Merlin's Ring

by H. Warner Munn

  “When I told her how you had written that, before her, France had nine champions, but now there were ten, she was greatly touched. She pulled off the ring, having nothing else valuable of her own and said, ”Send this.“ She is so impulsive.

  “You remember I wrote you how Compiegne was recovered for the King and how, ever since, it has fain under the cannon of the Burgundians? Duke Philip is greatly wroth at his lost city’s resistance. It is said here he has sworn that unless the city surrenders immediately, no one in it over seven years of age shall remain alive when it is taken.

  “The maid has been deeply concerned. The King has refused to grant her money and soldiers for relief. He hopes for a bloodless peace with Burgundy. Alas, it would be the peace the mouse enjoys, after the cat has dined.

  “At any rate, without the King’s sanction or support, the Maid has left the court, for whence we can only suspect. She took with her no more than her own Household. Old faithful D’Aulon, of course, her confessor, Pasquerel, her two brothers, and that odd white-haired man I told you about, whose face looks so young and grim.

  “That last, I might have guessed. He follows her wherever she goes. Most of us are afraid of him. Some say that he must be in love with her.

  “When she left, she said that she meant to go out riding at her pleasure. I know not if that were true—but she has not returned.

  “Written at Senlis, this third day of April, hi the Year of Our Lord, 1430.”

  “By my baton! We are enough! I will go to my good friends of Compiegne! Let those who love me, follow!”

  So the banner took the wind for the last time. It flew above her tent at Lagny, where many who loved her rallied to it. Scots, Catalans, Italians, and French came riding in, asking for nothing except that they be led, in good faith, by one they could trust.

  The banner rippled out above the moving column, marching on Compiegne, and, in good omen, Gwalchmai saw what he had seen when a larger army left Rheims for Paris —a green butterfly that came down upon the peak of the standard, to ride mere for some while, to circle about his own head, and then to flutter onward and disappear.

  “You are still with me, little fay? Bring good fortune to the one I love and you will bring happiness to me.”

  He fondled the hilt of his sword. On the morn, Jeanne had called him—as Captain of her Battle—to receive his orders of the day. She looked pensive and sober. She picked up her beloved blade from the camp table and said, “Basque, take this sword of Fierbois and carry it in the campaign.

  I will exchange for yours. It will be safer with you, when I fall into the hands of the English.“

  Gwalchmai was aghast. “God forbid,, Maid, that such should be.”

  “It is beyond doubt. My Voices have announced that I shall be taken before St. John’s Day. They have never lied.”

  “Then give up the campaign, I pray you, until after that time.”

  Her smile was wan. “It would avail nothing. To do my devoir is my destiny. They say—although they do not explain —that it is necessary, so that a great victory shall later be won. What befalls me is of little import. It is for this that I was born.”

  “Did you ask your Saints to intercede for you, that you might be spared?” ,

  Jeanne hesitated, then answered slowly, “I asked only that I die quickly and not suffer long. They told me that it should be as I asked. Afterward I should be with them in Paradise.”

  When the column moved out the sword Durandal hung at his side. Legend held that Charles Mattel used it against the Saracens at Poitiers, long before it fell into the possession of Roland. Gwalchmai did not know if that was true. He was certain that two Paladins had warmed its hilt, and one rode before him on the road to Compiegne.

  He raised the blade reverently and kissed the cross of the hilt. His eyes fell upon Merlin’s ring. It was cool upon his finger. He found it hard to believe that he was riding into personal danger. He formed a sudden resolution.

  Urging his horse forward, he pushed between Jeanne’s two brothers. He held out the ring to Pierre.

  “I have noticed that your sister now wears only one ring. If I offered her another, even for remembrance and the affection you know I hold for her, she would not accept it. She fears sorcery and—I must be honest with you—this ring does have certain properties that could be most useful to her were she in danger.

  “It will become warm on her finger and warn her of peril. It will unlock doors and loosen chains. If this gift comes through you, she may accept it and be protected.”

  “Why not keep it for yourself?”

  Gwalchmai searched his soul for the answer and then he too heard a Voice. It sounded like little golden bells. A great peace came over him.

