went on, "I could not but open my heart about thee
and me, to one who is of my own age, and so wise, unlike other
girls.  Moreover, I scarce knew well whether your heart was like
disposed with my heart.  Therefore I devised with her more than once
or twice."

Hiding her face on my breast, she spoke very low; and as my fancy
had once seen the children, the dark head and the golden, bowed
together in prayer for France and the Dauphin, so now I saw them
again, held close together in converse, and that strange Maid and
Prophetess listening, like any girl, to a girl's tale of the secrets
of her heart.

"And what counsel gave the Maid?" I said; "or had she any prophecy
of our fortune?"

"Nay, on such matters she knows no more than you or I, or knows but
seldom, nor seeks to learn from her counsel.  Only she is bidden
that she must rescue Orleans, and lead the Dauphin to his sacring at
Rheims.  But she wished me well, and comforted me that your heart
was even as my own, as she saw on that day when you wore woman's
gear and slew him that blasphemed her.  And of you she spoke the
best words, for that you, who knew her not, took her part against
her enemy.  And for your wound she sorrowed much, not knowing, more
than I who am simple, whether it would turn to life or death.  And
if to life, then, if she could but persuade the doctor and clergy
and the King's counsellors to let her go, she said that you should
follow with her to the wars, and she, if so the saints pleased,
would be the making of your fortune, you and I being her first
friends."

"The saints fight for her!" I said, "for we have done our part thus
far, and I would that I may be well ere she raises her standard."

But here Elliot turned right pale, at the thought of my going to the
wars, she holding my face off and gazing steadily upon me with
wistful eyes.

"O God, send that the Maid go speedily!" she cried, "for as now you
are not fit to bear arms."

"Thou wouldst not have me lag behind, when the Maid's banner is on
the wind?"

"Nay," she said, but slowly, "thee and all that I have would I give
for her and for her cause, and for the saints.  But now thou must
not go,"--and her eyes yearned upon me--"now that I could overthrow
thee if we came to war."

So here she laughed again, being like the weather without--a
changeful thing of shower and shine.

Thus we continued devising, and she told me that, some days after my
wounding, the Maid had held converse apart with the King, and then
gave him to wit of certain marvellous matters, that none might know
save by heavenly inspiration.  But what these matters might be none
could tell, save the King and the Maiden only.

That this was sooth I can affirm, having myself been present in
later years, when one that affected to be the very Pucelle, never
slain, or re-arisen by miracle, came before the King, and truly she
had beguiled many.  Then the King said, "Welcome Pucelle, ma mie,
thou art welcome if thou hast memory of that secret thing which is
between thee and me."  Whereon this false woman, as one confounded,
fell on her knees and confessed her treason.

This that Elliot told me, therefore, while the sun shone into the
chamber through the bare vine-tendrils, was sooth, and by this
miracle, it seems, the Maid had at last won the ear of the King.  So
he bade carry her to Poictiers, where the doctors and the learned
were but now examining into her holy life, and her knowledge of
religion, being amazed by the wisdom of her answers.  The noble
ladies about her, too, and these mendicant friars that were sent to
hold inquisition concerning her at Domremy, had found in her nothing
but simplicity and holy maidenhood, pity and piety.  But, as for a
sign of her sending, and a marvel to convince all men's hearts,
that, she said, she would only work at Orleans.  So now she was
being accepted, and was to raise her standard, as we had cause to
believe.

"But," said Elliot, "the weeks go by, and much is said, and men and
victual are to be gathered, and still they tarry, doing no great
deed.  Oh, would that to-day her standard were on the wind! for to-
day, and for these many days, I must have you here, and tend you
till you be fit to bear arms."

Therewith she made me much good cheer; then, very tenderly taking
her arms from about me, lest I should be hurt again, she cried -

"But we speak idly, and thou hast not seen the standard, and the
banner, and the pennon of the Maid that my father is painting."

Then I must lean on her shoulder, as, indeed, I still had cause to
do, and so, right heedfully, she brought me into the painting-
chamber.  There, upon great easels, were stretched three sheets of
"bougran," {21} very white and glistering--a mighty long sheet for
the standard, a smaller one, square, for the banner, and the pennon
smaller yet, in form of a triangle, as is customary.

The great standard, in the Maiden's wars, was to be used for the
rallying of all her host; the pennon was a signal to those who
fought around her, as guards of her body; and about the banner
afterwards gathered, for prayer and praise, those men, confessed and
clean of conscience, whom she had called and chosen.

These cloths were now but half painted, the figures being drawn, by
my master's hands, and the ground-colours laid; but some portions
were quite finished, very bright and beautiful.  On the standard was
figured God the Father, having the globe in His hand; two angels
knelt by Him, one holding for His blessing the lily of France.  The
field was to be sown with fleurs-de-lys, and to bear the holy names:
Jhesu--Maria.  On the banner was our Lord crucified between the Holy
Virgin and St. John.  And on the pennon was wrought the
Annunciation, the angel with a lily kneeling to the Blessed Virgin.
On the standard, my master, later, fashioned the chosen blazon of
the Maid--a dove argent, on a field azure.  But the blazon of the
sword supporting the crown, between two lilies, that was later given
to her and her house, she did not use, as her enemies said she did,
out of pride and vainglory, mixing her arms with holy things, even
at Rheims at the sacring.  For when she was at Rheims, no armorial
bearings had yet been given to her.  Herein, then, as always, they
lied in their cruel throats; for, as the Psalmist says, "Quare
fremuerunt gentes?"

All these evil tongues, and all thought of evil days, were far from
us as we stood looking at the work, and praising it, as well we
might, for never had my master wrought so well.  Now, as I studied
on the paintings, I well saw that my master had drawn the angel of
the pennon in the likeness of his own daughter Elliot.  Wonderful it
was to see her fair face and blue eyes, holy and humble, with the
gold halo round her head.

"Ah, love," I said, "that banner I could follow far, pursuing fame
and the face of my lady!"

With that we fell into such dalliance and kind speech as lovers use,
wholly rapt from the world in our happiness.

Even then, before we so much as heard his step at the door, my
master entered, and there stood we, my arm about her neck and hers
about my body, embracing me.

He stood with eyes wide open, and gave one long whistle.

"Faith!" he cried, "our surgery hath wrought miracles!  You are
whole beyond what I looked for; but surely you are deaf, for my step
is heavy enough, yet, me thinks, you heard me not."

Elliot spoke no word, but drawing me very heedfully to a settle that
was by the side of the room, she fled without looking behind her.

"Sir," I said, as soon as she was gone, "I need make no long story--
"

"Faith, no!" he answered, standing back from the banner and holding
his hands at each side of his eyes, regarding his work as limners
do.  "You twain, I doubt not, were smitten senseless by these great
masterpieces, and the thought of the holy use to which they were
made."

"That might well have been, sir, but what we had covenanted to tell
you this day we have told unwittingly, methinks, already.  I could
not be in your daughter's company, and have the grace of her gentle
ministerings--"

"But you must stand senseless before her father's paintings?  Faith,
you are a very grateful lad!  But so it is, and I am not one of
those blind folk who see not what is under their eyes.  And now,
what now?  Well, I can tell you.  You are to be healed, and follow
these flags to war, and win your spurs, and much wealth by ransoms,
and so make my lass your lady.  Is it not so?"

I was abashed by his "bourdes," and could say nought, for, being
still very weak, the tears came into my eyes.  Then he drew near me,
limping, and put his hand on my shoulder, but very gently, saying -

"Even so be it, my son, as better may not be.  'Tis no great match,
but I looked, in this country, for nothing nobler or more wealthy.
That my lass should be happy, and have one to fend for her, there is
my affair, and I am not one of those fathers who think to make their
daughters glad by taking from them their heart's desire.  So cheer
up!  What, a man-at-arms weeping!  Strange times, when maids lead
men-at-arms and men-at-arms weep at home!"

With these words he comforted me, and made me welcome, for indeed he
was a kind man and a wise; so many there are that cause shrewd
sorrow when there should be joy in their houses!  This was never his
way, and wise do I call him, for all that has come and gone.

In a little time, when I had thanked him, and shown him, I trow, how
he stood in my love, he bade me go to my chamber and be at rest,
saying that he must take thought as to how matters stood.

"For you are not yet fit to bear arms, nor will be for these many
days.  Nor is it seemly, nor our country's custom, that my maid
should dwell here in the house with you, as things are between you,
and I must consider of how I may bestow her till you march with your
troop, if marching there is to be."

This I dared not gainsay, and so I went to my chamber with a heart
full of grief and joy, for these hours that are all of gladness come
rarely to lovers, and to me were scantly measured.  Perchance it was
for my soul's welfare, to win me from the ways of the world.

But to Elliot and me that night bore no joy, but sorrow, albeit
passing.  At supper we met, indeed, but she stayed with us not long
after supper, when my master, with a serious countenance, told me
how he had taken counsel with a very holy woman, of his own kin,
widow of an archer, and how she was going on pilgrimage to our Lady
of Puy en Velay, by reason of the jubilee, for this year Good Friday
and the Annunciation fell on the same day.

"To-morrow she sets forth, and whatsoever prayer can do for France
and the King shall be done.  Always, after this day of jubilee, they
say that strange and great matters come to pass.  That there will be
strange matters I make no doubt, for when before, save under holy
Deborah in Scripture, did men follow a woman to war?  May good come
of it!  However it fall out, Elliot is willing to go on pilgrimage,
for she is very devout.  Moreover, she tells me that it had been in
her mind before, for the mother of that Maid is to be at Puy,
praying for her daughter, as, certes, she hath great need, if ever
woman had.  And Elliot is fain to meet her and devise with her about
the Maid.  And for you, you still need our nursing, and the sooner
you win strength, the nearer you are to that which you would win.
Still, I am sorry, lad, for I remember my courting days and the
lass's mother, blessings on her!"

To all this I could make no answer but that his will was mine; and
so the day ended in a mingling of gladness and sorrow.



CHAPTER X--HOW NORMAN LESLIE WAS OUT OF ALL COMFORT



My brethren the good Benedictine Fathers here in Pluscarden Priory,
are wont betimes to be merry over my penitents, for all the young
lads and lasses in the glen say they are fain to be shriven by old
Father Norman and by no other.

This that my brethren report may well be true, and yet I take no
shame in the bruit or "fama."  For as in my hot youth I suffered
sorrows many from love, so now I may say, like that Carthaginian
queen in Maro, "miseris succurrere disco."  The years of the youth
of most women and men are like a tourney, or jousts courteous, and
many fall in the lists of love, and many carry sorer wounds away
from Love's spears, than they wot of who do but look on from the
safe seats and secure pavilions of age.  Though all may seem but a
gentle and joyous passage of arms, and the weapons that they use but
arms of courtesy, yet are shrewd blows dealt and wounds taken which
bleed inwardly, perchance through a whole life long.  To medicine
these wounds with kind words is, it may be, part of my poor skill as
a healer of souls in my degree, and therefore do the young resort to
Father Norman.

Some confessors there be who laugh within their hearts at these
sorrows of lovers, as if they were mere "nugae" and featherweights:
others there are who wax impatient, holding all love for sin in some
degree, and forgetting that Monseigneur St. Peter himself was a
married man, and doubtless had his own share of trouble and amorous
annoy when he was winning the lady his wife, even as other men.  But
if I be of any avail (as they deem) in the healing of hearts, I owe
my skill of that surgery to remembrance of the days of my youth,
when I found none to give me comfort, save what I won from a book
that my master had in hand to copy and adorn, namely, "The Book of
One Hundred Ballades, containing Counsel to a Knight, that he should
love loyally"; this counsel offered by Messire Lyonnet de Coismes,
Messire Jehan de Mailly, the Sieur d'Yvry, and many other good
knights that were true lovers.  Verily, in sermons of preachers and
lives of holy men I found no such comfort.

Almost the sorest time of my sorrowing was for very grief of heart
when Elliot set forth on pilgrimage to Puy en Velay, for we were but
newly come together; "twain we were with one heart," as a maker sang
whom once I met in France ere I came back to Scotland; sweetly could
he make, but was a young clerk of no godly counsel, and had to name
Maitre Francoys Villon.  Our heart was one, the heart of Elliot and
mine own, and lo! here, in a day, it was torn asunder and we were
set apart by the wisdom of men.

I remember me how I lay wakeful on the night before the day when
Elliot should depart.  Tossing and turning, I lay till the small
fowls brake forth with their songs, and my own thought seemed to
come and go, and come again in my head, like the "ritournelle" of
the birds.  At last I might not endure, but rose and attired myself
very early, and so went down into the chamber.  Thither presently
came Elliot, feigning wonder to find me arisen, and making pretence
that she was about her housewiferies, but well I wot that she might
sleep no more than I.  The old housewife coming and going through
the room, there we devised, comforting each other with hopes and
prayers; indeed we sorely wanted comfort, because never till we were
wed, if ever that should be, might we have such solace of each
other's presence as we desired.  Then I brought from the workshop a
sheet of vellum and colours, and the painting tools, and so
fashioned a little picture of her, to wear within the breast of my
doublet.  A rude thing it was and is, for what gold, however finely
handled, could match with her golden hair, whereof, at my desire,
she gave me a lock; and of all worldly gear from my secular life,
these and the four links of my mother's chain alone are still mine,
and where my heart is there is my treasure.  And she, too, must clip
a long curl of my hair, for as yet it was not cut "en ronde," as
archers use to wear it, but when she came again, she said she would
find me shrewdly shaven, and then would love me no longer.  Then she
laughed and kissed me, and fell to comforting me for that she would
not be long away.

"And in three months or four," she said, "the King will be sacred at
Rheims, and the Maid will give you red wine to drink in Paris town,
and the English will be swept into the sea, and then we shall have
peace and abundance."

"And then shall we be wedded, and never part," I cried; whereat she
blushed, bidding me not be over bold, for her heart might yet
change, and so laughed again; and thus we fleeted the time, till her
father came and sent her about disposing such things as she must
take with her.  Among these she was set on carrying her jackanapes,
to make her merry on the road, though here I was of another counsel.
For in so great a gathering there must be many gangrel folk, and
among them, peradventure, the violer woman, who would desire to have
the creature given back to her.  But, if it were so, Elliot said she
would purchase the jackanapes, "for I am no lifter of other men's
cattle, as all you Scots are, and I am fain to own my jackanapes
honestly."

So she carried him with her, the light chain about her wrist, and he
riding on her saddle-bow, for presently, with many banners waving
and with singing of hymns, came the troop who wended together on
pilgrimage.  Many townsfolk well armed were there to guard their
women; the flags of all the crafts were on the wind; the priests
carried blessed banners; so with this goodly company, and her
confessor, and her father's old kinswoman, Elliot rode away.  The
jackanapes was screeching on her saddle-bow, her yellow hair was
lifted on her shoulder with the light breeze; her father rode the
first two stages with them.  Merry enough they seemed that went, and
the bells were chiming, but I was left alone, my heart empty, or
only full of useless longings.  I betook myself, therefore, to a
chapel hard by, and there made my orisons for their safety and for
good speed to the Maid and her holy enterprise.

Thereafter there was no similitude for me and my unhappy estate,
save that of a dog who has lost his master in a strange place, and
goes questing everywhere, and comfortless.  Then Randal Rutherford,
coming to visit me, found me such a lackmirth, he said, and my wits
so distraught, that a love-sick wench were better company for a man-
at-arms.

"Cheer up, man," he said.  "Look at me, did I not leave my heart at
Branxholme Mains with Mally Grieve, and so in every town where I
have been in garrison, and do you see me cast down?  Off with this
green sickness, or never will you have strength to march with the
Maid, where there is wealth to be won, and golden coronets, and
gaudy stones, such as Saunders Macausland took off the Duke of
Clarence at Bauge.  Faith, between the wound Capdorat gave you and
this arrow of Dan Cupid's in your heart, I believe you will not be
of strength to carry arms till there is not a pockpudding left in
broad France.  Come forth, and drain a pot or two of wine, or, if
the leech forbids it, come, I will play you for all that is owing
between you and me."

With that he lugged out his dice and fetched a tablier, but
presently vowed that it was plain robbery, for I could keep no count
of the game.  Therewith he left me, laughing and mocking, and saying
that I had been bolder with Robin Lindsay's lass.

Being alone and out of all comfort, I fell to wandering in the
workroom, and there lit, to my solace, on that blessed book of the
hundred ballades, which my master was adorning with pictures, and
with scarlet, blue, and gold.  It set forth how a young knight, in
sorrow of love, was riding between Pont de Ce and Angiers, and how
other knights met him and gave him counsel.  These lines I read, and
getting them by rote, took them for my device, for they bid the
lover thrust himself foremost in the press, and in breach, mine, and
escalade.


S'en assault viens, devant te lance,
En mine, en eschielle, en tous lieux
Ou proesce les bons avance,
Ta Dame t'en aimera mieux.


But reading soon grew a weariness to me, as my life was, and my
master coming home, bade me be of better cheer.

"By St. Andrew," quoth he, "this is no new malady of thine, but well
known to leeches from of old, and never yet was it mortal!  Remede
there is none, save to make ballades and rondels, and forget sorrow
in hunting rhymes, if thou art a maker.  Thou art none?  Nay, nor
ever was I, lad; but I have had this disease, and yet you see me
whole and well.  Come, lend me a hand at painting in these lilies;
it passes not thy skill."

So I wrought some work whereof I have reason to be proud, for these
lilies were carried wheresoever blows and honour were to be won, ay,
and where few might follow them.  Meanwhile, my master devised with
me about such sights as he had seen on the way, and how great a
concourse was on pilgrimage to Puy, and how, if prayers availed, the
cause of France was won; "and yet, in England too, wives are praying
for their lords, and lasses for their lads in France.  But ours is
the better quarrel."

So that weary day went by, one of the longest that I have known, and
other days, till now the leech said that I might go back to the
castle, though that I might march to the wars he much misdoubted.
Among the archers I had the best of greetings, and all quarrels were
laid by, for, as was said, we were to set forth to Orleans, where
would be blows enough to stay the greediest stomach.  For now the
Maid had won all hearts, taking some with her piety, and others with
her wit and knowledge, that confounded the doctors, how she, a
simple wench, was so subtle in doctrine, which might not be but by
inspiration.  Others, again, were moved by her mirth and good-
fellowship, for she would strike a man-at-arms on the shoulder like
a comrade, and her horsemanship and deftness with sword and lance
bewitched others, she seeming as valiant and fair as these lady
crusaders of whom old romances tell.  And others, again, she gained
by bourdes and jests; others by her manners, the fairest and most
courtly that might be, for she, a manant's daughter, bore herself as
an equal before the blood of France, and was right dear to the young
bride of the fair Duc d'Alencon.  Yet was there about her such a
grace of purity, as of one descended from the skies, that no man of
them all was so hardy as to speak to her of love, or even so much as
to think thereof in the secret of his heart.

So all reported of her, and she had let write a letter to the
English at Orleans, bidding them yield to God and the Maid, and
begone to their own country, lest a worse thing befall them.  At
this letter they mocked, swearing that they would burn her heralds
who carried the message.  But the King had named her chief of war,
and given her a household, with a good esquire, Jean d'Aulon, to
govern it, and all that beseems noble or royal blood.  New armour
had been made for her, all of steel and silver, and there was talk
of a sword that she had come by in no common way, but through
revelation of the saints.  For she being in Tours had it revealed to
her that a certain ancient sword, with five crosses on the blade,
lay buried behind the altar of St. Catherine of Fierbois.  An
armourer of Tours was therefore sent thither, and after much labour
and search they of St. Catherine's Church found that sword, very
ancient, and much bestained with rust.  Howbeit, they cleaned it and
made for it a sheath of cloth of gold.  Nevertheless, the Maid wore
it in a leathern scabbard.



CHAPTER XI--HOW MADAME CATHERINE OF FIERBOIS WROUGHT A MIRACLE FOR A
SCOT, AND HOW NORMAN RODE TO THE WARS



Now, in this place I cannot withhold me from telling of an adventure
which at this very time befell, though it scarce belongs to my
present chronicle.  But it may be that, in time to come, faith will
wax cold, and the very saints be misdoubted of men.  It therefore
behoves me not to hold back the truth which I know, and which this
tale makes plain and undeniable even by Hussites, Lollards, and
other miscreants.  For he who reads must be constrained to own that
there is no strait so terrible but the saints can bring safely forth
therefrom such men as call upon them.

There came at this season to Chinon from Fierbois (where the Maid's
sword was found by miracle) a Scottish archer, not aforetime of our
company, though now he took service with us.  He was named Michael
Hamilton, and was a tall man and strong, grim of face, sudden in
anger, heavy of hand, walked a little lame, and lacked one ear.
That which follows he himself told to us and to our chaplain, Father
Urquhart, and I myself have read it in the Book of the Miracles of
Madame St. Catherine of Fierbois. {22}

You must know that Brittany, as at this time, held for the English,
and Michael Hamilton had gone thither reiving and pillaging the
country with a company of Scots men-at-arms.  Hard by a place called
Clisson they had seized a deserted tower and held it for some days.
It so fell out that they took a burgess of the country, who was
playing the spy on their quarters; him they put to the torture, and
so learned that the English were coming against them with a great
company of men-at-arms and of the country folk, on that very night.
They therefore delayed no longer than to hang the spy from a
sufficient bough of a tree, this Michael doing what was needful, and
so were hurrying to horse, when, lo! the English were upon them.
Not having opportunity to reach the stables and mount, Michael
Hamilton fled on foot, with what speed he might, but sorely impeded
by the weight of his armour.  The country folk, therefore, being
light of foot, easily overtook him, and after slaying one and
wounding more, he was caught in a noose of rope thrown over him from
behind.  Now, even as he felt the noose tighten about his arms, he
(though not commonly pious beyond the wont of men-at-arms) vowed in
his heart to make a pilgrimage to Fierbois, and to the shrine of
Madame St. Catherine, if she would but aid him.  And, indeed, he was
ever a worshipper of St. Catherine, she being the patroness of his
own parish kirk, near Bothwell.  None the less, he was overcome and
bound, whereon he that had thrown the noose, and was son of the spy
whom Michael had hanged, vowed that he would, with his own hands,
hang Michael.  No ransom would this manant take, nor would he suffer
Michael, as a gentleman of blood and birth, to die by the sword.  So
hanged Michael was; doubt not but it was done in the best manner,
and there he was left hanging.

Now, that night of Maundy Thursday the cure of Clisson was in his
chamber and was about to go to bed.  But as he made ready for bed he
heard, from a corner of the chamber, a clear voice saying, "Go forth
and cut down the Scots man-at-arms who was hanged, for he yet
lives."

The cure, thinking that he must be half asleep and dreaming, paid no
manner of regard to these commands.  Thereon the voice, twice and
thrice, spoke aloud, none save the cure being present, and said, "Go
forth and cut down the Scots man-at-arms who was hanged, for he yet
lives."

It often so chances that men in religion are more hard of heart to
believe than laymen and the simple.  The cure, therefore, having
made all due search, and found none living who could have uttered
that voice, went not forth himself, but at noon of Good Friday, his
service being done, he sent his sexton, as one used not to fear the
sight and company of dead men.  The sexton set out, whistling for
joy of the slaying of the Scot, but when he came back he was running
as fast as he might, and scarce could speak for very fear.  At the
last they won from him that he had gone to the tree where the dead
Scot was hanging, and first had heard a faint rustle of the boughs.
Not affrighted, the sexton drew out a knife and slit one of
Michael's bare toes, for they had stripped him before they hanged
him.  At the touch of the knife the blood came, and the foot gave a
kick, whereon the sexton hastened back with these tidings to the
cure.  The holy man, therefore, sending for such clergy as he could
muster, went at their head, in all his robes canonical, to the wild
wood, where they cut Michael down and rubbed his body and poured
wine into his throat, so that, at the end of half an hour, he sat up
and said, "Pay Waiter Hay the two testers that I owe him."

Thereon most ran and hid themselves, as if from a spirit of the
dead, but the manant, he whose father Michael had hanged, made at
him with a sword, and dealt him a great blow, cutting off his ear.
But others who had not fled, and chiefly the cure, held the manant
till his hands were bound, that he might not slay one so favoured of
Madame St. Catherine.  Not that they knew of Michael's vow, but it
was plain to the cure that the man was under the protection of
Heaven.  Michael then, being kindly nursed in a house of a certain
Abbess, was wellnigh recovered, and his vow wholly forgotten, when
lo! he being alone, one invisible smote his cheek, so that the room
rang with the buffet, and a voice said to him, "Wilt thou never
remember thy pilgrimage?"  Moved, therefore, to repentance, he stole
the cure's horse, and so, journeying by night till he reached
France, he accomplished his vows, and was now returned to Chinon.
This Michael Hamilton was hanged, not very long afterwards, by
command of the Duc d'Alencon, for plundering a church at Jargeau.

The story I have thought it behoved me to tell in this place,
because it shows how good and mild is Madame St. Catherine of
Fierbois, also lest memory of it be lost in Scotland, where it
cannot but be of great comfort to all gentlemen of Michael's kin and
of the name and house of Hamilton.  Again, I tell it because I heard
it at this very season of my waiting to be recovered of my wound.
Moreover, it is a tale of much edification to men-at-arms, as
proving how ready are the saints to befriend us, even by speaking as
it were with human voices to sinful men.  Of this I myself, later,
had good proof, as shall be told, wherefore I praise and thank the
glorious virgin, Madame St. Catherine of Fierbois.

This tale was the common talk in Chinon, which I heard very gladly,
taking pleasure in the strangeness of it.  And in the good fortune
of the Maid I was yet more joyful, both for her own sake and for
Elliot's, to whom she was so dear.  But, for my own part, the
leeches gave me little comfort, saying that I might in no manner set
forth with the rest, for that I could not endure to march on foot,
but must die by the way.

Poor comfort was this for me, who must linger in garrison while the
fortune of France was on the cast of the dice, and my own fortune
was to be made now or never.  So it chanced that one day I was
loitering in the gateway, watching the soldiers, who were burnishing
armour, sharpening swords, and all as merry and busy as bees in
spring.  Then to me comes my master, with a glad countenance, and
glad was I, for these eight days or nine I had no tidings of him,
and knew not if Elliot had returned from pilgrimage.  I rose to
greet him, and he took my hand, bidding me be of good cheer, for
that he had good tidings.  But what his news might be he would not
tell me; I must come with him, he said, to his house.

All about his door there was much concourse of people, and among
them two archers led a great black charger, fairly caparisoned, and
covered with a rich silk hucque of colour cramoisie, adorned with
lilies of silver.  As I marvelled who the rider might be, conceiving
that he was some great lord, the door of my master's house opened,
and there, within, and plain to view, was Elliot embracing a young
knight; and over his silver armour fell her yellow hair, covering
gorget and rere-brace.  Then my heart stood still, my lips opened
but gave no cry, when, lo! the knight kissed her and came forth, all
in shining armour, but unhelmeted.  Then I saw that this was no
knight, but the Maid herself, boden in effeir of war, {23} and so
changed from what she had been that she seemed a thing divine.  If
St. Michael had stepped down from a church window, leaving the
dragon slain, he would have looked no otherwise than she, all
gleaming with steel, and with grey eyes full of promise of victory:
the holy sword girdled about her, and a little battle-axe hanging
from her saddle-girth.  She sprang on her steed, from the mounting-
stone beside the door, and so, waving her hand, she cried farewell
to Elliot, that stood gazing after her with shining eyes.  The
people went after the Maid some way, shouting Noel! and striving to
kiss her stirrup, the archers laughing, meanwhile, and bidding them
yield way.  And so we came, humbly enough, into the house, where,
her father being present and laughing and the door shut, Elliot
threw her arms about me and wept and smiled on my breast.

"Ah, now I must lose you again," she said; whereat I was half glad
that she prized me so; half sorry, for that I knew I might not go
forth with the host.  This ill news I gave them both, we now sitting
quietly in the great chamber.

"Nay, thou shalt go," said Elliot.  "Is it not so, father?  For the
Maid gave her promise ere she went to Poictiers, and now she is
fulfilling it.  For the gentle King has given her a household--
pages, and a maitre d'hotel, a good esquire, and these two gentlemen
who rode with her from Vaucouleurs, and an almoner, Brother Jean
Pasquerel, an Augustine, that the Maid's mother sent with us from
Puy, for we found her there.  And the Maid has appointed you to go
with her, for that you took her part when men reviled her.  And
money she has craved from the King; and Messire Aymar de Puiseux,
that was your adversary, is to give you a good horse, for that you
may not walk.  And, above all, the Maid has declared to me that she
will bring you back to us unscathed of sword, but, for herself, she
shall be wounded by an arrow under Orleans, yet shall she not die,
but be healed of that wound, and shall lead the King to his sacring
at Rheims.  So now, verily, for you I have no fear, but my heart is
sore for the Maid's sake, and her wound."

None the less, she made as if she would dance for joy, and I could
have done as much, not, indeed, that as then I put my faith in
prophecies, but for gladness that I was to take my fortune in the
wars.  So the hours passed in great mirth and good cheer.  Many
things we spoke of, as concerning the mother of the Maid--how wise
she was, yet in a kind of amazement, and not free from fear,
wherefore she prayed constantly for her child.

Moreover Elliot told me that the jackanapes was now hers of right,
for that the woman, its owner, had been at Puy, but without her man,
and had sold it to her, as to a good mistress, yet with tears at
parting.  This news was none of the gladdest to me, for still I
feared that tidings of us might come to Brother Thomas.  Howbeit, at
last, with a light heart, though I was leaving Elliot, I went back
to the castle.  There Aymar de Puiseux, meeting me, made me the best
countenance, and gave me a right good horse, that I named Capdorat
after him, by his good will.  And for my armour, which must needs be
light, they gave me a maillet--a coat of slender mail, which did not
gall my old wound.  So accoutred, I departed next day, in good
company, to Blois, whence the Maid was to set forth to Orleans.
Marvel it was to find the road so full of bestial--oxen, cows,
sheep, and swine--all gathered, as if to some great market, for the
victualling of Orleans.  But how they were to be got through the
English lines into the city men knew not.  For the English, by this
time, had girdled the city all about with great bastilles, each
joined to other by sunken ways dug in the earth, wherein were
streets, and marts, and chambers with fires and chimneys, as I have
written in my Latin chronicle. {24} There false Frenchmen came, as
to a fair, selling and buying, with store of food, wine, arms, and
things of price, buying and selling in safety, for the cannon and
couleuvrines in the town could not touch them.  But a word ran
through the host how the Maid knew, by inspiration of the saints,
that no man should sally forth from among the English, but that we
should all pass unharmed.

Meantime the town of Blois was in great turmoil--the cattle lowing
in the streets, the churches full to the doors of men-at-arms,
waiting their turn to be shrived, for the Maid had ordained that all
who followed her must go clean of sin.  And there was great wailing
of light o' loves, and leaguer lasses that had followed the army, as
is custom, for this custom the Maid did away, and drove these women
forth, and whither they wandered I know not.  Moreover, she made
proclamation that all dice, and tabliers, and instruments of
gambling must be burned, and myself saw the great pile yet smoking
in the public place, for this was to be a holy war.  So we lodged at
Blois, where the Maid showed me the best countenance, speaking
favourable words of Elliot and me, and bidding me keep near her
banner in battle, which I needed no telling to make me resolve to
do.  So there, for that night, we rested.



CHAPTER XII--HOW THE MAID CAME TO ORLEANS, AND OF THE DOLOROUS
STROKE THAT FIRST SHE STRUCK IN WAR



Concerning the ways of the saints, and their holy counsel, it is not
for sinful men to debate, but verify their ways are not as our ways,
as shall presently be shown, in the matter of the Maid's march to
Orleans.

For the town of Blois, where now we lay, is, as all men know, on the
right bank of the water of Loire, a great river, wider and deeper
and stronger by far than our Tay or Tweed, and the town of Orleans,
whither we were bound, is also on the same side, namely, the right
side of the river.  Now, Orleans was beleaguered in this manner:
The great stone bridge had been guarded, on the left, or further
side of the stream, first by a boulevard, or strong keep on the
land, whence by a drawbridge men crossed to a yet stronger keep,
called "Les Tourelles," builded on the last arches of the bridge.
But early in the siege the English had taken from them of Orleans
the boulevard and Les Tourelles, and an arch of the bridge had been
broken, so that in nowise might men-at-arms of the party of France
enter into Orleans by way of that bridge from the left bank through
the country called Sologne.

Yet that keep, Les Tourelles, had not been a lucky prize to our
enemies of England.  For their great captain, the Lord Salisbury,
had a custom to watch them of Orleans and their artillery from a
window in that tower, and, to guard him from arrow-shots, he had a
golden shield pierced with little holes to look through, that he
held before his face.  One day he came into this turret when they
who worked the guns in Orleans were all at their meat.  But it so
chanced that two boys, playing truant from school, went into a niche
of the wall, where was a cannon loaded and aimed at Les Tourelles.
They, seeing the gleam of the golden shield at the window of the
turret, set match to the touch-hole of the cannon, and, as Heaven
would have it, the ball struck a splinter of stone from the side of
the window, which, breaking through the golden shield, slew my Lord
of Salisbury, a good knight.  Thus plainly that tower was to be of
little comfort to the English.

None the less, as they held Les Tourelles and the outer landward
boulevard thereof, the English built but few works on the left side
of the river, namely, Champ St. Prive, that guarded the road by the
left bank from Blois; Les Augustins, that was a little inland from
the boulevard of Les Tourelles, so that no enemy might pass between
these two holds; and St. Jean le Blanc, that was higher up the
river, and a hold of no great strength.  On the Orleans side, to
guard the road from Burgundy, the English had but one fort, St.
Loup, for Burgundy and the north were of their part, and by this way
they expected no enemy.  But all about Orleans, on the right bank of
the river, to keep the path from Blois on that hand, the English had
builded many great bastilles, and had joined them by hollow ways,
wherein, as I said, they lived at ease, as men in a secure city
underground.  And the skill of it was to stop convoys of food, and
starve them of Orleans, for to take the town by open force the
English might in nowise avail, they being but some four thousand
men-at-arms.

Thus Matters stood, and it was the Maid's mind to march her men and
all the cattle clean through and past the English bastilles on the
right side of the river, and by inspiration she well knew that no
man would come forth against us.  Moreover, she saw not how, by the
other way, and the left bank, the cattle might be ferried across,
and the great company of men-at-arms, into Orleans town, under the
artillery of the English.  For the English held the pass of the
broken bridge, as I said, and therefore all crossing of the water
must be by boat.

Now, herein it was shown, as often again, that the ways of the
saints are not as our ways.  For the captains, namely, the Sieur de
Rais (who afterwards came to the worst end a man might), and La
Hire, and Ambroise de Lore, and De Gaucourt, in concert with the
Bastard of Orleans, then commanding for the King in that town, gave
the simple Maid to understand that Orleans was on the left bank of
the river.  This they did, because they were faithless and slow of
belief, and feared that so great a company as ours might in nowise
pass Meun and Beaugency, towns of the English, and convey so many
cattle through the bastilles on the right bank.  Therefore, with
many priests going before, singing the Veni Creator, with holy
banners as on a pilgrimage; with men-at-arms, archers, pages, and
trains of carts; and with bullocks rowting beneath the goad, and
swine that are very hard to drive, and slow-footed sheep, we all
crossed the bridge of Blois on the morning of April 25th.

Now, had the holy saints deemed it wise and for our good to act as
men do, verily they would have spoken to the Maid, telling her that
we were all going clean contrary to her counsel.  Nevertheless, the
saints held their peace, and let us march on.  Belike they designed
that this should turn to the greater glory of the Maid and to the
confusion of them that disbelieved, which presently befell, as I
shall relate.

All one day of spring we rode, and slept beneath the stars, the Maid
lying in her armour, so that as one later told me who knew, namely,
Elliot, her body was sorely bruised with her harness.  Early in the
morning we mounted again, and so rode north, fetching a compass
inland; after noontide we came to a height, and lo! beneath us lay
the English bastilles and holds on the left bank, and, beyond the
glittering river and the broken bridge, the towers and walls of
Orleans.  Then I saw the Maid in anger, for well she knew that she
had been deceived by them who should have guided her.  Between us
and the town of Orleans lay the wide river, the broken bridge, and
the camps of the English.  On the further shore we beheld the people
swarming on the walls and quays, labouring to launch boats with
sails, and so purposing to ascend the river against the stream and
meet us two leagues beyond the English lines.  But this they might
not do, for a strong wind was blowing down stream, and all their
vessels were in disarray.

The Maid spurred to the front, where were De Rais, Lore, Kennedy,
and La Hire.  We could see her pointing with her staff, and hear
speech high and angry, but the words we could not hear.  The
captains looked downcast, as children caught in a fault, and well
they might, for we were now as far off victualling Orleans as ever
we had been.  The Maid pointed to the English keep at St. Jean le
Blanc, on our side of the water, and, as it seems, was fain to
attack it; but the English had drawn off their men to the stronger
places on the bridge, and to hold St. Jean le Blanc against them, if
we took it, we had no strength.  So we even wended, from the height
of Olivet, for six long miles, till we reached the stream opposite
Checy, where was an island.  A rowing-boat, with a knight in
glittering arms, was pulled across the stream, and the Maid, in her
eagerness, spurred her steed deep into the water to meet him.  He
was a young man, brown of visage, hardy and fierce, and on his
shield bore the lilies of Orleans, crossed with a baton sinister.
He bowed low to the Maid, who cried -

"Are you the Bastard of Orleans?"

"I am," he said, "and right glad of your coming."

"Was it you who gave counsel that I should come by this bank, and
not by the other side, and so straight against Talbot and the
English?"

She spoke as a master to a faulty groom, fierce and high, and to
hear her was marvel.

"I, and wiser men than I, gave that counsel," said he, "deeming this
course the surer."

"Nom Dieu!" she cried.  "The council of Messire is safer and wiser
than yours."  She pointed to the rude stream, running rough and
strong, a great gale following with it, so that no sailing-boats
might come from the town.  "You thought to beguile me, and are
yourselves beguiled, for I bring you better succour than ever came
to knight or town--the help of the King of Heaven."

Then, even as she spoke, and as by miracle, that fierce wind went
right about, and blew straight up the stream, and the sails of the
vessels filled.

"This is the work of our Lord," said the Bastard of Orleans,
crossing himself:  and the anger passed from the eyes of the Maid.

Then he and Nicole de Giresme prayed her to pass the stream with
them, and to let her host march back to Blois and so come to
Orleans, crossing by the bridge of Blois.  To this she said nay,
that she could not leave her men out of her sight, lest they fell to
sin again, and all her pains were lost.  But, with many prayers, her
confessor Pasquerel joining in them, she was brought to consent.  So
the host, with priests and banners, must set forth again to Blois,
while the Maid, and we that were of her company, crossed the river
in boats, and so rode towards the town.  On this way (the same is a
road of the old Romans) the English held a strong fort, called St.
Loup, and well might they have sallied forth against us.  But the
people of Orleans, who ever bore themselves more hardily than any
townsfolk whom I have known, made an onfall against St. Loup, that
the English within might not sally out against us, where was fierce
fighting, and they took a standard from the English.

So, at nightfall, the Maid, with the Bastard and other captains at
her side, rode into the town, all the people welcoming her with
torches in hand, shouting Noel! as to a king, throwing flowers
before her horse's feet, and pressing to touch her, or even the
harness of her horse, which leaped and plunged, for the fire of a
torch caught the fringe of her banner.  Lightly she spurred and
turned him, and lightly she caught at the flame with her hand and
quenched it, while all men marvelled at her grace and goodly
bearing.

Never saw I more joy of heart, for whereas all had feared to fall
into the hands of the English, now there was such courage in them,
as if Monseigneur St. Michael himself, or Monseigneur St Aignan, had
come down from heaven to help his good town.  If they were hardy
before, as indeed they were, now plainly they were full of such
might and fury that man might not stand against them.  And soon it
was plain that no less fear had fallen on the English.  But the
Maid, with us who followed her, was led right through the great
street of Orleans, from the Burgundy gate to the gate Regnart,
whereby the fighting was ever most fell, and there we lodged in the
house of the Treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, Jacquet Boucher.
Never was sleep sweeter to me, after the two weary marches, and the
sounds of music and revelry in the street did not hum a moment in my
ears, before I had passed into that blessed world of slumber without
a dream.

But my waking next day brought instantly the thought of my brother
Robin, concerning whom I had ever feared that he fell with the
flower of Scotland, when the Comte de Clermont deserted us so
shamefully on the day of the Battle of the Herrings.  No sooner did
this doubt come into my mind, than I leaped from my bed, attired
myself, and went forth to the quarters of the Scots under Sir
Christian Chambers.  Little need I had to tell my errand, for they
that met me guessed who I was, because, indeed, Robin and I favoured
each other greatly in face and bodily presence.

It was even as I had deemed:  my dear brother and friend and tutor
of old days had died, charging back upon the English who pursued us,
and fighting by the side of Pothon de Xaintrailles.  All that day,
and in the week which followed, my thought was ever upon him; a look
in a stranger's face, a word on another's lips, by some magic of the
mind would bring my brother almost visibly before me, ay, among the
noise of swords on mail, and the screaming of arrows, and of great
cannon-balls.

