One spring followed another.
In that April of 1429, a banner took the wind such as had never been seen before, or since. Looking upon it, a despairing man who had a longing to become a king felt within him a hope he had not thought to know during his lifetime.
In that month of April also, Gwalchmai came to the shrine where he had left the sword of Roland in safekeeping and, asking for it, he learned that it was gone.
It was in a savage mood that he faced the lay-brother who acted as custodian of the chapel. It seemed to Gwalchmai that this one disappointment was the culmination of many unhappy days and that trouble rode his back like the Burr-Woman. He seized upon the altar in his wrath and shook it with his strong hands.
“You say it was sent for? No one knew it was there but me! I placed it in the trust of Saint Catherine—long, long ago!”
“Then surely Saint Catherine knew it lay behind the altar. Does it mean nothing to you, fair sir, that it has been kept safe, however long since you left it, until last week, when it was asked for, searched for, and found to be where it was said to be hidden?
“None of us knew it was there. We took the finding of it to be a miracle. Perhaps—of course it must be so—Saint Catherine told the Dauphin’s Commander-in-Chief that the sword was here.
“It was the only one in the shrine that bore five little crosses. There was a powdering of rust on it. As we lifted it, the rust fell away like magic. We polished it reverently and gave it into the hands of the messenger who had come asking for it”
“Where was it taken? I would have words with this commander. Where can he be found?”
“The Dauphin holds his ragged court in Chinon. It is about all the grandeur left to him and when Orleans falls he will not have that much, for the fall of that city will open all the Loire valley to the English.
“His tiny army is gathering for the relief of Orleans, but there is small hope for its success. Until the army marches, you might find your sword there.”
Gwalchmai turned on his heel and stamped out. A few feet away, he bethought himself and turned back.
“His name? How is this thief called?”
“You will have no trouble in finding the Commander-in-Chief! Anyone will direct you. Ask for Jean Dark.”
“Sounds like a renegade Englishman. No wonder you have little faith in your cause!”
Gwalchmai spat on the ground, glared at the intimidated lay-brother, and left the shrine in a fury.
He had not gone far when his temper cooled. Harking back, his memory brought up a fact he had forgotten. There had been one other hi the shrine when he had slipped the sword behind the altar, away back—when was it? Could it be possible? A little over three centuries-ago?
Yes, one other was watching. One other knew—and only one other in all the world could know now!
Corenice had returned! She was somewhere near him! This was her way of leading him to her!
On then to Chinon—on the wings of the wind!
20
forward—The ^Banner
She was a little strange, but dear. Voices she heard, we could not hear. The Saints she saw, we could not see. We did not mock her piety, When Voices told her what to do, We knew that what they said was true. We loved but a single mother. She had two. France was the other!
Songs of Huon
It was late in the day when Gwalchmai left Fierbois and, hurry as he might, early evening had approached when he reached Chinon.
The town was crowded and in some fields tents were up and a smell of cooking was in the air. Gwalchmai stopped at one of these campfires and made himself known as a new recruit for the Dauphin’s army. He jingled his few coins hi his pouch while he talked.
As he had hoped, he was invited to eat, on condition that he contribute to the general fund. He went into the town and bought bread and a bottle of wine. When he came back, the kettle of soup was ready and he sat down upon the grass with the four men who shared the tent and they ate together.
They looked no better than bandits, but were respectful at Gwalchmai’s bearing and careful hi their speech. At times he caught their quick glances at his face, but when they saw he noticed, their attention was at once directed elsewhere.
He did not realize how the recent savage years had taken their toll. His face was deeply lined, though as impassive as his mingled Aztec and Roman blood had always made it. His ruddy complexion was now more coppery than ever, burned so by hot southern suns and almost constant outdoor living. Because of the rejuvenating qualities of Merlin’s elixir he still possessed a full set of teeth, although he could not have told how many times some of them had been replaced. His eyesight was not dimmed and his glance was as feral as the eagle for which he had been named.