  “I do not need it any longer. I shall never need it again.” On the morning of the twenty-second of May, when the Maid brought her small force into Compiegne, by breaking through the thinnest gap in the Burgundian line, Gwalchmai, riding close in her protection, saw that she wore a ring on each hand.

  Destiny came, as predicted, on St John’s Day. After a sally out of the city, to destroy the enemy’s supply dump, the five hundred men that Jeanne had led out out to war turned to fight their way back, through an immensely augmented intercepting force.

  Harried on all sides and intermixed thoroughly with the enemy, her force struggled almost to the open city gates. Gwalchmai struck aside many lances aimed at Jeanne, acting as rearguard.

  “Do but play your part and they will be beaten! Turn! Strike back and we shall have them!”

  Her surcoat of scarlet and gold and her waving banner made her the object of the main attack. Up went the drawbridge of Compiegne. The fall of the portcullis saved the city, but left the rearguard to be captured.

  The Maid was fighting for her life. The flashing sword rose and fell, crashing upon helmets, necks, and upraised arms.

  “I will never kill anyone!” she had sworn. Gwalchmai saw that even in this extremity she used, not the edge, but the flat of the blade. Even so, her strong young arm still had the power to empty saddles. He saw horses running free and senseless soldiers lying in the road.

  He fought to reach her side. D’Aulon was down and captured, faithful to the last Her brother Jean unconscious, Pierre snared in a twisting knot of men. Gwalchmai slashed his way almost through to her. Too late, he saw a horseman upon him, swinging one of those heavy lead mallets used mainly by the warrior-priests, because their orders forbade them to shed blood.

  Durandal went up to fend the blow. It was struck away like a feather and the massive weight crashed against his right side. He felt his ribs collapse and splinter and he fell.

  With his last failing eyesight he saw a Picard bowman seize her surcoat and unhorse the Maid. The banner filled the sky above him. For one instant the whole fabric of it flashed into glory—its fleur-de-lis a constellation of racing meteors dazzling his vision. Its edge touched the ground— the silken wonder dulled. It was no longer an oriflamme; it was ordinary cloth. It swept across his face.

  With his last moment of strength, he tried to grasp and hold the fringe. He could only press it to his lips, as the blackness of night descended upon him and the banner and the one who had so nobly borne it were snatched from out his ken.

  22

  Jor the
  The Dauphin is crowned. The battles are won. All The Voices said she would do, is done. Never a trumpet—never a drum— The rescuing army—when will it come? Before this country can be truly free, Must there be another Gethsemane?

  Songs of Huon

  In August of that same dark year, Gilles de Rais, Marshal of France, visited Gwalchmai, an invalid now, in the laxly besieged town of Compiegne. Some were able so to enter, under cover of darkness.

  He sat in Gwalchmai’s chamber and bent a saturnine gaze upon his former follower.

  “I came here to kill that scoundrel Flavy, for the closing of the gate, but I wanted to see you first. When the Garrison

  Commander gave th
e order, what words did he use? Did it sound like treachery to you?“

  Gwalchmai’s ribs were knitting well, but it was still painful for him to breathe and talk. He wondered if he would ever again be the man he once had been. He spoke slowly and carefully.

  “I did not hear the order, my Lord Marshal. I was without the wall, in the Maid’s company, when the gate was shut.”

  “You saw her taken? You were there? You were with her and you are still alive?”

  De Rais’ face became suffused with dark blood. His voice throbbed with rage. He towered over Gwalchmai, helpless in a reclining chair. The Marshal’s fists clenched, as he shook in impotent passion. Gradually he forced himself to calmness and sat down, clenching his jaws and breathing in deep gusts.

  Gwalchmai waited. “My Lord, I love her too.” Under the laws of chivalry, now that the Maid was prisoner, the Baron was again his liege lord. Over him, De Rais possessed the rights of High and Low justice and, even in Compiegne, might have him slain. Feudalism, though dying, was not yet dead.

  He was surprised to learn that this man of somber reputation could, if he wished, control his temper.

