by Deryn Lake
Jean de Metz looked nonplussed. “I know, I know. It’s only that the Captain is in one of his moods. He sees her as a potential troublemaker.”
“That she isn’t. She’s in church every morning praying for divine help. Jehannette is as pure as a nun.”
“But a fierce nun,” answered de Metz, and smiled.
He had let two days pass before calling on le Royer and the snow which had blanketed the town earlier in the week had now subsided into large white mounds, sparkling in the sunshine, slippery paths cut through them to enable the townsfolk to go about their normal business. And sliding down one of these paths towards him as de Metz left le Royer’s house came the subject of their conversation, her darned red skirt kilted up inelegantly to help her get along.
“Good morning,” Jehannette said cheerfully.
“Good morning,” he answered, amused and intrigued simultaneously.
“I’ve just come from church.”
“So I guessed.” The soldier drew breath and decided to use his own initiative. “Look, sweetheart,” he said, taking her by the arm as if she were a small child, “what are you doing here? It’s a waste of time, you know. Isn’t the King sure to be pushed out of his kingdom soon and aren’t we all going to end up having to be English?”
She stared up at him, directly into his eyes in that strangely disconcerting way of hers. “What is your name, Monsieur?”
“Lieutenant Jean de Metz.”
“Monsieur de Metz, as you know I have come here to talk to Captain Robert de Baudricourt to see if he will take me to the King. As you also know, he thinks I am mad and is paying no heed to what I say. But I’ve got to get to Charles by mid-Lent even if I have to walk there.”
“But why?”
The small intense face so close to his underwent a change and Jean gazed in amazement into a pair of eyes radiating light. “Because I am the chosen one, the virgin from the woods who has been prophesied. It is my destiny to save France and, believe me, there is no one else who can do it, neither kings, nor dukes, nor the King’s daughter of Scotland…”
Even in the middle of her flow of words it struck de Metz as odd that a simple peasant should be well informed enough to have even heard of the Scottish princess, but he had no time to think about it.
“…apart from me. I must go to him. I must continue with what I’m doing, because my Lord wants me to.”
“What Lord? To whom do you owe fealty?”
“To God. He is my master, Monsieur.”
There was a moment of intense silence.
“You really believe it, don’t you?” said de Metz finally. “Of course I do. It’s true! My voices told me years ago that I had been chosen, that it was decreed I should be a warrior of France.”
Jean couldn’t help himself; he roared with laughter. “I’ve never seen anyone look less like a warrior in my life.” Jehannette frowned. “I know. I hate that. I prefer to wear men’s clothes and have short hair. Monsieur, have you any old things which might fit me?”
And with that she put out her hand imploringly and laid it in his. He had never felt anything like it. Magic lay in that touch. Fire and ice shot into him, a charge of power so fierce that he physically jumped.
“Please help me,” she said.
Before he knew what he was doing, de Metz was suddenly on his knees in the snow.
“I pay homage to you,” said a voice which he recognised with shock as his own. “If the decision is made that you go to France I will accompany you and take you to the King. I swear it before God.”
She nodded. “This is well and I thank you. But in the meantime may I borrow some clothes?”
In answer to the impatient ringing of Captain de Baudricourt’s bell, Simon’s shaggy head appeared in the doorway, his craggy features lurking just inside the crack as was his wont.
“About that girl Dare,” the Captain said without preamble.
“Yes, Monsieur?”
“Is she still in town?”
“She is. Lodging with Henri and Catherine le Royer. They didn’t move her on. Wouldn’t!”
“Oh, I see. How annoying! What’s she up to?”
“Moaning. Telling everyone she’s got to get to the Dauphin by mid-Lent, that she has a divine mission, but that you won’t let her.”
“Silly bitch.”
“She’s dressing up like a boy too. Got her hair cut all short, same as she had that first time she came.”
“Oh, Mon Dieu!”
“The trouble is they’re beginning to believe her. There’s talk in the town that she’s the virgin who’s been prophesied, the one who’s supposed to come from the woods.”
De Baudricourt shot him a jaundiced glance. “Superstitious fools.”
“Indeed, Captain, but it makes things awkward for you, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if word’s getting round she’s some kind of prophet it could show you up in a bad light, if you don’t pay her any attention, that is.”
“I see what you mean,” the Captain answered, fingering the pen he was holding, obviously lost in thought. “Would it be politic to pay the girl a visit, do you think?”