If I heard ill news, it was no more than I looked for; but better
news, as it seemed, I also heard, though, in my sorrow, I marked it
little.  For the soldiers were lamenting the loss of their famed
gunner, not John the Lorrainer, but one who had come to them, they
said, now some weeks agone, in the guise of a cordelier, though he
did not fight in that garb, but in common attire, and ever wore his
vizor down, which men deemed strange.  Whither he had gone, or how
disappeared, they knew not, for he had not been with those who
yesterday attacked St. Loup.

"He could never thole the thought of the Blessed Maid," said Allan
Rutherford, "but would tell all that listened how she was a brain-
sick wench, or a witch, and under her standard he would never fight.
He even avowed to us that she had been a chamber-wench of an inn in
Neufchateau, and there had learned to back a horse, and many a worse
trick," which was a lie devised by the English and them of Burgundy.
But, go where he would, or how he would, I deemed it well that
Brother Thomas and I (for of a surety it was Brother Thomas) were
not to meet in Orleans.

Concerning the English in this wonderful adventure of the siege, I
have never comprehended, nor do I now know, wherefore they bore them
as they did.  That they sallied not out on the trains which the Maid
led and brought into the town, a man might set down to mere
cowardice and faint heart--they fearing to fight against a witch, as
they deemed her.  In later battles, when she had won so many a
victory, they may well have feared her.  But, as now, they showed no
dread where honour was to be won, but rather pride and disdain.  On
this very Saturday, the morrow of our arrival, La Hire, with Florent
d'Illiers and many other knights, pushed forth a matter of two
bowshots from the city walls, and took a keep that they thought to
have burned.  They were very hardy men, and being comforted by the
Maid's coming, were full of courage and goodwill; yet the English
rallied and drove them back, with much firing of guns, and now first
I heard the din of war and saw the great stone balls fly,
scattering, as they fell, into splinters that screamed in the air,
with a very terrible sound.  Truly the English had the better of
that fray, and were no whit adread, for at sunset the Maid sent them
two heralds, bidding them begone; yet they answered only that they
would burn her for a witch, and called her a ribaulde, or loose
wench, and bade her go back and keep her kine.

I was with her when this message came, and her brows met and her
eyes flashed with anger.  Telling us of her company to follow, she
went to the Fair Cross on the bridge, where now her image stands,
fashioned in bronze, kneeling before the Cross, with the King
kneeling opposite.  There she stood and cried aloud to the English,
who were in the fort on the other side of the bridge that is called
Les Tourelles, and her voice rang across the water like a trumpet,
so that it was marvel.  Then came out on to the bridge a great
knight and a tall, Sir William Glasdale; no bigger man have I seen,
and I bethought me of Goliath in Holy Scripture.  He spoke in a
loud, north-country voice, and, whereas she addressed him
courteously, as she did all men, he called her by the worst of
names, mocking at her for a ribaulde.  She made answer that he lied,
and that he should die in four days' time or five, without stroke of
sword; and so, waving her hand haughtily, turned and went back.  But
I, who walked close by her, noted that she wept like any girl at his
evil and lying accusations.

Next day was Sunday, and no stroke was struck, but the Bastard of
Orleans set forth to bring back the army from Blois.  And on Monday
the Maid rode out and under the very walls of the English keeps, the
townsfolk running by her rein, as if secure in her company; yet no
man came forth against them, which was marvel.  And on the
Wednesday, the Maid, with many knights, rode forth two leagues, and
met the Bastard of Orleans and all the array from Blois, and all the
flocks and herds that were sent to Orleans by the good towns.  Right
beneath the forts of the English they rode and marched, with
chanting of hymns, priests leading the way, but none dared meddle
with them.  Yet a child might have seen that now or never was the
chance:  howbeit Talbot and Glasdale and Scales, men well learned in
war, let fire not even a single cannon.  It may be that they feared
an attack of the Orleans folk on their bastilles, if they drew out
their men.  For, to tell the plain truth, the English had not men-
at-arms enough for the task they took in hand; but they oft achieve
much with but little force, and so presume the more, sometimes to
their undoing.  And, till the Maid came, ten of them could chase a
hundred of the French.

So the Maid returned, leading the army, and then, being very weary,
she went into her chamber, and lay down on a couch to sleep, her
esquire, D'Aulon, also resting in the room, where were the lady and
a daughter of the house, one Charlotte Boucher.  There was I,
devising idly with her page, Louis de Coutes, a boy half Scots by
birth, and good-brother to Messire Florent d'Illiers, who had
married his sister.  But alas! he was more French than Scots, and
later he left the Maid.  But then we were playing ourselves at the
door of the house, and all was still, the men-at-arms reposing, as
we deemed, after their march.  Then suddenly the Maid ran forth to
us, her face white and her eyes shining, and cried to Louis de
Coutes, in great anger -

"Wretched boy, the blood of France is being shed, and you told me no
word of it!"

"Demoiselle," said he, trembling, "I wotted not of it.  What mean
you?"

And I also stood in amaze, for we had heard no sound of arms.

"Go, fetch my horse," she said, and was gone.

I went with him, and we saddled and bridled a fresh courser
speedily; but when we reached the door, she stood there already
armed, and sprang on the horse, crying for her banner, that De
Coutes gave her out of the upper window.  Then her spurs were in her
horse's side, and the sparks flying from beneath his hoofs, as she
galloped towards St. Loup, the English fort on the Burgundy road.
Thither we followed her, with what speed we might, yet over tardily;
and when we came through crowds of people, many bearing the wounded
on litters, there was she, under the wall of that fort, in a rain of
arrows, holding up her banner, and crying on the French and Scots to
the charge.  They answered with a cry, and went on, De Coutes and I
pressing forward to be with them; but ere ever we could gain the
fosse, the English had been overwhelmed, and, for the more part,
slain.  For, as we found, the French captains had commanded an
attack on St. Loup, and had told the Maid no word of it, whether as
desiring to win honour without her, or to spare her from the peril
of the onslaught, I know not.  But their men were giving ground,
when by the monition of the saints, as I have shown, she came to
them and turned the fray.

Of the English, as I said, most were slain, natheless certain men in
priests' raiment came forth from the Church of St. Loup, and very
humbly begged their lives of the Maid, who, turning to D'Aulon, her
esquire, bade him, with De Coutes and me, and such men as we could
gather, to have charge of them and be answerable for them.

So, while the French were plundering, we mustered these priests
orderly together, they trembling and telling their beads, and we
stood before them for their guard.  False priests, I doubt, many of
them were, Englishmen who had hastily done on such holy robes as
they found in the church of St Loup.  Now Louis de Coutes, being but
a boy, and of a mad humour, cried -

"'Cucullus non facit monachum!' Good sirs, let us see your reverend
tonsures."

With that he twitched the hood from the head of a tall cordelier,
who, without more ado, felled him to the earth with his fist.

The hood was off but for a flash of time, yet I saw well the shining
wolf's eyes and the long dark face of Brother Thomas.  So, in the
pictures of the romance of Renard Fox, have I seen Isengrim the wolf
in the friar's hood.

"Felon and traitor!" I cried, and drawing my sword, was about to run
him through the body, when my hand was stunned by a stroke, and the
sword dropped from it.  I turned, in great anger, and saw the Maid,
her sword in her hand, wherewith she had smitten me flatlings, and
not with the edge.

"Knave of a Scot," she cried, "wouldst thou strike a holy man and my
prisoner?  Verily they say well that the Scots are all savages.
Begone home, till I speak with the captains about thy case!  And for
these holy men," she said to D'Aulon, in a soft voice, "see that
they are safely housed and ministered to in the Church of
Monseigneur St. Aignan."

With that I shrank back like a beaten hound, and saw the Maid no
more that night, as fearing her wrath.  So was I adread and out of
all comfort.  But, when first I might, I sought D'Aulon and told him
all the tale of Brother Thomas, and all the evil I knew of him, as
well as I could, and I showed him wherefore I had sought to slay the
man, as forsworn and a traitor, who had manifestly fled to the
English, being by his doggish nature the enemy of the Maid.  I so
wrought with him, though he was weary, and would scarce listen to my
tale, that he promised to speak for me to the Maid, without whom I
was a man lost.  Moreover, he swore that, as early as might be, he
would visit the Church of St. Aignan, and there examine into the
matter of this cordelier, whom some knew, and could testify against,
if he was my man.

No more could I do that night, but next morning D'Aulon awoke me a
little after dawn.

"It is a true tale," he said, "and worse than I deemed, for your
bird has flown!  Last night he so spoke with me in the church when I
lodged him there, that I reckoned him a simple man and a pious.  But
he has vanished from among his brethren, none knows how or whither."

"The devil, his master, knows," I said.  "Faith, he has a shrewd
care of his own.  But this, I misdoubt me, is the beginning of evil
to us and to the Maid."

"A knave more or less is of little count in the world," said he;
"but now I must make your peace with the Maid, for she speaks of no
less than sending you forth from her household."

His promise he kept so well--for he was a very honourable man, as
any in France--that the Maid sent for me and showed me the best
countenance, even begging my pardon with all sweetness, and in so
fair a manner that I could have wept.

"It was my first blow in war," she said, smiling kindly, as was her
manner, "and I hope to strike no more as with my own hand, wherefore
I carry my banner to avoid the slaying of men.  But verily I deemed
that you were about stabbing my prisoner, and him a priest.  Belike
we shall hear no more of him, and I misdoubt that he is no true son
of Holy Church.  To-day let me see you bear yourself as boldly
against armed men, that I may report well of you to your lady and my
friend."

Therewith she held out her hands and took mine, as frankly as does
one brother in arms with another.  And I kissed her hand, and kept
my tears in my own heart.  But no deadlier blow for France and for
herself was ever dealt than when the Maid struck down my sword, that
was thirsting for the blood of Brother Thomas, and was within an
inch of his throat.  Often have I marvelled how the saints, who, as
then, guarded her, gave her no warning, as they did of the onslaught
on St. Loup; but it might not be, or it was not their will, to which
we must humbly submit ourselves.  And now I think I see that wolf's
face, under the hood, with anger and fear in the ominous eyes.  In
the Church of St. Loup we found him, and he was a wolf of the holy
places.  None the less, the words of the Maid brought more keenly to
my mind the thought of Elliot, whom in these crowded hours, between
my sorrow and anger, and fear of the Maid's wrath, I had to some
degree forgotten.  They were now ordering an onslaught on a post of
the English beyond the river, and there came into my heart that
verse of the "Book of a Hundred Ballades":  how a lover must press
into breach, and mine, and escalade to win advancement and his
lady's favour; and I swore within myself that to-day I would be
among the foremost.



CHAPTER XIII--OF THE FIGHTING AT LES AUGUSTINS AND THE PROPHECY OF
THE MAID



Just above the broken bridge of Orleans there is a broad island,
lying very near the opposite shore, with a narrow, swift passage of
water between bank and island.  Some two furlongs higher up the
river, and on the further bank, the English had built a small fort,
named St. Jean le Blanc, to guard the road, and thither they sent
men from Les Augustins.  The plan of our captains was to cross by
boats on to the island, and thence by a bridge of planks laid on
boats to win over the narrow channel, and so make an onslaught on
St. Jean le Blanc.  For this onslaught the Maid had now been armed
by her women, and with all her company, and many knights, was making
ready to cross.  But before she, or we with her, could attain the
shore, horses being ill beasts in a boat ferry, the light-armed
townsfolk had crossed over against St. Jean le Blanc to spy on it,
and had found the keep empty, for the English had drawn back their
men to the Bastille of Les Augustins.

Thus there was no more to do, for the captains deemed not that we
were of any avail to attack Les Augustins.  They were retreating
then to the bridge of boats, and Messires de Gaucourt, De Villars,
and other good knights were guarding the retreat, all orderly, lest
the English might sally out from Les Augustins, and, taking us in
the rear, might slay many in the confusion of crossing the boat-
bridge, when the Maid and La Hire, by great dint of toil, passed
their horses in a ferry-boat on to the further bank.  At this moment
the English sallied forth, with loud cries, from Les Augustins, and
were falling on our men, who, fearing to be cut off, began to flee
disorderly, while the English called out ill words, as "cowards" and
"ribaulds," and were blaspheming God that He should damn all
Frenchmen.

Hereon the Maid, with her banner, and La Hire, with lance in rest,
they two alone, spurred into the press, and now her banner was
tossing like the flag of a ship in the breakers, and methought there
was great jeopardy lest they should be taken.  But the other French
and Scots, perceiving the banner in such a peril, turned again from
their flight, and men who once turn back to blows again are ill to
deal with.  Striking, then, and crying, Montjoie! St. Denis! and St.
Andrew for Scotland! they made the English give ground, till they
were within the palisade of Les Augustins, where they deemed them
safe enough.  Now I had struggled through the throng on the island,
some flying, some advancing, as each man's heart bade him, till I
leaped into the water up to my waist and won the land.  There I was
running to the front of the fight when D'Aulon would have stopped
me, for he had a command to hold a certain narrow way, lest the
English should drive us to the water again.

All this was rightly done, but I, hearing the cry of St. Andrew, was
as one possessed, and paying no heed to D'Aulon, was for thrusting
me forward, when a certain Spaniard, Alphonse de Partada, caught me
by the arm, and told me, with an oath, that I might well bide where
better men than I were content to be.  At this I made answer that my
place was with the Maid, and, as for better men, bigger he might
well be, but I, for one, was not content to look on idly where blows
were being dealt.  He answered in such terms that I bade him follow
me, and see which of us would fare furthest into the press.

"And for that you may be swifter of foot than I, as you have longer
legs," I cried, "clasp hands on this bargain, and let us reach the
palisades with the same step."

To this he agreed, and D'Aulon not refusing permission (for he loved
to look on a vaillance), we, clasping hands, ran together swiftly,
and struck our swords in the same moment against the wooden fence.
A little opening there was, not yet closed, or he that kept it
deemed he might win more honour by holding it with his body.  He was
a great knight and tall, well armed, the red cross of St. George on
his breast, and he fought with a mighty sword.  Together, then, we
made at him, two to one, as needs must be, for this was no gentle
passage of arms, but open battle.  One sweep of his sword I made
shift to avoid, but the next lighting on my salade, drove me
staggering back for more yards than two or three, and I reeled and
fell on my hands.  When I rose, Alphonse de Partada was falling
beneath a sword-stroke, and I was for running forward again; but lo!
the great English knight leaped in the air, and so, turning, fell on
his face, his hands grasping at the ground and his feet kicking.

Later I heard from D'Aulon that he had bidden John the Lorrainer
mark the man with his couleuvrine, for that he did overmuch
mischief.  But, thinking of nought save to be foremost in the
breach, I ran in, stumbling over the dead man's body, and shouldered
at the same time by Alphonse, who warded off a stab of a pike that
was dealt at me.  Then it was a fair mellay, our men pressing after
us through the gap, and driving us forward by mere weight of onset,
they coming with all speed against our enemies that ran together
from all parts of the keep, and so left bare the further wall.  It
was body to body, weight against weight, short strokes at close
quarters, and, over our heads, bills striking and foining at the
English.  Each man smote where he could; we wavered and swayed, now
off our feet in the press, now making some yard of ground, and evil
was the smell and thick the dust that arose.  Meanwhile came the
sound of the riving of planks from the other side of the palisade;
above the steel points and the dust I saw the Maid's pennon
advancing with the face of my lady painted thereon, and I pressed
towards it, crying "St. Andrew" with such breath as was in me.  Then
rang out the Maid's voice, like a clarion, "St. Denis!" and so,
stroke echoing stroke, and daggers going at close quarters, beaten
on and blinded, deaf and breathless, now up, now down, we staggered
forward, till I and the Maid stood side by side, and the English
broke, some falling, some flying to the out-gate.

And, when all was done, there was I, knowing little enough of what
had come and gone, dazed, with my sword bloody and bent, my head
humming, and my foot on the breast of an English knight, one Robert
Heron.  Him I took to prisoner, rescue or no rescue, and so sat we
down, very weary, in the midst of blood and broken arms, for many
had been slain and a few taken, though the more part had fled into
the boulevard of Les Tourelles.  And here, with a joyous face, and
the vizor of her helm raised, stood the Maid, her sword sheathed,
waving her banner in the sight of the English that were on the
bridge fort.

Natheless, her joy was but for a moment, and soon was she seated
lowly on the ground, holding in her arms the head of an English
knight, sore wounded, for whom her confessor, Father Pasquerel, was
doing the offices of religion.  Tears were running down her cheeks,
even as if he had been one of her own people; and so, comforting and
helping the wounded as she might, she abode till the darkness came,
and the captains had made shift to repair the fortress and had set
guards all orderly.  And all the river was dark with boats coming
and going, their lanterns glittering on the stream, and they were
laden with food and munitions of war.  In one of these boats did the
Maid cross the river, taking with her us of her company, and
speaking to me, above others, in the most gracious manner, for that
I had been the first, with that Spanish gentleman, to pass within
the English palisade.  And now my heart was light, though my flesh
was very weary, for that I had done my devoir, and taken the
firstfruits of Elliot's wedding portion.  No heavy ransom I put on
that knight, Sir Robert Heron, and it was honourably paid in no long
time, though he ill liked yielding him to one that had not gained
his spurs.  But it was fortune of war.  So, half in a dream, we
reached our house, and there was the greatest concourse of townsfolk
clamouring in the praise of the Maid, who showed herself to them
from the window, and promised that to-morrow they should take Les
Tourelles.  That night was Friday, yet, so worn were we all that the
Maid bade us sup, and herself took some meat and a little wine in
her water, though commonly she fasted on Friday.  And now we were
about to boun us for bed, and the Maid had risen, and was standing
with her arms passed about the neck of the daughter of the house, a
fair lass and merry, called Charlotte Boucher, who always lay with
her (for she had great joy to be with girls of her own age), when
there came the sound of a dagger-hilt beating at the door.  We
opened, and there stood a tall knight, who louted low to the Maid,
cap in hand, and she bade him drink to the taking of Les Tourelles
that should be to-morrow.

But he, with the flagon full in his hands, and withal a thirsty look
upon his face, shook his head.

"To another pledge, Maiden, I will gladly drink, namely, to the
bravest damsel under the sky."

And therewith he drank deep.

"But now I am sent from Gaucourt, and the Bastard, for all the
captains are in counsel again.  And they bid me tell you that enough
hath been done, and they are right well content.  But we are few
against so great a host, in a place so strong that men may not avail
to master it by main force.  The city is now well seen in all manner
of victual; moreover, we can now come and go by Sologne and the left
bank.  The skill is therefore to hold the city till the English wax
weary and depart, or till we have succour anew from the King.
Therefore to-morrow the men-at-arms shall take rest, having great
need thereof; and therefore, gentle Maid, pardon me that I drank not
to the pledge which a lady called."

Then he drained the flagon.

The Maid, holding the girl Charlotte yet closer to her, smote her
right hand on the table, so that it dirled, and the cups and dishes
leaped.

"You have been with your counsel," she cried, "and I have been with
mine!  The counsel of Messire will stand fast and prevail, and yours
shall perish, for it is of men.  Go back, and bear my words to the
captains," quoth she; and then, turning to us, who looked on her in
amazement, she said -

"Do ye all rise right early, and more than ye have done to-day shall
ye do.  Keep ever close by me in the mellay, for to-morrow I shall
have much to do, and more than ever yet I did.  And to-morrow shall
my blood leap from my body, above my breast, for an arrow shall
smite here!" and she struck the place with her hand.

Thereon the knight, seeing that she was not to be moved, made his
obeisance, and went back to them that sent him, and all we lay down
to sleep while we might.

These words of the Maid I, Norman Leslie, heard, and bear record
that they are true.



CHAPTER XIV--OF THE FIGHTING AT THE BRIDGE, AND OF THE PRIZE WON BY
NORMAN LESLIE FROM THE RIVER



On that night I slept soft, and woke oft, being utterly foredone.
In the grey dawn I awoke, and gave a little cough, when, lo! there
came a hot sweet gush into my mouth, and going to the window, I saw
that I was spitting of blood, belike from my old wound.  It is a
strange thing that, therewith, a sickness came over me, and a cold
fit as of fear, though fear I had felt none where men met in heat of
arms.  None the less, seeing that to-day, or never, I was to be made
or marred, I spoke of the matter neither to man nor woman, but
drinking a long draught of very cold water, I spat some deal more,
and then it stanched, and I armed me and sat down on my bed.

My thoughts, as I waited for the first stir in the house, were not
glad.  Birds were singing in the garden trees; all else was quiet,
as if men were not waking to slay each other and pass unconfessed to
their account.  There came on me a great sickness of war.  Yesterday
the boulevard of Les Augustins, when the fight was over, had been a
shambles; white bodies that had been stripped of their armour lay
here and there like sheep on a hillside, and were now smirched with
dust, a thing unseemly.  I put it to myself that I was engaged, if
ever man was, in a righteous quarrel, fighting against cruel
oppression; and I was under the protection of one sent, as I verily
believed, by Heaven.

But blood runs tardy in the cold dawn; my thoughts were chilled, and
I deemed, to speak sooth, that I carried my death within me, from my
old wound, and, even if unhurt, could scarce escape out of that
day's labour and live.  I said farewell to life and the sun, in my
own mind, and to Elliot, thinking of whom, with what tenderness she
had nursed me, and of her mirth and pitiful heart, I could scarce
forbear from weeping.  Of my brother also I thought, and in death it
seemed to me that we could scarcely be divided.  Then my thought
went back to old days of childhood at Pitcullo, old wanderings by
Eden banks, old kindness and old quarrels, and I seemed to see a
vision of a great tree, growing alone out of a little mound, by my
father's door, where Robin and I would play "Willie Wastle in his
castle," for that was our first manner of holding a siege.  A man-
at-arms has little to make with such fancies, and well I wot that
Randal Rutherford troubled himself therewith in no manner.  But now
there came an iron footstep on the stairs, and the Maid's voice rang
clear, and presently there arose the sound of hammers on rivets, and
all the din of men saddling horses and sharpening swords, so I went
forth to join my company.

Stiff and sore was I, and felt as if I could scarce raise my sword-
arm; but the sight of the Maid, all gleaming in her harness, and
clear of voice, and swift of deed, like St. Michael when he
marshalled his angels against the enemies of heaven, drove my
brooding thoughts clean out of mind.  The sun shone yellow and
slanting down the streets; out of the shadow of the minster came the
bells, ringing for war.  The armed townsfolk thronged the ways, and
one man, old and ill-clad, brought to the Maid a great fish which he
had caught overnight in the Loire.  Our host prayed her to wait till
it should be cooked, that she might breakfast well, for she had much
to do.  Yet she, who scarce seemed to live by earthly meat, but by
the will of God, took only a sop of bread dipped in wine, and gaily
leaping to her selle and gathering the reins, as a lady bound for a
hunting where no fear was, she cried, "Keep the fish for supper,
when I will bring back a goddon {25} prisoner to eat his part.  And
to-night, gentle sir, my host, I will return by the bridge!"--which,
as we deemed, might in no manner be, for an arch of the bridge was
broken.  Thereon we all mounted, and rode down to the Burgundy gate,
the women watching us, and casting flowers before the Maiden.  But
when we won the gate, behold, it was locked, and two ranks of men-
at-arms, with lances levelled, wearing the colours of the Sieur de
Gaucourt, were drawn up before it.  That lord himself, in harness,
but bare-headed, stood before his men, and cried, "Hereby is no
passage.  To-day the captains give command that no force stir from
the town."

"To-day," quoth the Maid, "shall we take Les Tourelles, and to-
morrow not a goddon, save prisoners and slain men, shall be within
three leagues of Orleans.  Gentle sir, bid open the gate, for to-day
have I work to do."

Thereat Gaucourt shook his head, and from the multitude of townsfolk
rose one great angry shout.  They would burn the gate, they cried;
they would fire the town, but they would follow the Maid and the
guidance of the saints.

Thereon stones began to fly, and arbalests were bended, till the
Maid turned, and, facing the throng, her banner lifted as in anger -

"Back, my good friends and people of Orleans," she said, "back and
open the postern door in the great tower on the river wall.  By one
way or another shall I meet the English this day, nor shall might of
man prevent me."

Then many ran back, and soon came the cry that the postern was
opened, and thither streamed the throng.  Therefore Gaucourt saw
well that an onslaught would verily be made; moreover, as a man wise
in war, he knew that the townsfolk, that day, would be hard to hold,
and would go far.  So he even yielded, not ungraciously, and sending
a messenger to the Bastard and the captains, he rode forth from the
Burgundy Gate by the side of the Maid.  He was, indeed, little
minded to miss his part of the honour; nor were the other captains
more backward, for scarce had we taken boat and reached the farther
bank, when we saw the banners of the Bastard and La Hire, Florent
d'Illiers and Xaintrailles, Chambers and Kennedy, above the heads of
the armed men who streamed forth by the gate of Burgundy.  Less
orderly was no fight ever begun, but the saints were of our party.
It was the wise manner of the Maid to strike swift, blow upon blow,
each stroke finding less resistance among the enemy, that had been
used to a laggard war, for then it was the manner of captains to
dally for weeks or months round a town, castle, or other keep, and
the skill was to starve the enemy.  But the manner of the Maid was
ever to send cloud upon cloud of men to make escalade by ladders,
their comrades aiding them from under cover with fire of
couleuvrines and bows.  Even so fought that famed Knight of
Brittany, Sir Bertrand du Guesclin.  But he was long dead, and
whether the Maid (who honoured his memory greatly) fought as she did
through his example, or by direct teaching of the saints, I know
not.

If disorderly we began, the fault was soon amended; they who had
beleaguered the boulevard all night were set in the rear, to rest
out of shot; the fresh men were arrayed under their banners, in
vineyards and under the walls of fields, so that if one company was
driven back another was ready to come on, that the English might
have no repose from battle.

Now, the manner of the boulevard was this:  first, there was a
strong palisade, and many men mustered within it; then came a wide,
deep, dry fosse; then a strong wall of earth, bound in with withes
and palisaded, and within it the gate of the boulevard.  When that
was won, and the boulevard taken, men defending it might flee across
a drawbridge, over a stream, narrow and deep and swift, into Les
Tourelles itself.  Here they were safe from them on the side of
Orleans, by reason of the broken arch of the bridge.  So strong was
this tower, that Monseigneur the Duc d'Alencon, visiting it later,
said he could have staked his duchy on his skill to hold it for a
week at least, with but few men, against all the forces in France.
The captain of the English was that Glasdale who had reviled the
Maid, and concerning whom she had prophesied that he should die
without stroke of sword.  There was no fiercer squire in England,
and his men were like himself, being picked and chosen for that
post; moreover their backs were at the wall, for the French and
Scots once within the boulevard, it was in nowise easy for Talbot to
bring the English a rescue, as was seen.

The battle began with shooting of couleuvrines at the palisade, to
weaken it, and it was marvel to see how the Maid herself laid the
guns, as cunningly as her own countryman, the famed Lorrainer.  Now,
when there was a breach in the palisade, Xaintrailles led on his
company, splendid in armour, for he was a very brave young knight.
We saw the pales fall with a crash, and the men go in, and heard the
cry of battle; but slowly, one by one, they staggered back, some
falling, some reeling wounded, and rolling their bodies out of
arrow-shot.  And there, in the breach, shone the back-plate of
Xaintrailles, his axe falling and rising, and not one foot he
budged, till the men of La Hire, with a cry, broke in to back him,
and after a little space, swords fell and rose no more, but we saw
the banners waving of Xaintrailles and La Hire.  Soon the side of
the palisade towards us was all down, as if one had swept it flat
with his hand, but there stood the earthen wall of the boulevard,
beyond the fosse.  Then, all orderly, marched forth a band of men in
the colours of Florent d'Illiers, bearing scaling-ladders, and so
began the escalade, their friends backing them by shooting of
arbalests from behind the remnant of the palisade.  A ladder would
be set against the wall, and we could see men with shields, or
doors, or squares of wood on their heads to fend off stones, swarm
up it, and axes flashing on the crest of the wall, and arrows
flying, and smoke of guns:  but the smoke cleared, and lo! the
ladder was gone, and the three libbards grinned on the flag of
England.  So went the war, company after company staggering thinned
from the fosse, and re-forming behind the cover of the vineyards;
company after company marching forth, fresh and glorious, to fare as
their friends had fared.  And ever, with each company, went the Maid
at their head, and D'Aulon, she crying that the place was theirs and
now was the hour!  But the day went by, till the sun turned in
heaven towards evening, and no more was done.  The English, in
sooth, showed no fear nor faint heart; with axe, and sword, and
mace, and with their very hands they smote and grappled with the
climbers, and I saw a tall man, his sword being broken, strike down
a French knight with his mailed fist, and drag another from a ladder
and take him captive.  Boldly they showed themselves on the crest,
running all risk of our arrows, as our men did of theirs.

Now came the Scots, under Kennedy.  A gallant sight it was to see
them advance, shoulder to shoulder--Scots of the Marches and the
Lennox, Fife, Argyll, and the Isles, all gentlemen born.

"Come on!" cried Randal Rutherford.  "Come on, men of the Marches,
Scots of the Forest, Elliots, Rutherfords, Armstrongs, and deem
that, wheresoever a Southron slinks behind a stone, there is
Carlisle wall!"

The Rough Clan roared "Bellenden!" the Buchanans cried "Clare
Innis," a rag of a hairy Highlander from the Lennox blew a wild
skirl on the war-pipes, and hearing the Border slogan shouted in a
strange country, nom Dieu! my blood burned, as that of any Scotsman
would.  Contrary to the Maid's desire, for she had noted that I was
wan and weary, and had commanded me to bide in cover, I cried "A
Leslie! a Leslie!" and went forward with my own folk, sword in hand
and buckler lifted.

Beside good Randal Rutherford I ran, and we both leaped together
into the ditch.  There was a forest of ladders set against the wall,
and I had my foot on a rung, when the Maid ran up and cried, "Nom
Dieu! what make you here?  Let me lead my Scots"; and so, pennon and
axe in her left hand, she lightly leaped on the ladder, and arrows
ringing on her mail, and a great stone glancing harmless from her
salade, she so climbed that my lady's face on the pennon above her
looked down into the English keep.

But, even then, I saw a face at an archere, an ill face and fell,
the wolf's eyes of Brother Thomas glancing along the stock of an
arbalest.

"Gardez-vous, Pucelle, gardez-vous!" I cried in her ear, for I was
next her on the ladder; but a bolt whistled and smote her full, and
reeling, she fell into my arms.

I turned my back to guard her, and felt a bolt strike my back-piece;
then we were in the fosse, and all the Scots that might be were
between her and harm.  Swiftly they bore her out of the fray, into a
little green vineyard, where was a soft grassy ditch.  But the
English so cried their hurrah, that it was marvel, and our men gave
back in fear; and had not the Bastard come up with a fresh company,
verify we might well have been swept into the Loire.

Some while I remained with Rutherford, Kennedy, and many others, for
what could we avail to help the Maid? and to run has an ill look,
and gives great heart to an enemy.  Moreover, that saying of the
Maid came into my mind, that she should be smitten of a bolt, but
not unto death.  So I even abode by the fosse, and having found an
arbalest, my desire was to win a chance of slaying Brother Thomas,
wherefore I kept my eyes on that archere whence he had shot.  But no
arbalest was pointed thence, and the fight flagged.  On both sides
men were weary, and they took some meat as they might, no ladders
being now set on the wall.

Then I deemed it no harm to slip back to the vineyard where the Maid
lay, and there I met the good Father Pasquerel, that was her
confessor.  He told me that now she was quiet, either praying or
asleep, for he had left her as still as a babe in its cradle, her
page watching her.  The bolt had sped by a rivet of her breast-
piece, clean through her breast hard below the shoulder, and it
stood a hand-breadth out beyond.  Then she had wept and trembled,
seeing her own blood; but presently, with such might and courage as
was marvel, she had dragged out the bolt with her own hands.  Then
they had laid on the wound cotton steeped with olive oil, for she
would not abide that they should steep the bolt with weapon salve
and charm the hurt with a song, as the soldiers desired.  Then she
had confessed herself to Pasquerel, and so had lain down among the
grass and the flowers.  But it was Pasquerel's desire to let ferry
her across secretly to Orleans.  This was an ill hearing for me, yet
it was put about in the army that the Maid had but taken a slight
scratch, and again would lead us on, a thing which I well deemed to
be impossible.  So the day waxed late, and few onslaughts were made,
and these with no great heart, the English standing on the walls and
openly mocking us.

They asked how it went with the Maid, and whether she would not fain
be at home among her kine, or in the greasy kitchen?  We would cry
back, and for my own part I bade them seek the kitchen as pock-
puddings and belly-gods, and that I cried in their own tongue, while
they, to my great amaze, called me "prentice boy" and "jackanapes."
Herein I saw the craft and devilish enmity of Brother Thomas, and
well I guessed that he had gotten sight of me; but his face I saw
not.

Ill names break no bones, and arrows from under cover wrought slight
scathe; so one last charge the Bastard commanded, and led himself,
and a sore tussle there was that time on the wall-crest, one or two
of our men leaping into the fort, whence they came back no more.

Now it was eight hours of the evening, the sky grey, the men out-
worn and out of all heart, and the captains were gathered in
council.  Of this I conceived the worst hope, for after a counsel
men seldom fight.  So I watched the fort right sullenly, and the
town of Orleans looking black against a red, lowering sky in the
west.  Some concourse of townsfolk I saw on the bridge, beside the
broken arch, and by the Boulevard Belle Croix; but I deemed that
they had only come to see the fray as near as might be.  Others were
busy under the river wall with a great black boat, belike to ferry
over the horses from our side.

All seemed ended, and I misdoubted that we would scarce charge again
so briskly in the morning, nay, we might well have to guard our own
gates.

As I sat thus, pondering by the vineyard ditch, the Maid stood by me
suddenly.  Her helmet was off, her face deadly white, her eyes like
two stars.

"Bring me my horse," she said, so sternly that I crushed the answer
on my lips, and the prayer that she would risk herself no more.

Her horse, that had been cropping the grass near him happily enough,
I found, and brought to her, and so, with some ado, she mounted and
rode at a foot's pace to the little crowd of captains.

"Maiden, ma mie," said the Bastard.  "Glad I am to see you able to
mount.  We have taken counsel to withdraw for this night.  Martin,"
he said to his trumpeter, "sound the recall."

"I pray you, sir," she said very humbly, "grant me but a little
while"; and so saying, she withdrew alone from the throng of men
into the vineyard.

What passed therein I know not and no man knows; but in a quarter of
an hour's space she came forth, like another woman, her face bright
and smiling, her cheeks like the dawn, and so beautiful that we
marvelled on her with reverence, as if we had seen an angel.

"The place is ours!" she cried again, and spurred towards the fosse.
Thence her banner had never gone back, for D'Aulon held it there, to
be a terror to the English.  Even at that moment he had given it to
a certain Basque, a very brave man, for he himself was out-worn with
its weight.  And he had challenged the Basque to do a vaillance, or
boastful deed of arms, as yesterday I and the Spaniard had done.  So
D'Aulon leaped into the fosse, his shield up, defying the English;
but the Basque did not follow, for the Maid, seeing her banner in
the hands of a man whom she knew not, laid hold of it, crying, "Ha,
mon estandart! mon estandart!"

There, as they struggled for it, the Basque being minded to follow
D'Aulon to the wall foot, the banner wildly waved, and all men saw
it, and rallied, and flocked amain to the rescue.

"Charge!" cried the Maid.  "Forward, French and Scots; the place is
yours, when once my banner fringe touches the wall!"

With that word the wind blew out the banner fringe, and so suddenly
that, though I saw the matter, I scarce knew how it was done, the
whole host swarmed up and on, ladders, lifted, and so furiously went
they, that they won the wall crest and leaped within the fort.  Then
the more part of the English, adread, as I think, at the sight of
the Maid whom they had deemed slain, fled madly over the drawbridge
into Les Tourelles.

Then standing on the wall crest, whither I had climbed, I beheld
strange sights.  First, through the dimness of the dusk, I saw a man
armed, walking as does a rope-dancer, balancing himself with his
spear, across the empty air, for so it seemed, above the broken arch
of the bridge.  This appeared, in very sooth, to be a miracle; but,
gazing longer, I saw that a great beam had been laid by them of
Orleans to span the gap, and now other beams were being set, and
many men, bearing torches, were following that good knight, Nicole
Giresme, who first showed the way over such a bridge of dread.  So
now were the English in Les Tourelles between two fires.

Another strange sight I saw, for in that swift and narrow stream
which the drawbridge spanned whereby the English fled was moored a
great black barge, its stem and stern showing on either side of the
bridge.  Boats were being swiftly pulled forth from it into the
stream, and as I gazed, there leaped up through the dark one long
tongue of fire.  Then I saw the skill of it, namely, to burn down
the drawbridge, and so cut the English off from all succour.  Fed
with pitch and pine the flame soared lustily, and now it shone
between the planks of the drawbridge.  On the stone platform of the
boulevard, wherein the drawbridge was laid, stood a few English, and
above them shone the axe of a tall squire, Glasdale, as it fell on
shield and helm of the French.  Others held us at bay with long
lances, and never saw I any knight do his devoir more fiercely than
he who had reviled the Maid.  For on his head lay all the blame of
the taking of the boulevard.  To rear of him rang the shouts of them
of Orleans, who had crossed the broken arch by the beam; but he
never turned about, and our men reeled back before him.  Then there
shone behind him the flames from the blazing barge; and so, black
against that blaze, he smote and slew, not knowing that the
drawbridge began to burn.

On this the Maid ran forth, and cried to him -

"Rends-toi, rends-toi!  Yield thee, Glacidas; yield thee, for I
stand in much sorrow for thy soul's sake."

Then, falling on her knees, her face shining transfigured in that
fierce light, she prayed him thus -

"Ah! Glacidas, thou didst call me ribaulde, but I have sorrow for
thy soul.  Ah! yield thee, yield thee to ransom"; and the tears ran
down her cheeks, as if a saint were praying for a soul in peril.

Not one word spoke Glasdale:  he neither saw nor heard.  But the
levelled spears at his side flew up, a flame caught his crest,
making a plume of fire, and with a curse he cast his axe among the
throng, and the man who stood in front of it got his death.
Glasdale turned about as he threw; he leaped upon the burning
drawbridge, where the last of his men were huddled in flight, and
lo! beneath his feet it crashed; down he plunged through smoke and
flame, and the stream below surged up as bridge and flying men went
under in one ruin.

The Maid gave a cry that rang above the roar of fire and water.

"Saints! will no man save him?" she shrieked, looking all around her
on the faces of the French.

A mad thought leaped up in my mind.

"Unharness me!" I cried; and one who stood by me undid the clasps of
my light jaseran.  I saw a head unhelmeted, I saw a hand that
clutched at a floating beam.  I thought of the Maid's desire, and of
the ransom of so great a squire as Glasdale, and then I threw my
hands up to dive, and leaped head foremost into the water.

Deep down I plunged, and swam far under water, to avoid a stroke
from floating timber, and then I rose and glanced up-stream.  All
the air was fiercely lit with the blaze of the burning barge; a hand
and arm would rise, and fall ere I could seize it.  A hand was
thrown up before me, the glinting fingers gripping at empty air.  I
caught the hand, swimming strongly with the current, for so the man
could not clutch at me, and if a drowning man can be held apart, it
is no great skill to save him.  In this art I was not unlearned, and
once had even saved two men from a wrecked barque in the long surf
of St. Andrews Bay.  Save for a blow from some great floating
timber, I deemed that I had little to fear; nay, now I felt sure of
the Maid's praise and of a rich ransom.

A horn of bank with alder bushes ran out into the stream, a smooth
eddy or backwater curling within.  I caught a bough of alder, and,
though nigh carried down by the drowning man's weight, I found
bottom, yet hardly, and drew my man within the back-water.  He lay
like a log, his face in the stream.  Pushing him before me, I
rounded the horn, and, with much ado, dragged him up to a sloping
gravelly beach, where I got his head on dry land, his legs being
still in the water.  I turned him over and looked eagerly.  Lo! it
was no Glasdale, but the drowned face of Brother Thomas!

Then something seemed to break in my breast; blood gushed from my
mouth, and I fell on the sand and gravel.  Footsteps I heard of men
running to us.  I lifted my hand faintly and waved it, and then I
felt a hand on my face.



CHAPTER XV--HOW NORMAN LESLIE WAS ABSOLVED BY BROTHER THOMAS



Certain Scots that found me, weak and bleeding, by the riverside,
were sent by the Maid, in hopes that I had saved Glasdale, whereas
it was the accursed cordelier I had won from the water.  What they
did with him I knew not then, but me they laid on a litter, and so
bore me to a boat, wherein they were ferrying our wounded men across
to Orleans.  The Maid herself, as she had foretold, returned by way
of the bridge, that was all bright with moving torches, as our
groaning company were rowed across the black water to a quay.
Thence I was carried in a litter to our lodgings, and so got to bed,
a physician doing what he might for me.  A noisy night we passed,
for I verily believe that no man slept, but all, after service held
in the Church of St. Aignan, went revelling and drinking from house
to house, and singing through the streets, as folk saved from utter
destruction.