  “I am sorry, L’Aiglon. I know you do. I spoke in haste and anger. If you could have done aught, surely it would have been done well. By the way, looking at you now, with your cheeks sunken in like that, your eyes so large, and yon thin beak of nose you have-—stap me, if you do not look more like an eagle than everl Whoever named you chose the right word.”

  “It is a Roman nose, my Lord, and it can sniff out treachery. There was none here. If Ravy had not ordered the gate closed, the town would have been taken and all the Maid’s devotion gone for naught. She would never have had it so. She loves the town. She freed it once. Compiegne will not surrender now—because of her.”

  “Have you heard that the Maid has twice tried to come to the rescue?”

  Gwalchmai shook his head. He stared dumbly. “But she was a prisoner. Has she escaped?” His face lit up with hope.

  De Rais shook his head also. “She was taken to the castle of Beaulieu, where she made the first attempt. My spies have learned that she somehow managed to unlock her door, or perhaps it was not locked.”

  Gwalchmai started. He became all attention.

  “She slipped out and managed to shut up all the sentries in their own guardroom, but was captured by the porter. Afterward, she was held in a more secure place, until she was removed to Beaurevoir castle. It was there she heard of Philip’s threat.

  “I understand that she said afterward that to prevent him from carrying it out she would die there or die on the road to Compiegne if it must be so. She was taken to the parapet for the air. She broke away, stood between the merlons, squeezed through, and jumped. My God, L’Aiglon, it was seventy feet!”

  “Then she is dead. I knew when I saw you, Baron, that you bore evil tidings.”

  “No, not dead, but she was grievously hurt, poor dear. You can imagine the guards could not believe then* own eyes. They raced down and found her alive, with no bones broken. She could not stand, but she was crawling—dragging herself along—just a few pitiful feet, in the direction of Compiegne. They picked her up and carried her back captive. She has been prisoned ever since. It was three days before she took food.”

  A thought nagged at Gwalchmai. “My Lord Marshal, do you know if the Maid still has her rings?”

  “I heard they have been taken from her by the Burgundi-ans, who kept one as a memento. They sent the other one on to the Bishop of Beauvais, who is negotiating to buy her for the English. The King must be waiting to see how much will be bid, so he can go higher. As yet he has made no offer for her recovery.”

  His smile was fleeting and sardonic. “Well, I must be off, L’Aiglon, it will soon be daylight. I shall pray for your health and’I will not harm Captain Flavy. It was a sound military measure, but—that girl is worth many towns.”

  Abruptly he was gone, to make his way to safety in the dark. Gwalchmai sank back on his pillows. Superseding all other news, one grim thought went round and round hi his mind. Jeanne no longer possessed Merlin’s Ring. He had no doubt she had benefitted by it It had unlocked doors; it had probably saved her from death hi her desperate bid for freedom. With its loss, her only hope of escape from prison, short of ransom or relief by a French army, was likewise gone.

  The investment of Compiegne was lifted at the end of October. De Rais, acting as guerrilla leader, along with the forces of the old wolf, La Hire, attacked in force. The Burgundians fled in bloody defeat, pursued by La Hire’s redoubtable band. It was a running slaughter, ending in massacre.

  De Rais and Gwalchmai took the air on the promenade waH, looking out upon the river Oise. It was apparent to Gwalchmai that the months had made the somber man more morose than before.

  It was a slate-gray day and a chill rain was falling. De Rais apostrophized it. “Weep, Sky! Wail, Windl I have bitter news for you, L’Aiglon, well suited to the weather.”

  “Greater ill has befallen the Maid?”

  “The worst.” He nodded heavily. “You knew she has been prisoned in Rouen? Sold for a price to the English, like a doe to the fleshers? Yes, of course you would have heard.

  “The trial has begun. What a mockery! She has no counsel and she is doomed. They mean to discredit the King by proclaiming her a witch. If they can prove his throne gained by witchcraft, that will render him no King at all—but she will die.”

  “I thank you, my Lord Baron, for lingering here. You must not wait longer on my account. You will miss the battle.”

  “What battle?”