Scars streaked jaggedly and pale along his right cheek and neck, where a spear point had ripped him when Delhi fell to Tamerlane. He limped slightly from an older wound got at Acre, when it was captured by Sultan Malek of Egypt and the Holy Land was lost. His left arm swung a little crookedly. His horse had fallen upon him, hiding his body and enabling him to become the sole survivor of the massacre of the Catalan Company’s cavalry at Adrianople.
Yet, although his hair was gray and tending toward white, his arms were knotted with muscle and he knew himself to be still virile and strong. The fires of youth, still fed by the Elixir, burned brightly within him. With the thought of Corenice to encourage his seeking, it was with the heart and mind of a young man going to his first rendezvous that he rose from his meal. He shouldered his little pack of necessaries, although the others urged him to return there and sleep, and went into the town, to learn what he could of the mystery that plagued him.
He inquired where the Commander-in-Chief might be found and thought that folk looked at him strangely, but did not understand why. Behind the Dauphin’s headquarters, which was by courtesy called the castle, although it was nothing impressive, there was a long tilting ground. Here some gentlemen and knights were jousting and a few onlookers were leaning upon the surrounding rails, happily pleased to see the nobility take a fall.
As Gwalchmai came up, a shout of laughter rose and a crash of armor sounded as horse and man went down.
“Mon Dieu! Unhorsed again! I swear D’Aulon is too old to hold a lance! Hoi, back to the quintain and the” popinjay, Intendant!“
The fallen man smiled ruefully as he struggled to his feet in his weight of armor, aided by a younger man who turned indignantly upon the jeering crowd.
“Nay, it is no shame to fall before that lance! Which among you will ride against it? My feet went out of stirrups and I clutched pommel or I would have been flattened too.”
“Peace, Duke Alengon,” D’Aulon said. “I think no shame to myself. I did not expect to avoid a point steadied by angels. After all, it is not in tournament, but only in play. It was a shrewd blow that felled me. God grant many a Godam will feel as shrewd a one at Orleans!”
By this time, his contestant had turned and come cantering back, to leap lightly down, patting the black charger on the neck and then raising visor to disclose a laughing face, framed by the steel helmet that bore no plume or device.
“By my baton! This is a fine horse, mon beau Due!” The sweet, womanly voice rang out clearly as a bell across the tilting ground.
Hearing it, Gwalchmai’s heart gave a great leap within him. Without thinking that he was interrupting, he clambered over the rail and walked toward the little group.
He heard the young man say, “He is yours now. No one but you shall ever ride him again.” Then they all fell silent watching the grim-visaged stranger who strode in their direction.
Gwalchmai stopped a few paces away,‘ his eyes fixed upon the girl in the plain armor. Her black hair was cut like that of a page and she looked like a slight beardless boy. Her metal had obviously not been made over to suit a feminine figure, so he estimated that she was very young and as yet unformed. From whence then, her skill and strength?
He could see that her eyes were gra
y and although she was smiling in a puzzled way, as though she was trying to identify him, he had the feeling that those eyes could take on a hint of blue that would cause them to glint like fine steel. He thought he would not want to be the one to cross her will.
She was not beautiful, scarcely more than pretty. Her frank, open countenance was that of a clear-minded, honest country girl. As Gwalchmai looked upon her face, which seemed strangely familiar, a word came unbidden to his mind and it was—winsome.
Then, in that strange quiet instant, before anyone broke the silence, he knew that the features were indeed familiar, though not those he had hoped to see.
As though she had been born again to haunt him with sad, dead memories—out of that steel casque there looked curiously upon him the face of the Welsh girl, Nikky, with whom as Corenice enlivened, he had adventured, loved, and spent a twelvemonth of days so bittersweet that he could scarcely abide to remember them!
It seemed that she too was striving to recall something lost, or was it only because he looked at her so intently that she took a half step toward him, her right hand slightly raised in greeting?