With daybreak fell a short silence; short or long, it seemed brief
to me, who was now asleep at last, and I was rueful enough when a
sound aroused me, and I found the Maid herself standing by my
bedside, with one in the shadow behind her.  The chamber was all
darkling, lit only by a thread of light that came through the closed
shutters of wood, and fell on her pale face.  She was clad in a
light jaseran of mail, because of her wound, and was plainly eager
to be gone and about her business, that is, to meet the English in
open field.

"Leslie, my friend," she said, in her sweet voice, "there were many
brave men in the fight yesterday, but, in God's name, none did a
braver deed than thou!  Nay, speak not," she said, as I opened my
lips to thank her, "for the leech that tended thee last night
forbids it, on peril of thy very life.  So I have brought thee here
a sheet of fair paper, and a pen and horn of ink, that thou, being a
clerk, mayst write what thou hast to say.  Alas! such converse is
not for me, who know not A from his brother B.  But the saints who
helped thee have rewarded thee beyond all expectation.  Thou didst
not save that unhappy Glacidas, whom God in His mercy forgive! but
thou hast taken a goodlier prize--this holy man, that had been
prisoner in the hands of the English."

Here she stood a little aside, and the thread of light shone on the
fell face of Brother Thomas, lowering beneath his hood.

Then I would have spoken, leech or no leech, to denounce him, for
the Maid had no memory of his face, and knew him not for the false
friar taken at St. Loup.  But she laid her mailed finger gently on
my lips.

"Silence!  Thou art my man-at-arms and must obey thy captain.  This
worthy friar hath been long in the holy company of the blessed
Colette, and hath promised to bring me acquainted with that daughter
of God.  Ay, and he hath given to me, unworthy as I am, a kerchief
which has touched her wonder-working hands.  Almost I believe that
it will heal thee by miracle, if the saints are pleased to grant
it."

Herewith she drew a kerchief across my lips, and I began, being most
eager to instruct her innocence as to this accursed man -

"Lady--" but alas! no miracle was wrought for a sinner like me.
Howbeit I am inclined to believe that the kerchief was no saintly
thing, and had never come near the body of the blessed Colette, but
rather was a gift from one of the cordelier's light-o'-loves.
Assuredly it was stained red with blood from my lungs ere I could
utter two words.

The Maid stanched the blood, saying -

"Did I not bid thee to be silent?  The saints forgive my lack of
faith, whereby this blessed thing has failed to heal thee!  And now
I must be gone, to face the English in the field, if they dare to
meet us, which, methinks, they will not do, but rather withdraw as
speedily as they may.  So now I leave thee with this holy man to be
thy nurse-tender, and thou canst write to him concerning thy needs,
for doubtless he is a clerk.  Farewell!"

With that she was gone, and this was the last I saw of her for many
a day.

Never have I known such a horror of fear as fell on me now, helpless
and dumb, a sheep given over to the slaughter, in that dark chamber,
which was wondrous lown, {26} alone with my deadly foe.

Never had any man more cause for dread, for I was weak, and to
resist him was death.  I was speechless, and could utter no voice
that the people in the house might hear.  As for mine enemy, he had
always loathed and scorned me; he had a long account of vengeance to
settle with me; and if--which was not to be thought of--he was
minded to spare one that had saved his life, yet, for his own
safety, he dared not.  He had beguiled the Maid with his false
tongue, and his face, not seen by her in the taking of St. Loup, she
knew not.  But he knew that I would disclose all the truth so soon
as the Maid returned, wherefore he was bound to destroy me, which he
would assuredly do with every mockery, cruelty, and torture of body
and mind.  Merely to think of him when he was absent was wont to
make my flesh creep, so entirely evil beyond the nature of sinful
mankind was this monster, and so set on working all kinds of
mischief with greediness.  Whether he had suffered some grievous
wrong in his youth, which he spent his life in avenging on all folk,
or whether, as I deem likely, he was the actual emissary of Satan,
as the Maid was of the saints, I know not, and, as I lay there, had
no wits left to consider of it.  Only I knew that no more unavailing
victim than I was ever so utterly in the power of a foe so deadly
and terrible.

The Maid had gone, and all hope had gone with her.  For a time that
seemed unending mine enemy neither spoke nor moved, standing still
in the chink of light, a devil where an angel had been.

There was silence, and I heard the Maid's iron tread pass down the
creaking wooden stairs, and soon I heard the sound of singing birds,
for my window looked out on the garden.

The steps ceased, and then there was a low grating laughter in the
dark room, as if the devil laughed.

Brother Thomas moved stealthily to the door, and thrust in the
wooden bolt.  Then he sat him heavily down on my bed, and put his
fiend's face close to mine, his eyes stabbing into my eyes.  But I
bit my lip, and stared right back into his yellow wolf's eyes, that
shone like flames of the pit with evil and cruel thoughts.

So I lay, with that yellow light on me; and strength came strangely
to me, and I prayed that, since die I must, I might at least gladden
him with no sign of fear.  When he found that he could not daunton
me, he laughed again.

"Our chick of Pitcullo has picked up a spirit in the wars," he said;
and turning his back on me, he leaned his face on his hand, and so
sat thinking.

The birds of May sang in the garden; there was a faint shining of
silver and green, from the apple-boughs and buds without, in the
little chamber; and the hooded back of the cordelier was before me
on my bed, like the shape of Death beside the Sick Man, in a
picture.  Now I did not even pray, I waited.

Doubtless he knew that no cruel thing which the devil could devise
was more cruel than this suspense.

Then he turned about and faced me, grinning like a dog.

"These are good words," said he, "in that foolish old book they read
to the faithful in the churches, 'Vengeance is Mine, saith the
Lord.'  Ay, it is even too sweet a morsel for us poor Christian men,
such as the lowly Brother Thomas of the Order of St. Francis.
Nevertheless, I am minded to put my teeth in it"; and he bared his
yellow dog's fangs at me, smiling like a hungry hound.  "My sick
brother," he went on, "both as one that has some science of leech-
craft and as thy ghostly counsellor, it is my duty to warn thee that
thou art now very near thine end.  Nay, let me feel thy pulse"; and
seizing my left wrist, he grasped it lightly in his iron fingers.
"Now, ere I administer to thee thy due, as a Christian man, let me
hear thy parting confession.  But, alas! as the blessed Maid too
truly warned thee, thou must not open thy poor lips in speech.
There is death in a word!  Write, then, write the story of thy
sinful life, that I may give thee absolution."

So saying, he opened the shutter, and carefully set the paper and
inkhorn before me, putting the pen in my fingers.

"Now, write what I shall tell thee"; and here he so pressed and
wrung my wrist that his fingers entered into my living flesh with a
fiery pang.  I writhed, but I did not cry.

"Write--"

"I, Norman Leslie of Pitcullo--" and, to escape that agony, I wrote
as he bade me.

"--being now in the article of death--"

And I wrote.

"--do attest on my hope of salvation--"  And I wrote.

"--and do especially desire Madame Jeanne, La Pucelle, and all
Frenchmen and Scots loyal to our Sovereign Lord the Dauphin, to
accept my witness, that Brother Thomas, of the Order of St. Francis,
called Noiroufle while of the world, has been most falsely and
treacherously accused by me--"

I wrote, but I wrote not his false words, putting my own in their
place--"has been most truly and righteously accused by me--"

"--of divers deeds of black treason, and dealing with our enemies of
England, against our Lord the Dauphin, and the Maid, the Sister of
the Saints, and of this I heartily repent me,--"

But I wrote, "All which I maintain--"

"--as may God pardon my sins, on the faith of a sinful and dying
man."

"Now sign thy name, and that of thy worshipful cabbage-garden and
dunghill in filthy Scotland."  So I signed, "Norman Leslie, the
younger, of Pitcullo," and added the place, Orleans, with the date
of day and year of our Lord, namely, May the eighth, fourteen
hundred and twenty-nine.

"A very laudable confession," quoth Brother Thomas; "would that all
the sinners whom I have absolved, as I am about to absolve thee, had
cleansed and purged their sinful souls as freely.  And now, my
brother, read aloud to me this scroll; nay, methinks it is ill for
thy health to speak or read.  A sad matter is this, for, in faith, I
have forgotten my clergy myself, and thou mayst have beguiled me by
inditing other matter than I have put into thy lying mouth.  Still,
where the safety of a soul is concerned, a few hours more or less of
this vain, perishable life weigh but as dust in the balance."

Here he took from about his hairy neck a heavy Italian crucifix of
black wood, whereon was a figure of our Lord, wrought in white
enamel, with golden nails, and a golden crown of thorns.

"Now read," he whispered, heaving up the crucifix above me.  And as
he lifted it, a bright blade, strong, narrow, and sharp, leaped out
from beneath the feet of our Lord, and glittered within an inch of
my throat.  An emblem of this false friar it was, the outside of
whom was as that of a holy man, while within he was a murdering
sword.

"Read!" he whispered again, pricking my throat with the dagger's
point.

Then I read aloud, and as I read I was half choked with my blood,
and now and then was stopped; but still he cried -

"Read, and if one word is wrong, thine absolution shall come all the
swifter."

So I read, and, may I be forgiven if I sinned in deceiving one so
vile!  I uttered not what I had written, but what he had bidden me
to write.

"I, Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, being now in the article of death, do
attest on my hope of salvation, and do especially desire Madame
Jeanne, La Pucelle, and all Frenchmen and Scots loyal to our
Sovereign Lord the Dauphin, to accept my witness that Brother
Thomas, of the Order of St. Francis, called Noiroufle while of the
world, has been most falsely and treacherously accused by me of
divers deeds of black treason, and dealing with our enemies of
England, against our Lord the Dauphin, and the Maid, the Sister of
the Saints, and of this I heartily repent me, as may God pardon my
sins, on the faith of a sinful and dying man.  Signed, at Orleans,
Norman Leslie, the younger, of Pitcullo, this eighth of May, in the
year of our Lord fourteen hundred and twenty-nine."

When I had ended, he took away his blasphemous dagger-point from my
throat.

"Very clerkly read," he spake, "and all runs smooth; methinks myself
had been no poor scribe, were I but a clerk.  Hadst thou written
other matter, to betray my innocence, thou couldst not remember what
I said, even word for word," he added gleefully.  "Now I might
strangle thee slowly"; and he set his fingers about my throat, I
being too weak to do more than clutch at his hand, with a grasp like
a babe's.  "But that leaves black finger-marks, another kind of
witness than thine in my favour.  Or I might give thee the blade of
this blessed crucifix; yet dagger wounds are like lips and have a
voice, and blood cries from the ground, says Holy Writ.  Pardon my
tardiness, my poor brother, but this demands deep thought, and holy
offices must not be hurried unseemly."  He sat now with his back to
me, his hand still on my throat, so deep in thought that he heard
not, as did my sharpened ears, a door shut softly, and foot-falls
echoing in the house below.  If I could only cry aloud! but he would
stifle me ere the cry reached my throat!

"This will serve," he said.  "Thou wilt have died of thy malady, and
I will go softly forth, and with hushed voice will tell how the
brave young Scot passed quietly to the saints.  Yet, after all, I
know not.  Thou hast been sent by Heaven to my aid; clearly thou art
an instrument of God to succour the unworthy Brother Thomas.  Once
and twice thou hast been a boat to carry me on my way, and to save
my useful life.  A third time thou mightst well be serviceable, not
by thy will, alas! but by God's, my poor brother"; and he mockingly
caressed my face with his abhorred hand.  "Still, this must even
serve, though I would fain find for thee a more bitter way to
death"; and he gently and carefully drew the pillow from beneath my
head.  "This leaves no marks and tells no tales, and permits no
dying cry."

He was looking at me, the pillow in his hands, his gesture that of a
tender nurse, when a light tap sounded on the door.  He paused, then
came a louder knock, one pushed, and knocked again.

"Open, in the name of the Dauphin!" came a voice I knew well, the
voice of D'Aulon.

"The rope of Judas strangle thee!" said Brother Thomas, dropping the
pillow and turning to the casement.  But it was heavily barred with
stanchions of iron, as the manner is, and thereby he might not flee.

Then came fiercer knocking with a dagger hilt, and the cry, "Open,
in the name of the Dauphin, or we burst the door!"

Brother Thomas hastily closed the wooden shutter, to darken the
chamber as much as might be.  "Gently, gently," he said.  "Disturb
not my penitent, who is newly shrived, and about to pass"; and so
speaking, he withdrew the bolt.

D'Aulon strode in, dagger in hand, followed by the physician.

"What make you here with doors barred, false priest?" he said,
laying his hand on the frock of Noiroufle.

"And what make you here, fair squire, with arms in a sick man's
chamber, and loud words to disturb the dying?  And wherefore callest
thou me "false priest"?  But an hour agone, the blessed Maid herself
brought me hither, to comfort and absolve her follower, to tend him,
if he lived and, if he must die, to give him his dues as a Christian
man.  And the door was bolted that the penitent might be private
with his confessor, for he has a heavy weight to unburden his sinful
soul withal."

"Ay, the Maid sent thee, not knowing who thou wert, the traitor
friar taken at St. Loup, and thou hast a tongue that beguiled her
simplicity.  But one that knew thee saw thy wolfs face in her
company, and told me, and I told the Maid, who sent me straightway
back from the gate, that justice might be done on thee.  Thou art he
whom this Scot charged with treason, and would have slain for a spy,
some nights agone."

Brother Thomas cast up his eyes to heaven.

"Forgive us our trespasses," said he, "as we forgive them that
trespass against us.  Verily and indeed I am that poor friar who
tends the wounded, and verify I am he against whom this young Scot,
as, I fear, is the manner of all his benighted people, brought a
slanderous accusation falsely.  All the more reason was there that I
should hear his last confession, and forgive him freely, as may I
also be forgiven."

"Thou liest in thy throat," said D'Aulon.  "This is a brave man-at-
arms, and a loyal."

"Would that thou wert not beguiled, fair sir, for I have no pleasure
in the sin of any man.  But, if thou wilt believe him rather than
me, even keep thy belief, and read this written confession of his
falsehood.  Of free will, with his own hand, my penitent hereby
absolves me from all his slanders.  As Holy Church enjoins, in the
grace of repentance he also makes restitution of what he had stolen,
namely, all my wealth in this world, the good name of a poor and
lowly follower of the blessed Francis.  Here is the scroll."

With these words, uttered in a voice of sorrowing and humble
honesty, the friar stretched out the written sheet of paper to
D'Aulon.

"Had I been a false traitor," he said, "would not her brethren of
heaven have warned the blessed Maid against me?  And I have also a
written safe-conduct from the holy sister Colette."

Then I knew that he had fallen into my trap, and, weak as I was, I
could have laughed to think of his face, when the words I had
written came out in place of the words he had bidden me write.  For
a clerk hath great power beyond the simple and unlettered of the
world, be they as cunning even as Brother Thomas.

"Nom Dieu! this is another story," said D'Aulon, turning the paper
about in his hands and looking doubtfully at me.  But I smiled upon
him, whereby he was the more perplexed.  "The ink is hardly dry, and
in some places has run and puddled, so that, poor clerk as I am, I
can make little of it"; and he pored on it in a perplexed sort.
"Tush, it is beyond my clerkhood," he said at last.  "You, Messire
Saint-Mesmin,"--turning to the physician--"must interpret this."

"Willingly, fair sir," said the physician, moving round to the
shutter, which he opened, while the cordelier's eyes glittered, for
now there was one man less between him and the half-open door.  I
nodded to D'Aulon that he should shut it, but he marked me not,
being wholly in amaze at the written scroll of my confession.

The physician himself was no great clerk, and he read the paper
slowly, stumbling over the words, as it were, while Brother Thomas,
clasping his crucifix to his breast, listened in triumph as he heard
what he himself had bidden me write.

"I, Norman Leslie, of--of Peet--What name is this?  Peet--I cannot
utter it."

"Passez outre," quoth D'Aulon.

"I, Norman Leslie, being now in the article of death"--here the
leech glanced at me, shaking his head mournfully--"do attest on my
hope of salvation, and do especially desire Madame Jeanne La
Pucelle, and all Frenchmen and Scots loyal to our Sovereign Lord the
Dauphin, to accept my witness that Brother Thomas, of the Order of
St. Francis, called Noiroufle while of the world, has been most
truly and righteously accused by me of divers deeds of black
treason."

At these words the cordelier's hand leaped up from his breast, his
crucifix dagger glittered bright, he tore his frock from D'Aulon's
grip, leaving a rag of it in his hand, and smote, aiming at the
squire where the gorget joins the vambrace.  Though he missed by an
inch, yet so terrible was the blow that D'Aulon reeled against the
wall, while the broken blade jingled on the stone floor.  Then the
frock of the friar whisked through the open door of the chamber; we
heard the stairs cleared in two leaps, and D'Aulon, recovering his
feet, rushed after the false priest.  But he was in heavy armour,
the cordelier's bare legs were doubtless the nimbler, and the
physician, crossing himself, could only gape and stare on the paper
in his hand.  As he gazed with his mouth open his eyes fell on me,
white as my sheets, that were dabbled with the blood from my mouth.

"Nom Dieu!" he stammered, "Nom Dieu! here is business more to my
mind and my trade than chasing after mad cordeliers that stab with
crucifixes!"

Then, coming to my side, he brought water, bathed my face, and did
what his art might do for a man in such deadly extremity as was
mine.  In which care he was still busy when D'Aulon returned,
panting, having sent a dozen of townsfolk to hunt the friar, who had
made good his flight over garden walls, and was now skulking none
knew where.  D'Aulon would fain have asked me concerning the mystery
of the confession in which Brother Thomas had placed his hope so
unhappily, but the physician forbade him to inquire, or me to
answer, saying that it was more than my life was worth.  But on
D'Aulon's battered armour there was no deeper dint than that dealt
by the murderous crucifix.

Thus this second time did Brother Thomas make his way out of our
hands, the devil aiding him, as always; for it seemed that ropes
could not bind or water drown him.

But, for my part, I lay long in another bout of sore fever, sick
here at Orleans, where I was very kindly entreated by the people of
the house, and notably by the daughter thereof, a fair maid and
gentle.  To her care the Maid had commanded me when she left
Orleans, the English refusing battle, as later I heard, and
withdrawing to Jargeau and Paris.  But of the rejoicings in Orleans
I knew little or nothing, and had no great desire for news, or meat,
or drink, but only for sleep and peace, as is the wont of sick men.
Now as touches sickness and fever, I have written more than
sufficient, as Heaven knows I have had cause enow.  A luckless life
was mine, save for the love of Elliot; danger and wounds, and malady
and escape, where hope seemed lost, were and were yet to be my
portion, since I sailed forth out of Eden-mouth.  And so hard
pressed of sickness was I, that not even my outwitting of Brother
Thomas was a cause of comfort to me, though to this day I cannot
think of it without some mirthful triumph.



CHAPTER XVI--HOW SORROW CAME ON NORMAN LESLIE, AND JOY THEREAFTER



It little concerns any man to know how I slowly recovered my health
after certain failings back into the shadow of death.  Therefore I
need not tell how I was physicked, and bled, and how I drew on from
a diet of milk to one of fish, and so to a meal of chicken's flesh,
till at last I could sit, wrapped up in many cloaks, on a seat in
the garden, below a great mulberry tree.  In all this weary time I
knew little, and for long cared less, as to what went on in the
world and the wars.  But so soon as I could speak it was of Elliot
that I devised, with my kind nurse, Charlotte Boucher, the young
daughter of Jacques Boucher, the Duke's treasurer, in whose house I
lay.  She was a fair lass, and merry of mood, and greatly hove up my
heart to fight with my disease.  It chanced that, as she tended me,
when I was at my worst, she marked, hanging on a silken string about
my neck, a little case of silver artfully wrought, wherein was that
portrait of my mistress, painted by me before I left Chinon.  Being
curious, like all girls, and deeming that the case held some relic,
she opened it, I knowing nothing then of what she did.  But when I
was well enough to lie abed and devise with her, it chanced that I
was playing idly with my fingers about the silver case.

"Belike," said Charlotte, "that is some holy relic, to which, maybe,
you owe your present recovery.  Surely, when you are whole again,
you have vowed a pilgrimage to the shrine of the saint, your
friend?"  Here she smiled at me gaily, for she was a right merry
damsel, and a goodly.

"Nay," she said, "I have done more for you than your physician,
seeing that I, or the saint you serve, have now brought the red
colour into these wan cheeks of yours.  Is she a Scottish saint,
then? perchance St. Margaret, of whom I have read?  Will you not let
me look at the sacred thing?"

"Nay," said I.  "Methinks, from your smiling, that you have taken
opportunity to see my treasure before to-day, being a daughter of
our mother Eve."

"She is very beautiful," said Charlotte; "nay, show her to me
again!"

With that I pressed the spring and opened the case, for there is no
lover but longs to hear his lady commended, and to converse about
her.  Yet I had spoken no word, for my part, about her beauty,
having heard say that he who would be well with one woman does ill
to praise another in her presence.

"Beautiful, indeed, she is," said Charlotte.  "Never have I seen
such eyes, and hair like gold, and a look so gracious!  And for thy
pilgrimage to the shrine of this fair saint, where does she dwell?"

I told her at Chinon, or at Tours, or commonly wheresoever the Court
might be, for that her father was the King's painter.

"And you love her very dearly?"

"More than my life," I said.  "And may the saints send you,
demoiselle, as faithful a lover, to as fair a lady."

"Nay," she said, reddening.  "This is high treason, and well you wot
that you hold no lady half so fair as your own.  Are you Scots so
smooth-spoken?  You have not that repute.  Now, what would you give
to see that lady?"

"All that I have, which is little but my service and goodwill.  But
she knows not where I am, nor know I how she fares, which irks me
more than all my misfortunes.  Would that I could send a letter to
her father, and tell him how I do, and ask of their tidings."

"The Dauphin is at Tours," she said, "and there is much coming and
going between Tours and this town.  For the Maid is instant with the
Dauphin to ride forthwith to Reims, and there be sacred and crowned;
but now he listens and believes, and anon his counsellors tell him
that this is foolhardy, and a thing impossible."

"O they of little faith!" I said, sighing.

"None the less, word has come that the Maid has been in her oratory
at prayers, and a Voice from heaven has called to her, saying,
"Fille de Dieu, va, va, va!  Je serai en ton aide.  Va!" {27}  The
Dauphin is much confirmed in his faith by this sign, and has vowed
that he will indeed march with the Maid to Reims, though his enemies
hold all that country which lies between.  But first she must take
the towns which the English hold on Loire side, such as Jargeau.
Now on Jargeau, while you lay knowing nothing, the Bastard of
Orleans, and Xaintrailles, and other good knights, made an
onslaught, and won nothing but loss for their pains, though they
slew Messire Henry Bisset, the captain of the town.  But if the Maid
takes Jargeau, the Dauphin will indeed believe in her and follow
her."

"He is hard of heart to believe, and would that I were where he
should be--under her holy pennon, for thereon, at least, I should
see the face painted of my lady.  But how does all this bring me
nearer the hope of hearing about her, and how she fares?"

"There are many messengers coming and going to Tours, for the
Dauphin is gathering force under the Maid, and has set the fair Duc
d'Alencon to be her lieutenant, with the Bastard, and La Hire, and
Messire Florent d'Illiers.  And all are to be here in Orleans within
few days; wherefore now write to the father of thy lady, and I will
myself write to her."  With that she gave me paper and pen, and I
indited a letter to my master, telling him how I had lain near to
death of my old wound, in Orleans, and that I prayed him of his
goodness to let me know how he did, and to lay me at the feet of my
lady.  Then Charlotte showed me her letter, wherein she bade Elliot
know that I had hardly recovered, after winning much fame (for so
she said) and a ransom of gold from an English prisoner, which now
lay in the hands of her father, the Duke's treasurer.  Then she said
that a word from Elliot, not to say the sight of her face, the
fairest in the world (a thing beyond hope), would be of more avail
for my healing than all the Pharaoh powders of the apothecaries.
These, in truth, I had never taken, but put them away secretly, as
doubting whether such medicaments, the very dust of the persecuting
Egyptian and idolatrous race, were fit for a Christian to swallow,
with any hope of a blessing.  Thus my kind nurse ended, calling
herself my lady's sister in the love of France and of the Maid, and
bidding my lady be mindful of so true a lover, who lay sick for a
token at her hands.  These letters she sealed, and intrusted to
Colet de Vienne, the royal messenger, the same who rode from
Vaucouleurs to Chinon, in the beginning of the Maid's mission, and
who, as then, was faring to Tours with letters from Orleans.

Meanwhile all the town was full of joy, in early June, because the
Maid was to visit the city, with D'Alencon and the Bastard, on her
way to besiege Jargeau.  It was June the ninth, in the year of our
Lord fourteen hundred and twenty-nine, the sun shining warm in a
clear blue sky, and all the bells of Orleans a-ringing, to welcome
back the Maiden.  I myself sat in the window, over the doorway,
alone with Charlotte sitting by my side, for her father had gone to
the Hotel de Ville, with her mother, to welcome the captains.  Below
us were hangings of rich carpets, to make the house look gay, for
every house was adorned in the best manner, and flags floated in the
long street, and flowers strewed the road, to do honour to our
deliverer.  Thus we waited, and presently the sound of music filled
the air, with fragrance of incense, for the priests were walking in
front, swinging censers and chanting the Te Deum laudamus.  And then
came a company of girls strewing flowers, and fair boys blowing on
trumpets, and next, on a black horse, in white armour, with a hucque
of scarlet broidered with gold, the blessed Maid herself,
unhelmeted, glancing every way with her happy eyes, while the women
ran to touch her armour with their rings, as to a saint, and the men
kissed her mailed feet.

To be alive, and to feel my life returning in a flood of strength
and joy in that sweet air, with the gladness of the multitude
pulsing through it as a man's heart beats in his body, seemed to me
like Paradise.  But out of Paradise our first parents were driven
long ago, as anon I was to be from mine.  For, as the Maid passed, I
doffed my cap and waved it, since to shout "Noel" with the rest, I
dared not, because of my infirmity.  Now, it so fell that, glancing
around, she saw and knew me, and bowed to me, with a gesture of her
hand, as queenly as if she, a manant's child, had been a daughter of
France.  At that moment, noting the Maid's courtesy towards me,
Charlotte stood up from beside me, with a handful of red roses,
which she threw towards her.  As it chanced, belike because she was
proud to be with one whom the Maid honoured, or to steady herself as
she threw, she laid her left hand about my neck, and so standing,
cast her flowers, and then looked laughing back into my eyes, with a
happy face.  The roses missed the Maid, whose horse caracoled at
that moment as she went by, but they lit in the lap of a damsel that
rode at her rein, on a lyart {28} palfrey, and she looking up, I saw
the face of Elliot, and Elliot saw me, and saw Charlotte leaning on
me and laughing.  Then Elliot's face grew deadly pale, her lower lip
stiff, as when she was angered with me at Chinon, and so, wrying her
neck suddenly to the left, she rode on her way, nor ever looked
towards us again.

"Who may that proud damsel be, and what ails her at my roses?" quoth
Charlotte, sitting herself down again and still following them with
her eyes.  "Methinks I have seen her face before; and what ails
you?" she asked, looking earnestly on me, "for you are as white as
the last snow ere it melts in spring."

I had good reason to be pale, for I very well guessed that Elliot,
having ridden in the Maiden's company to see me, and to surprise me
with the unlooked-for gladness of her coming, had marked Charlotte
as she so innocently leaned on me and laughed to me, and had
conceived anger against us both, for of a truth Charlotte was very
fair and of a joyous aspect.  Yet, taken so suddenly as I was,
between the extreme of delight in looking on my lady beyond hope,
and the very deep of sorrow that she had so bitterly slighted me, I
was yet wary of betraying myself.  For the girl beside me had, in
all honest and maidenly service that woman may do for man, been
kinder to me than a sister, and no thought or word of earthly love
had ever passed between us.  That she should wot of Elliot's anger,
and of its cause, and so hold my lady lightly, ay, and triumph over
her in her heart (as is the nature of a woman, her ministry being
thus churlishly repaid), was more than I could endure.  So, may the
saints forgive me! I lied, and it is a strange thing, but true, that
howsoever a gentleman may hate the very thought of a lie, yet often
he finds it hard to tell the truth to a woman.

"Do I look white?" I said.  "Then it is because I have a sudden pang
of sorrow.  For one moment I deemed that proud damsel was the lady
of my love, whom, in verity, she most strangely favours, so that you
might think them sisters.  But alas! she is but the daughter of a
good Scots knight at Chinon, whom I have seen there before to-day,
and marvelled how much she and my lady favour each other.  Therefore
am I pale, because that hope of mine is broken.  And you know her
face, belike, from my poor picture of my lady."

Charlotte looked at me steadily, and flushed red; but even then, one
who rode by among the men-at-arms noted me, and, waving his arm
towards me, cried in a loud voice -

"Hail, fair son, soon will I be with thee!" and so, turning in his
saddle to watch me, he laughed a loud laugh and rode onwards.  He
was my master, and as my eyes followed him, Charlotte spoke.

"And who is that great Scot, with his Scots twang of the tongue, who
called you 'son'?  By the Mass, she was your lady, and yonder wight
is her father, of whom you have spoken to me more than once"; for,
indeed, I had told her all the story of my loves.

Then I was confused, for I could no longer deny the truth, and not
having one word to say, I sighed from my heart.

"O faint-spirited man-at-arms!" cried Charlotte, blushing, and
laughing as if some exquisite jest were abroad.  "Do you so terribly
dread your mistress's anger?  Nay, be of good cheer!  Me she will
never forgive while the world stands; for have I not been your
nurse, and won you back to life and to her service?  And has she not
seen us twain together in one place, and happy, because of the
coming of the Maid?  She will pardon me never, because, also for my
sake, she has been wroth with you, and shown you her wrath, and all
without a cause.  Therefore she will be ashamed, and all the more
cruel.  Nay, nor would I forgive her, in the same case, if it befell
me, for we women are all alike, hearts of wolves when we love!  Hast
thou never marked a cat that had kittens, or a brachet that had
whelps, how they will fly at man or horse that draws near their
brood, even unwittingly.  And so, when we love, are we all, and the
best of us are then the worst.  Verily the friendship of you and me
is over and done; but for your part be glad, not sorry, for with all
her heart and soul she loves you.  Else she had not been angered."

"You must not speak, nor I hear, such words of my lady," I said; "it
is not seemly."

"Such words of your lady, and of Aymeric's lady, and of Giles's
lady, and of myself were I any man's lady, as I am no man's lady, I
will think and speak," said Charlotte, "for my words are true, and
we maids are, at best, pretty fools, and God willed us to be so for
a while, and then to be wiser than the rest of you.  For, were we
not pretty, would you wed us? and were we not fools, would we wed
you? and where would God's world be then?  But now you have heard
enough of my wisdom:  for I love no man, being very wise; or you
have heard enough of my folly that my mirth bids me speak, as you
shall deem it.  And now, we must consider how this great feud may be
closed, and the foes set at one again."

"Shall I find out her lodgings, and be carried thither straightway
in a litter?  Her heart may be softened when she sees that I cannot
walk or mount a horse?"

"Now, let me think what I should deem, if I had ridden by, unlooked
for, and spied my lover with a maid, not unfriendly, or perchance
uncomely, sitting smiling in a gallant balcony.  Would I be appeased
when he came straight to seek me, borne in a litter?  Would I--?"
And she mused, her finger at her mouth, and her brow puckered, but
with a smile on her lips and in her eyes.

Then I, seeing her so fair, yet by me so undesired; and beholding
her so merry, while my heart was amazed with the worst sorrow, and
considering, too, that but for her all this would never have been,
but I sitting happy by my lady's side,--thinking on all this, I say,
I turned from her angrily, as if I would leave the balcony.

"Nay, wait," she cried, "for I must see all the show out, and here
come the Scots Guard, thy friends, and I need time to take counsel
with my wisdom on this weighty matter.  See, they know you"; and,
indeed, many a man in that gallant array waved his hand to me
merrily, as they filed past under their banners--the Douglas's
bloody heart, the Crescent moon of Harden, the Napier's sheaf of
spears, the blazons of Lindsays and Leslies, Homes, and Hepburns,
and Stuarts.  It was a sight to put life into the dying breast of a
Scot in a strange country, and all were strong men and young, ruddy
and brown of cheek, high of heart and heavy of hand.  And most
beckoned to me, and pointed onwards to that way whither they were
bound, in chase of fame and fortune.  All this might have made a
sick man whole, but my spirit was dead within me, so that I could
scarce beckon back to them, or even remember their faces.

"Would I forgive you," said Charlotte, after she had thrown the
remnant of her roses to her friends among the Scots, "if you hurried
to me, pale, and borne in a litter?  Nay, methinks not, or not for
long; and then I should lay it on you never to see her face again;--
she is I, you know, for the nonce.  But if you waited and did not
come, then my pride might yield at length, and I send for you.  But
then, if so, methinks I would hate her (that is, me) more than ever.
Oh, it is a hard case when maids are angry!"

"You speak of yourself, how you would do this or that; but my lady
is other than you, and pitiful.  Did she not come all these leagues
at a word from me, hearing that I was sick?"

"At a word from you, good youth!  Nay, at a word from me!  Did you
speak of me in your letter to her father?"

"Nay!" said I.

"You did well.  And therefore it was that I wrote, for I knew she
would move heaven and earth and the Maid or she would come when she
heard of another lass being in your company.  Nay, trust me, we
women understand each other, and she would ask the Maid, who lodged
here with us, what manner of lass I was to look upon, and the Maid's
answer would bring her."

"You have been kind," I said.  "And to you and the saints I owe it
that I yet live to carry a sore heart and be tormented with your ill
tongue."

"And had you heard that a fair young knight, and renowned in arms,
lay sick at your lady's house, she nursing him, would you not have
cast about for ways of coming to her?"

To this I answered nothing, but, with a very sour countenance, was
rising to go, when my name was called in the street.

Looking down, I saw my master, who doffed his cap to the daughter of
the house, and begging leave to come up, fastened his horse's bridle
to the ring in the wall, by the door.

Up he came, whom Charlotte welcomed very demurely, and so left us,
saying that she must go about her household business; but as she
departed she cast a look back at me, making a "moue," as the French
say, with her red lips.

"Well, my son," cried my master, taking my hand, "why so pale?  Sure
thou hast had a sore bout, but thou art mending."

I could but stammer my lady's name -

"Elliot--shall I see her soon?"

He scratched his rough head and pulled his russet beard, and so
laughed shamefacedly.

"Why, lad, to that very end she came, and now--St. Anthony's fire
take me if I well know why--she will none of it.  The Maid brought
us in her company, for, as you know, she will ever have young lasses
with her when she may, and as far as Orleans the roads are safe.
And who so glad as Elliot when the Maid put this command on her,
after we got thy letter?  I myself was most eager to ride, not only
for your sake, but to see how Orleans stood after the long pounding.
But when we had come to our lodging, and I was now starting off to
greet you, Elliot made no motion of rising.  Nay, when I bade her
make haste, she said that haste there was none; and when I,
marvelling, asked, 'Wherefore?' answered that she was loth to spoil
good company, and had seen you, as I did myself, happy enough with
the lass who nursed you, and who had written to her."

"And wherefore, in Heaven's name, should we not be happy on such a
day as this was an hour agone?  But now the sun is out of the sky."

"I see him plainer than ever I did in the Merse," said my master,
looking up where the sun was bright in the west.  "But what would
you?  Women have been thus since Eve had a daughter, for our father
Adam, I trow, had no trouble with other ladies than his wife--and
that was trouble enough."

"But how am I to make my peace, and win my pardon, being innocent as
I am?"

"Faith, I know not!" said he, and laughed again, which angered me
some deal, for what was there to laugh at?

"May I let bring a litter, for I cannot yet walk, and so go back
with you to her?"

"Indeed, I doubt if it were wise," said he; and so we stood gazing
at each other, while I could have wept for very helpless anger.  "I
have it, I think," said he at last.  "The Maid is right busy, as
needs must be, gathering guns and food for her siege of Jargeau.
But it is not fitting that she should visit Orleans without seeing
you, nor would she wish to be so negligent.  Yet if she were, I
would put it in her mind, and then, when you are with her, which
Elliot shall not know, I will see that Elliot comes into the
chamber, and so leave all to you, and to her, and to the Maid.  For
she hath great power with that silly wench of mine, who has no other
desire, I trow, than a good excuse to be rid of her sudden anger.
If she loved you less, she would be never so fiery."

I myself could see no better hope or comfort.

Then he began to devise with me on other matters, and got from me
the story of my great peril at the hands of Brother Thomas.  He
laughed at the manner of my outwitting that miscreant, who had never
been taken, but was fled none knew whither, and my master promised
to tell the tale to the Maid, and warn her against this enemy.  And
so bidding me be of good cheer, he departed; but for my part, I went
into my chamber, drew the bolt, and cast myself on the bed, refusing
meat or drink, or to see the face of man or woman.

I was devoured by a bitter anger, considering how my lady had used
me, and what was most sore of all, reflecting that I could no longer
hold her for a thing all perfect, and almost without touch of mortal
infirmity.  Nay, she was a woman like another, and unjust, and to
deem thus of her was to me the most cruel torment.  We could never
forgive each the other, so it seemed to me, nor be again as we had
been.  And all the next day no message came for me, and I kept
myself quiet, apart in my chamber.  Lest they who read mock at me in
their hearts, and at my lady, let them remember how young we both
were, and how innocent of other experience in love.  For the Roman
says that "the angers of lovers are love's renewal," as the brief
tempests of April bring in the gladness of May.  But in my heart it
was all white sleet, and wind, and snow unseasonable, and so I lay,
out of all comfort, tossing on my bed.

I heard the watchmen call the hours through the night, and very
early, having at length fallen on sleep, I was wakened by a
messenger from the Maid.  It was her page, Louis de Coutes, most
richly attired, but still half asleep, grumbling, and rubbing his
eyes.

"My mistress bids you come with me instantly," he said, when we had
saluted each other, "and I have brought a litter and men to carry
it.  Faith, if I lay in it, I should be asleep ere ever they had
borne me ten paces.  What a life it is that I lead!  Late to bed and
up by prime, so busy is my mistress; and she lives as it were
without sleep, and feeds on air."

Here he threw himself down in a great chair, and verily, by the time
I had washed and attired myself, I had to shake him by the shoulder
to arouse him.  Thus I was carried to the Maid's lodging, my heart
beating like a hammer with hopes and fears.

We found her already armed, for that day she was to ride to Jargeau,
and none was with her but her confessor.  She gave me the best of
greetings, and bade me eat bread and drink wine.  "And soon," she
said, "if you recover the quicker, I trust to give you wine to drink
in Paris."

She herself dipped a crust in wine and water, and presently, bidding
her confessor, Pasquerel, wait for her in the little oratory, she
asked me how I did, and told me what fear she had been in for me, as
touching Brother Thomas, when she learned who he was, yet herself
could not return from the field to help me.

"But now," said she, smiling with a ravishing sweetness, "I hear you
are in far greater peril from a foe much harder and more cruel--ma
mie Elliot.  Ah! how you lovers put yourselves in jeopardy, and take
me from my trade of war to play the peacemaker!  Surely I have
chosen the safer path in open breach and battle, though would that
my war was ended, and I sitting spinning again beside my dear
mother."  Hereon her face grew more tender and sad than ever I had
seen it, and there came over me forgetfulness of my private grief,
as of a little thing, and longing to ride at the Maiden's rein,
where glory was to be won.

"Would that even now I could march with you," I said; and she,
smiling, made answer -

"That shall yet be; yea, verily," and here the fashion of her
countenance altered wondrously, "I know, and know not how I know,
that thou shalt be with me when all have forsaken me and fled."

Then she fell silent, and I also, marvelling on her face and on the
words which she spoke.  There came a light tap at the door, and she
awoke as it were from a trance which possessed her.  She drew her
hands over her face, with a long sigh; she knelt down swiftly, and
crossed herself, making an obeisance, for I deem that her saints had
been with her, wherefore I also crossed myself and prayed.  Then she
rose and cried "Enter!" and ere I could speak she had passed into
the oratory, and I was alone with Elliot.

Elliot gave one low cry, and cast her arms about my neck, hiding her
face on my breast, and sobbing as if her heart would break.

"I have been mad, I have been bad!" she moaned.  "Oh! say hard words
to me, and punish me, my love."

But I had no word to say, only I fell back into a great chair for
very weakness, holding my lady in my arms.

And thus, with words few enough, but great delight, the minutes went
past, till she lifted her wet face and her fragrant hair; and
between laughing and crying, studied on my face and caressed me,
touching my thin cheek, and wept and laughed again.  "I was mad,"
she whispered; "it seemed as if a devil entered into me.  But She
spoke to me and cast him out, and she bade me repent."

"And do penance," I said, kissing her till she laughed again, saying
that I was a hard confessor, and that the Maid had spoken no word of
penances.

"Yet one I must do and suffer," she said, "and it is more difficult
to me than these austerities of thine."

Here her face grew very red, and she hid it with her hands.

"What mean you?" I asked, wondering.

"I must see her, and thank her for all her kindness to thee."

"The Maid?" I asked.