“Good move,” answered Simon, nodding his shaggy head. “Mind you it could be dangerous, she could be a witch,” he added glumly.
“Then I’ll take a holy man along,” Robert countered. “In fact to do that might be a very good idea anyway. It would give the whole thing an air of authority.”
“I knew you’d come up with something,” answered Simon, then winked an eye and vanished.
So it was duly in the company of Jean Fournier, parish priest of Vaucouleurs, garbed ceremonially and wearing a stole which Fournier had blessed with holy water before he left the castle’s chapel, that de Baudricourt rode down from on high to the bustling little town and sought out the dwelling of Henri le Royer, Cartwright.
A small crowd had gathered outside the artisan’s door and Jehannette stood just within, wearing a boy’s hand-me-downs, the light of the snowlit day shining on her face, giving it no mercy or flattery, simply showing it for what it was, vulnerable, determined, an anxious yet confident little countenance, full of hope and fear as she saw the Captain and the priest dismount.
“If you are a witch or demon of hell approach us not,” boomed de Baudricourt theatrically. “For Father Jean wears a vestment blessed with that water which is most abhorrent to all things evil.”
‘Then I shall kiss it before you enter,” answered Jehannette, and stepping into the street, dropped on her knees before the priest and raised a comer of the stole to her lips.
“I think we had better go in,” said Fournier solemnly, and drew a murmur from the crowd as he raised the girl to her feet with his own hand. Once inside, he closed the door firmly and rounded on the Captain in rather an accusatory manner. “There is nothing wicked about this child. She could not have touched me had there been.”
“You think not?” de Baudricourt answered thoughtfully, stroking his chin.
“I am positive of it, Monsieur. This creature is obviously blameless, without stain.”
“I value that opinion.” Robert turned to Madame le Royer, who was hovering discreetly in the background, with an air of sudden resolution. “Good woman, may I trespass on your hospitality? I would ask this girl questions in the company of Messire Priest.”
“Then I shall leave you, Captain, for it is well you have come.”
An hour later it was done, and brilliantly at that. Somehow conveying that it was Fournier who had talked him into it, Captain de Baudricourt, already exhibiting the shrewdness and flair that one day would make him both a rich and famous man, suddenly appeared to make up his mind.
“I am convinced,” he said heavily, rising to his feet. “Messire Priest says he can find naught of evil or harm in you. Therefore, Jehannette Dare, I am going to do my duty and write to the Court to discover their wishes in this matter. If the King is agreeable and wants to meet you, you shal
l have a horse and men to help you reach him. The die is cast, let what will be, be.”
Even as he said the words he was thinking how good they sounded and remembering them for future use.
Jehannette nodded. “God will reward you for this kindness, Monsieur,” she said, not humbly but as if it were a fact. “You are doing a great service for France.”
‘And you are not over-imbued with modesty, my girl.’ thought the Captain. Aloud he put on a business-like tone. ‘The letter will be written and despatched today. I will send for you the moment the reply arrives. Meanwhile contain yourself in patience and prayer.”
“I’ll do my best,” she answered, smiling.
In the hour just before dawn two chevaucheurs, the mounted messengers who kept all the regions of France in touch, one with the other, left Vaucouleurs, one heading towards the King’s territories, as the Captain had promised Jehannette, the other going in completely the opposite direction towards Nancy. The first had a journey of many miles and much danger ahead of him, the other reached his destination in a couple of hours and was able to return that same day with two letters from Prince René, one for Captain de Baudricourt, the other for the girl who was causing such a stir in the town.
But as he rode from the stables, having dined in Nancy, Baudricourt’s man saw another chevaucheur mounting his horse, also thrusting two parchments into his saddle-bag. “Going far?” the man from Vaucouleurs called cheerfully. “To Saumur. These are both for the Queen of Sicily.” The first man nodded, having taken documents to René’s mother himself in the past.
“Well, good luck. It’s a long haul.”
“Thank you. I’ll need it.”
And with that they parted company.
“She’s gone,” said Simon from the door crack.
“Who has?”
“Her, the loopy virgin.”
“Do you mean Jehannette?”
“I do.”
“You’re not saying she’s taken off on her own, set out to see the Dauphin without my permission?”
The matted hair flew round its owner’s head. “No, my Captain, you can relax. Apparently she was sent for.”
“What are you talking about, man?” De Baudricourt was thoroughly rattled.