“Gaihun.” He gave her the Basque greeting deliberately, wondering if the old Atlantidean word would bring out a flash of knowledge.
“Bon soir,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, and it was with grief that he saw no further sign of recognition, or any intimation that except through intuition she understood the meaning of the word.
“Good evening, Sir Knight,” and he realized that she gave him the title only because, in one sweeping glance, she had shrewdly estimated his qualities as a fighting man and not through any other knowledge of him. “Have you come to join the army of my gentle Dauphin and strike a blow for France?”
“Are you the one called Jean Dark? Can it be that you are War-Chief of an army?”
She laughed. Again his heartstrings thrummed at the sound, so like—so often heard—so long ago—and not quite the same.
“Here they term me chef-de-guerre. In my town they called me Jeannette, but my birth name is Jeanne. Since I have come to France I have sometimes been known as Joan.
I have many names—the Godams call me witch, but my Saints, when they speak to me, say Thou Child of God.‘ I think I like that best.
“You are very dark, Sir Knight, and of a strange hue. Are you a Morisco?”
Duke d’Alengon spoke up before he could answer.
“By his greeting, he is Basque, my General. There are Others such in the army. Recruits are flocking to your banner from everywhere.”
“What arms do you carry, Basque? What lineage have you?”
Gwalchmai thought quickly. Upon his answer depended his status in this mad hodgepodge of soldiery that was being assembled to meet English and Burgundian power. Should he be man-at-arms only, or give himself qualities that would bring him in closer contact with this strange girl to whom he was so strangely drawn?
“I have come from very far away to be with you. My name is Gwalchmai.” Recognition? In her face, only polite interest and curiosity. Oh, God! Could he be wrong?
No! At her side there hung the sword Durandal. It was she who had sent for it. It was she alone who had known where to send and where it could be found in the shrine.
“I have fought in many armies. I am skilled in war. My name means Hawk or Eagle, take your choice. My father was a King.”
D’Alencon grunted, deprecating the last statement. “Every Basque who has a stone house and ten sheep thinks he is of the nobility!”
But Jeanne’s face lightened and she gave him her hands warmly.
“Then I give you good welcome, Sir Basque, and I say to you as I did to my pretty Duke, when he entered my service against his wife’s will: The more of royal blood are gathered together for this venture the better.‘ Let us march with courage and in brave company, for if men will fight, God will surely give us victory.”
Now that he was accepted, he placed his hands between hers, thus in courtoisie recognizing her as his liege, as she considered the Dauphin hers, but not King until he would receive his dominion through her from her real Lord—the King of Heaven.
She gravely acknowledged Gwalchmai’s homage, coloring prettily at his evident admiration, and released his hands. The others gathered around, introducing themselves.
Besides D’Aulon, Jeanne’s squire, who watched over her like a hen with one chick, and the young Duke of Alengon, only recently released from an English prison upon the payment of an immense ransom thafiad impoverished himself and his wife, there were several notables who had gathered to see the fun.
The Dauphin stood nearby, his weak chin trembling with the late excitement of the joust. He was ill-favored in face and bodily appearance, and his hose had been padded to hide his knock knees.
He seemed all the more unprepossessing, for beside him stood in ironic contrast one of the handsomest and the wealthiest man in the country.
Gilles de Rais held for ancestor Bertrand du Guesclin, in his time the most popular hero of France, and bade fair to equal his exploits. At twenty-five, he had proven himself a brilliant and dashing soldier and had become the dread of the English. He had been first in at the taking of the fortress of Lude and slain the English commander, Blackburn, in hand-to-hand combat.
He was the darling of the people, who ignored his darker side—his antipathy to women, his not well-concealed orgies, his merciless slaughter of prisoners taken in battle, and his setting aside of his sixteen-year-old bride shortly after their unsatisfactory honeymoon. Through her, his already enormous wealth had been increased and other ladies sought to console him, but his interest was confined to one only.