"Nay, that other, thy--fair nurse.  Nay, forbid me not, I have sworn
it to myself, and I must go.  And the Maiden told me, when I spoke
of it, that it was no more than right."  Then she threw her arms
about me again, in the closest embrace, and hid her head.  Now, this
resolve of hers gave me no little cause of apprehension, as not
knowing well how things might pass in such an encounter of two
ladies.  But even then one touched me on the shoulder from behind,
and the Maid herself stood beside us.

"O joy!" she said, "my peacemaking has been blessed!  Go, you
foolish folk, and sin no more, and peace and happiness be with you,
long years, and glad children at your knees.  Yet hereof I know
nothing from my counsel.  And now I must go forth about the
Dauphin's business, and to do that for which I was sent.  They that
brought thee in the litter will carry thee back again; so farewell."

Thus saying, she stooped and kissed Elliot, who leaped up and caught
the Maid in her arms, and they embraced, and parted for that time,
Elliot weeping to lose her, and at the thought of the dangers of
war.



CHAPTER XVII--HOW ELLIOT LOST HER JACKANAPES



The Maid's confessor, Pasquerel, stood in the chamber where we had
met, with his eyes bent on the ground, so that Elliot and I had no
more free speech at that time.  Therefore I said farewell, not
daring to ask of her when her mind was to visit my hosts, and,
indeed, my trust was that she might leave this undone, lest new
cause of sorrow should arise.  Thus we parted, with very courtly
leave-taking, the priest regarding us in his manner, and I was
carried in the litter through the streets, that had been so quiet
when I came forth in the morning, but now they were full of men and
of noise.  Herds of cattle were being driven for the food of the
army marching against Jargeau; there were trains of carts full of
victual, and the citizens having lent the Maid their great pieces of
ordnance, the bombard called "The Shepherdess," and the gun
"Montargis," these were being dragged along by clamorous companies
of apprentices, and there were waggons charged with powder, and
stone balls, and boxes of arrows, spades and picks for trenching,
and all manner of munition of war.  By reason of the troops of
horses and of marching men, they that bore me were often compelled
to stop.  Therefore, lest any who knew me should speak with me, I
drew the curtains of the litter, for I had much matter to think on,
and was fain to be private.  But this was to be of no avail, for I
heard loud voices in my own tongue.

"What fair lady is this who travels so secretly?" and, with this,
one drew the curtains, and there was the face of Randal Rutherford,
with others behind him.  Then he uttered a great cry -

"Faith, it is our lady of the linen-basket, and no other"; and
leaning within, he gave me a rough embrace and a kiss of his bearded
lips.  "Why so early astir, our sick man?" he cried.  "Get yourself
healed anon, and be with us when we take Paris town, Norman, for
there is booty enough to furnish all Scotland.  Shalt thou be with
us yet?"

"If my strength backs my will, Randal; and truly your face is a
sight for sair eyne, and does me more good than all the powers of
the apothecary."

"Then here is to our next merry meeting," he cried, "under Paris
walls!"

With that the Scots gave a shout, and, some of them crowding round
to press my hand, they bade me be of good cheer, and all went
onward, singing in the tune of "Hey, tuttie tattie," which the
pipers played when we broke the English at Bannockburn.

So I was borne back to the house of Jacques Boucher, and, in the
sunny courtyard, there stood Charlotte, looking gay and fair, yet
warlike, as I deemed.  She was clad in a long garment of red over a
white robe, and had sleeves of green, so that she wore the spring's
own colours, and she was singing a French ditty concerning a lady
who has a lover, and vows that she will never be a nun.


Seray-je nonnette, oui ou non,
Serray-je nonnette, je croy que non!


Seeing me, she stinted in her singing, and in feeding a falcon that
was perched on her wrist.

"You are early astir for a sick man," she said.  "Have you been on
pilgrimage, or whither have you been faring?"

"The Maid sent for me right early, for to-day she rides to Jargeau,
and to you she sends a message of her love,"--as indeed she had
done, "but, for the great press of affairs she might not visit you."

"And Mistress Elliot Hume, has she forgiven her lover yet? nay, I
see by your face that you are forgiven!  And you go south, this very
day, is it not so?"

"Indeed," I said, "if it is your will that we part, part we must,
though I sorrow for it; but none has given me the word to march,
save you, my fair nurse and hostess."

"Nay, it is not I who shall speed you; nevertheless the Maid is not
the only prophetess in this realm of France, and something tells me
that we part this day.  But you are weary; will you get you to your
chamber, or sit in the garden under the mulberry-tree, and I shall
bring you out a cup of white wine."

Weary I was indeed, and the seat in the garden among the flowers
seemed a haven most desirable.  So thither I went, leaning on her
shoulder, and she returned to bring the wine, but was some while
absent, and I sat deep in thought.  I was marvelling, not only as to
what my mistress would next do, and when I should see her again
(though that was uppermost in my mind), but also concerning the
strange words of the Maid, that I alone should be with her when all
forsook her and fled.  How might this be, and was she not to be ever
victorious, and drive the English forth of France?  To my thinking
the Maid dwelt ever in two worlds, with her brethren of Paradise,
and again with sinful men.  And I have often considered that she did
not always remember, in this common life, what had befallen her, and
what she knew when, as the Apostle says, she "was out of the body."
For I have heard her say, more than once, that she "would last but
one year, or little more," and, again, she would make plans for
three years to come, or four, which is a mystery.

So I was pondering, when I looked up, and saw Charlotte standing in
the entrance between the court and garden, looking at me and
smiling, as she shaded her eyes with her hand from the sun, and then
she ran to me lightly as a lapwing.

"They are coming down the street, looking every way for our house,
your lady and her father," she said, putting the wine-cup into my
hand.  "Now is it war or peace?" and she fled back again within the
house.

My heart stood still, for now everything was on the fall of the
dice.  Would this mad girl be mocking or meek?  Would she anger my
lady to my ruin with her sharp tongue?  For Charlotte was of a high
temper, and wont to rule all the house by reason of her beauty and
kind wild ways.  Nor was Elliot the meekest of women, as well I
knew, and a word, nay a smile, or a glance of mockery, might lightly
turn her heart from me again for ever.  Oh! the lot of a lover is
hard, at least if he has set all his heart on the cast, as I had
done, and verily, as our Scots saw runs, "women are kittle cattle."
It is a strange thing that one who has learned not to blench from a
bare blade, or in bursting of cannon-balls and flight of arrows,
should so easily be daunted where a weak girl is concerned; yet so
it was in my case.  I know not if I feared more than now when
Brother Thomas had me in the still chamber, alone at his mercy.

So the minutes went by, the sun and shade flickering through the
boughs of the mulberry-tree, and the time seemed long.  Perchance, I
thought, there had been war, as Charlotte had said, and my lady had
departed in anger with her father, and I was all undone.  Yet I
dared not go to seek them in the house, not knowing how matters were
passing, and whether I should do good or harm.  So I waited, and at
length Charlotte came forth alone.  Now she walked slowly, her eyes
bent on the ground, and, as she drew near, I saw that they were red,
and I guessed that she had been weeping.  So I gave up all for lost,
and my heart turned to water within me.

"I am sent to bid you come in," she said gravely.

"What has passed?" I cried.  "For the saints' sake, tell me all!"

"This has passed, that I have seen such a lady as I never dreamed I
should see, and she has made me weep--foolish that I am!"

"Why, what did she?  Did she speak unkindly then, to my kind nurse?"

For this I could in no manner have endured, nor have abased myself
to love one that was unjust, how dear soever; and none could be
dearer than Elliot.  Yet unjust she might have been; and this
thought to me was the greatest torment.

"Speak unkind words?  Oh, I remember my foolish talk, how I said
that she would never forgive me while the world stands.  Nay, while
her father was with mine and with my mother, thanking them for what
they did for you, she led me apart to devise with me, and I took her
to my chamber, and there, with tears in her eyes, and in the
sweetest manner, she prayed me to pardon her for that she had been
mad for a moment; and so, looking meek as an angel, she awaited my
word.  And I could not but weep, though to weep is never my way, and
we embraced each the other, and I told her how all your converse had
ever been of her, even when you were beside yourself, in your fever,
and how never was so faithful a lover.  Nay, I bid you be glad, for
I never deemed that any woman living on earth would so repent and so
confess herself to another, where she herself had first been wroth,
but would blame all the world rather, and herself--never.  So we
women are not all alike, as I thought; for I would hardly have
forgiven, if I know myself; and yet I am no worse than another.
Truly, she has been much with the Maid, and has caught from her
this, to be like her, who is alone among women, and of the greatest
heart."

Here she ceased to speak very gravely, as she had till now done, and
breaking out into a sweet laughter, she cried -

"Nevertheless I am not wholly a false prophetess, for to-day you go
with them southward, to Tours, to change the air, as the physician
counsels, and so now we part.  O false Scot!" she said, laughing
again, "how have you the ill courtesy to look so joyous?  Nay, I
shall change your cheer"; and with that she stooped and kissed my
cheek, saying, "Go, and joy go with you, as joy abides with me, to
see my sick man look so strong again.  Come, they are waiting for
us, and you know we must not tarry."

Then, giving me her arm, she led me in, and if one of us twain had a
shamefaced guise, verify it was not Charlotte Boucher.

"I yield you back your esquire, fair lady," she said merrily, making
obeisance to Elliot, who stood up, very pale, to receive us.

"He has got no ill in the bower of the enchantress," said my master;
whereat, Elliot seeming some deal confused, and blushing, Charlotte
bustled about, bringing wine and meat, and waiting upon all of us,
and on her father and mother at table.  A merry dinner it was among
the elder folk, but Elliot and I were somewhat silent, and a great
joy it was to me, and a heavy weight off my heart, I do confess,
when, dinner being ended, and all courtesies done and said, my
raiment was encased in wallets, and we all went through the garden,
to Loire side; and so, with many farewells, took boat and sailed
down the river, under the Bridge of Orleans, towards Blois.  But
Charlotte I never saw again, nor did I ever speak of her to Elliot,
nor Elliot of her to me, from that day forth.

But within short space came tidings, how that Charlotte was wedding
a young burgess of Orleans, with whom, as I hear, she dwelt happily,
and still, for all I know, dwells in peace.  As I deem, she kept her
lord in a merry life, yet in great order and obedience.  So now
there is no more to tell of her, save that her picture comes back
before me--a tall, brown girl, with black hair and eyes like the hue
of hazel boughs glassed in running water, clad in white and green
and red, standing smiling beneath the red-and-white blossoms of an
apple-tree, in the green garden of Jacques Boucher.

Elliot was silent enough, and sat telling her beads, in the
beginning of our journey down the water-way, that is the smoothest
and the easiest voyaging for a sick man.  She was in the stern of
the boat, her fingers, when her beads were told, trailing in the
smooth water, that was green with the shade of leaves.  But her
father stood by me, asking many questions concerning the siege, and
gaping at the half-mended arch of the bridge, where through we
sailed, and at the blackened walls of Les Tourelles, and all the
ruin that war had wrought.  But now masons and carpenters were very
busy rebuilding all, and the air was full of the tinkling of trowels
and hammers.  Presently we passed the place where I had drawn
Brother Thomas from the water; but thereof I said no word, for
indeed my dreams were haunted by his hooded face, like that of the
snake which, as travellers tell, wears a hood in Prester John's
country, and is the most venomous of beasts serpentine.  So
concerning Brother Thomas I held my peace, and the barque, swinging
round a corner of the bank, soon brought us into a country with no
sign of war on it, and here the poplar-trees had not been felled for
planks to make bulwarks, but whispered by the riverside.

The wide stream carried many a boat, and shone with sails, white,
and crimson, and brown; the boat-men sang, or hailed each other from
afar.  There was much traffic, stores being carried from Blois to
the army.  Some mile or twain above Beaugency we were forced to
land, and, I being borne in a litter, we took a cross-path away from
the stream, joining it again two miles below Beaugency, because the
English held that town, though not for long.  The sun had set, yet
left all his gold shining on the water when we entered Blois, and
there rested at a hostel for the night.  Next day--one of the
goodliest of my life, so soft and clear and warm it was, yet with a
cool wind on the water--we voyaged to Tours; and now Elliot was glad
enough, making all manner of mirth.

Her desire, she said, was to meet a friend that she had left at
their house in Tours, one that she had known as long as she knew me,
my friend he was too, yet I had never spoken of him, or asked how he
did.  Now I, being wrapped up wholly in her, and in my joy to see
her kind again, and so beautiful, had no memory of any such friend,
wherefore she mocked me, and rebuked me for a hard heart and
ungrateful.  "This friend of mine," she said, "was the first that
made us known each to other.  Yea, but for him, the birds might have
pecked out your eyne, and the ants eaten your bones bare, yet"--with
a sudden anger, and tears in her eyes at the words she spoke--"you
have clean forgotten him!"

"Ah, you mean the jackanapes.  And how is the little champion?"

"Like the lads of Wamfray, aye for ill, and never for good," said my
master; but she frowned on him, and said -

"Now you ask, because I forced you on it; but, sir, I take it very
ill that you have so short a memory for a friend.  Now, tell me, in
all the time since you left us at Chinon, how often have you thought
of him?"

"Nigh as often as I thought of you," I answered.  "For when you came
into my mind (and that was every minute), as in a picture, thither
too came your playfellow, climbing and chattering, and holding out
his little bowl for a comfit."

"Nay, then you thought of me seldom, or you would have asked how he
does."

Here she turned her face from me, half in mock anger.  But, just as
it is with children, so it was with Elliot, for indeed my dear was
ever much of a child, wherefore her memory is now to me so tender.
And as children make pretence to be in this humour or that for
sport, and will affect to be frighted till they really fear and
weep, so Elliot scarce knew how deep her own humour went, and
whether she was acting like a player in a Mystery, or was in good
earnest.  And if she knew not rightly what her humour was, far less
could I know, so that she was ever a puzzle to me, and kept me in a
hundred pretty doubts and dreads every day.  Alas! how sorely,
through all these years, have I longed to hear her rebuke me in
mirth, and put me adread, and laugh at me again I for she was, as it
were, wife and child to me, at once, and I a child with her, and as
happy as a child.

Thus, nothing would now jump with her humour but to be speaking of
her jackanapes, and how he would come louting and leaping to welcome
her, and forsake her old kinswoman, who had followed with them to
Tours.  And she had much to report concerning his new tricks:  how
he would leap over a rod for the Dauphin or the Maid, but not if
adjured in the name of the English King, or the Duke of Burgundy.
Also, if you held him, he would make pretence to bite any that you
called Englishman or false Frenchman.  Moreover, he had now been
taught to fetch and carry, and would climb into Elliot's window,
from the garden, and bring her little basket of silks, or whatsoever
she desired, or carry it thither, as he was commanded.

"And he wrung the cat's neck," quoth my master; but Elliot bade him
hold his peace.

In such sport the hours passed, till we were safely come to Tours,
and so to their house in a street running off the great place, where
the cathedral stands.  It was a goodly dwelling, with fair carved-
work on the beams, and in the doorway stood the old Scots kinswoman,
smiling wide and toothless, to welcome us.  Elliot kissed her
quickly, and she fondled Elliot, and held a hand out over her
shoulder to greet me.

"But where is my jackanapes, that should have been here to salute
his mistress?" Elliot cried.

"Out and alas!" said the old wife in our country tongue--"out and
alas! for I have ill news.  The poor beast is missing these three
days past, and we fear he is stolen away by some gangrel bodies, for
the town is full of them.  There came two to our door, three days
agone, and one was a blind man, and the other a one-armed soldier,
maimed in the wars, and I gave them bite and sup, as a Christian
should do.  Now, they had not been gone but a few minutes, and I was
in the spence, putting away the dishes, when I heard a whistle in
the street, and anon another.  I thought little of it, and so was
about my business for an hour, when I missed the jackanapes.  And
then there was a hue and cry, and all the house was searched, and
the neighbours were called on, but since that day there has been no
word of the jackanapes.  But, for the blind man and the armless
soldier, the town guard saw them leaving by the North Gate, with a
violer woman and her husband, an ill-looking loon, in their
company."  Elliot sat her down and wept sore.  "They have stolen my
little friend," she cried, "and now he that was so fat I called him
Tremouille will go hungry and lean, and be whipped to make him do
his tricks, and I shall never see him more."

Then she ran out of the chamber, to weep alone, as I guessed, for
she was pitiful and of very tender affection, and dumb things came
near about her heart, as is the manner of many women.

But I made no doubt in my mind that the husband of the ape's old
mistress had stolen him, and I, too, sorrowed for the poor beast
that my mistress loved, and that, in very deed, had been the saving
of my own life.  Then I spoke to my master, and said that we must
strive to buy her a new ape, or a little messan dog, to be her
playfellow.

But he shook his head.  "Say nothing more of the beast," he
muttered, "unless she speaks of him first, and that, methinks, will
be never.  For it is not her wont to speak of what lies very deep in
her heart, and if you talk of the beast it will please her little."

And, indeed, I heard no word more of the jackanapes from Elliot,
save that, coming back from the minster next day, she whispered, "I
have prayed for him," and so fled to her own chamber.

As then I deemed it a strange thing, and scarcely to be approved by
Holy Church, that my lady should pray for a dumb beast who had no
soul to be saved.  But a faithful, loving prayer is not unavailing
or unheard of Him who made the beasts, as well as He made us; for
whose sin, or the sin of our father Adam, they now suffer, silently.
And the answer to this prayer was to be known in the end.

As the week went on, tidings came that made Elliot glad again, if
before she had been sad enough.  For this was that great week of
wonders which shall never be forgotten while France is France, and
the lilies bloom.

On June the thirteenth the Maid took Jargeau, whence the famed
Bastard of Orleans had been driven some weeks agone; and the Earl of
Suffolk yielded him her prisoner, saying that she was "the most
valiant woman in the world."  Scarce had tidings of this great
victory come, when messengers followed, declaring that the Maid had
seized the Bridge of Meun and driven the English into the Castle.

Next she marched against Beaugency, and, at midnight of June the
seventeenth, the English made terms, that they might go forth with
their lives, but without baggage or arms, and with but one mark of
silver apiece.  Next morning came Talbot, the best knight then on
ground, and Fastolf, the wariest of captains, with a great army of
English.  First they made for Jargeau, but they came too late, and
then they rode to Meun, and would have assailed the French in the
bridge-fort, but, even then, they heard how Beaugency had yielded to
La Pucelle, and how the garrison was departed into Normandy, like
pilgrims, without swords, and staff in hand.  Thus all the Loire and
the water-way was in the power of France, wherefore the English
marched off through the country called La Beauce, which then lay
desert and overgrown with wild wood, by reason of the war.  And
there, in a place named Coynce, near Patay, the Maid overtook the
English, having with her La Hire and Xaintrailles, and she charged
them so rudely, that ere the English could array them in order of
battle, they were already flying for their lives.  There were Talbot
and Warwick taken and held to ransom, but Fastolf fled as fast as
his horse could carry him.

Thus in one week, between June the eleventh and June the eighteenth,
the Maid had delivered three strong towns from the English, and had
utterly routed them in fair field.  Then, at Orleans, on June the
nineteenth, the army went to the churches, thanking God, and the
Blessed Virgin, and all the saints, for such great signs and marvels
wrought through the Maid only.

Sorrow it is to me to write of such things by report, and not to
have seen them done.  But, as Talbot said to the Duc d'Alencon, when
they took him at Patay, "it is fortune of war."

But, as day by day messengers came, their horses red with spurring,
to the cross in the market-place of Tours, and as we that gathered
round heard of some fresh victory, you may consider whether we
rejoiced, feasted, filled the churches with our thanksgivings, and
deemed that, in a few weeks, there would be no living Englishman on
French soil.  And of all that were glad my lady was the happiest,
for she had believed in the Maid from the very beginning, when her
father mocked.  And a hard life she now led him with her sallies,
day by day, as more and ever more glad tidings were brought, and we
could hear Elliot singing through the house.

Yea, I found her once dancing in the garden all alone, a beautiful
sight to look upon, as the sun fell on her and the shadow, she
footing it as if to music, but the music was made by her own heart.
Leaning against an apple-tree, I watched her, who waved her hand to
me, and still danced on; this was after we had heard the news of
Beaugency.  As she so swayed and moved, dancing daintily, came a
blast of a trumpet and a gay peal from the minster bells.  Then
forth rushed Elliot, and through the house, and down the street into
the market-place, nor did I know where I was, till I found myself
beside her, and heard the Maire read a letter to all the folk,
telling how the English were routed at Pathay in open field.
Thereon the whole multitude fell a-dancing, and I, for all my
malady, was fain to dance with them; but Elliot led me home, her
head high, and blue rays darting from her eyes.  From that day my
life seemed to come back to me, and I was no longer the sick man.
So the weeks went by, in all delight, my master working hard, and I
helping him in my degree, for new banners would be wanted when the
Dauphin went for his sacring to his good town of Reims.  As we all
deemed, this could no longer be delayed; and thereafter our armies
would fall on Paris, and so strong grew I, that I was in hopes to be
with them, where, at last, fortune was to be won.  But of this my
hope I said little to Elliot, waiting till I could wear armour, and
exercising myself thereat privately in the garden, before folk had
risen in the mornings.



CHAPTER XVIII--HOW ELLIOT'S JACKANAPES WAS SEEN AT THE KING'S
CROWNING



"The hearts of kings are in His hand," says Holy Scripture, and it
is of necessity to be believed that the hearts of kings, in an
especial sense, are wisely governed.  Yet, the blindness of our
sinful souls, we often may not see, nor by deep consideration find
out, the causes wherefore kings often act otherwise, and, as we
might deem, less worthily than common men.  For it is a truth and
must be told, that neither before he was anointed with the blessed
oil from the holy vessel, or ampulla, which the angel brought to St.
Remigius, nor even after that anointing (which is more strange), did
Charles VII., King of France, bear him kingly as regards the Maiden.
Nay, I have many a time thought with sorrow that if Xaintrailles, or
La Hire, ay, or any the meanest esquire in all our army, had been
born Dauphin, in three months after the Maid's victories in June
Paris would have been ours, and not an Englishman left to breathe
the air of France.  For it needed but that the King should obey the
Maid, ride straight to Reims, and thence on Paris town, and every
city would have opened its gates to him, as the walls of Jericho
fell at the mere sound of the trumpets of Israel.

This is no foolish fancy of an old man dreaming in a cloister about
what might have been.  For the Regent of the English, brother of
their King Harry the Fifth, and himself a wise man, and brave, if
cruel, was of this same mind.  First, he left Paris and shut himself
up in the strong castle of Vincennes, dreading an uproar among the
people; and next, he wholly withdrew himself to Rouen, for he had
now no force of men to guard the walls of Paris.  Our Dauphin had
but to mount and ride, and all would have been his at one blow, ay,
or without a blow.  The Maid, as we daily heard, kept praying him,
even with tears, to do no more than this; and from every side came
in men free and noble, ready to serve at their own charges.  The
poorest gentlemen who had lost all in the troubles, and might not
even keep a horse to ride, were of goodwill to march as common foot-
soldiers.

But, while all France called on her King, he was dwelling at Sully,
in the castle of La Tremouille, a man who had a foot in either camp,
so that neither English nor Burgundians had ever raided on his rich
lands, when these lay in their power.  So, what with the self-
seeking, and sloth, and jealousy of La Tremouille; what with the
worldly policy of the Archbishop of Reims, crying Peace, where there
was no peace, the Maid and the captains were not listened to, or, if
they were heard, their plans were wrought out with a faint heart, so
that, at last, if it is lawful to say so, the will of men prevailed
over the will of Heaven.

Never, I pray, may any prince of my own country be so bestead, and
so ill-served, that, when he has won battles and gained cities two
or three, and needs but to ride forward and win all his kingdom, he
shall be turned back by the little faith of his counsellors!  Never
may such a thing befall a prince of Scotland!  Concerning these
matters of State, as may be believed, we devised much at Tours,
while messengers were coming and going, and long, weary councils
were being held at Sully and at Gien.  D'Alencon, we got news, was
all for striking a blow yet more bold than the march to Reims, and
would have attacked the English where they were strongest, and
nearest their own shores, namely, at Rouen.  The counsellors of the
peaceful sort were inclined to waste time in besieging La Charite,
and other little towns on Loire-side.  But her Voices had bidden the
Maid, from the first, to carry the Dauphin to Reims, that there he
might be anointed, and known to France for the very King.  So at
last, finding that time was sorely wasted, whereas all hope lay in a
swift stroke, ere the English could muster men, and bring over the
army lately raised by the Cardinal of Winchester to go crusading
against the miscreants of Bohemia--the Maid rode out of Gien, with
her own company, on June the twenty-seventh, and lodged in the
fields, some four leagues away, on the road to Auxerre.  And next
day the King and the Court followed her perforce, with a great army
of twelve thousand men.  Thenceforth there came news to us every day
in Tours, and all the news was good.  Town after town opened its
gates at the summons of the Maid, and notably Troyes and Chalons, in
despite of the English garrisons.

We were all right glad, and could scarce sleep for joy, above all
when a messenger rode in, one Thomas Scott, whom I had encountered
before, as I have written, bidding my master come straightway to
Reims, to join the King, and exercise his craft in designing a great
picture of the coronation.  So with much ado he bestowed his
canvases, brushes, paints, and all other gear of his trade in
wallets, and, commending his daughter to his old kinswoman, to obey
her in all things, he set off on horseback with Thomas Scott.  But
for myself, I was to lodge, while he was at Reims, with a worthy
woman of Tours, for the avoiding of evil tongues, and very tardily
the time passed with me, for that I might not be, as before, always
in the company of Elliot.

As for my lady, she was, during most of these days, on her knees at
the altar in the great minster, praying to the saints for the
Dauphin, and the Maid, and for her father, that he might come and go
safely on his journey.  Nor did she pray in vain, for, no more than
two days after the first tidings had arrived that the sacring was
done, and that all had gone well, my master rode to his own door,
weary, but glad at heart, and hobbled into his house.  One was sent
running to bring me this good news, and I myself ran, for now I was
able, and found him seated at his meat, as well as he could eat it
for Elliot, that often stopped his mouth with kisses.

He held forth his hand to me, saying, "All is as well as heart could
desire, and the Maid bids you follow her, if you may, to the taking
of Paris, for there she says will be your one chance to win your
spurs.  And now let me eat and drink, for the heat is great, the
ways dusty, and I half famished.  Thereafter ask me what you will,
and you, Elliot, come not between a hungry man and his meat."

So he spoke, sitting at his table with his tankard in his hand, and
his wallets lying about him on the floor.  Elliot was therefore fain
not to be embracing him, but rather to carve for him, and serve in
the best manner, that he might sup the quicker and tell us all his
tale.  This he did at last, Elliot sitting on his knee, with her arm
about his neck.  But, as touches the sacring, how it was done,
though many of the peers of France were not there to see, and how
noble were the manners of the King and the Maid, who stood there
with her banner, and of the only reward which she would take,
namely, that her townsfolk should live free of tax and corvee, all
this is known and written of in Chronicles.  Nor did I see it
myself, so I pass by.  But, next to actual beholding of that
glorious rite, the best thing was to hear my master tell of it,
taking out his books, wherein he had drawn the King, and the Maid in
her harness, and many of the great lords.  From these pictures a
tapestry was afterwards wrought, and hung in Reims Cathedral, where
it is to this day:  the Maid on horseback beckoning the King onward,
the Scots archers beside him in the most honourable place, as was
their lawful due, and, behind all, the father of the Maid entering
Reims by another road.  By great good fortune, and by virtue of
being a fellow-traveller with Thomas Scott, the rider of the King's
stable, my master found lodgings easily enough.  So crowded was the
town that, the weather being warm, in mid July, many lay in
tabernacles of boughs, in the great place of Reims, and there was
more singing that night than sleeping.  But my master had lain at
the hostelry called L'Asne Roye, in the parvise, opposite to the
cathedral, where also lay Jean d'Arc, the father of the Maid.
Thither she herself came to visit him, and she gave gifts to such of
the people of her own countryside as were gathered at Reims.

"And, Jeannot, do you fear nothing?" one of them asked her, who had
known her from a child.

"I fear nothing but treason," my master heard her reply, a word that
we had afterwards too good cause to remember.

"And is she proud now that she is so great?" asked Elliot.

"She proud!  No pride has she, but sat at meat, and spoke friendly
with all these manants, and it was "tu" and "toy," and "How is this
one? and that one?" till verily, I think, she had asked for every
man, woman, child, and dog in Domremy.  And that puts me in mind--"

"In mind of what?"

"Of nought.  Faith, I remember not what I was going to say, for I am
well weary."

"But Paris?" I asked.  "When march we on Paris?"  My master's face
clouded.  "They should have set forth for Paris the very day after
the sacring, which was the seventeenth of July.  But envoys had come
in from the Duke of Burgundy, and there were parleys with them as
touching peace.  Now, peace will never be won save at the point of
the lance.  But a truce of a fortnight has been made with Burgundy,
and then he is to give up Paris to the King.  Yet, ere a fortnight
has passed, the new troops from England will have come over to fight
us, and not against the heretics of Bohemia, though they have taken
the cross and the vow.  And the King has gone to Saint Marcoul,
forsooth, seeing that, unless he goes there to do his devotions, he
may not touch the sick and heal the crewels. {29}  Faith, they that
have the crewels might even wait till the King has come to his own
again; they have waited long enough to learn patience while he was
Dauphin.  It should be Paris first, and Saint Marcoul and the
crewels afterwards, but anything to waste time and keep out of the
brunt of the battle."  Here he struck his hand on the table so that
the vessels leaped.  "I fear what may come of it," he said.  "For
every day that passes is great loss to us and much gain to our
enemies of England, who will anon garrison Paris."

"Faint-heart," cried Elliot, plucking his beard.  "You will never
believe in the Maid, who has never yet failed to help us, by the aid
of the saints."

"The saints help them that help themselves," he answered.  "And
Paris town has walls so strong, that once the fresh English are
entered in, even the saints may find it a hard bargain.  But you,
Elliot, run up and see if my chamber be ready, for I am well weary."
She ran forth, and my master, turning to me, said in a low voice, "I
have something for your own ear, but I feared to grieve her.  In a
booth at Reims I saw her jackanapes doing his tricks, and when he
came round questing with his bowl the little beast knew me and
jumped up into my arms, and wailed as if he had been a Christian.
Then I was for keeping him, but I was set on by three or four stout
knaves, and, I being alone, and the crowd taking their part, I
thought it not well to draw sword, and so break the King's peace
that had just then begun to be King.  But my heart was sore for the
poor creature, and, in very truth, I bring back no light heart, save
to see you twain again, for I fear me that the worst of the darg
{30} is still to do.  But here comes Elliot, so no word of the
jackanapes."

Therewith he went off to his chamber, and I to mine, with less
pleasure than I had looked for.  Still, the thought came into my
heart that, the longer the delay of the onslaught on Paris, the
better chance I had to take part therein; and the harder the work,
the greater the glory.

The boding words of my master proved over true.  The King was sacred
on July the sixteenth, and Paris then stood empty of English
soldiers, being garrisoned by Burgundians only.  But, so soon as he
was anointed, the King began to parley with Burgundy, and thus they
spun out the time, till, on July the twenty-fifth, a strong army of
Englishmen had entered Paris.  Whether their hearts were high may
not be known, but on their banner they had hung a distaff, and had
painted the flag with the words -


"Ores viegne la Belle,"


meaning, "Let the fair Maid come, and we shall give her wool to
spin."  Next we heard, and were loth to believe it, that a new truce
of fifteen days more had been made with Burgundy.  The Maid, indeed,
said openly that she loved not the truce, and that she kept it only
for the honour of the King, which was dearer to her than her life,
as she proved in the end.

Then came marchings, this way and that, all about the Isle of
France, Bedford leaving Paris to fight the King, and then refusing
battle, though the Maid rode up to the English palisades, and smote
them with her sword, defying the English to come out, if they were
men.  So the English betook them back to Paris, after certain light
skirmishes only.  Meanwhile some of his good towns that had been in
the hands of the English yielded to the King, or rather to the Maid.
Among these the most notable was Compiegne, a city as great as
Orleans.  Many a time it had been taken and retaken in the wars, but
now the burgesses swore that they would rather all die, with their
wives and children, than open their gates again to the English.  And
this oath they kept well, as shall be seen in the end.



CHAPTER XIX--HOW NORMAN LESLIE RODE AGAIN TO THE WARS



Tidings of these parleys, and marches, and surrenders of cities came
to us at Tours, the King sending letters to his good towns by
messengers.  One of these, the very Thomas Scott of whom I have
before spoken, a man out of Rankelburn, in Ettrick Forest, brought a
letter for me, which was from Randal Rutherford.

"Mess-John Urquhart writes for me, that am no clerk," said Randal,
"and, to spare his pains, as he writes for the most of us, I say no
more than this:  come now, or come never, for the Maid will ride to
see Paris in three days, or four, let the King follow or not as he
will."

There was no more but a cross marked opposite the name of Randal
Rutherford, and the date of place and day, August the nineteenth, at
Compiegne.

My face fired, for I felt it, when I had read this, and I made no
more ado, but, covenanting with Thomas Scott to be with him when he
rode forth at dawn, I went home, put my harness in order, and hired
a horse from him that kept the hostelry of the "Hanging Sword,"
whither also I sent my harness, for that I would sleep there.  This
was all done in the late evening, secretly, and, after supper, I
broke the matter to my master and Elliot.  Her face changed to a
dead white, and she sat silent, while my master took the word,
saying, in our country speech, that "he who will to Cupar, maun to
Cupar," and therewith he turned, and walked out and about in the
garden.

We were alone, and now was the hardest of my work to do, to comfort
Elliot, when, in faith, I sorely needed comfort myself.  But honour
at once and necessity called me to ride, being now fit to bear
harness, and foreseeing no other chance to gain booty, or even,
perchance, my spurs.  Nor could I endure to be a malingerer.  She
sat there, very white, her lip quivering, but her eyes brave and
steadfast.

I kneeled beside her, and in my hands I took her little hand, that
was cold as ice.

"It is for the Maid, and for you, Elliot," I whispered; and she only
bent her head on my shoulder, but her cold hand gripped mine firmly.

"She did say that you should come back unharmed of sword," whispered
Elliot, looking for what comfort she might.  "But, O my dear! you
may be taken, and when shall I see you again?  Oh! this life is the
hardest thing for women, who must sit and tremble and pray at home.
Sure no danger of war is so terrible!  Ah, must you really go?"

Then she clung so closely about me, that it seemed as if I could
never escape out of her arms, and I felt as if my heart must break
in twain.

"How could I look men in the face, and how could I ever see the Maid
again, if I go not?" I said; and, loosening her grasp, she laid her
hands on my shoulders, and so gazed on me steadfastly, as if my
picture could be fixed on the tablets of her brain.

"On your chin is coming a little down, at last," she said, smiling
faintly, and then gave a sob, and her lips met mine, and our very
souls met; but, even then, we heard my master's steps hobbling to
the door, and she gave a cry, and fled to her chamber.  And this was
our leave-taking--brief, but I would not have had it long.

"It is ill work parting, Heaven help us," said my master.  "Faith, I
remember, as if it were to-day, how I set forth for Verneuil; a long
time I was gone, and came back a maimed man.  But it is fortune of
war!  The saints have you in their keeping, my son, and chiefly St.
Andrew.  Come back soon, and whole, and rich, for, meseems, if I
lose one of you, I am to lose both."

Therewith he embraced me, and I set forth to the hostel where I was
to lie that night.

Now, see how far lighter is life to men than to women, for, though I
left the house with the heaviest heart of any man in Tours, often
looking back at the candleshine in my lady's casement, yet, when I
reached the "Hanging Sword," I found Thomas Scott sitting at his
wine, and my heart and courage revived within me.  He lacked nothing
but one to listen, and soon was telling tales of the war, and of the
road, and of how this one had taken a rich prisoner, and that one
had got an arrow in his thigh, and of what chances there were to win
Paris by an onslaught.

"For in no other can we take it," said he, "save, indeed, by
miracle.  For they are richly provisioned, and our hope is that, if
we can make a breach, there may be a stir of the common folk, who
are well weary of the English and the Burgundians."

Now, with his talk of adventures, and with high hopes, I was so
heartened up, that, to my shame, my grief fell from me, and I went
to my bed to dream of trenches and escalades, glory and gain.  But
Elliot, I fear me, passed a weary night, and a sorry, whereas I had
scarce laid my head on my pillow, as it seemed, when I heard Thomas
shouting to the grooms, and clatter of our horses' hoofs in the
courtyard.  So I leaped up, though it was scarce daylight, and we
rode northwards before the full coming of the dawn.

Here I must needs write of a shameful thing, which I knew not then,
or I would have ridden with a heavier heart, but I was told
concerning the matter many years after, by Messire Enguerrand de
Monstrelet, a very learned knight, and deep in the counsels of the
Duke of Burgundy.

"You were all sold," he said to me, at Dijon, in the year of our
Lord fourteen hundred and forty-seven--"you were all sold when you
marched against Paris town.  For the Maid, with D'Alencon, rode from
Compiegne towards Paris, on the twenty-third of August, if I
remember well"; and here he turned about certain written parchments
that lay by him.  "Yea, on the twenty-third she left Compiegne, but
on the twenty-eighth of that month the Archbishop of Reims entered
the town, and there he met the ambassadors of the Good Duke of
Burgundy.  There he and they made a compact between them, binding
your King and the Duke, that their truce should last till Noel, but
that the duke might use his men in the defence of Paris against all
that might make onfall.  Now, the Archbishop and the King knew well
that the Maid was, in that hour, marching on Paris.  To what purpose
make a truce, and leave out of the peace the very point where war
should be?  Manifestly the French King never meant to put forth the
strength of his army in helping the Maid.  There was to be truce
between France and Burgundy, but none between England and the Maid."

So Messire Enguerrand told me, a learned knight and a grave, and
thus was the counsel of the saints defeated by the very King whom
they sought to aid.  But of this shameful treaty we men-at-arms knew
nothing, and so hazarded our lives against loaded dice.



CHAPTER XX--CONCERNING THE MAID AND THE BIRDS



We rode northwards, first through lands that I had travelled in
before to Orleans, and so into a country then strange to me, passing
by way of Lagny, with intent to go to Senlis, where we deemed the
King lay.  The whole region being near Paris, and close under the
English power, was rich and peaceful of aspect, the corn being
already reaped, and standing in sheaves about the fields, whether to
feed Englishmen or Frenchmen, none could tell.  For the land was in
a kind of hush, in expectancy and fear, no man knowing how things
should fall out at Paris.  Natheless the Prior of Lagny, within that
very week wherein we came, had gone to St. Denis, and yielded his
good town into the hands of the Duc d'Alencon for the King.  And the
fair Duke had sent thither Messire Ambrose de Lore, a very good
knight, with Messire Jehan Foucault, and many men-at-arms.

To Messire Ambrose we were brought, that we might give and take his
news.  I remember well that I dropped out of the saddle at the door
of his lodgings, and could scarce stand on my legs, so weary was I
with the long and swift riding.  Never had I ridden so far, and so
fast, fresh horses standing saddled and bridled for Thomas Scott and
me at every stage, but the beast which I had hired I sent back from
the first stage to mine host of the "Hanging Sword."  Not without
labour I climbed the stairs to the chamber of Messire Ambrose, who
bade us sit down, and called for wine to be given us, whereof Thomas
Scott drank well, but I dared take none, lest my legs should wholly
refuse their office.

When Thomas had told how all the country lay at the King's peace,
and how our purpose was to ride to the King at Senlis, the knight
bade us rather make what haste we might to St. Denis.  "For there,
by to-morrow or next day, the King is like to be, and the assault
will be delivered on Paris, come of it what will."

With this he bade us good speed, but, to guess from his countenance,
was in no high hopes.  And, at supper, whereto we had the company of
certain of his men-at-arms, I could well perceive that they were not
in the best heart.  For now we heard how the Maid, being sorrowful
for the long delays, had bidden the Duc d'Alencon ride forth with
her from Compiegne "to see Paris closer than yet she had seen it."
The Duc d'Alencon, who in late days has so strangely forgotten the
loyalty of his youth, was then fain to march with her, for they two
were the closest friends that might be.  Therefore they had passed
by way of Senlis, where they were joined by some force of men-at-
arms, and so, on the third day's march, they came to St. Denis,
where they were now lying.  Here it is that the kings of France have
been buried for these eight hundred years, in the great Abbey.

"Nom Dieu!" said one of those who spoke with us.  "You might deem
that our King is nowise pressed to see the place where his
forefathers lie.  For D'Alencon is riding, now and again, to Senlis,
to rouse the King, and make him march to St. Denis, with the army,
that the assault may be given.  But if they were bidding him to his
own funeral, instead of to a gentle passage of arms, he could not
make more excuses.  There are skirmishes under Paris walls, and at
the gates, day by day, and the Maid rides here and there,
considering of the best place for the onslaught.  But the King
tarries, and without him and the army they can venture on no great
valiance.  Nevertheless, come he must, if they bring him bound in a
cart.  Wherefore, if you want your part in what is toward, you do
well to make no long tarrying here."