  “The attack, my Lord. Would God I could ride with it! Surely every man and boy in France must be marching on Rouen! Even the King cannot lag behind now.”

  De Rais laughed, but it sounded more like a snarl. “There will be no attack on Rouen. The King has disbanded the army. The expense of its upkeep was too great He could not afford to keep both his Queen and mistresses in their pretty furbelows.”

  “My Lord!” Gwalchmai’s heart choked him. “You are wealthy. Cannot you pay her ransom? I will give you the rest of my lif e.”

  “The time has passed. They would not trade her for all of France. If they can prove her sorceress—and they will; they have sixty judges against her—she will burn. It is as simple as that, L’Aiglon. I know one thing and I tell it you now. If that girl burns, there is no God!”

  Gwalchmai looked at his liege in horror. There was no doubt that De Rais was sincere. He had the face of a man in torture so great that he could no longer scream.

  “Then there is only one thing to do. We must plan a rescue.”

  “That is why I have spent this time with you. I would storm the walls of Hell for her! I have another horse, with an empty saddle. Will you come?”

  “If I do notj then may I never ride or walk again!”

  No armies moved against Rouen. No word of sympathy, no offer of ransom, not even a threat of vengeance from her “finest Prince in Christendom.”

  De Rais and Gwalchmai, holed up in disguise some miles from Rouen as a matter of precaution, found the countryside quiet

  They were able to pass through the gates of the city along with its normal traffic, while the slow trial ground on.

  Manchon, Scribe to the Judges, and secretly in sympathy with Jeanne’s travail, willingly allowed himself to be bribed. He furnished the Marshal with daily reports. So, when she flung down her final ringing ultimatum to her persecutors, it was soon in the hands of her two friends.

  “Think well, you who set yourselves up to be my judges. I tell you truly I was sent from God. You are putting yourselves in great danger. I know these English will do me to death, thinking when I am dead to gain the Kingdom of France.

  “If they were a hundred thousand Godams more than they are now, they shall not have the Kingdom. I know for a certainty that the English will all be driven out of France, all, that is, except those who die here.

  “I come, sent by God. I have no busines
s here. I pray you send me back to God from whom I am come.”

  De Rais dashed his sleeve across his eyes. He strove to control himself, as he laid down the parchment After a moment:

  “It is all over, L’Aiglon. She has fought her last battle. She is asking for death.

  “That lice-breeder Cauchon! That miserable persecutor who calls himself a Bishop! Cochon—swine—it should be. I swear the dogs shall drink his blood like Jezebel’s!”

  “Is she so mistreated?”

  “Manchon says she cannot hear Mass, cannot have communion. The door of the chapel she passes to go to the courtroom from her prison cell has been permanently closed so she canno’t see the altar as they hurry her by. Do you know what she does? She looks at the door, she bends her knee, and whispers, ‘I know my Lord is still within!’

  “I wish I knew it. L’Aiglon, does God care? Is there a Heaven to receive this noble soul?” His voice raised to a howl.

  He stalked up and down the chamber. “Is there a God?” His face was purple and bloated with fury. His hands, balled into fists, struck bleeding against the walls. He whirled.

  “Basque, go to Orleans as swiftly as if you were in truth, an eagle. Fetch me Master Jean, the gunner. If it must be that she die—then by Hell’s fiery pavement, she shall not burn! There are others who shall die with her, but she shall not die like that!”

  Easter passed while Gwalchmai was on the road. D’AIen-con gladly permitted the loan of the gunner, who had taken service with his Duchy, but only as a courtesy between nobles. He had no faith in the possibility of a rescue.

  By the time Gwalchmai and the Lorrainer arrived, to find De Rais moodily staring at the latest scroll, it was the evening of the twenty-fourth of May. The long ordeal was almost over.

  Gwalchmai was shocked at the change in his friend’s appearance. He sat in front of the fireplace, seemingly unconscious that the soles of his long boots were smoking. Not long after Gwalchmai had left, he had shaved off his famous blue beard. The exposed skin was deeply tanned, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes pouched, as though he had spent many sleepless nights. He looked much older than his twenty-seven years.