From the moment the Dauphin had attempted to deceive Jeanne as to his identity, by hiding among the incredulous and hostile court until recognized at once by her, the Seigneur de Rais had made himself her friend and champion.
Against all skepticism and even active enmity of the Dauphin’s self-interested counselors, he insisted in his belief in her divine mission. De Rais changed his mode of living and interested his cousins, Guy and Andre de Laval, the Duke D’Alencon and Dunois, known as the Bastard, Commander at Orleans, in her cause.
He advanced the Dauphin vast sums of money, to be used in the assembling of the army, and in gratitude, Charles, always deep in debt, made him protector of the Maid on the field, at her own request.
When Gwalchmai was introduced to him, he saw a man as strong as himself, a little pouched under the eyes from excesses, and attractively sinister in aspect. His face was almost hidden by a carefully tended growth of glossy black hair that in bright sunlight gleamed so vitally he had been given the sobriquet of “Bluebeard.”
His grip of welcome almost crushed Gwalchmai’s hand.
“Ride beside me, L’Aiglon, when we travel to Tours. I will be glad to have your strong arm near me. Seek me out tomorrow and I will see you outfitted properly.”
“I thank you graciously, my Lord Baron.” Gwalchmai bowed to all the assembly and took his departure, thinking that the offer, however kindly meant, sounded more like a command than he liked to hear.
Certainly this new acquaintance was a man accustomed to being obeyed without question.
Somewhat pensively, he returned to the tent where he had supped. He did not know if these men would relish seeing him again, so he thoughtfully provided himself with more wine, as there seemed no other accommodation in the crowded town.
Both he and the wine were greeted with enthusiasm. Gear was tossed aside to make room. By morning they were firm friends, and Robert, the Archer, one of those who had brought Jeanne from Vaucouleurs, guided Gwalchmai to be outfitted as a knight.
He chose black armor, such as his patron wore. He wore no favor on his helmet, nor did he seek one—although De Rais directed him to a limner to have arms emblazoned on his shield.
When he was mounted he too presented an impressive figure. A swan—Or—with wings closed, floated on a rippled sea—Azure. Its beak was open,
breathing flame—Sanguine —the whole against a glittering field—Sable.
Jeanne admired it. He had hoped that, if the Maid were truly an avatar of Corenice, or under his lost love’s influence, the design might stir her memory. She gave no sign that she knew it to be one of the Ships of Atlantis.
Some days later, Gwalchmai, with immediate friends of the Maid’s, which she laughingly called her Battle, though it nowhere nearly approached the “strength of that military unit, rode to Blois, where many had gathered to await her coming.
Her presence acted as a catalyst upon the rag-tag band of hellions who had come together thinking of loot and rapine, and suddenly found themselves receiving communion, hearing Mass, and becoming assoiled. Every man in the army, for once, was purified—from the highest noble to the meanest forager—stupefied by the fact, surprised at themselves.
They awaited the word of command, feeling a unity in motive and a common incentive for action. Many had complained that there could be no victory because they did not march under the oriflamme—the great war standard that had floated over all armies in the campaigns of the past wars of the French. As this was held fast in Paris, an English city for the last ten years, the effort was bound to fail.
Among the assembled captains, Jeanne sat her horse that bright morning beside De Rais, waiting for the banner to be brought that she had commanded to be made to her design.
James Powers, the artist, an aged Scot from Tours, unfurled his creation. He handed her the staff. All gazed reverently upon the beautiful flag.
It depicted our Lord, crucified. The background was a brilliant blue, studded with golden fleur-de-lis. High .above the cross, a white dove rose to Heaven on widespread wings. Below, were the words Jeanne set at the head of her written pronouncements: “JHESUS-MAMA” in the purest of gleaming gold.
Her eyes shone. She raised a corner to her lips. She said to the Scot, “I love my sword, but I love this banner best. I shall carry it into battle, so that I may never kill anyone.”
Merlin's Ring Page 33