I was of the same mind, and as the King was shortly to be looked for
at St. Denis, we rode thither early next morning, with what speed we
might.  On our left, like a cloud, was the smoke of Paris, making me
understand what a great city it was, much greater than Orleans.
Before us, far away, were the tall towers of the chapel of St.
Denis, to be our guide!  We heard, also, the noise of ordnance being
fired, and therefore made the greater haste, and we so rode that,
about six hours after noon, on the Eve of the Nativity of our
Blessed Lady, we reached the gates of the town.  Here we found great
press of folk, men coming and going, some carrying the wounded, for
there had been a skirmish that day, at one of the Paris gates,
whence came the sound of cannon and culverins, and we had won little
advantage.

At the gates of St. Denis we asked where the quarters of the Scots
men-at-arms might be, and were told in the chapel, whither we needed
no guide.  But, as we went up the street, we saw women leaning forth
from the windows, laughing with the men-at-arms, and beckoning to
them, and by the tavern doors many were sitting drinking, with girls
beside them, and others were playing dice, and many an oath we
heard, and foul words, as is customary in a camp.  Verily I saw well
that this was not the army of men clean confessed and of holy life
who had followed the Maid from Blois to Orleans.  In place of
priests, here were harlots, and, for hymns, ribald songs, for men
had flocked in from every quarter; soldiers of the robber companies,
Bretons, Germans, Italians, Spaniards, all talking in their own
speech, rude, foul, and disorderly.  So we took our way, as best we
knight, through the press, hearing oaths enough if our horses trod
over near any man, and seeing daggers drawn.

It was a pleasure to come out on the great parvise, where the red,
white, and green of our Scots were the commonest colours, and where
the air was less foul and noisome than in the narrow wynds.  High
above us the great towers of the abbey shone red and golden in the
light of the sinking sun, while beneath all was brown, dusk, and dim
with smoke.  On these towers I could gladly have looked long, and
not wearied.  For they are all carven with the holy company of the
martyrs and saints, like the Angels whom Jacob saw ascending by the
ladder into heaven; even so that blessed company seemed to scale
upwards from the filth of the street, and the darkness, and the din,
right on towards the golden heights of the City of God.  And beneath
them lie the sacred bones of all the kings of France, from the days
of St. Dagobert even to our own time, all laid there to rest where
no man shall disturb them, till the Angels' Trumpet calls, and the
Day of Judgment is at hand.  Verily it is a solemn place for a
Christian man to think on, and I was gazing thereupon, as in a
dream, when one plucked my sleeve, and turning, I saw Randal
Rutherford, all his teeth showing in a grin.

"Welcome," he cried.  "You have made good speed, and the beginning
of a fray is better than the end of a feast.  And, by St. Boswell,
to-morrow we shall have it, lad!  The King came in to-day--late is
better than never--and to-morrow we go with the Maid, to give these
pock-puddings a taste of Scottish steel."

"And the Maid, where is she, Randal?"

"She lodges beyond the Paris gate, at the windmill, wherefrom she
drove the English some days agone."

"Wherefore not in the town?" I asked.

"Mayhap because she likes to be near her work, and would that all
were of her mind.  And mayhap she loves not the sight of the wenches
whom she was wont to drive from the camp, above all now that she has
broken the Holy Sword of Fierbois, smiting a lass with the flat of
the blade."

"I like not the omen," said I.

"Freits follow them that freits fear," said Randal, in our country
speech.  "And the Maid is none of these.  'Well it was,' said she,
'that I trusted not my life to a blade that breaks so easily,' and,
in the next skirmish, she took a Burgundian with her own hands, and
now wears his sword, which is a good cut and thrust piece.  But
come," he cried, "if needs you must see the Maid, you have but to
walk to the Paris gate, and so to the windmill hard by.  And your
horse I will stable with our own, and for quarters, we living Scots
men-at-arms fare as well as the dead kings of France, for to-night
we lie in the chapel."

I dismounted, and he gave me an embrace, and, holding me at arms'-
length, laughed -

"You never were a tall man, Norman, but you look sound, and whole,
and tough for your inches, like a Highlandman's dirk.  Now be off on
your errand, and when it is done, look for me yonder at the sign of
'The Crane,'" pointing across the parvise to a tavern, "for I keep a
word to tell in your lug that few wot of, and that it will joy you
to hear.  To-morrow, lad, we go in foremost."

And so, smiling, he took my horse and went his way, whistling, "Hey,
tuttie, tattie!"

Verily his was the gladdest face I had seen, and his words put some
heart into me, whereas, of the rest save our own Scots, I liked
neither what I saw, nor what I heard.

I had but to walk down the street, through elbowing throngs of
grooms, pages, men-at-arms, and archers, till I found the Paris
Gate, whence the windmill was plain to behold.  It was such an old
place as we see in Northern France, plain, strong, with red walls
which the yellow mosses stain, and with high grey roofs.  The Maid's
banner, with the Holy Dove, and the Sacred Name, drooped above the
gateway, and beside the door, on the mounting-stone, sat the boy,
Louis des Coutes, her page.  He was a lad of fifteen years, merry
enough of his nature, and always went gaily clad, and wearing his
yellow hair long.  But now he sat thoughtful on the mounting-stone,
cutting at a bit of wood with his dagger.

"So you have come to take your part," he said, when we had saluted
each the other.  "Faith, I hope you bring good luck with you, and
more joy to my mistress, for we need all that you can bring."

"Why, what ails all of you?" I asked.  "I have seen never a hopeful
face, save that of one of my own countrymen.  You are not afraid of
a crack on your curly pate, are you?"

"Curly or not, my head knows better than to knock itself against
Paris walls.  They are thick, and high, and the windows of every
house on the wall are piled with stones, to drop upon us.  And I
know not well why, but things go ill with us.  I never saw Her," and
he nodded towards the open gateway, "so out of comfort.  When there
is fighting toward, she is like herself, and she is the first to
rise and the last to lie down.  But, in all our waiting here, she
has passed many an hour praying in the chapel, where the dead kings
lie, yet her face is not glad when she comes forth.  It was wont to
shine strangely, when she had been praying, at the chapel in
Couldray, while we were at Chinon.  But now it is otherwise.
Moreover, we saw Paris very close to-day, and there were over many
red crosses of St. George upon the walls.  And to-morrow is the
Feast of the Blessed Virgin, no day for bloodshed."

"Faint heart!" said I (and, indeed, after the assault on Paris,
Louis des Coutes went back, and rode no more with the maid).  "The
better the day, the better the deed!  May I go within?"

"I will go with you," he said, "for she said that you would come,
and bade me bring you to her."

We entered the gateway together, and before us lay the square of the
farm, strewn with litter, and from within the byre we heard the milk
ring in the pails, for the women were milking the cows.  And there
we both stood astonished, for we saw the Maid as never yet I had
seen her.  She was bareheaded, but wore the rest of her harness,
holding in her hand a measure of corn.  All the fowls of the air
seemed to be about her, expecting their meat.  But she was not
throwing the grain among them, for she stood as still as a graven
image, and, wonderful to tell, a dove was perched on her shoulder,
and a mavis was nestling in her breast, while many birds flew round
her, chiefly doves with burnished plumage, flitting as it were
lovingly, and softly brushing her now and again with their wings.
Many a time had I heard it said that, while she was yet a child, the
wild birds would come and nestle in the bosom of the Maid, but I had
never believed the tale.  Yet now I saw this thing with mine own
eyes, a fair sight and a marvellous, so beautiful she looked, with
head unhelmeted, and the wild fowl and tame flitting about her and
above her, the doves crooning sweetly in their soft voices.  Then
her lips moved, and she spoke -

"Tres doulx Dieu, en l'onneur de vostre saincte passion, je vous
requier, se vous me aimes, que vous me revelez ce que je doy faire
demain pour vostre gloire!"

So she fell silent again, and to me it seemed that I must not any
longer look upon that holy mystery, so, crossing myself, I laid my
hand on the shoulder of the page, and we went silently from the
place.

"Have you ever seen it in this manner?" I whispered, when we were
again without the farmyard.

"Never," said he, trembling, "though once I saw a stranger thing."

"And what may that have been?"

"Nay, I spoke of it to her, and she made me swear that I never would
reveal it to living soul, save in confession.  But she is not as
other women."

What he had in his mind I know not, but I bade him good even, and
went back into the town, where lights were beginning to show in the
casements.  In the space within the gates were many carts gathered,
full of faggots wherewith to choke up the fosse under Paris, and
tables to throw above the faggots, and so cross over to the assault.



CHAPTER XXI--HOW A HUNDRED SCOTS SET FORTH TO TAKE PARIS TOWN



Entering the tavern of "The Crane," I found the doorways crowded
with archers of our Guard, among whom was Randal Rutherford.

When I had come, they walked into a chamber on the ground floor,
calling for wine, and bidding certain French burgesses go forth, who
needed no second telling.  The door was shut, two sentinels of ours
were posted outside, and then Randal very carefully sounded all the
panels of the room, looking heedfully lest there should be any hole
whereby what passed among us might be heard in another part of the
house, but he found nothing of the kind.

The room being full, some sitting and some standing, as we could,
Randal bade Father Urquhart, our chaplain, tell us to what end we
had been called together.

The good father thereupon stood up, and spoke in a low voice, but so
that all could hear, for we were all hushed to listen.

"There is," he said, "within Paris, a certain Carmelite, a
Frenchman, and a friend of Brother Richard, the Preacher, whom, as
you know, the English drove from the town."

"I saw him at Troyes," said one, "where he kneeled before the Maid,
and they seemed very loving."

"That is the man, that is Brother Richard.  Now, as I was busy
tending the wounded, in the skirmish three days agone, this
Carmelite was about the same duty for those of his party.  He put
into my hand a slip of paper, wherein Brother Richard commended him
to any Scot or Frenchman of the King's party, as an honest man, and
a friend of the King's.  When I had read this, the Carmelite spoke
with me in Latin, and in a low voice.  His matter was this:  In
Paris, he said, there is a strong party of Armagnacs, who have, as
we all know, a long score to settle with them of Burgundy.  They are
of the common folk and labourers, but among them are many rich
burgesses.  They have banded themselves together by an oath to take
our part, within the town, if once we win a gate.  Here is a cedule
signed by them with their names or marks, and this he gave me as a
proof of good faith."

Here he handed a long slip of parchment, all covered with writing,
to Randal, and it went round among us, but few there were clerks,
save myself.  I looked on it, and the names, many of them attested
by seals with coat armour, were plain to be read.

"Their counsel is to muster in arms secretly, and to convey
themselves, one by one, into certain houses hard by the Port St.
Denis, where certain of their party dwell.  Now, very early to-
morrow morning, before dawn, the purpose of the English is to send
forth a company of a hundred men-at-arms, who will make a sudden
onset on the windmill, where the Maid lies to-night, and so will
take her, if they may."

"By St. Bride of Douglas," said one of us, "they will get their kail
through the reek, for our guard is to lie in arms about the
windmill, and be first in the field to-morrow."

"The craft is, then," Father Urquhart went on, "that we shall
destroy this English company with sword or arrow, but with no alarm
of culverins or cannon.  Meanwhile, some five score of you will put
on to-night the red cross of St. George, with plain armour, so that
the English shall mistake you for their own men returning from the
sally, and some few men in our own colours and coats you will hale
with you as prisoners.  And, if one of you can but attire himself in
some gear of the Maid's, with a hucque of hers, scarlet, and dight
with the Lilies of France, the English gate-wards will open to you
all the more eagerly."

"By the bones of St. Boswell!" cried Randal in his loud voice, but
the good Father put a hand on his mouth.

"Quiet, man!" he said.

"By the blessed bones of St. Boswell," Randal said again, as near a
whisper as he could attain to, "the lady of the linen-basket shall
come as the Maid.  We have no man so maidenly."

They all shouted, laughing, and beating the tables with hands and
tankards.

"Silence!" cried Robin Lindsay.

"Nay, the louder we laugh, the less will any suspect what is
forward," said Randal Rutherford.

"Norman, will you play this part in the mumming?"

I was ashamed to say no, though I liked it not over well, and I
nodded with my head.

"How maidenly he blushes!" cried one, and there was another clamour,
till the walls rang.

"So be it then," says Father Urquhart, "and now you know all.  The
honest Armagnacs will rise so soon as you are well within the gate.
They command both sides of the street that leads to the Port St.
Denis, and faith, if the English want to take it, when a hundred
Scots are within, they will have to sally forth by another gate, and
come from the outside.  And you are to run up the banner of Scotland
over the Port, when once you hold it, so the French attack will be
thereby."

"We played the same game before Verneuil fight, and won it," said
one; "will the English have forgotten the trick?"

"By St. Bride, when once they see us haling the Maid along, they
will forget old stratagems of war.  This is a new device!  Oh to see
their faces when we cry 'St. Andrew,' and set on!"

"I am not so old as you all in the wars," I began.

"No, Mademoiselle la Lavandiere, but you are of the right spirit,
with your wench's face."

"But," I said, "how if the English that are to attack the windmill
in the first grey of the morning come not to hand-strokes, or take
to their heels when they find us awake, and win back to Paris before
us?  Our craft, methinks, is to hold them in an ambush, but what if
we catch them not?  Let but one runaway be swift of foot, and we are
undone."

"There is this to be said," quoth Father Urquhart, "that the English
company is to sally forth by the Port St. Denis, and it is the Port
St. Denis that our Armagnacs will be guarding.  Now I speak as a man
of peace, for that is my calling.  But how would it be if your
hundred men and Norman set forth in the dark, and lay hid not very
far from the St. Denis Gate?  Then some while after the lighting of
the bale-fires from the windmill, to be lit when the English set on,
make straight for the gate, and cry, "St. George for England!"

"If you see not the bale-fires ere daylight, you will come back with
what speed you may; but if you do see them, then--"

"Father, you have not lived long on the Highland line for nothing,"
quoth Robin Lindsay.

"A very proper stratagem indeed," I said, "but now, gentlemen, there
is one little matter; how will Sir Hugh Kennedy take this device of
ours?  If we try it and fail, without his privity, we had better
never return, but die under Paris wall.  And, even if we hold the
gate, and Paris town is taken, faith I would rather affront the fire
of John the Lorrainer than the face of Sir Hugh."

No man spoke, there were not two minds on this matter, so, after
some chaffer of words, it was agreed to send Father Urquhart with
Randal to show the whole scheme to Sir Hugh, while the rest of us
should await their coming back with an answer.  In no long time they
were with us, the father very red and shame-faced.

"He gave the good father the rough side of his tongue," quoth
Randal, "for speaking first to me, and not to him.  Happily we were
over cunning to say aught of our gathering here.  But when he had
let his bile flow, he swore, and said that he could spare a hundred
dyvour loons of his command, on the cast of the dice, and, now
silence all! not a word or a cry," here he held up his hand, "we are
to take 'fortune of war'!"

Every man grinned gladly on his neighbour, in dead stillness.

"Now," said Randal, "slip out by threes and fours, quietly, and to
quarters; but you, Norman, wait with me."



CHAPTER XXII--HOW NORMAN LESLIE FARED IN PARIS TOWN



"Norman, my lad, all our fortunes are made," said Randal to me when
we were left alone.  "There will be gilt spurs and gold for every
one of us, and the pick of the plunder."

"I like it not," I answered; whereon he caught me rudely by both
shoulders, looking close into my face, so that the fume of the wine
he had been drinking reached my nostrils.

"Is a Leslie turning recreant?" he asked in a low voice.  "A pretty
tale to tell in the kingdom of Fife!"

I stood still, my heart very hot with anger, and said no word, while
his grip closed on me.

"Leave hold," I cried at last, and I swore an oath, may the Saints
forgive me,--"I will not go!"

He loosed his grasp on me, and struck one hand hard into the other.

"That I should see this, and have to tell it!" he said, and stepping
to the table, he drank like one thirsty, and then fell to pacing the
chamber.  He seemed to be thinking slowly, as he wiped and plucked
at his beard.

"What is it that ails you?" he asked.  "Look you, this onfall and
stratagem of war may not miscarry.  Perdition take the fool, it is
safe!"

"Have I been seeking safety since you knew me?" I asked.

"Verily no, and therefore I wonder at you the more; but you have
been long sick, and men's minds are changeful.  Consider the thing,
nom Dieu!  If there be no two lights shown from the mill, we step
back silently, and all is as it was; the English have thought worse
of their night onfall, or the Carmelite's message was ruse de
guerre.  But if we see the two lights, then the hundred English are
attempting the taking of the mill; the St. Denis Gate is open for
their return, and we are looked for by our Armagnacs within Paris.
We risk but a short tussle with some drowsy pock-puddings, and then
the town is ours.  The Gate is as strong to hold against an enemy
from within as from without.  Why, man, run to Louis de Coutes, and
beg a cast suit of the Maid's; she has plenty, for she is a woman in
this, that dearly she loves rich attire."

"Randal," I said, "I will go with you, and the gladdest lad in
France to be going, but I will go in my own proper guise as a man-
at-arms.  To wear the raiment of the Blessed Maid, a man and a
sinner like me, I will in nowise consent; it is neither seemly nor
honourable.  Take your own way, put me under arrest if you will, and
spoil my fortunes, and make me a man disgraced, but I will not wear
her holy raiment.  It is not the deed of a gentleman, or of a
Christian."

He plucked at his beard.  "I am partly with you," he said.  "And yet
it were a great bourde to play off on the English, and most like to
take them and to be told of in ballad and chronicle, like one of
Wallace's onfalls.  For, seeing the Pucelle, as they will deem, in
our hands, they will think all safe, and welcome us open armed.  O
Norman, can we do nothing?  Stop, will you wear another woman's
short kirtle over your cuisses and taslet?  She shall be no saint, I
warrant you, but, for a sinner, a bonny lass and a merry.  As a
gentleman I deem this fair stratagem of war.  If I were your own
brother,--the Saints have his soul in their keeping,--I would still
be of this counsel.  Will you, my lad?"

He looked so sad, and yet withal so comical, that I held out my hand
to him, laughing.

"Disguise me as you will," I said, "I have gone mumming as Maid
Marion before now, in the Robin Hood play, at St. Andrews"; and as I
spoke, I saw the tall thatched roofs of South Street, and the Priory
Gates open, the budding elms above the garden wall of St. Leonard's,
and all the May-day revel of a year agone pouring out into the good
town.

"You speak like yourself now, bless your beardless face!  Come
forth," he said, taking a long pull at a tankard,--"that nothing
might be wasted,"--and so we went to quarters, and Randal trudged
off, soon coming back, laughing, with the red kirtle.  Our men had
been very busy furbishing up the red cross of St. George on their
breasts, and stripping themselves of any sign of our own colours.
As for my busking, never had maid such rough tire-women; but by one
way or another, the apparel was accommodated, and they all said
that, at a little distance of ground, the English would be finely
fooled, and must deem that the Maid herself was being led to them
captive.

It was now in the small hours of morning, dark, save for the glimmer
of stars, here and there in a cloudy sky.  Father Urquhart himself
went up to the roof of the mill, to say his orisons, having with him
certain faggots of pitch-wood, for lighting the beacon-fires if need
were; and, as it chanced, braziers to this end stood ready on the
roof, as is custom on our own Border keeps.

We Scots, a hundred in all, in English colours, with three or four
as prisoners, in our own badges, fared cautiously, and with no word
spoken, through dewy woods, or lurking along in dry ditches where
best we might, towards the St. Denis Gate of Paris.  I had never
been on a night surprise or bushment before, and I marvelled how
orderly the others kept, as men used to such work, whereas I went
stumbling and blindlings.  At length, within sight of the twinkling
lights of Paris, and a hundred yards or thereby off the common way,
we were halted in a little wood, and bidden to lie down; no man was
so much as to whisper.  Some slept, I know, for I heard their
snoring, but for my part, I never was less in love with sleep.  When
the sky first grew grey, so that we could dimly see shapes of
things, we heard a light noise of marching men on the road.

"The English!" whispered he that lay next me.  "Hush!" breathed
Randal, and so the footsteps went by, none of us daring to stir, for
fear of the rustle in the leaves.

The sound soon ceased; belike they had struck off into these very
fields wherethrough we had just marched.

"Now, Robin Lindsay, climb into yonder ash-tree, and keep your eyes
on the mill and the beacon-fires," said Randal.

Robin scrambled up, not easily, because of his armour, and we
waited, as it seemed, for an endless time.

"What is that sound," whispered one, "so heavy and so hoarse?"

It was my own heart beating, as if it would burst my side, but I
said nought, and even then Robin slid from the tree, as lightly as
he might.  He held up two fingers, without a word, for a sign that
the beacons were lighted, and nodded.

"Down all," whispered Randal.

"Give them time, give them time."

So there we lay, as we must, but that was the hardest part of the
waiting, and no sound but of the fowls and wild things arousing, and
the cry of sentinels from Paris walls, came to our ears.

At length Randal said, "Up all, and onwards!"

We arose, loosened our swords in their sheaths, and so crossed to
the road.  We could now see Paris plainly, and were close by the
farm of the Mathurins, while beyond was the level land they call
"Les Porcherons," with slopes above it, and many trees.

"Now, Norman," said Randal, "when we come within clear sight of the
gate, two of us shall seize you by the arms as prisoner; then we all
cry 'St. George!' and set off running towards Paris.  The quicker,
the less time for discovery."

So, having marched orderly and speedily, while the banks of the
roadway hid us, we set off to run, Randal and Robin gripping me when
we were full in sight of the moat, of the drawbridge (which was
down), and the gate.

Then our men all cried, "St. George for England!  The witch is
taken!"  And so running disorderly and fast we made for the Port,
while English men-at-arms might be plainly seen and heard, gazing,
waving their hands, and shouting from the battlements of the two
gate-towers.  Down the road we ran, past certain small houses of
peasants, and past a gibbet with a marauder hanging from it, just
over the dry ditch.

Our feet, we three leading, with some twenty in a clump hard behind
us, rang loud on the drawbridge over the dry fosse.  The bridge
planks quivered strangely; we were now within the gateway, when down
fell the portcullis behind us, the drawbridge, creaking, flew up, a
crowd of angry faces and red crosses were pressing on us, and a blow
fell on my salade, making me reel.  I was held in strong arms,
swords shone out above me, I stumbled on a body--it was Robin
Lindsay's--I heard Randal give a curse as his blade broke on a
helmet, and cry, "I yield me, rescue or no rescue."  Then burst
forth a blast of shouts, and words of command and yells, and English
curses.  Cannon-shot roared overhead, and my mouth was full of
sulphur smoke and dust.  They were firing on those of our men who
had not set foot on the drawbridge when it flew up.  Soon the
portcullis rose again, and the bridge fell, to let in a band of
English archers, through whom our Scots were cutting their way back
towards St. Denis.

Of all this I got glimpses, rather than clear sight, as the throng
within the gateway reeled and shifted, crushing me sorely.
Presently the English from without trooped in, laughing and cursing,
welcomed by their fellows, and every man of them prying into my
face, and gibing.  It had been a settled plan:  we were betrayed, it
was over clear, and now a harsh voice behind making me turn, I saw
the wolf's face of Father Thomas under his hood, and his yellow
fangs.

"Ha! fair clerk, they that be no clerks themselves may yet hire
clerks to work for them.  How like you my brother, the Carmelite?"

Then I knew too well how this stratagem had all been laid by that
devil, and my heart turned to water within me.

Randal was led away, but round me the crowd gathered in the open
space, for I was haled into the greater gate tower beyond the wet
fosse, and from all quarters ran soldiers, and men, women, and
children of the town to mock me.

"Behold her," cried Father Thomas, climbing on a mounting-stone, as
one who would preach to the people, while the soldiers that held me
laughed.

"Behold this wonderful wonder of all wonders, the miraculous Maid of
the Armagnacs!  She boasted that, by help of the Saints, she would
be the first within the city, and lo! she is the first, but she has
come without her army.  She is every way a miracle, mark you, for
she hath a down on her chin, such as no common maidens wear; and if
she would but speak a few words of counsel, methinks her tongue
would sound strangely Scottish for a Lorrainer."

"Speak, speak!" shouted the throng.

"Dogs," I cried, in French, "dogs and cowards!  You shall see the
Maid closer before nightfall, and fly from her as you have fled
before."

"Said I not so?" asked Brother Thomas.

"A miracle, a miracle, the Maid hath a Scots tongue in her head."

Therewith stones began to fall, but the father, holding up his hand,
bade the multitude refrain.

"Harm her not, good brethren, for to-morrow this Maid shall be tried
by the ordeal of fire if that be the will of our governors.  Then
shall we see if she can work miracles or not," and so he went on
gibing, while they grinned horribly upon me.  Never saw I so many
vile faces of the basest people come together, from their filthy
dens in Paris.  But as my eyes ran over them with loathing, I beheld
a face I knew; the face of that violer woman who had been in our
company before we came to Chinon, and lo! perched on her shoulder,
chained with a chain fastened round her wrist, was Elliot's
jackanapes!  To see the poor beast that my lady loved in such ill
company, seemed as if it would break my heart, and my head fell on
my breast.

"Ye mark, brethren and sisters, she likes not the name of the ordeal
by fire," cried Brother Thomas, whereon I lifted my face again to
defy him, and I saw the violer woman bend her brows, and place her
finger, as it were by peradventure, on her lips; wherefore I was
silent, only gazing on that devil, but then rang out a trumpet-note,
blowing the call to arms, and from afar came an answering call, from
the quarter of St. Denis.

"Carry him, or her, or whatever the spy is, into the outer gate
tower," said a Captain; "put him in fetters and manacles; lock the
door and leave him; and then to quarters.  And you, friar, hold your
gibing tongue; lad or lass, he has borne him bravely."

Six men-at-arms he chose out to do his bidding; and while the gates
were cleared of the throng, and trumpets were sounding, and church
bells were rung backwards, for an alarm, I was dragged, with many a
kick and blow, over the drawbridge, up the stairs of the tower, and
so was thrown into a strong room beneath the battlements.  There
they put me in bonds, gave me of their courtesy a jug of water and a
loaf of black bread by me, and then, taking my dagger, my sword, and
all that was in my pouch, they left me with curses.

"You shall hear how the onfall goes, belike," they said, "and to-
morrow shall be your judgment."

With that the door grated and rang, the key was turned in the lock,
and their iron tread sounded on the stone stairs, going upwards.
The room was high, narrow, and lit by a barred and stanchioned
window, far above my reach, even if I had been unbound.  I shame to
say it, but I rolled over on my face and wept.  This was the end of
my hopes and proud heart.  That they would burn me, despite their
threats I scarce believed, for I had in nowise offended Holy Church,
or in matters of the Faith, and only for such heretics, or wicked
dealers in art-magic, is lawfully ordained the death by fire.  But
here was I prisoner, all that I had won at Orleans would do little
more than pay my own ransom; from the end of my risk and travail I
was now further away than ever.

So I mused, weeping for very rage, but then came a heavy rolling
sound overhead, as of moving wheeled pieces of ordnance.  Thereon
(so near is Hope to us in our despair) I plucked up some heart.  Ere
nightfall, Paris might be in the hands of the King, and all might be
well.  The roar and rebound of cannon overhead told me that the
fighting had begun, and now I prayed with all my heart, that the
Maid, as ever, might again be victorious.  So I lay there,
listening, and heard the great artillery bellow, and the roar of
guns in answer, the shouting of men, and clang of church bells.  Now
and again the walls of the tower rang with the shock of a cannon-
ball, once an arrow flew through the casement and shattered itself
on the wall above my head.  I scarce know why, but I dragged me to
the place where it fell, and, put the arrow-point in my bosom.
Smoke of wood and pitch darkened the light; they had come, then, to
close quarters.  But once more rang the rattle of guns; the whizzing
rush of stones, the smiting with axe or sword on wooden barrier and
steel harness, the cries of war, "Mont joye St. Denis!"  "St. George
for England!" and slogans too, I heard, as "Bellenden," "A Home! a
Home!" and then I knew the Scots were there, fighting in the front.
But alas, how different was the day when first I heard our own
battle-cries under Orleans walls!  Then I had my life and my sword
in my hands, to spend and to strike; but now I lay a lonely
prisoner, helpless and all but hopeless; yet even so I clashed my
chains and shouted, when I heard the slogan.

Thus with noise and smoke, and trumpets blowing the charge or the
recall, and our pipes shrieking the pibroch high above the din, with
dust floating and plaster dropping from the walls of my cell till I
was wellnigh stifled, the day wore on, nor could I tell, in anywise,
how the battle went.  The main onslaught, I knew, was not on the
gate behind the tower in which I lay, though that tower also was
smitten of cannon-balls.

At length, well past mid-day, as I deemed by the light, came a hush,
and then a thicker smoke, and taste of burning pitch-wood, and a
roar as if all Paris had been blown into mid-air, so that my tower
shook, while heavy beams fell crashing to earth.

Again came a hush, and then one voice, clear as a clarion call, even
the voice of the Maid, "Tirez en avant, en avant!"  How my blood
thrilled at the sound of it!

It must be now, I thought, or never, but the guns only roared the
louder, the din grew fierce and fiercer, till I heard a mighty roar,
the English shouting aloud as one man for joy, for so their manner
is.  Thrice they shouted, and my heart sank within me.  Had they
slain the Maid?  I knew not, but for torment of soul there is scarce
any greater than so to lie, bound and alone, seeing nought, but
guessing at what is befalling.

After these shouts it was easy to know that the fighting waned, and
was less fierce.  The day, moreover, turned to thunder, and waxed
lowering and of a stifling heat.  Yet my worst fears were ended, for
I heard, now and again, the clear voice of the Maid, bidding her men
"fight on, for all was theirs."  But the voice was weaker now, and
other than it had been.  So the day darkened, only once and again a
shot was fired, and in the dusk the shouts of the English told me
over clearly that for to-day our chance and hope were lost.  Then
the darkness grew deeper, and a star shone through my casement, and
feet went up and down upon the stairs, but no man came near me.
Below there was some faint cackle of mirth and laughter, and at last
the silence fell.

Once more came a swift step on the stairs, as of one stumbling up in
haste.  The key rattled in the wards, a yellow light shone in, a
man-at-arms entered; he held a torch to my face, looked to my bonds,
and then gave me a kick, while one cried from below, "Come on,
Dickon, your meat is cooling!"  So he turned and went out, the door
clanging behind him, and the key rattling in the wards.

In pain and fierce wrath I gnawed my black bread, drank some of the
water, and at last I bethought me of that which should have been
first in the thoughts of a Christian man, and I prayed.

Remembering the story of Michael Hamilton, which I have already
told, and other noble and virtuous miracles of Madame St. Catherine
of Fierbois, I commanded me to her, that, by God's grace, she would
be pleased to release me from bonds and prison.  And I promised
that, if she would so favour me, I would go on pilgrimage to her
chapel of Fierbois.  I looked that my chains should now fall from my
limbs, but, finding no such matter, and being very weary (for all
the last night I had slept none), I fell on slumber and forgot my
sorrow.

Belike I had not lain long in that blessed land where trouble seldom
comes when I was wakened, as it were, by a tugging at my clothes.  I
sat up, but the room was dark, save for a faint light in the
casement, high overhead, and I thought I had dreamed.  Howbeit, as I
lay down again, heavy at heart, my clothes were again twitched, and
now I remembered what I had heard, but never believed, concerning
"lutins" or "brownies," as we call them, which, being spirits
invisible, and reckoned to have no part in our salvation, are wont
in certain houses to sport with men.  Curious rather than
affrighted, I sat up once more, and looked around, when I saw two
bright spots of light in the dark.  Then deeming that, for some
reason unknown to me, the prison door had been opened while I slept,
and a cat let in, I stretched out my hands towards the lights,
thence came a sharp, faint cry, and something soft and furry leaped
on to my breast, stroking me with little hands.

It was Elliot's jackanapes, very meagre, as I could feel, and all
his ribs standing out, but he made much of me, fondling me after his
manner; and indeed, for my lady's sake, I kissed him, wondering much
how he came there.  Then he put something into my hands, almost as
if he had been a Christian, for it was a wise beast and a kind.
Even then there shone into my memory the thought of how my lady had
prayed for her little friend when he was stolen (which I had thought
strange, and scarcely warranted by our Faith), and with that, hope
wakened within me.  My eyes being now more accustomed to the
darkness, I saw that the thing which the jackanapes gave me was a
little wallet, for he had been taught to fetch and carry, and never
was such a marvel at climbing.  But as I was caressing him, I found
a string about his neck, to which there seemed to be no end.  Now,
at length, I comprehended what was toward, and pulling gently at the
string, I found, after some time, that it was attached to something
heavy, on the outside of the casement.  Therefore I set about
drawing in string from above, and more string, and more, and then
appeared a knot and a splice, and the end of a thick rope.  So I
drew and drew, till it stopped, and I could see a stout bar across
the stanchions of the casement.  Thereon I ceased drawing, and
opening the little wallet, I found two files, one very fine, the
other of sturdier fashion.

Verily then I blessed the violer woman, who at great peril of her
own life, and by such witty device as doubtless Madame St. Catherine
put into her heart, had sent the jackanapes up from below, and put
me in the way of safety.  I wasted no time, but began filing, not at
the thick circlet on my wrist, but at a link of the chain whereto it
was made fast.  And such was the temper of the file, that soon I got
the stouter weapon into the cut, and snapped the link; and so with
the others, working long hours, and often looking fearfully for the
first glimmer of dawn.  This had not come in, when I was now free of
bonds, but there was yet the casement to be scaled.  With all my
strength I dragged and jerked at the rope, whereby I meant to climb,
lest the stanchions should be rusted through, and unable to bear my
weight, but they stood the strain bravely.  Then I cast off my
woman's kirtle, and took from my pouch the arrow-point, and
therewith scratched hastily on the plastered wall, in great letters:
"Norman Leslie of Pitcullo leaves his malison on the English."

Next I bound the jackanapes within the bosom of my doublet, with a
piece of the cord whereto the rope had been knotted, for I could not
leave the little beast to die the death of a traitor, and bring
suspicion, moreover, on the poor violer woman.  Then, commanding
myself to the Saints, and especially thanking Madame St. Catherine,
I began to climb, hauling myself up by the rope, whereon I had made
knots to this end; nor was the climbing more difficult than to scale
a branchless beech trunk for a bird's nest, which, like other boys,
I had often done.  So behold me, at last, with my legs hanging in
free air, seated on the sill of the casement.  Happily, of the three
iron stanchions, though together they bore my weight, one was loose
in the lower socket, for lack of lead, and this one I displaced
easily enough, and so passed through.  Then I put the wooden bar at
the rope's end, within the room, behind the two other stanchions,
considering that they, by themselves, would bear my weight, but if
not, rather choosing to trust my soul to the Saints than my body to
the English.

The deep below me was very terrible to look upon, and the casement
being above the dry ditch, I had no water to break my fall, if fall
I must.  Howbeit, I hardened my heart, and turning my face to the
wall, holding first the wooden bar, and then shifting my grasp to
the rope, I let myself down, clinging to the rope with my legs, and
at first not a little helped by the knots I had made to climb to the
casement.  When I had passed these, methought my hands were on fire;
nevertheless, I slid down slowly and with caution, till my feet
touched ground.

I was now in the dry ditch, above my head creaked and swung the dead
body of the hanged marauder, but he did no whit affray me.  I ran,
stooping, along the bed of the dry ditch, for many yards, stumbling
over the bodies of men slain in yesterday's fight, and then,
creeping out, I found a hollow way between two slopes, and thence
crawled into a wood, where I lay some little space hidden by the
boughs.  The smell of trees and grass and the keen air were like
wine to me; I cooled my bleeding hands in the deep dew; and
presently, in the dawn, I was stealing towards St. Denis, taking
such cover of ditches and hedges as we had sought in our unhappy
march of yesterday.  And I so sped, by favour of the Saints, that I
fell in with no marauders; but reaching the windmill right early, at
first trumpet-call, I was hailed by our sentinels for the only man
that had won in and out of Paris, and had carried off, moreover, a
prisoner, the jackanapes.  To see me, scarred, with manacles on my
wrists and gyves on my ankles, weaponless, with an ape on my
shoulder, was such a sight as the Scots Guard had never beheld
before, and carrying me to the smith's, they first knocked off my
irons, and gave me wine, ere they either asked me for my tale, or
told me their own, which was a heartbreak to bear.

For no man could unfold the manner of that which had come to pass,
if, at least, there were not strong treason at the root of all.  For
our part of the onfall, the English had made but a feigned attack on
the mill, wherefore the bale-fires were lit, to our undoing.  This
was the ruse de guerre of the accursed cordelier, Brother Thomas.
For the rest, the Maid had led on a band to attack the gate St.
Honore, with Gaucourt in her company, a knight that had no great
love either of her or of a desperate onslaught.  But D'Alencon, whom
she loved as a brother, was commanded to take another band, and wait
behind a butte or knowe, out of danger of arrow-shot.  The Maid had
stormed all day at her gate, had taken the boulevard without, and
burst open and burned the outer port, and crossed the dry ditch.
But when she had led up her men, now few, over the slope and to the
edge of the wet fosse, behold no faggots and bundles of wood were
brought up, whereby, as is manner of war, to fill up the fosse, and
so cross over.  As she then stood under the wall, shouting for
faggots and scaling-ladders, her standard-bearer was shot to death,
and she was sorely wounded by an arbalest bolt.  Natheless she lay
by the wall, still crying on her men, but nought was ready that
should have been, many were slain by shafts and cannon-shot, and in
the dusk, she weeping and crying still that the place was theirs to
take, D'Alencon carried her off by main force, set her on her horse,
and so brought her back to St. Denis.

Now, my mind was, and is to this day, that there was treason here,
and a black stain on the chivalry of France, to let a girl go so
far, and not to follow her.  But of us Scots many were slain, and
more wounded, while Robin Lindsay died in Paris gate, and Randal
Rutherford lay a prisoner in English hands.



CHAPTER XXIII--HOW ELLIOT'S JACKANAPES CAME HOME



Of our Blessed Lord Himself it is said in the Gospel of St. Matthew,
"et non fecit ibi virtutes multas propter incredulitatem illorum."
These words I willingly leave in the Roman tongue; for by the wisdom
of Holy Church it is deemed that many mysteries should not be
published abroad in the vulgar speech, lest the unlearned hear to
their own confusion.  But if even He, doubtless by the wisdom of His
own will, did not many great works "propter incredulitatem," it is
the less to be marvelled at that His Saints, through the person of
the Blessed Maid, were of no avail where men utterly disbelieved.
And that, where infidelity was, even she must labour in vain was
shown anon, even on this very day of my escape out of Paris town.
For I had scarce taken some food, and washed and armed myself, when
the Maid's trumpets sounded, and she herself, armed and on
horseback, despite her wound, rode into St. Denis, to devise with
the gentle Duc d'Alencon.  Together they came forth from the gate,
and I, being in their company, heard her cry -

"By my baton, I will never go back till I take that city." {31}

These words Percival de Cagny also heard, a good knight, and maitre
d'hotel of the house of Alencon.  Thereon arose some dispute,
D'Alencon being eager, as indeed he always was, to follow where the
Maiden led, and some others holding back.

Now, as they were devising together, some for, some against, for
men-at-arms not a few had fallen in the onfall, there came the sound
of horses' hoofs, and lo! Messire de Montmorency, who had been of
the party of the English, and with them in Paris, rode up, leading a
company of fifty or sixty gentlemen of his house, to join the Maid.
Thereat was great joy and new courage in all men of goodwill, seeing
that, within Paris itself, so many gentlemen deemed ours the better
cause and the more hopeful.

Thus there was an end of all dispute, our companies were fairly
arrayed, and we were marching to revenge ourselves for the losses of
yesterday, when two knights came spurring after us from St. Denis.
They were the Duc de Bar, and that unhappy Charles de Bourbon, Comte
de Clermont, by whose folly, or illwill, or cowardice, the Scots
were betrayed and deserted at the Battle of the Herrings, where my
own brother fell, as I have already told.  This second time Charles
de Bourbon brought evil fortune, for he came on the King's part,
straitly forbidding D'Alencon and the Maid to march forward another
lance's length.  Whereat D'Alencon swore profane, and the Maiden,
weeping, rebuked him.  So, with heavy hearts, we turned, all the
host of us, and went back to quarters, the Maid to pray in the
chapel, and the men-at-arms to drink and speak ill of the King.

All this was on the ninth of September, a weary day to all of us,
though in the evening word came that we were to march early next
morning and attack Paris in another quarter, crossing the river by a
bridge of boats which the Duc d'Alencon had let build to that end.
After two wakeful nights I was well weary, and early laid me down to
sleep, rising at dawn with high hopes.  And so through the grey
light we marched silently to the place appointed, but bridge there
was none; for the King, having heard of the Maid's intent, had
caused men to work all night long, destroying that which the gentle
Duke had builded.  Had the King but heard the shouts and curses of
our company when they found nought but the bare piles standing, the
grey water flowing, and the boats and planks vanished, he might have
taken shame to himself of his lack of faith.  Therefore I say it
boldly, it was because of men's unbelief that the Maid at Paris
wrought no great works, save that she put her body in such hazard of
war as never did woman, nay, nor man, since the making of the world.

I have no heart to speak more of this shameful matter, nor of these
days of anger and blasphemy.  It was said and believed that her
voices bade the Maid abide at St. Denis till she should take Paris
town, but the King, and Charles de Bourbon, and the Archbishop of
Reims refused to hearken to her.  On the thirteenth day of
September, after dinner, the King, with all his counsellors, rode
away from St. Denis, towards Gien on the Loire.  The Maiden, for her
part, hung up all her harness that she had worn, save the sword of
St. Catherine of Fierbois, in front of the altar of Our Lady, and
the blessed relics of St. Denis in the chapel.  Thereafter she rode,
as needs she must, and we of her company with her, to join the King,
for so he commanded.

And now was the will of the Maid and of the Duc d'Alencon broken,
and broken was all that great army, whereof some were free lances
out of many lands, but more were nobles of France with their men,
who had served without price or pay, for love of France and of the
Maid.  Never again were they mustered; nay when, after some weeks
passed, the gentle Duc d'Alencon prayed that he might have the
Maiden with him, and burst into Normandy, where the English were
strongest, by the Marches of Maine, even this grace was refused to
him, by the malengin and ill-will of La Tremouille and the
Archbishop of Reims.  And these two fair friends met never more
again, neither at fray nor feast.  May she, among the Saints, so
work by her prayers that the late sin and treason of the gentle Duke
may be washed out and made clean, for while she lived there was no
man more dear to her, nor any that followed her more stoutly in
every onfall.

Now concerning the times that came after this shameful treason at
Paris, I have no joy to write.  The King's counsellors, as their
manner was, ever hankered after a peace with Burgundy, and they
stretched the false truce that was to have ended at Christmas to
Easter Day, "pacem clamantes quo non fuit pax."  For there was no
truce with the English, who took St. Denis again, and made booty of
the arms which the Maid had dedicated to Our Lady.  On our part La
Hire and Xaintrailles plundered, for their own hand, the lands of
the Duke of Burgundy, and indeed on every side there was no fair
fighting, such as the Maid loved, but a war of wastry, the peasants
pillaged, and the poor held to ransom.  For her part, she spent her
days in prayer for the poor and the oppressed, whom she had come to
deliver, and who now were in worse case than before, the English
harrying certain of the good towns that had yielded to King Charles.

Now her voices ever bade the Maid go back to the Isle of France, and
assail Paris, where lay no English garrison, and the Armagnacs were
stirring as much as they might.  But Paris, being at this time under
the government of the Duke of Burgundy, was forsooth within the
truce.  The King's counsellors, therefore, setting their wisdom
against that of the Saints, bade the Maid go against the towns of
St. Pierre le Moustier and La Charite, then held by the English on
the Loire.  This was in November, when days were short, and the
weather bitter cold.  The Council was held at Mehun sur Yevre, and
forthwith the Maid, glad to be doing, rode to Bourges, where she
mustered her men, and so marched to St. Pierre le Moustier, a small
town, but a strong, with fosses, towers, and high walls.

There we lay some two days or three, plying the town with our
artillery, and freezing in the winter nights.  At length, having
made somewhat of a breach, the Maid gave the word for the assault,
and herself leading, with her banner in hand, we went at it with
what force we might.  But twice and thrice we were driven back from
the fosse, and to be plain, our men were fled under cover, and only
the Maid stood within arrow-shot of the wall, with a few of her
household, of whom I was one, for I could not go back while she held
her ground.  The arrows and bolts from the town rained and whistled
about us, and in faith I wished myself other where.  Yet she stood,
waving her banner, and crying, "Tirez en avant, ils sont e nous," as
was her way in every onfall.  Seeing her thus in jeopardy, her
maitre d'hotel, D'Aulon, though himself wounded in the heel so that
he might not set foot to ground, mounted a horse, and riding up,
asked her "why she abode there alone, and did not give ground like
the others?"

At this the Maid lifted her helmet from her head, and so, uncovered,
her face like marble for whiteness, and her eyes shining like steel,
made answer -

"I am not alone; with me there are of mine fifty thousand!  Hence I
will not give back one step till I have taken the town."

Then I wotted well that, sinful man as I am, I was in the company of
the hosts of Heaven, though I saw them not.  Great heart this
knowledge gave me and others, and the Maid crying, in a loud voice,
"Aux fagots, tout le monde!" the very runaways heard her and came
back with planks and faggots, and so, filling up the fosse and
passing over, we ran into the breach, smiting and slaying, and the
town was taken.

For my own part, I was so favoured that two knights yielded them my
prisoners (I being the only man of gentle birth among those who
beset them in a narrow wynd), and with their ransoms I deemed myself
wealthy enough, as well I might.  So now I could look to win my
heart's desire, if no ill fortune befell.  But little good fortune
came in our way.  From La Charite, which was beset in the last days
of November, we had perforce to give back, for the King sent us no
munitions of war, and for lack of more powder and ball we might not
make any breach in the walls of that town.  And so, by reason of the
hard winter, and the slackness of the King, and the false truce, we
fought no more, at that season, but went, trailing after the Court,
from castle to castle.

Many feasts were held, and much honour was done to the Maid, as by
gifts of coat armour, and the ennobling of all her kith and kin, but
these things she regarded not, nor did she ever bear on her shield
the sword supporting the crown, between the lilies of France.

If these were ill days for the Maid, I shame to confess that they
were merry days with me.  There are worse places than a king's
court, when a man is young, and light of heart, full of hope, and
with money in his purse.  I looked that we should take the field
again in the spring; and having gained some gold, and even some good
words, as one not backward where sword-strokes were going, I know
not what dreams I had of high renown, ay, and the Constable's staff
to end withal.  For many a poor Scot has come to great place in
France and Germany, who began with no better fortune than a mind to
put his body in peril.  Moreover, the winning of Elliot herself for
my wife seemed now a thing almost within my reach.  Therefore, as I
say, I kept a merry Yule at Jargeau, going bravely clad, and dancing
all night long with the merriest.  Only the wan face of the Maid
(that in time of war had been so gallant and glad) came between me
and my pleasures.  Not that she was wilfully and wantonly sad, yet
now and again we could mark in her face the great and loving pity
that possessed her for France.  Now I would be half angered with
her, but again far more wroth with myself, who could thus lightly
think of that passion of hers.  But when she might she was ever at
her prayers, or in company of children, or seeking out such as were
poor and needy, to whom she was abundantly lavish of her gifts, so
that, wheresoever the Court went, the people blessed her.

In these months I had tidings of Elliot now and again; and as
occasion served I wrote to her, with messages of my love, and with a
gift, as of a ring or a jewel.  But concerning the manner of my
escape from Paris I had told Elliot nothing for this cause.  My
desire was, when soonest I had an occasion, to surprise her with the
gift of her jackanapes anew, knowing well that nothing could make
her greater joy, save my own coming, or a victory of the Maid.  The
little creature had been my comrade wheresoever we went, as at
Sully, Gien, and Bourges, only I took him not to the leaguers of St.
Pierre le Moustier and La Charite, but left him with a fair lady of
the Court.  He had waxed fat again, for as meagre as he was when he
came to me in prison, and he was full of new tricks, warming himself
at the great fire in hall, like a man.

Now in the middle of the month of January, in the year of Grace
fourteen hundred and thirty, the Maid told us of her household that
she would journey to Orleans, to abide for some space with certain
ladies of her friends, namely, Madame de St. Mesmin and Madame de
Mouchy, who loved her dearly.  To the most of us she gave holiday,
to see our own friends.  The Maid knew surely that in France my
friends were few, and well she guessed whither I was bound.
Therefore she sent for me, and bidding me carry her love to Elliot,
she put into my hands a gift to her friend.  It was a ring of
silver-gilt, fashioned like that which her own father and mother had
given her.  At this ring she had a custom of looking often, so that
the English conceived it to be an unholy talisman, though it bore
the Name that is above all names.  That ring I now wear in my bosom.
So, saying farewell, with many kind words on her part, I rode
towards Tours, where Elliot and her father as then dwelt, in that
same house where I had been with them to be healed of my malady,
after the leaguer of Orleans.  To Tours I rode, telling them not of
my coming, and carrying the jackanapes well wrapped up in furs of
the best.  The weather was frosty, and folk were sliding on the ice
of the flooded fields near Tours when I came within sight of the
great Minster.  The roads rang hard; on the smooth ice the low sun
was making paths of gold, and I sang as I rode.  Putting up my horse
at the sign of the "Hanging Sword," I took the ape under my great
furred surcoat, and stole like a thief through the alleys, towards
my master's house.  The night was falling, and all the casement of
the great chamber was glowing with the colour and light of a leaping
fire within.  There came a sound of music too, as one touched the
virginals to a tune of my own country.  My heart was beating for
joy, as it had beaten in the bushment outside Paris town.

I opened the outer door secretly, for I knew the trick of it, and I
saw from the thin thread of light on the wall of the passage that
the chamber door was a little ajar.  The jackanapes was now fretting
and struggling within my surcoat, so, opening the coat, I put him
down by the chamber door.  He gave a little scratch, as was his
custom, for he was a very mannerly little beast, and the sound of
the virginals ceased.  Then, pushing the door with his little hands,
he ran in, with a kind of cry of joy.

"In Our Lady's name, what is this?" came the voice of Elliot.  "My
dear, dear little friend, what make you here?"

Then I could withhold myself no longer, but entered, and my lady ran
to me, the jackanapes clinging about her neck with his arms.  But
mine were round her too, and what words we said, and what cheer we
made each the other, I may not write, commending me to all true
lovers, whose hearts shall tell them that whereof I am silent.  Much
was I rebuked for that I did not write to warn them of my coming,
which was yet the more joyful that they were not warned.  And then
the good woman, Elliot's kinswoman, must be called (though in sooth
not at the very first), and then a great fire must be lit in my old
chamber; and next my master came in, from a tavern where he had been
devising with some Scots of his friends; and all the while the
jackanapes kept such a merry coil, and played so many of his tricks,
and got so many kisses from his mistress, that it was marvel.  But
of all that had befallen me in the wars, and of how the Maiden did
(concerning which Elliot had questioned me first of all), I would
tell them little till supper was brought.

And then, indeed, out came all my tale, and they heard of what had
been my fortune in Paris, and how the jackanapes had delivered me
from durance, whereon never, surely, was any beast of his kind so
caressed since our father Adam gave all the creatures their names.
But as touching the Maid, I told how she had borne herself at St.
Pierre le Moustier, and of all the honours that had been granted to
her, and I bade them be of good heart and hope, for that her banner
would be on the wind in spring, after Easter Day.  All the good news
that might be truly told I did tell, as how La Hire had taken
Louviers town, and harried the English up to the very gates of
Rouen.  And I gave to Elliot the ring which the Maid had sent to
her, fashioned like that she herself wore, but of silver gilt,
whereas the Maid's was of base metal, and it bore the Holy Names
MARI. IHS.  Thereon Elliot kissed it humbly, and avowed herself to
be, that night, the gladdest damsel in all France.

"For I have gotten you, mon ami, and my little friend that I had
lost, beyond all hope, and I have a kind word and a token from Her,
la fille de Dieu," whereat her speech faltered, and her eyes swam in
tears.  But some trick of her jackanapes brought back her mirth, and
so the hours passed, as happy as any in my life.  Truly the memory
of these things tells me how glad this world might be, wherein God
has placed us, were it not troubled by the inordinate desires of
men.  In my master's house of Tours, then, my days of holiday went
merrily by, save for one matter, and that of the utmost moment.  For
my master would in no manner permit me to wed his daughter while
this war endured; and Elliot herself, blushing like any rose, told
me that, while the Maid had need of me, with the Maid I must abide
at my duty, and that she herself had no mind for happiness while her
friend was yet labouring in the cause of France.  Howbeit, I
delivered me of my vow, by pilgrimage to the chapel in Fierbois.
{32}



CHAPTER XXIV--HOW THE MAID HEARD ILL TIDINGS FROM HER VOICES, AND OF
THE SILENCE OF THE BIRDS



Eastertide came at last, and that early, Easter Day falling on March
the twenty-seventh.  Our King kept his Paques at Sully with great
festival, but his deadly foe, the Duke of Burgundy, lay at the town
of Peronne.  So soon as Eastertide was over, the Duke drew all the
force he had to Montdidier, a town which lies some eight leagues to
the north and west of Compiegne.  Hence he so wrought that he made a
pact with the captain of the French in Gournay, a town some four
leagues north and west of Compiegne, whereby the garrison there
promised to lie idle, and make no onslaught against them of
Burgundy, unless the King brought them a rescue.  Therefore the Duke
went back to Noyon on the Oise, some eight leagues north and east of
Compiegne, while his captain, Jean de Luxembourg, led half his army
west, towards Beauvais.  There he took the castle of Provenlieu, an
old castle, and ruinous, that the English had repaired and held.
And there he hanged certain English, who were used to pillage all
the country about Montdidier.  Thence Jean de Luxembourg came back
to the Duke, at Noyon, and took and razed Choisy, which was held for
France.

Now all these marchings, and takings of towns, were designed to one
end, namely, that the Duke might have free passage over the river
Oise, so that his men and his victual might safely come and go from
the east.  For, manifestly, it was his purpose to besiege and take
the good town of Compiegne, which lies on the river Oise some
fifteen leagues north and east of Paris.  This town had come in, and
yielded to the Maid, some weeks before the onfall of Paris, and it
was especially dear to her, for the people had sworn that they would
all die, and see their wives and children dead, rather than yield to
England or Burgundy.  Moreover, whosoever held Compiegne was like,
in no long time, to be master of Paris.  But as now Guillaume de
Flavy commanded in Compiegne for the King, a very good knight and
skilled captain, but a man who robbed and ravished wheresoever he
had power.  His brother, Louis de Flavy, also joined him after
Choisy fell, as I have told.

All this I have written that men may clearly know how the Maid came
by her end.  For, so soon as Eastertide was over, and the truce
ended, she made no tarrying, nor even said farewell to the King, who
might have held her back, but drew out all her company, and rode
northward, whither she knew that battle was to be.  Her mind was to
take some strong place on the Oise, as Pont l'Eveque, near Noyon,
that she might cut off them of Burgundy from all the country
eastward of Oise, and so put them out of the power to besiege
Compiegne, and might destroy all their host at Montdidier and in the
Beauvais country.  For the Maid was not only the first of captains
in leading a desperate onslaught, but also (by miracle, for
otherwise it might not be) she best knew how to devise deep schemes
and subtle stratagem of war.

Setting forth, therefore, early in April, on the fifteenth day of
the month she came to Melun, a town some seven leagues south of
Paris, that had lately yielded to the King.  Bidding me walk with
her, she went afoot about the walls, considering what they lacked of
strength, and how they might best be repaired, and bidding me write
down all in a little book.  Now we two, and no other, were walking
by the dry fosse of Melun, the day being very fair and warm for that
season, the flowers blossoming, and the birds singing so sweet and
loud as never I heard them before or since that day.

The Maid stood still to listen, holding up her hand to me for
silence, when, lo! in one moment, in the midst of merry music, the
birds hushed suddenly.

As I marvelled, for there was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breath
of cold wind, I beheld the Maid standing as I had seen her stand in
the farmyard of the mill by St. Denis.  Her head was bare, and her
face was white as snow.  So she stood while one might count a
hundred, and if ever any could say that he had seen the Maid under
fear, it was now.  As I watched and wondered, she fell on her knees,
like one in prayer, and with her eyes set and straining, and with
clasped hands, she said these words--"Tell me of that day, and that
hour, or grant me, of your grace, that in the same hour I may die."

Then she was silent for short space, and then, having drawn herself
upon her knees for three paces or four, she very reverently bowed
down, and kissed the ground.

Thereafter she arose, and beholding me wan, I doubt not, she gently
laid her hand upon my shoulder, and, smiling most sweetly, she said
-

"I know not what thou hast seen or heard, but promise, on thine
honour, that thou wilt speak no word to any man, save in confession
only, while I bear arms for France."

Then humbly, and with tears, I vowed as she had bidden me, whereto
she only said -

"Come, we loiter, and I have much to do, for the day is short."

But whether the birds sang again, or stinted, I know not, for I
marked it not.

But she set herself, as before, to consider the walls and the
fosses, bidding me write down in my little book what things were
needful.  Nor was her countenance altered in any fashion, nor was
her wit less clear; but when we had seen all that was to be looked
to, she bade me call the chief men of the town to her house, after
vespers, and herself went into the Church of St. Michael to pray.

Though I pondered much on this strange matter, which I laid up in my
heart, I never knew what, belike, the import was, till nigh a year
thereafter, at Rouen.

But there one told me how the Maid, before her judges, had said
that, at Melun, by the fosse, her Saints had told her how she should
be made prisoner before the feast of St. John.  And she had prayed
them to warn her of that hour, or in that hour might she die, but
they bade her endure all things patiently, and with a willing mind.
At that coming, then, of the Saints, I was present, though, being a
sinful man, I knew not that the Holy Ones were there.  But the birds
knew, and stinted in their singing.

Now that the Maid, knowing by inspiration her hour to be even at the
doors, and wotting well what the end of her captivity was like to
be, yet had the heart to put herself in jeopardy day by day, this I
deem the most valiant deed ever done by man or woman since the
making of the world.  For scarce even Wallace wight would have stood
to his standard had he known, by teaching of them who cannot lie,
what end awaited him beyond all hope.  Nay, he would have betaken
him to France, as once he did in time of less danger.

Now, I pray you, consider who she was that showed this courage and
high heart.  She was but the daughter of a manant, a girl of
eighteen years of age.  Remember, then, what manner of creature such
a girl is of her nature; how weak and fearful; how she is
discomfited and abashed by the company of even one gentleman or lady
of noble birth; how ignorant she is of war; how fond to sport and
play with wenches of her own degree; how easily set on fire of love;
and how eager to be in the society of young men amorous.  Pondering
all these things in your hearts, judge ye whether this Maid, the
bravest leader in breach, the wisest captain, having foreknowledge
of things hidden and of things to come, the most courteous lady who
ever with knights sat in hall, not knowing carnal love, nor bodily
fear, was aught but a thing miraculous, and a sister of the Saints.



CHAPTER XXV--OF THE ONFALL AT PONT L'EVEQUE, AND HOW NORMAN LESLIE
WAS HURT



I have now shown wherefore the fighting, in this spring, was to be
up and down the water of Oise, whence the villagers had withdrawn
themselves, of necessity, into the good towns.  For the desire of
the Duke of Burgundy was to hold the Oise, and so take Compiegne,
the better to hold Paris.  And on our side the skill was to cut his
army in two, so that from east of the water of Oise neither men nor
victual might come to him.

Having this subtle device of war in her mind, the Maid rode north
from Melun, by the King's good towns, till she came to Compiegne,
that was not yet beleaguered.  There they did her all the honour
that might be, and thither came to her standard Messire Jacques de
Chabennes, Messire Rigault de Fontaines, Messire Poton de
Xaintrailles, the best knight then on ground, and many other
gentlemen, some four hundred lances in all. {33}  With these lances
the Maid consorted to attack Pont l'Eveque by a night onfall.  This
is a small but very strong hold, on the Oise, some six leagues from
Compiegne, as you go up the river, and it lies near the town of
Noyon, which was held by the English.  In Pont l'Eveque there was a
garrison of a hundred lances of the English, and our skill was to
break on them in the grey of dawn, when men least fear a surprise,
and are most easily taken.  By this very device La Hire had seized
Compiegne but six years agone, wherefore our hope was the higher.
About five of the clock on an April day we rode out of Compiegne, a
great company,--too great, perchance, for that we had to do.  For
our army was nigh a league in length as it went on the way, nor
could we move swiftly, for there were waggons with us and carts,
drawing guns and couleuvrines and powder, fascines wherewith to fill
the fosses, and ladders and double ladders for scaling the walls.
So the captains ordered it to be, for ever since that day by Melun
fosse, when the Saints foretold her captivity, the Maid submitted
herself in all things to the captains, which was never her manner
before.

As we rode slowly, she was now at the head of the line, now in the
midst, now at the rear, wherever was need; and as I rode at her
rein, I took heart to say -

"Madame, it is not thus that we have taken great keeps and holds, in
my country, from our enemies of England."

"Nay," said she, checking her horse to a walk, and smiling on me in
the dusk with her kind eyes.  "Then tell me how you order it in your
country."

"Madame," I said, "it was with a little force, and lightly moving,
that Messire Thomas Randolph scaled the Castle rock and took
Edinburgh Castle out of the hands of the English, a keep so strong,
and set on a cliff so perilous, that no man might deem to win it by
sudden onfall.  And in like manner the good Messire James Douglas
took his own castle, more than once or twice, by crafty stratagem of
war, so that the English named it Castle Perilous.  But in every
such onfall few men fought for us, of such as could move secretly
and swiftly, not with long trains of waggons that cover a league of
road, and by their noise and number give warning to an enemy."

"My mind is yours," she said, with a sigh, "and so I would have made
this onslaught.  But I submitted me to the will of the captains."

Through the night we pushed our way slowly, for in such a march none
may go swifter than the slowest, namely, the carts and the waggons.
Thus it befell that the Maid and the captains were in more thoughts
than one to draw back to Compiegne, for the night was clear, and the
dawn would be bright.  And, indeed, after stumbling and wandering
long, and doubting of the way, we did, at last, see the church
towers and walls of Pont l'Eveque stand out against the clear sky of
morning, a light mist girdling the basement of the walls.  Had we
been a smaller and swifter company, we should have arrived an hour
before the first greyness shows the shapes of things.  But now,
alas! we no sooner saw the town than we heard the bells and trumpets
calling the townsfolk and men-at-arms to be on their ward.  The
great guns of the keep roared at us so soon as we were in reach of
shot; nevertheless, Pothon and the Maid set companies to carry the
double ladders, for the walls were high, and others were told off to
bring up the fascines, and so, leaving our main battle to wait out
of shot, and come on as they were needed, the Maid and Pothon ran up
the first rampart, she waving her standard and crying that all was
ours.  As we ran, for I must needs be by her side, the din of bells
and guns was worse than I had heard at Orleans, and on the top of
the church towers were men-at-arms waving flags, as if for a signal.
Howbeit, we sprang into the fosse, under shield, wary of stones cast
from above, and presently three ladders were set against the wall,
and we went up, the Maid leading the way.

Now of what befell I know but little, save that I had so climbed
that I looked down over the wall, when the ladder whereon I stood
was wholly overthrown by two great English knights, and one of them,
by his coat armour, was Messire de Montgomery himself, who commanded
in Pont l'Eveque.  Of all that came after I remember no more than a
flight through air, and the dead stroke of a fall on earth with a
stone above me.  For such is the fortune of war, whereof a man knows
but his own share for the most part, and even that dimly.  The eyes
are often blinded with swift running to be at the wall, and, what
with a helm that rings to sword-blows, and what with smoke, and
dust, and crying, and clamour, and roar of guns, it is but little
that many a man-at-arms can tell concerning the frays wherein, may
be, he has borne himself not unmanly.

This was my lot at Pont l'Eveque, and I knew but little of what
passed till I found myself in very great anguish.  For I had been
laid in one of the carts, and so was borne along the way we had
come, and at every turn of the wheels a new pang ran through me.
For my life I could not choose but groan, as others groaned that
were in the same cart with me.  For my right leg was broken, also my
right arm, and my head was stounding as if it would burst.  It was
late and nigh sunset or ever we won the gates of Compiegne, having
lost, indeed, but thirty men slain, but having wholly failed in our
onfall.  For I heard in the monastery whither I was borne that, when
the Maid and Xaintrailles and their men had won their way within the
walls, and had slain certain of the English, and were pushing the
others hard, behold our main battle was fallen upon in the rear by
the English from Noyon, some two miles distant from Pont l'Eveque.
Therefore there was no help for it but retreat we must, driving back
the English to Noyon, while our wounded and all our munitions of war
were carried orderly away.

As to the pains I bore in that monastery of the Jacobins, when my
broken bones were set by a very good surgeon, there is no need that
I should write.  My fortune in war was like that of most men-at-
arms, or better than that of many who are slain outright in their
first skirmish.  Some good fortune I had, as at St. Pierre, and
again, bad fortune, of which this was the worst, that I could not be
with the Maid:  nay, never again did I ride under her banner.

She, for her part, was not idle, but, after tarrying certain days in
Compiegne with Guillaume de Flavy, she rode to Lagny, "for there,"
she said, "were men that warred well against the English," namely, a
company of our Scots.  And among them, as later I heard in my bed,
was Randal Rutherford, who had ransomed himself out of the hands of
the French in Paris, whereat I was right glad.  At Lagny, with her
own men and the Scots, the Maid fought and took one Franquet
d'Arras, a Burgundian "routier," or knight of the road, who
plundered that country without mercy.  Him the Maid would have
exchanged for an Armagnac of Paris, the host of the Bear Inn, then
held in duresse by the English, for his share in a plot to yield
Paris to the King.  But this burgess died in the hands of the
English, and the echevins {34} of Lagny, claiming Franquet d'Arras
as a common thief, traitor, and murderer, tried him, and, on his
confession, put him to death.  This was counted a crime in the Maid
by the English and Burgundian robbers, nay, even by French and
Scots.  "For," said they, "if a gentleman is to be judged like a
manant, or a fat burgess by burgesses, there is no more profit or
glory in war."  Nay, I have heard gentlemen of France cry out that,
as the Maid gave up Franquet to such judges as would surely condemn
him, so she was rightly punished when Jean de Luxembourg sold her
into the hands of unjust judges.  But I answer that the Maid did not
sell Franquet d'Arras, as I say De Luxembourg sold her:  not a livre
did she take from the folk of Lagny.  And as for the slaying of
robbers, this very Jean de Luxembourg had but just slain many
English of his own party, for that they burned and pillaged in the
Beauvais country.

Yet men murmured against the Maid not only in their hearts, but
openly, and many men-at-arms ceased to love her cause, both for the
slaying of Franquet d'Arras, and because she was for putting away
the leaguer-lasses, and, when she might, would suffer no plundering.
Whether she was right or wrong, it behoves me not to judge, but this
I know, that the King's men fought best when she was best obeyed.
And, like Him who sent her, she was ever of the part of the poor and
the oppressed, against strong knights who rob and ravish and burn
and torture, and hold to ransom.  Therefore the Archbishop of Reims,
who was never a friend of the Maid, said openly in a letter to the
Reims folk that "she did her own will, rather than obeyed the
commandments of God."  But that God commands knights and gentlemen
to rob the poor and needy (though indeed He has set a great gulf
between a manant and a gentleman born) I can in nowise believe.  For
my part, when I have been where gentlemen and captains lamented the
slaying of Franquet d'Arras, and justified the dealings of the
English with the Maid, I have seemed to hear the clamour of the
cruel Jews:  "Tolle hunc, et dimitte nobis Barabbam." {35} For
Barabbas was a robber.  Howbeit on this matter, as on all, I humbly
submit me to the judgment of my superiors and to Holy Church.

Meantime the Maid rode from Lagny, now to Soissons, now to Senlis,
now to Crepy-en-Valois, and in Crepy she was when that befell which
I am about to relate.



CHAPTER XXVI--HOW, AND BY WHOSE DEVICE, THE MAID WAS TAKEN AT
COMPIEGNE



"Verily and indeed the Maid is of wonderful excellence," quoth
Father Francois to me, in my chamber at the Jacobins, where I was
healing of my hurts.

"Any man may know that, who is in your company," the father went on
speaking.

"And how, good father?" I asked him; "sure I have caught none of her
saintliness."

"A saint I do not call you, but I scarce call you a Scot.  For you
are a clerk."

"The Maid taught me none of my clergy, father, nor have I taught her
any of mine."

"She needs it not.  But you are peaceful and gentle; you brawl not,
nor drink, nor curse . . . "

"Nay, father, with whom am I to brawl, or how should I curse in your
good company?  Find you Scots so froward?"

"But now, pretending to be our friends, a band of them is harrying
the Sologne country . . . "

"They will be Johnstons and Jardines, and wild wood folk of
Galloway," I said.  "These we scarce reckon Scots, but rather Picts,
and half heathen.  And the Johnstons and Jardines are here belike,
because they have made Scotland over hot to hold them.  We are a
poor folk, but honest, let by the clans of the Land Debatable and of
Ettrick Forest, and the Border freebooters, and the Galloway Picts,
and Maxwells, and Glendinnings, and the red-shanked, jabbering
Highlanders and Islesmen, and some certain of the Angus folk, and,
maybe, a wild crew in Strathclyde."

"Yours, then, is a very large country?"

"About the bigness of France, or, may be, not so big.  And the main
part of it, and the most lawful and learned, is by itself, in a
sort, a separate kingdom, namely Fife, whence I come myself.  The
Lothians, too, and the shire of Ayr, if you except Carrick, are well
known for the lands of peaceful and sober men."

"Whence comes your great captain, Sir Hugh Kennedy?"

"There you name an honourable man-at-arms," I said, "the glory of
Scotland; and to show you I was right, he is none of your marchmen,
or Highlanders, but has lands in Ayrshire, and comes of a very
honourable house."

"It is Sir Hugh that hath just held to ransom the King's good town
of Tours, where is that gracious lady the mother of the King's wife,
the Queen of Sicily."

Hereat I waxed red as fire.

"He will be in arrears of his pay, no doubt," I made answer.

"It is very like," said Father Francois:  "but considering all that
you tell me, I crave your pardon if I still think that the Blessed
Maid has won you from the common ways of your countrymen."

To which, in faith, I had no answer to make, but that my fortune was
like to be the happier in this world and the next.

"Much need have all men of her goodness, and we of her valour," said
the father, and he sighed.  "This is now the fourth siege of
Compiegne I have seen, and twice have the leads from our roofs and
the metal of our bells been made into munition of war.  Absit omen
Domine!  And now they say the Duke of Burgundy has sworn to slay
all, and spare neither woman nor child."

"A vaunt of war, father.  Call they not him the Good Duke?  When we
lay before Paris, the English put about a like lying tale concerning
us, as if we should sack and slay all."

"I pray that you speak sooth," said Father Francois.

On the next day, being May the twentieth, he came to me again, with
a wan face.

"Burgundians are in Claroix," said he, "across the river, and yet
others, with Jean de Luxembourg, at Margny, scarce a mile away, at
the end of the causeway through the water meadows, beyond the
bridge.  And the Duke is at Coudun, a league off to the right of
Claroix, and I have clomb the tower-top, and thence seen the English
at Venette, on the left hand of the causeway.  All is undone."

"Nay, father, be of better cheer.  Our fort at the bridge end is
stronger than Les Tourelles were at Orleans.  The English shot can
scarce cross the river.  Bridge the enemy has none, and northward
and eastward all is open.  Be of better heart, Heaven helps France."

"We have sent to summon the Maid,' said he, "from Crepy-en-Valois.
In her is all my hope; but you speak lightly, for you are young, and
war is your trade."

"And praying is yours, father, wherefore you should be bolder than
I."

But he shook his head.

So two days passed, and nothing great befell, but in the grey dawn
of May the twenty-third I was held awake by clatter of horsemen
riding down the street under the window of my chamber.  And after
matins came Father Francois, his face very joyful, with the tidings
that the Maid, and a company of some three hundred lances of hers,
had ridden in from Crepy-en-Valois, she making her profit of the
darkness to avoid the Burgundians.

Then I deemed that the enemy would soon have news of her, and all
that day I heard the bells ring merry peals, and the trumpets
sounding.  About three hours after noonday Father Francois came
again, and told me that the Maid would make a sally, and cut the
Burgundians in twain; and now nothing would serve me but I must be
borne in a litter to the walls, and see her banner once more on the
wind.

So, by the goodwill of Father Francois, some lay brethren bore me
forth from the convent, which is but a stone's-throw from the
bridge.  They carried me across the Oise to a mill hard by the
boulevard of the Bridge fort, whence, from a window, I beheld all
that chanced.  No man sitting in the gallery of a knight's hall to
see jongleurs play and sing could have had a better stance, or have
seen more clearly all the mischief that befell.

The town of Compiegne lies on the river Oise, as Orleans on the
Loire, but on the left, not the right hand of the water.  The bridge
is strongly guarded, as is custom, by a tower at the further end,
and, in front of that tower, a boulevard.  All the water was gay to
look on, being covered with boats, as if for a holiday, but these
were manned by archers, whom Guillaume de Flavy had set to shoot at
the enemy, if they drove us back, and to rescue such of our men as
might give ground, if they could not win into the boulevard at the
bridge end.

Beyond the boulevard, forth to the open country, lay a wide plain,
and behind it, closing it in, a long, low wall of steep hills.  On
the left, a mile and a half away, Father Francois showed me the
church tower of Venette, where the English camped; to the right, a
league off, was the tower of Clairoix; and at the end of a long
raised causeway that ran from the bridge across the plain, because
of the winter floods, I saw the tower and the village of Margny.
All these towns and spires looked peaceful, but all were held by the
Burgundians.  Men-at-arms were thick on the crest of our boulevard,
and on the gate-keep, all looking across the river towards the town,
whence the Maid should sally by way of the bridge.  So there I lay
on a couch in the window and waited, having no fear, but great joy.

Nay, never have I felt my spirit lighter within me, so that I
laughed and chattered like a fey man.  The fresh air, after my long
lying in a chamber, stirred me like wine.  The May sun shone warm,
yet cooled with a sweet wind of the west.  The room was full of
women and maids, all waiting to throw flowers before the Maid, whom
they dearly loved.  Everything had a look of holiday, and all was to
end in joy and great victory.  So I laughed with the girls, and
listened to a strange tale, how the Maid had but of late brought
back to life a dead child at Lagny, so that he got his rights of
Baptism, and anon died again.

So we fleeted the time, till about the fifth hour after noon, when
we heard the clatter of horses on the bridge; and some women waxed
pale.  My own heart leaped up.  The noise drew nearer, and presently
She rode across and forth, carrying her banner in the noblest
manner, mounted on a grey horse, and clad in a rich hucque of
cramoisie; she smiled and bowed like a queen to the people, who
cried, "Noel!  Noel!"  Beside her rode Pothon le Bourgignon (not
Pothon de Xaintrailles, as some have falsely said), her confessor
Pasquerel on a palfrey; her brother, Pierre du Lys, with his new
arms bravely blazoned; and her maitre d'hotel, D'Aulon.  But of the
captains in Compiegne no one rode with her.  She had but her own
company, and a great rude throng of footmen of the town that would
not be said nay.  They carried clubs, and they looked, as I heard,
for no less than to take prisoner the Duke of Burgundy himself.
Certain of these men also bore spades and picks and other tools; for
the Maid, as I deem, intended no more than to take and hold Margny,
that so she might cut the Burgundians in twain, and sunder from them
the English at Venette.  Now as the night was not far off, then at
nightfall would the English be in sore straits, as not knowing the
country and the country roads, and not having the power to join them
of Burgundy at Clairoix.  This, one told me afterwards, was the
device of the Maid.

Be this as it may, and a captain of hers, Barthelemy Barrette, told
me the tale, the Maid rode gallantly forth, flowers raining on her,
while my heart longed to be riding at her rein.  She waved her hand
to Guillaume de Flavy, who sat on his horse by the gate of the
boulevard, and so, having arrayed her men, she cried, "Tirez avant!"
and made towards Margny, the foot-soldiers following with what speed
they might, while I and Father Francois, and others in the chamber,
strained our eyes after them.  All the windows and roofs of the
houses and water-mills on the bridge were crowded with men and
women, gazing, and it came into my mind that Flavy had done ill to
leave these mills and houses standing.  They wrought otherwise at
Orleans.  This was but a passing thought, for my heart was in my
eyes, straining towards Margny.  Thence now arose a great din, and
clamour of trumpets and cries of men-at-arms, and we could see
tumult, blown dust, and stir of men, and so it went for it may be
half of an hour.  Then that dusty cloud of men and horses drove,
forward ever, out of our sight.

The sun was now red and sinking above the low wall of the western
hills, and the air was thicker than it had been, and confused with a
yellow light.  Despite the great multitude of men and women on the
city walls, there came scarcely a sound of a voice to us across the
wide river, so still they kept, and the archers in the boats beneath
us were silent:  nay, though the chamber wherein I lay was thronged
with the people of the house pressing to see through the open
casement, yet there was silence here, save when the father prayed.

A stronger wind rising out of the west now blew towards us with a
sweet burden of scent from flowers and grass, fragrant upon our
faces.  So we waited, our hearts beating with hope and fear.

Then I, whose eyes were keen, saw, blown usward from Margny, a cloud
of flying dust, that in Scotland we call stour.  The dust rolled
white along the causeway towards Compiegne, and then, alas! forth
from it broke little knots of our men, foot-soldiers, all running
for their lives.  Behind them came more of our men, and more, all
running, and then mounted men-at-arms, spurring hard, and still more
and more of these; and ever the footmen ran, till many riders and
some runners had crossed the drawbridge, and were within the
boulevard of the bridge.  There they stayed, sobbing and panting,
and a few were bleeding.  But though the foremost runaways thus won
their lives, we saw others roll over and fall as they ran, tumbling
down the sides of the causeway, and why they fell I knew not.

But now, in the midst of the causeway, between us and Margny, our
flying horsemen rallied under the Maiden's banner, and for the last
time of all, I heard that clear girl's voice crying, "Tirez en
avant! en avant!"

Anon her horsemen charged back furiously, and drove the Picards and
Burgundians, who pursued, over a third part of the raised roadway.

But now, forth from Margny, trooped Burgundian men-at-arms without
end or number, the banner of the Maid waved wildly, now up, now
down, in the mad mellay, and ever they of Burgundy pressed on, and
still our men, being few and outnumbered, gave back.  Yet still some
of the many clubmen of the townsfolk tumbled over as they ran, and
the drawbridge was choked with men flying, thrusting and thronging,
wild and blind with the fear of death.  Then rose on our left one
great cry, such as the English give when they rejoice, or when they
charge, and lo! forth from a little wood that had hidden them, came
galloping and running across the heavy wet meadowland between us and
Venette, the men-at-arms and the archers of England.  Then we nigh
gave up all for lost, and fain I would have turned my eyes away, but
I might not.

Now and again the English archers paused, and loosed a flight of
clothyard shafts against the stream of our runaways on the bridge.
Therefore it was that some fell as they ran.  But the little company
of our horsemen were now driven back so near us that I could plainly
see the Maid, coming last of all, her body swung round in the saddle
as she looked back at the foremost foemen, who were within a lance's
length of her.  And D'Aulon and Pierre du Lys, gripping each at her
reins, were spurring forward.  But through the press of our clubmen
and flying horsemen they might not win, and now I saw, what never
man saw before, the sword of the Maid bare in battle!  She smote on
a knight's shield, her sword shivered in that stroke, she caught her
steel sperthe into her hand, and struck and hewed amain, and there
were empty saddles round her.

And now the English in the meadow were within four lances' lengths
of the causeway between her and safety.  Say it I must, nor cannon-
ball nor arrow-flight availed to turn these English.  Still the
drawbridge and the inlet of the boulevard were choked with the
press, and men were leaping from bank and bridge into the boats, or
into the water, while so mixed were friends and foes that Flavy, in
a great voice, bade archers and artillerymen hold their hands.

Townsfolk, too, were mingled in the throng, men who had come but to
gape as curious fools, and among them I saw the hood of a cordelier,
as I glanced from the fight to mark how the Maid might force her way
within.  Still she smote, and D'Aulon and Pierre du Lys smote
manfully, and anon they gained a little way, backing their horses,
while our archers dared not shoot, so mixed were French, English,
and Burgundians.

Flavy, who worked like a man possessed, had turned about to give an
order to the archers above him; his back, I swear, was to the press
of flying men, to the inlet of the boulevard, and to the drawbridge,
when his own voice, as all deemed who heard it, cried aloud, "Up
drawbridge, close gates, down portcullis!"  The men whose duty it
was were standing ready at the cranks and pulleys, their tools in
hand, and instantly, groaning, the drawbridge flew up, casting into
the water them that were flying across, down came the portcullis,
and slew two men, while the gates of the inlet of the boulevard were
swung to and barred, all, as it might he said, in the twinkling of
an eye.

Flavy turned in wrath and great amaze:  "In God's name, who cried?"
he shouted.  "Down drawbridge, up portcullis, open gates!  To the
front, men-at-arms, lances forward!"

For most of the mounted men who had fled were now safe, and on foot,
within the boulevard.

All this I heard and saw, in a glance, while my eyes were fixed on
the Maid and the few with her.  They were lost from our sight, now
and again, in a throng of Picards, Englishmen, Burgundians, for all
have their part in this glory.  Swords and axes fell and rose,
steeds countered and reeled, and then, they say, for this thing I
myself did not see, a Picard archer, slipping under the weapons and
among the horses' hoofs, tore the Maid from saddle by the long
skirts of her hucque, and they were all upon her.  This befell
within half a stone's-throw of the drawbridge.  While Flavy himself
toiled with his hands, and tore at the cranks and chains, the Maid
was taken under the eyes of us, who could not stir to help her.  Now
was the day and the hour whereof the Saints told her not, though she
implored them with tears.  Now in the throng below I heard a laugh
like the sound of a saw on stone, and one struck him that laughed on
the mouth.  It was the laugh of that accursed Brother Thomas!

I had laid my face on my hands, being so weak, and was weeping for
very rage at that which my unhappy eyes had seen, when I heard the
laugh, and lifting my head and looking forth, I beheld the hood of
the cordelier.

"Seize him!" I cried to Father Francois, pointing down at the
cordelier.  "Seize that Franciscan, he has betrayed her!  Run, man,
it was he who cried in Flavy's voice, bidding them raise drawbridge
and let fall portcullis.  The devil gave him that craft to
counterfeit men's voices.  I know the man.  Run, Father Francois,
run!"

"You are distraught with very grief," said the good father, the
tears running down his own cheeks; "that is Brother Thomas, the best
artilleryman in France, and Flavy's chief trust with the
couleuvrine.  He came in but four days agone, and there was great
joy of his coming."

Thus was the Maid taken, by art and device of the devil and Brother
Thomas, and in no otherwise.  They who tell that Flavy sold her,
closing the gates in her face, do him wrong; he was an ill man, but
loyal to France, as was seen by the very defence he made at
Compiegne, for there was none like it in this war.  But of what
avail was that to us who loved the Maid?  Rather, many times, would
I have died in that hour than have seen what I saw.  For our enemies
made no more tarrying, nor any onslaught on the boulevard, but rode
swiftly back with the prize they had taken, with her whom they
feared more than any knight or captain of France.  This page whereon
I work, in a hand feeble and old, and weary with much writing, is
blotted with tears that will not be held in.  But we must bow humbly
to the will of God and of His Saints.  "Dominus dedit, et Dominus
abstulit; benedictum sit nomen Domini."

Wherefore should I say more?  They carried me back in litter over
the bridge, through the growing darkness.  Every church was full of
women weeping and praying for her that was the friend of them, and
the playmate of their children, for all children she dearly loved.

Concerning Flavy, it was said, by them who loved him not, that he
showed no sign of sorrow.  But when his own brother Louis fell,
later in the siege, a brother whom he dearly loved, none saw him
weep, or alter the fashion of his countenance; nay, he bade
musicians play music before him.

I besought the Prior, when I was borne home, that I might be carried
to Flavy, and tell him that I knew.  But he forbade me, saying that,
in very truth, I knew nought, or nothing that could be brought
against a Churchman, and one in a place of trust.  For I had not
seen the lips of the cordelier move when that command was given--
nay, at the moment I saw him not at all.  Nor could I even prove to
others that he had this devilish art, there being but my oath
against his, and assuredly he would deny the thing.  And though I
might be assured and certain within myself, yet other witness I had
none at all, nor were any of my friends there who could speak with
me.  For D'Aulon, and Pasquerel, and Pierre du Lys had all been
taken with the Maid.  It was long indeed before Pierre du Lys was
free, for he had no money to ransom himself withal.  Therefore
Flavy, knowing me only for a wounded Scot of the Maid's, would think
me a brainsick man, and as like as not give me more of Oise river to
drink than I craved.

With these reasonings it behoved me to content myself.  The night I
passed in prayers for the Maid, and for myself, that I might yet do
justice on that devil, or, at least, might see justice done.  But
how these orisons were answered shall be seen in the end, whereto I
now hasten.



CHAPTER XXVII--HOW NORMAN LESLIE FARED IN COMPIEGNE, WITH THE END
OFTHAT LEAGUER



About all that befell in the besieged city of Compiegne, after that
wicked day of destiny when the Maid was taken, I heard for long only
from the Jacobin brothers, and from one Barthelemy Barrette.  He was
a Picardy man, more loyal than most of his country, who had joined
the Maid after the fray at Paris.  Now he commanded a hundred of her
company, who did not scatter after she was taken, and he was the
best friend I then had.

"The burgesses are no whit dismayed," said he, coming into my
chamber after the day of the Ascension, which was the second after
the capture of the Maid.  "They have sent a messenger to the King,
and expect succour."

"They sue for grace at a graceless face," said I, in the country
proverb; for my heart was hot against King Charles.

"That is to be seen," said be.  "But assuredly the Duke of Burgundy
is more keen about his own business."

"How fare the Burgundians?" I asked, "for, indeed, I have heard the
guns speak since dawn, but none of the good fathers cares to go even
on to the roof of the church tower and bring me tidings, for fear of
a stray cannon-ball."

"For holy men they are wondrous chary of their lives," said
Barthelemy, laughing.  "Were I a monk, I would welcome death that
should unfrock me, and let me go a-wandering in Paradise among these
fair lady saints we see in the pictures."

"It is written, Barthelemy, that there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage."

"Faith, the more I am fain of it," said Barthelemy, "and may be I
might take the wrong track, and get into the Paradise of Mahound,
which, I have heard, is no ill place for a man-at-arms."

This man had no more faith than a paynim, but, none the less, was a
stout carl in war.

"But that minds me," quoth he, "of the very thing I came hither to
tell you.  One priest there is in Compiegne who takes no keep of his
life, a cordelier.  What ails you, man? does your leg give a
twinge?"

"Ay, a shrewd twinge enough."

"Truly, you look pale enough."

"It is gone," I said.  "Tell me of that cordelier."

"Do you see this little rod?" he asked, putting in my hand a wand of
dark wood, carven with the head of a strange beast in a cowl.

"I see it."

"How many notches are cut in it?"

"Five," I said.  "But why spoil you your rod?"

"Five men of England or Burgundy that cordelier shot this day, from
the creneaux of the boulevard where the Maid," crossing himself,
"was taken.  A fell man he is, strong and tall, with a long hooked
nose, and as black as Sathanas."

"How comes he in arms?" I asked.

"Flavy called him in from Valenciennes, where he was about some
business of his own, for there is no greater master of the culverin.
And, faith, as he says, he 'has had rare sport, and will have for
long.'"

"Was there an onfall of the enemy?"

"Nay, they are over wary.  He shot them as they dug behind pavises.
{36} For the Duke has moved his quarters to Venette, where the
English lay, hard by the town.  And, right in the middle of the
causeway to Margny, two arrow-shots from our bridge end, he is
letting build a great bastille, and digging a trench wherein men may
go to and fro.  The cordelier was as glad of that as a man who has
stalked a covey of partridges.  'Keep my tally for me,' he said to
myself; 'cut a notch for every man I slay'; and here," said
Barthelemy, waving his staff, "is his first day's reckoning."

Now I well saw what chance I had of bringing that devil to justice,
for who would believe so strange a tale as mine against one so
serviceable in the war?  Nor was D'Aulon here to speak for me, the
enemy having taken him when they took the Maid.  Thinking thus, I
groaned, and Barthelemy, fearing that he had wearied me, said
farewell, and went out.

Every evening, after sunset, he would come in, and partly cheer me,
by telling how hardily our people bore them, partly break my heart
with fresh tidings of that devil, Brother Thomas.

"Things go not ill, had we but hope of succour," he said.  "The
Duke's bastille is rising, indeed, and the Duke is building taudis
{37} of oaken beams and earth, between the bastille and our
boulevard.  The skill is to draw nearer us, and nearer, till he can
mine beneath our feet.  Heard you any new noise of war this day?"

"I heard such a roar and clatter as never was in my ears, whether at
Orleans or Paris."

"And well you might!  This convent is in the very line of the fire.
They have four great bombards placed, every one of them with a
devilish Netherland name of its own.  There is Houpembiere,--that
means the beer-barrel, I take it,--and La Rouge Bombarde, and
Remeswalle and Quincequin, every one shooting stone balls thirty
inches in girth.  The houses on the bridge are a heap of stones, the
mills are battered down, and we must grind our meal in the city, in
a cellar, for what I can tell.  Nom Dieu! when they take the
boulevard we lose the river, and if once they bar our gates to the
east, whence shall viands come?"

"Is there no good tidings from the messenger?"

"The King answers ever like a drawer in a tavern, 'Anon, anon, sir!'
He will come himself presently, always presently, with all his
host."

"He will never come," I said.  "He is a . . . "

"He is my King," said Barthelemy.  "Curse your own King of Scots, if
you will.  Scots, by the blood of Iscariot, traitors are they; well,
I crave your pardon, I spake in haste and anger.  Know you Nichole
Cammet?"

"I have heard of the man," I said.  "A town's messenger, is he not?"

"The same.  But a week agone, Cammet was sent on a swift horse to
Chateau Thierry.  The good town craved of Pothon de Xaintrailles,
who commands there, to send them what saltpetre he could spare for
making gunpowder.  The saltpetre came in this day by the Pierrefonds
Gate, and Cammet with it, but on another horse, a jade."

"Well, and what have the Scots to do with that?"

"No more than this.  A parcel of them, routiers and brigands, have
crept into an old castle on the road, and hold it for their own
hands.  Thence they sallied forth after Cammet, and so chased him
that his horse fell down dead under him in the gateway of Chateau
Thierry."

"They would be men of the Land Debatable," I cried:  "Elliots and
Armstrongs, they never do a better deed, being corrupted by dwelling
nigh our enemies of England.  Fain would I pay for that horse; see
here," and I took forth my purse from under my pillow, "take that to
the attournes, and say a Scot atones for what Scots have done."

"Norman, I take back my word; I crave your pardon, and I am shamed
to have spoken so to a sick man of his own countryfolk.  But for
your purse, I am ill at carrying purses; I have no skill in that
art, and the dice draw me when I hear the rattle of them.  But look
at the cordelier's tally:  four men to-day, three yesterday; faith,
he thins them!"

Indeed, to shorten a long story, by the end of Barthelemy's count
there were two hundred and thirty-nine notches on the rod.  That he
kept a true score (till he stinted and reckoned no more), I know,
having proof from the other side.  For twelve years thereafter, I
falling into discourse with Messire Georges Chastellain, an esquire
of the Duke of Burgundy, and a maker both of verse and prose, he
told me the same tale to a man, three hundred men.  And I make no
doubt but that he has written it in his book of the praise of his
prince, and of these wars, to witness if I lie.

Consider, then, what hope I had of being listened to by Flavy, or by
the attournes (or, as we say, bailies), of the good town, if, being
recovered from my broken limbs, I brought my witness to their ears.

None the less, the enemy battered at us every day with their
engines, destroying, as Barthelemy had said, the houses on the
bridge, and the mills, so that they could no longer grind the corn.

And now came the Earls of Huntingdon and Arundel, with two thousand
Englishmen, while to us appeared no succour.  So at length, being
smitten by balls from above, and ruined by mines dug under earth
from below, our company that held the boulevard at the bridge end
were surprised in the night, and some were taken, some drowned in
the river Oise.  Wherefore was great sorrow and fear, the more for
that the Duke of Burgundy let build a bridge of wood from Venette,
to come and go across Oise, whereby we were now assailed on both
hands, for hitherto we had been free to come and go on the landward
side, and through all the forest of Pierrefonds.  We had but one
gate unbeleaguered, the Chapel Gate, leading to Choisy and the
north-east.  Now were we straitened for provender, notably for fresh
meat, and men were driven, as in a city beleaguered, to eat the
flesh of dead horses, and even of rats and dogs, whereof I have
partaken, and it is ill food.

None the less we endured, despite the murmuring of the commons, so
strong are men's hearts; moreover, all France lay staked on this one
cast of the dice, no less than at Orleans in the year before.

Somewhat we were kept in heart by tidings otherwise bitter.  For
word came that the Maid, being in ward at Beaurevoir, a strong place
of Jean de Luxembourg, had leaped in the night from the top of the
tower, and had, next morning, been taken up all unhurt, as by,
miracle, but astounded and bereft of her senses.  For this there was
much sorrow, but would to God that He had taken her to Himself in
that hour!

Nevertheless, when she was come to herself again, she declared, by
inspiration of the Saints, that Compiegne should be delivered before
the season of Martinmas.  Whence I, for one, drew great comfort, nor
ever again despaired, and many were filled with courage when this
tidings came to our ears, hoping for some miracle, as at Orleans.

Now, too, God began to take pity upon us; for, on August the
fifteenth, the eighty-fifth day of the siege, came news to the Duke
of Burgundy that Philip, Duke of Brabant, was dead, and he must go
to make sure of that great heritage.  The Duke having departed, the
English Earls had far less heart for the leaguer; I know not well
wherefore, but now, at least, was seen the truth of that proverb
concerning the "eye of the master."  The bastille, too, which our
enemies had made to prevent us from going out by our Pierrefonds
Gate on the landward side, was negligently built, and of no great
strength.  All this gave us some heart, so much that my hosts, the
good Jacobins, and the holy sisters of the Convent of St. John,
stripped the lead from their roofs, and bestowed it on the town, for
munition of war.  And when I was in case to walk upon the walls, and
above the river, I might see men and boys diving in the water and
searching for English cannon-balls, which we shot back at the
English.

It chanced, one day, that I was sitting and sunning myself in the
warm September weather, on a settle in a secure place hard by the
Chapel Gate.  With me was Barthelemy Barrette, for it was the day of
Our Lady's Feast, that very day whereon we had failed before Paris
last year, and there was truce for the sacred season.  We fell to
devising of what had befallen that day year, and without thought I
told Barthelemy of my escape from prison, and so, little by little,
I opened my heart to him concerning Brother Thomas and all his
treasons.

Never was man more astounded than Barthelemy; and he bade me swear
by the Blessed Trinity that all this tale was true.

"Mayhap you were fevered," he said, "when you lay in the casement
seat, and saw the Maid taken by device of the cordelier."

"I was no more fevered than I am now, and I swear, by what oath you
will, and by the bones of St. Andrew, which these sinful hands have
handled, that Flavy's face was set the other way when that cry came,
'Down portcullis, up drawbridge, close gates!'  And now that I have
told you the very truth, what should I do?"

"Brother Thomas should burn for this," quoth Barthelemy; "but not
while the siege endures.  He carries too many English lives in his
munition-box.  Nor can you slay him in single combat, or at
unawares, for the man is a priest.  Nor would Flavy, who knows you
not, listen to such a story."

So there he sat, frowning, and plucking at his beard.  "I have it,"
he said; "D'Aulon is no further off than Beaulieu, where Jean de
Luxembourg holds him till he pays his ransom.  When the siege is
raised, if ever we are to have succour, then purchase safe-conduct
to D'Aulon, take his testimony, and bring it to Flavy."

As he spoke, some stir in the still air made me look up, and
suddenly throw my body aside; and it was well, for a sword swept
down from the low parapet above our heads, and smote into the back
of that settle whereon we were sitting.

Ere I well knew what had chanced, Barthelemy was on his feet, his
whinger flew from his hand, and he, leaping up on to the parapet,
was following after him who smote at me.

In the same moment a loud grating voice cried--"The Maid shall burn,
and not the man," and a flash of light went past me, the whinger
flying over my head and clipping into the water of the moat below."

Rising as I best might, but heedfully, I spied over the parapet, and
there was Barthelemy coming back, his naked sword in his hand.

"The devil turned a sharp corner and vanished," he said.  "And now
where are we?  We have a worse foe within than all the men of
Burgundy without.  There goes the devil's tally!" he cried, and
threw the little carven rod far from him into the moat, where it
fell and floated.

"No man saw this that could bear witness; most are in church, where
you and I should have been," I said.

Then we looked on each other with blank faces.

"My post is far from his, and my harness is good," said Barthelemy;
"but for you, beware!"  Thenceforth, if I saw any cowl of a
cordelier as I walked, I even turned and went the other way.

I was of no avail against this wolf, whom all men praised, so
serviceable was he to the town.

Once an arbalest bolt struck my staff from my hand as I walked, and
I was fain to take shelter of a corner, yet saw not whence the shot
came.

Once a great stone fell from a turret, and broke into dust at my
feet, and it is not my mind that a cannon-ball had loosened it.

Thus my life went by in dread and watchfulness.  No more bitter
penance may man dree than was mine, to be near this devil, and have
no power to avenge my deadly quarrel.  There were many heavy hearts
in the town; for, once it was taken, what man could deem his life
safe, or what woman her honour?  But though they lay down and rose
up in fear, and were devoured by desire of revenge, theirs was no
such thirst as mine.

So the days went on, and darkened towards the promised season of
Martinmas, but there dawned no light of hope.  Now, on the Wednesday
before All Saints, I had clambered up into the tower of the Church
of the Jacobins, on the north-east of the city, whence there was a
prospect far and wide.  With me were only two of the youngest of the
fathers.  I looked down into the great forest of Pierrefonds, and up
and down Oise, and beheld the army of our enemies moving in divers
ways.  The banners of the English and their long array were crossing
the Duke of Burgundy's new bridge of wood, that he had builded from
Venette, and with them the men of Jean de Luxembourg trooped towards
Royaulieu.  On the crest of their bastille, over against our
Pierrefonds Gate, matches were lighted and men were watching in
double guard, and the same on the other side of the water, at the
Gate Margny.  Plainly our foes expected a rescue sent to us of
Compiegne by our party.  But the forest, five hundred yards from our
wall, lay silent and peaceable, a sea of brown and yellow leaves.

Then, while the English and Burgundian men-at-arms, that had marched
south and east, were drawn up in order of battle away to the right
between wood and water, behold, trumpets sounded, faint enough,
being far off.  Then there was a glitter of the pale sun on long
lines of lance-points, under the banners of French captains, issuing
out from the forest, over against the enemy.  We who stood on the
tower gazed long at these two armies, which were marshalled orderly,
with no more than a bowshot and a half between them, and every
moment we looked to see them charge upon each other with the lance.
Much we prayed to the Saints, for now all our hope was on this one
cast.  They of Burgundy and of England dismounted from their horses,
for the English ever fight best on foot, and they deemed that the
knights of France would ride in upon them, and fall beneath the
English bows, as at Azincour and Crecy.  We, too, looked for nought
else; but the French array never stirred, though here and there a
knight would gallop forth to do a valiance.  Seldom has man seen a
stranger sight in war, for the English and Burgundians could not
charge, being heavy-armed men on foot, and the French would not move
against them, we knew not wherefore.

All this spectacle lay far off, to the south, and we could not be
satisfied with wondering at it nor turn away our eyes, when, on the
left, a trumpet rang out joyously.  Then, all of us wheeling round
as one man, we saw the most blessed sight, whereto our backs had
been turned; for, into the Chapel Gate--that is, far to the left of
the Pierrefonds Gate on the north-east--were streaming cattle, sheep
and kine, pricked on and hastened by a company of a hundred men-at-
arms.  They had come by forest paths from Choisy way, and anon all
our guns on the boulevard of the Pierrefonds Gate burst forth at
once against the English bastille over against it.  Now this
bastille, as I have said, had never been strongly builded, and, in
some sort, was not wholly finished.

After one great volley of guns against the bastille, we, looking
down into our boulevard of the Pierrefonds Gate, saw the portcullis
raised, the drawbridge lowered, and a great array of men-at-arms
carrying ladders rush out, and charge upon the bastille.  Then,
through the smoke and fire, they strove to scale the works, and for
the space of half an hour all was roar of guns; but at length our
men came back, leaving many slain, and the running libbards grinned
on the flag of England.

I might endure no longer, but, clambering down the tower stairs as
best I might, for I was still lame, I limped to my lodgings at the
Jacobins, did on my harness, and, taking a horse from the stable, I
mounted and rode to the Pierrefonds Gate.  For Brother Thomas and
his murderous ways I had now no care at all.

Never, sure, saw any man such a sight.  Our boulevard was full, not
only of men-at-arms, but of all who could carry clubs, burgesses
armed, old men, boys, yea, women and children, some with rusty
swords, some with carpenters' axes, some bearing cudgels, some with
hammers, spits, and knives, all clamouring for the portcullis to
rise and let them forth.  Their faces were lean and fierce, their
eyes were like eyes of wolves, for now, they cried, was the hour,
and the prophecy of the Maid should be fulfilled!  Verily, though
she lay in bonds, her spirit was with us on that day!

But still our portcullis was down, and the long tail of angry people
stretched inwards, from the inner mouth of the boulevard, along the
street, surging like a swollen loch against its barrier.

On the crest of the boulevard was Flavy, baton in hand, looking
forth across field and forest, watching for I knew not what, while
still the people clamoured to be let go.  But he stood like the
statue of a man-at-arms, and from the bastille of the Burgundians
the arrows rained around him, who always watched, and was still.
Now the guards of the gate had hard work to keep the angry people
back, who leaped and tore at the men-at-arms arrayed in front of
them, and yelled for eagerness to issue forth and fight.

Suddenly, on the crest of the boulevard, Flavy threw up his arm and
gave one cry -

"Xaintrailles!"

Then he roared to draw up portcullis and open gates; the men-at-arms
charged forth, the multitude trampled over each other to be first in
field, I was swept on and along with them through the gate, and over
the drawbridge, like a straw on a wave, and, lo! a little on our
left was the banner of Pothon de Xaintrailles, his foremost men
dismounting, the rearguard just riding out from the forest.  The two
bands joined, we from Compiegne, the four hundred of Xaintrailles
from the wood, and, like two swollen streams that meet, we raced
towards the bastille, under a rain of arrows and balls.  Nothing
could stay us:  a boy fell by my side with an arrow thrilling in his
breast, but his brother never once looked round.  I knew not that I
could run, but run I did, though not so fast as many, and before I
reached the bastille our ladders were up, and the throng was
clambering, falling, rising again, and flowing furiously into the
fort.  The townsfolk had no thought but to slay and slay; five or
six would be at the throat of one Burgundian man-at-arms; hammers
and axes were breaking up armour, knives were scratching and
searching for a crevice; women, lifting great stone balls, would
stagger up to dash them on the heads of the fallen.  Of the whole
garrison, one-half, a hundred and sixty men-at-arms, were put to the
sword.  Only Pothon de Xaintrailles, and the gentlemen with him, as
knowing the manner of war, saved and held to ransom certain knights,
as Messire Jacques de Brimeu, the Seigneur de Crepy, and others;
while, for my own part, seeing a knight assailed by a knot of
clubmen, I struck in on his part, for gentle blood must ever aid
gentle blood, and so, not without shrewd blows on my salade, I took
to ransom Messire Collart de Bertancourt.

Thereafter, very late, and in the twilight of October the twenty-
fifth, we turned back to Compiegne, leaving the enemies' bastille in
a flame behind us, while in front were blazing the bonfires of the
people of the good town.  And, in Compiegne, we heard how the
English and the main army of Burgundians had turned, late in the
day, and crossed by the Duke of Burgundy's bridge, leaving men to
keep guard there.  So our victory was great, and wise had been the
prudence of the French captains, subtlety being the mother of
victory; for, without a blow struck, they had kept Jean de
Luxembourg, and the Earls of Huntingdon and Arundel, waiting idle
all day, while their great bastille was taken by Xaintrailles and
the townsfolk, and food was brought into Compiegne.  Thus for the
second time I passed a night of joy in a beleaguered town, for there
was music in every street, the churches full of people praising God
for this great deliverance, men and maids dancing around bonfires,
yet good watch was kept at the gates and on the towers.  Next day we
expected battle, but our spies brought in tidings that Burgundians
and English had decamped in the dawn, their men deserting.  That day
was not less joyful than the night had been; for at Royaulieu, in
the abbey where Jean de Luxembourg had lain, the townsfolk found all
manner of meat, and of wine great plenty, so right good cheer we
made, for it cost us nothing.



CHAPTER XXVIII--HOW THE BURGUNDIANS HUNTED HARES, WITH THE END OF
THAT HUNTING



"Tell me, what tidings of him?" Barthelemy Barrette asked me, on the
day after that unbought feast at Royaulieu.

He was sitting in the noonday sun on the bridge of Compiegne, and
strange it was to see the place so battered yet so peaceful after
five months of war.  The Oise sliding by and rippling on the piers
was not more quiet than this bridge of many battles, yet black in
places with dried-up blood of men slain.  "Tidings can I find none,"
I answered.  "He who saw the cordelier last was on guard in the
boulevard during the great charge.  He marked Brother Thomas level
his couleuvrine now and again, as we ran for the bastille, and cried
out to him to aim higher, for that the ball would go amongst us."

"You were his target, I make no doubt," said Barthelemy, "but by
reason of the throng he had no certain aim."

"After we broke into the bastille, I can find no man who has set
eyes on him," and I cursed the cordelier for very rage.

"He is well away, if he stays away:  you and I need scarce any
longer pray for eyes in the backs of our heads.  But what make we
next?"

"I have but one thought," I said:  "to pluck the Maid out of the
hands of the English, for now men say that she is sold to them by
Jean of Luxembourg.  They mean to take her to Arras, and so by
Crotoy at the mouth of Seine, and across Normandy to Rouen.  Save
her France must, for the honour of France."

"My mind is the same," he said, and fell into a muse.  "Hence the
straight road, and the shortest," he said at last, "is by Beauvais
on to Rouen, where she will lie in chains," and drawing his dagger
he scratched lines on the bridge parapet with its point.  "Here is
Compiegne; there, far to the west, is the sea, and here is Rouen.
That straight line," which he scratched, "goes to Rouen from
Compiegne.  Here, midway, is Beauvais, whereof we spoke, which town
we hold.  But there, between us and Beauvais, is Clermont, held by
Crevecoeur for the Burgundians, and here, midway between Beauvais
and Rouen, is Gournay, where Kyriel and the Lord Huntingdon lie with
a great force of English.  Do you comprehend?  We must first take
Clermont ere we can ride to rescue the Maid at Rouen!"

"The King should help us," I said.  "For what is the army that has
delivered Compiegne but a set of private bands, under this
gentleman's flag or that, some with Boussac, some with Xaintrailles,
some with a dozen others, and victuals are hard to come by."

"Ay, many a peaceful man sits by the fire and tells how great
captains should have done this, and marched there, never thinking
that men fight on their bellies.  And the King should help us, and
march with D'Alencon through Normandy from the south, while our
companies take Clermont if we may, and drive back the English and
Burgundians.  But you know the King, and men say that the Archbishop
of Reims openly declares that the Maid is rightly punished for her
pride.  He has set up a mad shepherd-boy to take her place, Heaven
help him! who can fight as well as that stone can swim," and he
dropped a loose stone over the bridge into the water.

"Whoever stays at home, we take the field," I said; "let us seek
counsel of Xaintrailles."

We rose and went to the Jacobins, where Xaintrailles was lodged, and
there found him at his dejeuner.

He was a tall young knight, straight as a lance, lean as a
greyhound; for all his days his sword had won his meat; and he was
hardy, keen, and bright, with eyes of steel in a scarred face, and
his brow was already worn bald with the helmet.  When he walked his
legs somewhat straggled apart, by reason of his much riding.

Xaintrailles received us in the best manner, we telling him that we
had ridden with the Maid, that I was of her own household, and that
to save her we were willing to go far, and well knew that under no
banner could we be so forward as under his.

"I would all my company were as honest as I take you twain to be,"
he said, "and I gladly receive you under my colours with any men you
can bring."

"Messire, I have a handful of horse of the Maid's company," said
Barthelemy, hardily; "but when do we march, for to-day is better
than to-morrow."

"As soon as may be," said the knight; "the Marechal de Boussac leads
us against Clermont.  That town we cannot leave behind us when we
set forth from Beauvais.  But, with these great bombards, which we
have won from the Burgundians, we may have reason of Clermont, and
then," clapping his hands together, and looking up, "then for Rouen!
We shall burst the cage and free the bird, God willing!"

He stood like one in prayer, crossing himself, and our hearts turned
to him in loyalty.

"If but the King will send a force to join hands with La Hire in
Louviers, the English shall have news of you, Messire!" I made bold
to say.

"Ay, if!" quoth Xaintrailles, and his face grew darker, "but we must
make good speedy for the midwinter draws nigh."

Therewith we left him, and, in few days, were marching on Clermont,
dragging with long trains of horses the great bombards of the
Burgundians.

To our summons Messire de Crevecoeur answered knightly, that
Clermont he would hold till death or rescue, so we set to battering
his house about his ears.  But, alas! after four days a sentinel of
ours saw, too late, an English knight with nine men slip through the
vines, under cover of darkness, and win a postern gate in the town
wall.  Soon we heard a joy-fire of guns within Clermont town, and
foreboded the worst.  At midnight came a peasant to Xaintrailles,
with tidings that a rescue was riding to Clermont, and next morning
it was boots and saddles and away, so hastily that we left behind us
the great bombards of the Burgundians.  On this they made much
mirth; but they laugh best who laugh last, as shall he seen.

And the cause of our going was that the Earl of Huntingdon had
ridden out of Gournay, in Normandy, with a great force of English,
to deliver Clermont.  Against foes within the town and foes without
the town the captains judged that we were of no avail.  So we
departed, heavy at heart.  Now the companies scattered, and
Barthelemy and I, sorry enough, rode behind Xaintrailles, due north
to Guermigny, whence we threatened Amiens.

At Guermigny, then, for a short season, lay Xaintrailles, gathering
all the force he might along the Picardy marches, for the Duke of
Burgundy was in Peronne, full of wrath and sorrow, so many evils had
befallen him.  For ourselves, we were in no gentler temper, having
lost our hope of pushing on to Rouen.

I was glad, therefore, when Xaintrailles himself rode one day to the
door of our lodging in Guermigny, strode clanging into our chamber,
and asked if we were alone?  We telling him that none was within
ear-shot, he sat him down on the table, playing with his dagger
hilt, and, with his hawk's eye on Barthelemy, asked, "You know this
land well?"

"I have ridden over it, in war or peace, since I was a boy."

"How far to Lihons?"

"A matter of two leagues."

"What manner of country lies between?"

"Chiefly plain, rude and untilled, because of the distresses of
these times.  There is much heath and long grasses, a great country
for hares."

"Know you any covert nigh the road?"

"There runs a brook that the road crosses by a bridge, midway
between Guermigny and Lihons.  The banks are steep, and well wooded
with such trees and undergrowth as love water."

"You can guide me thither?"

"There is no missing the road."

"God could not have made this land better for me, if He had asked my
counsel," said Xaintrailles.  "You can keep your own?"

"Nom Dieu, yea!" said Barthelemy.

"And your Scots friend I can trust.  A good-day to you, and thanks
many."

Thereupon he went forth.

"What has he in his mind?" I asked Barthelemy.

"Belike an ambush.  The Duke of Burgundy lies at Peronne, and has
mustered a great force.  Lihons is midway between us and Peronne,
and is in the hands of Burgundy.  I deem Xaintrailles has tidings
that they intend to ride from Peronne to Lihons to-night, and thence
make early onfall on us to-morrow.  Being heavy-pated men of war,
and bemused with their strong wine, they know not, belike, that we
have more with us than the small garrison of Guermigny.  And we are
to await them on the road, I doubt not.  You shall see men that wear
your cross of St. Andrew, but not of your colour."

I shame not to say that of bushments in the cold dawn I had seen as
much as I had stomach for, under Paris.  But if any captain was wary
in war, and knew how to discover whatsoever his enemy designed, that
captain was Xaintrailles.  None the less I hoped in my heart that
his secret tidings of the Burgundian onfall had not come through a
priest, and namely a cordelier.

Dawn found us mounted, and riding at a foot's-pace through the great
plain which lies rough and untilled between Guermigny and Lihons.
All grey and still it was, save for a cock crowing from a farmstead
here and there on the wide wold, broken only by a line of trees that
ran across the way.

Under these trees, which were mainly poplars and thick undergrowth
of alders about the steep banks of a little brook, we were halted,
and here took cover, our men lying down.

"Let no man stir, or speak, save when I speak to him, whatever
befalls, on peril of his life," said Xaintrailles, when we were all
disposed in hiding.  Then touching me on the shoulder that I should
rise, he said -

"You are young enough to climb a tree; are your eyes good?"

"I commonly was the first that saw the hare in her form, when we
went coursing at home, sir."

"Then up this tree with you! keep outlook along the road, and hide
yourself as best you may in the boughs.  Throw this russet cloak
over your harness."  It was shrewdly chill in the grey November
morning, a hoarfrost lying white on the fields.  I took the cloak
gladly and bestowed myself in the tree, so that I had a wide view
down Lihons way, whence we expected our enemies, the road running
plain to see for leagues, like a ribbon, when once the low sun had
scattered the mists.  It was a long watch, and a weary, my hands
being half frozen in my steel gauntlets.  Many of our men slept; if
ever a wayfarer crossed the bridge hard by he was stopped, gagged,
and trussed in a rope's end.  But wayfarers were few, and all were
wandering afoot.  I was sorry for two lasses, who crossed on some
business of their farm, but there was no remedy.

These diversions passed the time till nigh noon, when I whispered to
Xaintrailles that I saw clouds of dust (the roads being very dry) a
league away.  He sent Barthelemy and another to waken any that
slept, and bade all be ready at a word.

Now there came shouts on the wind, cries of venerie, loud laughter,
and snatches of songs.

And now, up in my perch, I myself broke into a laugh at that I saw.

"Silence," fool!" whispered Xaintrailles.  "Why laugh you, in the
name of Behemoth?"

"The Burgundians are hunting hares," I whispered; "they are riding
all disorderly, some on the road, some here and there about the
plain.  One man has no lance, another is unhelmeted, many have left
their harness behind with the baggage!"  Even as I spoke rose up a
great hunting cry, and a point of the chase was blown on a trumpet.
The foremost Burgundians were spurring like madmen after some beast,
throwing at it with their lances, and soon I saw a fox making our
way for its very life.

"To horse," cried Xaintrailles, and, leaving thirty men to hold the
bridge, the whole of our company, with spears in rest, drove down on
these hare-hunters of Burgundy.

Two hundred picked men in all, fully armed, were we, and we
scattered the foremost riders as they had scattered the hares.
Saddles were emptied, archers were cut down or speared ere they
could draw bows, the Burgundians were spurring for their lives, many
cried mercy, and were taken to ransom, of whom I had my share, as I
shall tell.

But a few men made a right good end.  Thomas Kyriel, a knight of
England, stood to his banner, his archers rallied about it, with
three or four knights of Burgundy.  There, unhelmeted for the most
part, they chose the way of honour, but they were of no avail where
so many lances were levelled and so many swords were hewing at so
few.  There was a great slaughter, but Geoffrey de Thoisy, nephew to
the Bishop of Tournay, plucked from danger fortune, for he so bore
him that he being fully armed we took him for Messire Antoine de
Vienne, a very good knight.  For his courage we spared him, but
Antoine, being unhelmeted and unknown, was smitten on the head by
Barthelemy Barrette, with a blow of a casse-tete.

For this Barthelemy made much sorrow, not only that so good a knight
was slain, but that he had lost a great ransom, whereby he should
have been a rich man.  Yet such is the fortune of war!  Which that
day was strangely seen; for a knight having yielded to me because
his horse threw him, and he lost for a moment all sense with the
fall and found my boot on his neck when he came to himself, who
should he be but Messire Robert Heron, the same whom I took at
Orleans!

Who, when he knew me, took off his salade for greater ease, and,
sitting down on a rock by the way, swore as never I heard man swear,
French, English, Spaniard, or Scot; and at length laughed, and said
it was fortune of war, and so was content.  This skirmish being thus
ended, we returned, blithe and rich men every one of us, what with
prisoners, horses, arms, and all manner of treasure taken with the
baggage.  That night we slept little in Guermigny, but feasted and
drank deep.  For my own part, I know not well where I did sleep, or
how I won to what bed, which shames me some deal after all these
years.

On the morrow we left Guermigny to the garrison of the place for
their ill-fortune, and rode back towards Compiegne.

And this was the sport that the Burgundians had in hare-hunting.

This Battle of the Hares was the merriest passage of arms for our
party, and bourdes were made on it, and songs sung, as by the
English on that other Battle of the Herrings.  Now, moreover, I
might be called rich, what with ransoms, what with my share of the
plunder in horses, rings, chains of gold, jewels, silver dishes, and
rich cloths, out of the baggage of the enemy.  Verily lack of wealth
could no more sunder Elliot and me!  For Pothon was as open of hand
as he was high of heart, and was no greedy captain, wherefore men
followed him the more gladly.



CHAPTER XXIX--SHOWETH HOW VERY NOBLE WAS THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY



All this was well, but we were no nearer Rouen, and the freeing of
the Maid, on this twentieth of November, than we had been when the
siege of Compiegne broke up, on the twenty-sixth of October.

The Duke of Burgundy, we learned, was like a man mad when he heard
of the Battle of the Hares.  Nothing would serve him that day but to
lead all his host to Guermigny from Peronne, whence he would have
got little comfort of vengeance, for we were in a place of safety.
But Jean de Luxembourg told him that he must not venture his
nobility among routiers like us, wherein he pleased the Duke, but
spoke foolishly.  For no man, be he duke or prince, can be of better
blood than we of the House of Rothes, not to speak of Xaintrailles
and many other gentlemen of our company.

The Duke, then, put not his noble person in any jeopardy, but, more
wisely, he sent messengers after my Lord of Huntingdon that he
should bring up the English to aid the Burgundian hare-hunters.  But
Huntingdon had departed to Rouen, where then lay Henry, King of
England, a boy on whom and on whose House God has avenged the Maid
with terrible judgments, and will yet the more avenge her, blessed
be His name!

The Duke of Burgundy comforted himself after his kind, for when he
did pluck up heart to go against Guermigny, he, finding us departed,
sacked the place, and razed it to the very ground, and so withdrew
to Roye, and there waited for what help England would send him.  Now
Roye is some sixteen leagues due north of Compiegne.

So the days went by, for Messire Lefebvre Saint-Remy, the
pursuivant, was hunting for my Lord of Huntingdon, all up and down
Normandy, and at last came to Rouen, and to the presence of the Duke
of Bedford, the uncle of the English King.  All this I myself heard
from Messire Saint-Remy, who is still a pursuivant, and a learned
man, and a maker of books.

Bedford then, who was busy hounding that devil, Cauchon, sometime
Bishop of Beauvais, against the Maid, sent the Comte de Perche and
Messire Loys Robsart, to bid the Duke of Burgundy be of what courage
he might, for succour of England he should have.  Wherein Bedford
was no true prophet.

Of all this we, in Compiegne, knew so much as that it was wiser to
strike the Duke at Roye, before he could add English talbots to his
Burgundian harriers.  Therefore all the captains of companies, as
Boussac, Xaintrailles, Alain Giron, Amadee de Vignolles, and Loys de
Naucourt, mustered their several companies, to the number of some
five thousand men-at-arms.  We had news of six hundred English
marching to join the Duke, and on them we fell at Couty, hard by
Amiens, and there slew Loys Robsart, a good knight, of the Order of
the Garter, and drove the English that fled into the castle of
Couty, and we took all their horses, leaving them shamed, for they
kept no guard.

Thence we rode to within a league of Roye, and thence sent a herald,
in all due form, to challenge the Duke to open battle for his
honour's sake.  This we did, because we had no store of victual, and
must fight or ride home.

The Duke received the herald, and made as if he would hear him as
beseems a gentleman under challenge.  But his wise counsellors
forbade him, because he was so noble.

We were but "routiers," they said, and had no Prince in all our
company; so we must even tarry till the morrow, and then the Duke
would fight.  In truth he expected the English, who were footing it
to Castle Couty.

I stood by Xaintrailles when the pursuivant bore back this message.

Pothon spat on the ground.

"Shall we be more noble to-morrow than to-day, or to-morrow can this
huxter of maids, the Duke, be less noble than he is, every day that
he soils knighthood?"

Thereon he sent the herald back, to say that the Duke should have
battle at his gates if he gave no better answer, for that wait for
his pleasure we could not, for want of victuals.

And so we drew half a league nearer to Roye.

The Duke sent back our herald with word that of victuals he would
give us half his own store; for he had read, as I deem, the romance
of Richard Lion-Heart, another manner of man than himself.  We said
nought to this, not choosing to dine in such high company, but rode
up under the walls of Roye, defying the Duke with open ribaldry,
such as no manant could bear but he would take cudgel in hand to
defend his honour.  Our intent was, if the Duke accepted battle, to
fight with none but him, if perchance we might take him, and hold
him as hostage for the Maid's life.

Howbeit, so very noble was the Duke this day, that he did not put
lance in rest (as belike he would have done on the morrow), but,
drawing up his men on foot, behind certain mosses and marshes, all
in firm array, he kept himself coy behind them, and not too far from
the gate of Roye.

To cross these mosses and marshes was beyond our cunning, nor could
we fast all that night, and see if the Duke would feel himself less
noble, and more warlike, on the morrow.

So, with curses and cries of shame, we turned bridle, and, for that
we could not hold together, being in lack of meat, the companies
broke up, and went each to his own hold.

I have heard Messire Georges Chastellain tell, in times that were
still to come, how fiercely the Duke of Burgundy bore him in council
that night, after that we had all gone, and how he blamed his people
who would not let him fight.  But, after he had well supped, he even
let this adventure slip by, as being ordained by the will of God,
who, doubtless, holds in very high honour men of birth princely, and
such, above all, as let sell young virgins to the tormentors.  And
thus ended our hope to save the Maid by taking captive the Duke of
Burgundy.



CHAPTER XXX--HOW NORMAN LESLIE TOOK SERVICE WITH THE ENGLISH



"What make we now?" I asked of Barthelemy Barrette, one day, after
the companies had scattered, as I have said, and we had gone back
into Compiegne.  "What stroke may France now strike for the Maid?"
He hung his head and plucked at his beard, ere he spoke.

"To be as plain with you as my heart is with myself, Norman," he
answered at last, "deliverance, or hope of deliverance, see I none.
The English have the bird in the cage, and Rouen is not a strength
that can be taken by sudden onslaught.  And, were it so, where is
our force, in midwinter?  I rather put my faith, that can scarce
move mountains, in some subtle means, if any man might devise them."

"We cannot sit idle here," I said.  "And for three long months there
will be no moving of armies in open field."

"And in three months these dogs of false French doctors of Paris
will have tried and condemned the Maid.  For my part, I ride with my
handful of spears to the Loire.  Perchance there is yet some hope in
the King."

"Then I ride with you, granted your goodwill, for I must needs to
Tours, and I have overmuch treasure in my wallet to ride alone."

Indeed, I was now a rich man, more by luck than by valour; and
though I said nought of it, I hoped that my long wooing might now
come to a happy end.

Barthelemy clasped hands gladly on that offer; and not to make a
long tale, he and his men were my escort to Tours, and thence he
rode to Sully to see the King.

I had no heart for glad surprises this time, but having sent on a
letter to my master, by a King's messenger who rode from Compiegne
ere we did, I was expected and welcomed by Elliot and my master,
with all the joy that might be, after our long severance.  And in my
master's hands I laid my newly gotten gear, and heard privily from
him that, with his goodwill, I and his daughter might wed so soon as
she would.

"For she is pining with grief, and prayer, and fasting, and marriage
is the best remede for such maladies."

Of this grace I was right glad; yet Christmas went by and I dared
not speak, for Elliot seemed set on far other things than mirth, and
was ever and early in the churches, above all when service and
prayer were offered up for the Maid.  She was very willing to hear
all the tale of the long siege, and her face, that was thin and wan,
unlike her bright countenance of old, flushed scarlet when she heard
how we had bearded and shamed the noble Duke of Burgundy, and what
words Xaintrailles had spoken concerning his nobleness.

"There is one true knight left in France!" she said, and fell silent
again.

Then, we being alone in the chamber, I tried to take her hand, but
she drew it away.

"My dear love," she said, "I know all that is in your heart, and all
my love that is in mine you know well.  But in mine there is no care
for happiness and joy, and to speak as plain as a maiden may, I have
now no will to marry.  While the Sister of the Saints lies in
duresse, or if she be unjustly slain, I have set up my rest to abide
unwed, for ever, as the Bride of Heaven.  And, if the last evil
befall her, as well I deem it must, I shall withdraw me from the
world into the sisterhood of the Clarisses."

Had the great mid-beam of the roof fallen and smitten me, I could
not have been stricken more dumb and dead.  My face showed what was
in my mind belike, for, looking fearfully and tenderly on me, she
took my hand between hers and cherished it.

"My love," I said at last, "you see in what case I am, that can
scarce speak for sorrow, after all I have ventured, and laboured,
and won, for you and for the Maid."

"And I," she answered, "being but a girl, can venture and give
nothing but my poor prayers; and if she now perish, then I must pray
the more continually for the good rest of her soul, and the
forgiveness of her enemies and false friends."

"Sure, she hath already the certain promise of Paradise, and even in
this world her life is with the Saints.  And if men slay her body,
we need her prayers more than she needs ours."

But Elliot said no word, being very wilful.

"Consider what manner of friend the Maid is," I said, "who desires
nothing but joy and happy life to all whom she loves, as she loves
you.  Verily, I am right well assured that, could she see us in this
hour, she would bid you be happy with me, and not choose penance for
love of her."

"If she herself bids me do as you desire," said Elliot at last,
"then I would not be disobedient to that Daughter of God."

Here I took some comfort, for now a thought came into my mind.

"But," said Elliot, "as we read of the rich man and Lazarus, between
her and us is a great gulf fixed, and none may come from her to us,
or from us to her."

"Elliot!" I said, "if either the Maid be delivered, or if she sends
you sure and certain tidings under her own hand that she wills you
to put off this humour, will you then be persuaded, and make no more
delay!"

"Indeed, if either of these miracles befall, or both, right gladly
will I obey both you and her.  But now her Saints, methinks, have
left her, wearied by the wickedness of France."

"I ask no more," I answered, "for, Elliot, either the Maid shall be
free, or she shall send you this command, or you shall see my face
no more."

My purpose was now clear before me, even as I executed it, as shall
be seen.

"Indeed, if my vow must be kept, never may I again behold you; for
oh! my love, my heart would surely break in twain, being already
weak with grief and fasting, and weary with prayer."

Whereon she laid her kind arms about my neck, and, despite my
manhood, I wept no less than she.

For Holy Writ says well, that hope deferred maketh the heart sick;
and mine was sick unto death.

Of my resolve I spoke no word more to Elliot, lest her counsel
should change when she knew the jeopardy whereinto I was firmly
minded to go.  And to my master I said no more than that I was
minded to ride to the Court, and for that end I turned into money a
part of my treasure, for money I should need more than arms.

One matter in especial, which I deemed should stand me in the
greatest stead, I purchased for gold of the pottinger at Tours, the
same who had nursed me after my wound.  This draught I bestowed in a
silver phial, graven with strange signs, and I kept it ever close
and secret, for it was my chief mainstay.

Secretly as I wrought, yet I deem that my master had some
understanding of what was in my mind, though I told him nothing of
the words between me and Elliot.  For I was in no way without hope
that, when the bitterness of her grief was overpast, Elliot might
change her counsel.  And again, I would not have him devise and
dispute with her, as now, whereby I very well knew that she would be
but the more unhappy, and the more set on taking her own wilful way.
I therefore said no more than that it behoved me to see such
captains as were about the King.

Thereafter I bade them farewell, nor am I disposed to write
concerning what passed at the parting of Elliot and me.  For thrice
ere now I had left her to pass into the mouth of war, but now I went
into other peril, and with fainter hope.

I did indeed ride to the Court, which was at Sully, and there I met,
as I desired, Barthelemy Barrette.  He greeted me well, and was
richly clad, and prosperous to behold.  But it gave me greater joy
that he spoke of some secret enterprise which should shortly be put
in hand, when the spring came.

"For I have good intelligence," he said, "that the Bastard of
Orleans will ride privily to Louviers with men-at-arms.  Now
Louviers, where La Hire lies in garrison, is but seven leagues from
Rouen town, and what secret enterprise can he purpose there, save to
break the cage and set free the bird?"

In this hope I tarried long, intending to ride with the spears of
Barthelemy, and placing my trust on two knights so good and skilled
in war as La Hire and the Bastard, the Maid's old companions in
fight.

But the days waxed long, and it was March the thirteenth ere we rode
north, and already the doctors had begun to entrap the Maid with
their questions, whereof there could be but one end.

Without adventure very notable, riding much at night, through
forests and byways, we came to Louviers, where they received us
joyfully.  For it was very well known that the English were minded
to besiege this town, that braved them so near their gates at Rouen,
and that they only held back till they had slain the Maid.  While
she lived they dared not stir against us, knowing well that their
men feared to follow their flag.

Now, indeed, I was in good hope, but alas! there were long counsels
of the captains, there was much harrying of Normandy, and some
outlying bands of English were trapped, and prisoners were taken.
But of an assault on Rouen we heard no word, and, indeed, the
adventure was desperate, though, for the honour of France, I marvel
yet that it was not put to the touch.

"There is nought to be done," Barthelemy said to me; "I cannot take
Rouen with a handful of spears, and the captains will not stir."

"Then," said I, "farewell, for under the lilies I fight never again.
One chance remains, and I go to prove it."

"Man, you are mad," he answered me.  "What desperate peril are you
minded to run?"

"I am minded to end this matter," I said.  "My honour and my very
life stand upon it.  Ask me not why, and swear that you will keep
this secret from all men, if you would do the last service to me,
and to Her, whom we both love.  I tell you that, help me or hinder
me, I have no choice but this; yet so much I will say to you, that I
put myself in this jeopardy for my honour and the honour of
Scotland, and for my lady."

"The days are past for the old chivalry," he said; "but no more
words.  I swear by St. Ouen to keep your counsel, and if more I can
do, without mere madness and risk out of all hope, I will do it."

"This you can do without risk.  Let me have the accoutrements of one
of the Englishmen who lie in ward, and let me ride with your band at
daybreak to-morrow.  It is easy to tell some feigned tale, when you
ride back without me."

"You will not ride into Rouen in English guise?  They will
straightway hang you for a spy, and therein is little honour."

"My purpose is some deal subtler," I said, with a laugh, "but let me
keep my own counsel."

"So be it," said he, "a wilful man must have his way.  And now I
drink to your better wisdom, and may you escape that rope on which
your heart seems to be set!"

I grasped his hand on it, and by point of day we were riding out
seawards.  We made an onslaught on a village, burned a house or
twain, and seized certain wains of hay, so, in the confusion, I
slipped forward, and rode alone into a little wood.  There I clad
myself in English guise, having carried the gear in a wallet on my
saddle-bow, and so pushed on, till at nightfall I came to a certain
little fishing-village.  There, under cover of the dark, I
covenanted with a fisherman to set me across the Channel, I feigning
to be a deserter who was fleeing from the English army, for fear of
the Maid.

"I would well that I had to carry all the sort of you," said the
boat-master, for I had offered him my horse, and a great reward in
money, part down, and the other part to be paid when I set foot in
England.  Nor did he make any tarrying, but, taking his nets on
board, as if he would be about his lawful business, set sail, with
his two sons for a crew.  The east wind served us to a miracle, and,
after as fair a passage as might be, they landed me under cloud of
night not far from the great port of Winchelsea.

That night I slept none, but walking fast and warily, under cover of
a fog, I fetched a compass about, and ended by walking into the town
of Rye by the road from the north.  Here I went straight to the best
inn of the place, and calling aloud for breakfast, I bade the drawer
bring mine host to me instantly.  For, at Louviers, we were so well
served by spies, the country siding with us rather than with the
English, that I knew how a company of the Earl of Warwick's men was
looked for in Winchelsea to sail when they had a fair wind for
Rouen.

Mine host came to me in a servile English fashion, and asked me what
I would?

"First, a horse," said I, "for mine dropped dead last night, ten
miles hence on the north road, in your marshes, God damn them, and
you may see by my rusty spur and miry boot that I have walked far.
Here," I cried, pulling off my boots, and flinging them down on the
rushes of the floor, "bid one of your varlets clean them!  Next,
breakfast, and a pot of your ale; and then I shall see what manner
of horses you keep, for I must needs ride to Winchelsea."

"You would join the men under the banner of Sir Thomas Grey of
Falloden, I make no doubt?" he answered.  "Your speech smacks of the
Northern parts, and the good knight comes from no long way south of
the border.  His men rode through our town but few days agone."

"And me they left behind on the way," I answered, "so evil is my
luck in horse-flesh.  But for this blessed wind out of the east that
hinders them, my honour were undone."

My tale was not too hard of belief, and before noon I was on my way
to Winchelsea, a stout nag enough between my legs.

The first man-at-arms whom I met I hailed, bidding him lead me
straight to Sir Thomas Grey of Falloden.  "What, you would take
service?" he asked, in a Cumberland burr that I knew well, for
indeed it came ready enough on my own tongue.

"Yea, by St. Cuthbert," I answered, "for on the Marches nothing
stirs; moreover, I have slain a man, and fled my own country."

With that he bade God damn his soul if I were not a good fellow, and
so led me straight to the lodgings of the knight under whose colours
he served.  To him I told the same tale, adding that I had heard
late of his levying of his men, otherwise I had ridden to join him
at his setting forth.

"You have seen war?" he asked.

"Only a Warden's raid or twain, on the moss-trooping Scots of
Liddesdale.  Branxholme I have seen in a blaze, and have faced fire
at the Castle of the Hermitage."

"You speak the tongue of the Northern parts," he said; "are you
noble?"

"A poor cousin of the Storeys of Netherby," I answered, which was
true enough; and when he questioned me about my kin, I showed him
that I knew every name and scutcheon of the line, my mother having
instructed me in all such lore of her family. {38}

"And wherefore come you here alone, and in such plight?"

"By reason of a sword-stroke at Stainishawbank Fair," I answered
boldly.

"Faith, then, I see no cause why, as your will is so good, you
should not soon have your bellyful of sword-strokes.  For, when once
we have burned that limb of the devil, the Puzel" (for so the
English call the Maid), "we shall shortly drive these forsworn dogs,
the French, back beyond the Loire."

I felt my face reddening at these ill words, so I stooped, as if to
clear my spur of mire.

"Shortly shall she taste the tar-barrel," I answered, whereat he
swore and laughed; then, calling a clerk, bade him write my
indenture, as is the English manner.  Thus, thanks to my northern
English tongue, for which I was sore beaten by the other boys when I
was a boy myself, behold me a man-at-arms of King Henry, and so much
of my enterprise was achieved.

I make no boast of valour, and indeed I greatly feared for my neck,
both now and later.  For my risk was that some one of the men-at-
arms in Rouen, whither we were bound, should have seen my face
either at Orleans, at Paris (where I was unhelmeted), or in the
taking of the Bastille at Compiegne.  Yet my visor was down, both at
Orleans and Compiegne, and of those few who marked me in girl's gear
in Paris none might chance to meet me at Rouen, or to remember me in
changed garments.  So I put a bold brow on it, for better might not
be.  None cursed the Puzel more loudly than I, and, without
feigning, none longed so sorely as I for a fair wind to France,
wherefore I was ever going about Winchelsea with my head in the air,
gazing at the weather-cocks.  And, as fortune would have it, the
wind went about, and we on board, and with no long delay were at
Rouen town.



CHAPTER XXXI--HOW NORMAN LESLIE SAW THE MAID IN HER PRISON



On arriving in the town of Rouen, three things were my chief care,
whereof the second helped me in the third.  The first was to be
lodged as near as I might to the castle, wherein the Maid lay, being
chained (so fell was the cruelty of the English) to her bed.  The
next matter was to purvey me three horses of the fleetest.  Here my
fortune served me well, for the young esquires and pages would ever
be riding races outside of the gates, they being in no fear of war,
and the time till the Maid was burned hung heavy on their hands.  I
therefore, following the manner of the English Marchmen, thrust
myself forward in these sports, and would change horses, giving
money to boot, for any that outran my own.  My money I spent with a
very free hand, both in wagers and in feasting men-at-arms, so that
I was taken to be a good fellow, and I willingly let many make their
profit of me.  In the end, I had three horses that, with a light
rider in the saddle, could be caught by none in the whole garrison
of Rouen.

Thirdly, I was most sedulous in all duty, and so won the favour of
Sir Thomas Grey, the rather that he counted cousins with me, and
reckoned that we were of some far-off kindred, wherein he spoke the
truth.  Thus, partly for our common blood, partly for that I was
ever ready at call, and forward to do his will, and partly because
none could carry a message swifter, or adventure further to spy out
any bands of the French, he kept me close to him, and trusted me as
his galloper.  Nay, he gave me, on occasion, his signet, to open the
town gates whensoever he would send me on any errand.  Moreover, the
man (noble by birth, but base by breeding) who had the chief charge
and custody of the Maid, was the brother's son of Sir Thomas.  He
had to name John Grey, and was an esquire of the body of the English
King, Henry, then a boy.  This miscreant it was often my fortune to
meet, at his uncle's table, and to hear his pitiless and cruel
speech.  Yet, making friends, as Scripture commands us, of the
Mammon of unrighteousness, I set myself to win the affection of John
Grey by laughing at his jests and doing him what service I might.

Once or twice I dropped to him a word of my great desire to see the
famed Puzel, for the trials that had been held in open hall were now
done in the dungeon, where only the bishop, the doctors of law, and
the notaries might hear them.  Her noble bearing, indeed, and wise
answers (which were plainly put into her mouth by the Saints, for
she was simple and ignorant) had gained men's hearts.

One day, they told me, an English lord had cried--"The brave lass,
pity she is not English."  For to the English all the rest of God's
earth is as Nazareth, out of which can come no good thing.  Thus
none might see the Maid, and, once and again, I let fall a word in
John Grey's ear concerning my desire to look on her in prison.  I
dared make no show of eagerness, though now the month of May had
come, which was both her good and ill month.  For in May she first
went to Vaucouleurs and prophesied, in May she delivered Orleans,
and in May she was taken at Compiegne.  Wherefore I deemed, as men
will, that in May she should escape her prison, or in May should
die.  Moreover, on the first day of March they had asked her,
mocking her -

"Shalt thou be delivered?"

And she had answered -

"Ask me on this day three months, and I shall declare it to you."

The English, knowing this, made all haste to end her ere May ended,
wherefore I had the more occasion for speed.

Now, on a certain day, being May the eighth, the heart of John Grey
was merry within him.  He had well drunk, and I had let him win of
me, at the dice, that one of my three horses which most he coveted.

He then struck me in friendly fashion on the back, and cried -

"An unlucky day for thee, and for England.  This very day, two years
agone, that limb of the devil drove us by her sorceries from before
Orleans.  But to-morrow--" and he laughed grossly in his beard.
"Storey, you are a good fellow, though a fool at the dice."

"Faith, I have met my master," I said.  "But the lesson you gave me
was worth bay Salkeld," for so I had named my horse, after a great
English house on the Border who dwell at the Castle of Corby.

"I will do thee a good turn," he said.  "You crave to see this
Puzel, ere they put on her the high witch's cap for her hellward
journey."

"I should like it not ill," I said; "it were something to tell my
grandchildren, when all France is English land."

"Then you shall see her, for this is your last chance to see her
whole."

"What mean you, fair sir?" I asked, while my heart gave a turn in my
body, and I put out my hand to a great tankard of wine.

"To-morrow the charity of the Church hath resolved that she shall be
had into the torture-chamber."

I set my lips to the tankard, and drank long, to hide my face, and
for that I was nigh swooning with a passion of fear and wrath.

"Thanks to St. George," I said, "the end is nigh!"

"The end of the tankard," quoth he, looking into it, "hath already
come.  You drink like a man of the Land Debatable."

Yet I was in such case that, though by custom I drink little, the
great draught touched not my brain, and did but give me heart.

"You might challenge at skinking that great Danish knight who was
with us under Orleans, Sir Andrew Haggard was his name, and his
bearings were . . . " {39}

So he was running on, for he himself had drunk more than his share,
when I brought him back to my matter.

"But as touching this Puzel, how may I have my view of her, that you
graciously offered me?"

"My men change guard at curfew," he said; "five come out and five go
in, and I shall bid them seek you here at your lodgings.  So now,
farewell, and your revenge with the dice you shall have when so you
will."

"Nay, pardon me one moment:  when relieve you the guard that enters
at curfew?"

"An hour after point of day.  But, now I bethink me, you scarce will
care to pass all the night in the Puzel's company.  Hast thou paper
or parchment?"

I set paper and ink before him, who said -

"Nay, write yourself; I am no great clerk, yet I can sign and seal."

Therewith, at his wording, I set down an order to the Castle porter
to let me forth as early in the night as I would.  This pass he
signed with his name, and sealed with his ring, bearing his arms.

"So I wish you joy of this tryst and bonne fortune," he said, and
departed.

I had two hours before me ere curfew rang, and the time was more
than I needed.  Therefore I went first to the Church of St. Ouen,
which is very great and fair, and there clean confessed me, and made
my orisons that, if it were God's will, this enterprise might turn
to His honour, and to the salvation of the Maid.  And pitifully I
besought Madame St. Catherine of Fierbois, that as she had delivered
me, a sinner, she would deliver the Sister of the Saints.

Next I went back to my lodgings, and there bade the hostler to have
my two best steeds saddled and bridled in stall, by point of day,
for a council was being held that night in the Castle, and I and
another of Sir Thomas's company might be sent early with a message
to the Bishop of Avranches.  This holy man, as then, was a cause of
trouble and delay to the Regent and Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of
Beauvais, because he was just, and fell not in with their treasons.

Next I clad myself in double raiment, doublet above doublet, and
hose over hose, my doublets bearing the red cross of St. George.
Over all I threw a great mantle, falling to the feet, as if I feared
the night chills.  Thereafter I made a fair copy of my own writing
in the pass given to me by John Grey, and copied his signature also,
and feigned his seal with a seal of clay, for it might chance that
two passes proved better than one.  Then I put in a little wallet
hanging to my girdle the signet of Sir Thomas Grey, and the pass
given to me by John Grey, also an ink-horn with pen and paper, and
in my hand, secretly, I held that phial which I had bought of the
apothecary in Tours.  All my gold and jewels I hid about my body; I
sharpened my sword and dagger, and then had no more to do but wait
till curfew rang.

This was the weariest part of all; for what, I thought, if John Grey
had forgotten his promise, the wine being about his wits.  Therefore
I walked hither and thither in my chamber, in much misdoubt; but at
the chime of curfew I heard rude voices below, and a heavy step on
the stairs.  It was a man-at-arms of the basest sort, who, lurching
with his shoulder against my door, came in, and said that he and his
fellows waited my pleasure.  Thereon I showed him the best
countenance, and bade my host fill a pannier with meat and cakes and
wine, to pass the hours in the prison merrily.  I myself ran down
into the host's cellar, and was very busy in tasting wine, for I
would have the best.  And in making my choice, while the host
stooped over a cask to draw a fresh tankard, I poured all the drugs
of my phial into a large pewter vessel with a lid, filled it with
wine, and, tasting it, swore it would serve my turn.  This flagon,
such as we call a 'tappit hen' in my country, but far greater, I
bore with me up the cellar stairs, and gave it to one of the guard,
bidding him spill not a drop, or he should go thirsty.

The lourdaud, that was their captain, carried the pannier, and,
laughing, we crossed the street and the moat, giving the word
"Bedford."  To the porter I showed my pass, telling him that, though
I was loath to disturb him, I counted not to watch all night in the
cell, wherefore I gave him a gold piece for the trouble he might
have in letting me go forth at an hour untimely.  Herewith he was
well content, and so, passing the word to the sentinel at each post,
we entered.

And now, indeed, my heart beat so that my body seemed to shake with
hope and fear as I walked.  At the door of the chamber wherein the
Maid lay we met her guards coming forth, who cried roughly, bidding
her good even, and to think well of what waited her, meaning the
torments.  They tumbled down the stairs laughing, while we went in,
and I last.  It was a dark vaulted chamber with one window near the
roof, narrow and heavily barred.  In the recess by the window was a
brazier burning, and casting as much shadow as light by reason of
the smoke.  Here also was a rude table, stained with foul circles of
pot-rims, and there were five or six stools.  On a weighty oaken bed
lay one in man's raiment, black in hue, her face downwards, and her
arms spread over her neck.  It could scarce be that she slept, but
she lay like one dead, only shuddering when the lourdaud, the
captain of the guard, smote her on the shoulder, asking, in English,
how she did?

"Here she is, sir, surly as ever, and poor company for Christian
men.  See you how cunningly all her limbs are gyved, and chained to
the iron bolts of the bed?  What would my lady Jeanne give me for
this little master-key?"

Here he showed a slender key, hung on a steel chain about his neck.

"Never a saint of the three, Michael, Margaret, and Catherine, can
take this from me; nay, nor the devils who wear their forms."

"Have you seen this fair company of hers?" I whispered in English,
crossing myself.

"No more than she saw the white lady that goes with that other
witch, Catherine of La Rochelle.  But, sir, she is sullen; it is her
manner.  With your good leave, shall we sup?"

This was my own desire, so putting the pannier on the table, I
carved the meat with my dagger, and poured out the wine in cups, and
they fell to, being hungry, as Englishmen are at all times.  They
roared over their meat, eating like wolves and drinking like fishes,
and one would sing a lewd song, and the others strike in with the
over-word, but drinking was their main avail.

"This is better stuff," says the lourdaud, "than our English ale.
Faith, 'tis strong, my lads!  Wake up, Jenkin; wake up, Hal," and
then he roared a snatch, but stopped, looking drowsily about him.

O brothers in Christ, who hear this tale, remember ye that, for now
four months and more, the cleanest soul in Christenty, and the
chastest lady, and of manners the noblest, had endured this company
by night and by day!

"Nay, wake up," I cried; "ye are dull revellers; what say ye to the
dice?"

Therewith I set out my tablier and the dice.  Then I filled up the
cup afresh, pretending to drink, and laid on the foul table a great
shining heap of gold.  Their dull eyes shone like the metal when I
said -

"Myself will be judge and umpire; play ye, honest fellows, for I
crave no gains from you.  Only, a cup for luck!"

They camped at the table, all the five of them, and some while their
greed kept them wakeful, and they called the mains, but their
drought kept them drinking.  And, one by one, their heads fell heavy
on the table, or they sprawled on their stools, and so sank on to
the floor, so potent were the poppy and mandragora of the leech in
Tours.

At last they were all sound on sleep, one man's hand yet clutching a
pile of my gold that now and again would slip forth and jingle on
the stone floor.

Now all this time she had never stirred, but lay as she had lain,
her face downwards, her arms above her neck.

Stealthily I took the chain and the key from about the neck of the
sleeping lourdaud, and then drew near her on tiptoe.

I listened, and, from her breathing, I believe that she slept, as
extreme labour and weariness and sorrow do sometimes bring their own
remede.

Then a thought came into my mind, how I should best awake her, and
stooping, I said in her ear -

"Fille De!"

Instantly she turned about, and, sitting up, folded her hands as one
in prayer, deeming, belike, that she was aroused by the voices of
her Saints.  I kneeled down beside the bed, and whispered--"Madame,
Jeanne, look on my face!"

She gazed on me, and now I saw her brave face, weary and thin and
white, and, greater than of old, the great grey eyes.

"I said once," came her sweet voice, "that thou alone shouldst stand
by me when all had forsaken me.  Fair Saints, do I dream but a
dream?"

"Nay, Madame," I said, "thou wakest and dost not dream.  One has
sent me who loves thee, even my lady Elliot; and now listen, for the
time is short.  See, here I have the master-key, and when I have
unlocked thy bonds . . . "

"Thou hast not slain these men?" she asked.  "That were deadly sin."

"Nay, they do but sleep, and will waken belike ere the fresh guard
comes, wherefore we must make haste."

"When I have freed thee, do on thy body, above thy raiment, this
doublet of mine, for it carries the cross of England, and, I being
of little stature, you may well pass for me.  Moreover, this cloak
and its hood, which I wore when I came in, will cover thee.  Then,
when thou goest forth give the word "Bedford" to the sentinels; and,
to the porter in the gate, show this written pass of John Grey's.
He knows it already, having seen it this night.  Next, when thou art
without the castle, fare to the hostelry called "The Rose and
Apple," which is nearest the castle gate, and so straight into the
stable, where stand two steeds, saddled and bridled.  Choose the
black, he is the swifter.  If the hostler be awake, he expects me,
and will take thee for me; mount, with no word, and ride to the
eastern port.  There show to the gate ward this signet of Sir Thomas
Grey, and he will up with portcullis and down with drawbridge, for
he has often done no less for me and that signet.

"Then, Madame, ride for Louviers, and you shall break your fast with
the Bastard and La Hire."  Her white face changed to red, like the
morning light, as on that day at Orleans, before she took Les
Tourelles.

Then the flush faded, and she grew ashen pale, while she said -

"But thou, how shalt thou get forth?"

"Madame," I said, "fear not for me.  I will follow after thee, and
shame the sleepy porter to believe that he has dreamed a dream.  And
I have written this other pass, on seeing which he will needs credit
me, being adrowse, and, moreover, I will pay him well.  And I shall
be at the stable as soon almost as thou, and I have told the hostler
that belike I shall ride with a friend, carrying a message to the
Bishop of Avranches.  For I have beguiled the English to believe me
of their party, as Madame Judith wrought to the tyrant Holofernes."

"Nay," she answered simply, "this may not be.  Even if the porter
were to be bought or beguiled, thou couldst not pass the sentinels.
It may not be."

"The sentinels, belike, are sleeping, or wellnigh sleeping, and I
have a dagger.  O Madame! for the sake of the fortune of France, and
the honour of the King"--for this, I knew, was my surest hope--
"delay not, nor reck at all of me.  I have but one life, and it is
thine freely."

"They will burn thee, or slay thee with other torments."

"Not so," I said; "I shall not be taken alive."

"That were deadly sin," she answered.  "I shall not go and leave
thee to die for me.  Then were my honour lost, and I could not
endure to live.  Entreat me not, for I will not go forth, as now.
Nay more, I tell thee as I have told my judges, that which the
Saints have spoken to me.  'Bear this thy martyrdom gently,' they
say, 'tu t'en viendras en royaume du Paradis.'  Moreover, this I
know, that I am to be delivered with great victory!"

Here she clasped her hands, looking upwards, and her face was as the
face of an angel.

"Fair victory it were to leave thee in my place, and so make liars
of my brethren of Paradise."

Then, alas! I knew that I was of no more avail to move her; yet one
last art I tried.

"Madame," I said, "I have prayed you in the name of the fortune of
France, and the honour of the King, which is tarnished for ever if
you escape not."

"I shall be delivered," she answered.

"I pray you in the dear name of your lady mother, Madame du Lys."

"I shall be delivered," she said, "and with great victory!"

"Now I pray thee in my own name, and in that of thy first friend, my
lady.  She has made a vow to give her virginity to Heaven unless
either thou art set free, or she have tidings from thee that thou
willest her to wed me, without whom I have no desire to live, but
far rather this very night to perish.  For I am clean confessed,
within these six hours, knowing that I was like to be in some
jeopardy."

"Then," she said, smiling sweetly, and signing that I should take
her hand--"Then live, Norman Leslie, for this is to me an easy thing
and a joyous.  Thou art a clerk, hast thou wherewithal to write?"

"Yes, Madame, here in my wallet."

"Then write as I tell thee:-


"JHESU MARIA"


"'I, Jehanne la Pucelle, send from prison here in Rouen my tidings
of love to Elliot Hume, my first friend among women, and bid her,
for my sake, wed him who loves her, Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, my
faithful servant, praying that all happiness may go with them.  In
witness whereto, my hand being guided to write, I set my name,
Jehanne la Pucelle, this ninth day of May, in the year Fourteen
hundred and thirty-one.'


"So guide my hand," she said, taking the pen from my fingers; and
thus guided, while my tears fell on her hand, she wrote JEHANNE LA
PUCELLE.

"Now," quoth she, smiling as of old, "we must seal this missive.
Cut off one lock of my hair with your dagger, for my last gift to my
first friend, and make the seal all orderly."

I did as she bade, and, bringing a lighted stick from the brazier, I
melted wax.  Then, when it was smooth, she laid on it two hairs from
the little sundered lock (as was sometimes her custom), and bade me
seal with my own signet, and put the brief in my wallet.

"Now, all is done," she said.

"Nay, nay," I said, "to die for thee is more to me than to live in
love.  Ah, nay, go forth, I beseech thee!"

"With victory shall I go forth, and now I lay my last commands on
the last of all my servants.  If in aught I have ever offended thee,
in word or deed, forgive me!"

I could but bow my head, for I was weeping, though her eyes were
dry.

"And so, farewell," she said -

"As thou art leal and true, begone; it is my order, and make no
tarrying.  To-morrow I have much to do, and needs must I sleep while
these men are quiet.  Say to thy lady that I love her dearly, and
bid her hope, as I also hope.  Farewell!"

She moved her thin hand, which I kissed, kneeling.

Again she said "Farewell," and turned her back on me as if she would
sleep.

Then I hung the chain and key again on the neck of the lourdaud; I
put some of the fallen coins in the men's pouches, but bestowed the
dice and tablier in my wallet.  I opened the door, and went forth,
not looking back; and so from the castle, showing my pass, and
giving the porter another coin.  Then I went home, in the sweet dawn
of May, and casting myself on my bed, I wept bitterly, for to-day
she should be tormented.


Of the rest I have no mind to tell (though they had not the heart to
torture the Maid), for it puts me out of charity with a people who
have a name to be Christians, and it is my desire, if I may, to
forgive all men before I die.

At Rouen I endured to abide, even until the day of unjust doom, and
my reason was that I ever hoped for some miracle, even as her Saints
had promised.  But it was their will that she should be made perfect
through suffering, and being set free through the gate of fire,
should win her victory over unfaith and mortal fear.  Wherefore I
stood afar off at the end, seeing nothing of what befell; yet I
clearly heard, as did all men there, the last word of her sweet
voice, and the cry of JHESUS!

Then I passed through the streets where men and women, and the very
English, were weeping, and, saddling my swiftest horse, I rode to
the east port.  When the gate had closed behind me, I turned, and,
lifting my hand, I tore the cross of St. George from my doublet.

"Dogs!" I cried, "ye have burned a Saint!  A curse on cruel English
and coward French!  St Andrew for Scotland!"  The shafts and bolts
hailed past me as I wheeled about; there was mounting of steeds, and
a clatter of hoofs behind me, but the sound died away ere I rode
into Louviers.

There I told them the tale which was their shame, and so betook me
to Tours, and to my lady.



CHAPTER XXXII--THE END OF THIS CHRONICLE



It serves not to speak of my later fortunes, being those of a
private man, nor have I the heart to recall old sorrows.  We were
wedded when Elliot's grief had in some sort abated, and for one year
we were happier than God has willed that sinful men should long be
in this world.  Then that befell which has befallen many.  I may not
write of it:  suffice it that God took from me both her and her
child.  Then, after certain weeks and days of which I am blessed
enough to keep little memory, I forswore arms, and served in the
household of the Lady Margaret of Scotland, who married the Dauphin
on an unhappy day.  I have known much of Courts and of the learned,
I have seen the wicked man exalted, and Brother Thomas Noiroufle in
great honour with Charles VII. King of France, and offering before
him, with his murderous hands, the blessed sacrifice of the Mass.

The death of the Lady Margaret, slain by lying tongues, and the
sudden sight of that evil man, Brother Thomas, raised to power and
place, drove me from France, and I was certain years with the King's
ambassadors at the Courts of Italy.  There I heard how the Holy
Inquisition had reversed that false judgment of the English and
false French at Rouen, which made me some joy.  And then, finding
old age come upon me, I withdrew to my own country, where I have
lived in religion, somewhile in the Abbey of Dunfermline, and this
year gone in our cell of Pluscardine, where I now write, and where I
hope to die and be buried.

Here ends my tale, in my Latin Chronicle left untold, of how a Scots
Monk was with the Maid both in her victories and recoveries of
towns, and even till her death.

For myself, I now grow old, and the earthly time to come is short,
and there remaineth a rest for all souls Christian.  Miscreants I
have heard of, men misbelieving and heretics, who deny that the
spirit abides after the death of the body, for in the long years,
say they, the spirit with the flesh wanes, and at last dies with the
bodily death.  Wherein they not only make Holy Church a liar, but
are visibly confounded by this truth which I know and feel, namely,
that while my flesh wastes hourly towards old age, and of many
things my memory is weakened, yet of that day in Chinon I mind me as
clearly, and see my love as well, and hear her sweet voice as plain,
as if she had but now left the room.

Herein my memory does not fail, nor does love faint, growing
stronger with the years, like the stream as it races to the fall.
Wherefore, being more strong than Time, Love shall be more strong
than Death.  The river of my life speeds yearly swifter, the years
like months go by, the months like weeks, the weeks like days.  Even
so fleet on, O Time, till I rest beside her feet!  Nay, never, being
young, did I more desire my love's presence when we were apart than
to-day I desire it, the memory of her filling all my heart as
fragrance of flowers fills a room, till it seems as if she were not
far away, but near me, as I write of her.  And, foolish that I am! I
look up as if I might see her by my side.  I know not if this be so
with all men, for, indeed, I have asked none, nor spoken to any of
the matter save in confession.  For I have loved this once, and no
more; wherefore I deem me happier than most, and more certain of a
good end to my love, where the blessed dwell in the Rose of
Paradise, beholding the Beatific Vision.

To this end I implore the prayers of all Christian souls who read
this book, and of all the Saints, and of that Sister of the Saints
whom, while I might, I served in my degree.

VENERABILIS JOHANNA
ORA PRO NOBIS



APPENDIX A--NORMAN'S MIRACLE



(See "Livre des Miracles de Madame Sainte Katherine de Fierboys.
MSS.  Bib. Nat. 7335, fol. lxxxiv.)

Le xvi jour du moys de janvier, l'an mil cccc. xxx., vint en la
chapelle de ceans Norman Leslie de Pytquhoulle, escoth, escuyer de
la compagnie de Hugues Cande, capitaine. {40}  Lequel dist et
afferma par serment estre vray le miracle cy apres declaire.  C'est
assavoir que le dit Leslie fut prins des Anglois e Paris le jour de
la Nativite de Nostre Dame de l'an dernier passe.  Lequel Norman
Leslie avoit entre dans la ville de Paris avec c.  Escossoys en
guise d'Angloys, lesqueuls Escossoys furent prins des Angloys, et
ledit Norman fut mis en fers et en ceps.  Et estoit l'intention de
ceux qui l'avoient pris de le faire lendemain ardre, parce qu'il
portoit robe de femme par maniere de ruse de guerre.

Si s'avint que ledit Norman se voua e Madame Sainte Katherine, qu'il
luy pleust prier Dieu qu'il le voulsist delivrer de la prison ou il
estoit; et incontinent qu'il pourroit estre dehors, il yroit mercier
Madame Sainte Katherine en sa chapelle de Fierboys.  Et incontinent
son veu fait si s'en dormit, et au reveiller trouva en la tour
avecques luy un Singe, qui lui apporta deux files, et un petit
cousteau.  Ainsi il trouva maniere de se deferrer, et adoncques s'en
sortit de la prison emportant avecques luy le singe.  Si se laissoit
cheoir a val en priant Madame Sainte Katherine et chut a bas, et
oncques ne se fist mal, et se rendit e Saint Denys ou il trouvoit
des compagnons Escossoys.

Et ainsy ledit Norman Leslie s'en est venu audit lieu de Fierboys,
tout sain et sauf, emportant avecques luy ledit singe, qui est beste
estrange et fol de son corps.  Et a jure ledit Norman ce estre vray
par la foy et serment de son corps.

Presens messire Richart Kyrthrizian, frere Giles Lacourt, prestres
gouverneurs de la dite chapelle, et messire Hauves Polnoire, peintre
du Roy, et plusieurs aultres.



APPENDIX B--ELLIOT'S RING



The Ring of the Maid, inscribed with the Holy Names, is often
referred to in her Trial ("Proces," i. 86, 103, 185, 236, 238), and
is mentioned by Bower, the contemporary Scottish chronicler
("Proces," iv. 480), whose work was continued in the "Liber
Pluscardensis."  We have also, in the text, Norman's statement that
a copy of this ring was presented by the Maid to Elliot Hume.

While correcting the proof-sheets of this Chronicle, the Translator
received from Mr. George Black, Assistant Keeper of the National
Museum of Antiquities in Edinburgh, a copy of his essay on "Scottish
Charms and Amulets" ("Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of
Scotland," May 8, 1893, p. 488).  There, to his astonishment, the
Translator read:  "The formula MARI. IHS. occurs on two finger-rings
of silver-gilt, one of which was found at Pluscarden, Elginshire,
and the other in an old graveyard near Fintray House,
Aberdeenshire."  Have we in the Pluscarden ring a relic of the Monk
of Pluscarden, the companion of Jeanne d'Arc, the author of "Liber
Pluscardensis"?



Footnotes:

{1}  Several copies of this book, the Liber Pluscardensis, are
extant, but the author's original MS. is lost.

{2}  This was written after the Act of the Scots Parliament of 1457.

{3}  Daggers.

{4}  Rude wall surrounding a keep.

{5}  Sisters in the rule of St. Francis.

{6}  These tricks of sleight-of-hand are attributed by Jean Nider,
in his "Formicarium," to the false Jeanne d'Arc.--A. L.

{7}  Very intimate.

{8}  When the sky falls and smothers the larks,

{9}  This quotation makes it certain that Scott's ballad of Harlaw,
in "The Antiquary," is, at least in part, derived from tradition

{10}  This description confirms that of the contemporary town-clerk
of La Rochelle.

{11}  The staircase still exists.

{12}  "My neck would learn the weight of my more solid proportions."

{13}  Neck.

{14}  "Frightened by a ghost."

{15}  "Airt," i.e. "quarter."

{16}  "Fright for fright."

{17}  Lameter, a lame.

{18}  Bor-brief, certificate of gentle birth.

{19}  Howlet, a young owl; a proverb for voracity.

{20}  Battle-axe.

{21}  Bougran, lustrous white linen.

{22}  There are some slight variations, as is natural, in the
Fierbois record.

{23}  Equipped for battle.

{24}  That is, in the "Liber Pluscardensis."

{25}  Englishman.

{26}  Heavy and still.

{27}  Daughter of God, go on, and I will be thine aid.  Go on!

{28}  Lyrat, grey.

{29}  The king's evil:  "ecrouelles," scrofula.

{30}  Darg, day's work.

{31}  "Par mon martin," the oath which she permitted to La Hire.

{32}  See Appendix A, 'Norman's Miracle,' Appendix B, 'Elliot's
Ring.'

{33}  That in to say, some two thousand combatants.

{34}  Echevins--magistrates.

{35}  "Away with this man, and release unto us Barabbas."

{36}  Pavises--large portable shelters.

{37}  Block-houses.

{38}  The Grahames had not yet possessed themselves of Netherby.--A.
L.

{39}  "Substituting 'or' for 'argent,' his bearings were those of
the distinguished modern novelist of the same name.--A. L.

{40}  Cande = Kennedy.