“The Duke of Lorraine wrote and asked her to cure his gout. She took the letter to the priest because she says she can’t read or write, though I’m not so sure that that isn’t a blind. Anyway, she told Father Jean she doesn’t do cures but she’d go despite that. And it was a right good turn out when she went, I can tell you.”
“In what way?”
“They’d all clubbed together to get her some new clothes and a horse. She didn’t look bad in the gear, though. But just like a boy. Couldn’t have told if you hadn’t have known. I reckon she’s a bit rum.”
“Sexually?”
“Not’arf.”
“That’s as may be,” said the Captain primly, “but it’s not our affair. What is, is doing the right thing in a tricky situation like this.”
“Well, Monsieur, if I am allowed to comment I, personally, myself, think you’re handling it a treat. The townspeople are drinking your health because you’ve sent to Court for instructions, and so is Jean de Metz. You know, I reckon he’s a bit sweet on her.”
“Go away and mind your own business,” answered de Baudricourt irritably. “You’re always poking your nose into other people’s affairs. You’ve got no respect, that’s your trouble.”
“You’re right,” said Simon, grinning, and went.
So it had happened! The tumultuous thing that Yolande had been expecting for the past two years had taken place. Jehanne had finally made her move.
It had been very difficult at first to accept all that Alison du May had whispered to her when they had eventually caught up with one another four years earlier, in the summer of 1425. That her bastard daughter was seeing visions of saints was hard enough to believe but that Rend should have acted on such a thing, sending the child to the last outpost of the Knights Templar, was unthinkable.
“What does the boy think he’s doing?” the distraught mother had said of the treatment one of her children was meting out to another.
“Madame, what can I say? You know as do I that René is the Grand Master. You know the Priory’s connection with the Templars. It is my belief that he intends to use Jehanne to further their ends at some time in the future.”
“Use her? But for what?”
“To fight for France and them I should imagine.”
It had been then that the Queen of Sicily, so addressed since Jade had taken a bride and there was a young Duchess of Anjou, had suddenly seen the potential of the situation as her son had obviously done before her.
She had looked at her Lady and friend most earnestly. “Tell me, Alison, what are these visions Jehanne sees? Is my poor girl deranged or is the whole thing brought about because her flux will soon begin?”
“Madame, I don’t know the answer,” Alison had stated honestly. “René himself is not sure. What he does think, though, is that Jehanne herself believes these things. And that, in his opinion, is the most important aspect of the entire situation.”
“Does he know she is his sister?”
“No, ma Reine. I have never betrayed your trust and never will. He is ignorant of the truth.”
“If he had been told I wonder if he would have acted differently.”
“I doubt it somehow. His years of training are his legacy for life. It is René’s sworn duty to act in the best interests of the Priory of Sion and its secrets and I think he would put that duty above his ties of blood.”
“You have grown into a very wise woman,” Yolande had said thoughtfully.
“It was you who taught me, ma Reine.”
After Alison had gone, back to Lorraine and her Duke and their five unruly sons, Yolande had often thought back to that conversation, wishing her friend were with her, comforting her and being her confidante throughout the increasingly difficult times. For since the death of Pierre de Giac, two years earlier, it seemed as if a blight had fallen on nearly everyone. So much so that the Queen, not a superstitious woman nor one prone to nervous imaginings, wondered if he had uttered a curse in his weighted sack as it sank down to the bottom of the river, calling on his Dark Master to honour their bargain and serve him at the very last.
Charles had been one of her major worries, continually in a state of total apathy and depression which not even Marie could shake him from. Almost as if to spite Richemont for killing de Giac, the King had quickly made friends with another terrible young man, Le Camus de Vernet, known as de Beaulieu. Terrified that a situation might arise in which Le Camus might also become all-powerful, Richemont had sent in an assassination squad who had killed the youthful Satanist on the riverbank, hacking off his right hand, and tossing the remains into the river. Most tragically, the King had been looking out of the window and had seen the whole thing, and an implacable and furious hatred for the new Constable had grown on the instant.
Then had come revenge. That July of 1427, the Earl of Richmond, without consulting his mistress, had made a terrible mistake. Returning to the battle against the English, he had left Georges de la Trémoille as his deputy at court. Charles had smiled the small cynical smile which nowadays seemed to have become his trade mark.
“Dear cousin, you give him to me and you’ll repent of it. I know him better than you do.”
And the young King had been proved right. With Yolande away in Provence and Richemont at Chinon with his wife Marguerite, the stage was set for a coup and the treaty between Duke Jean of Brittany and the boy King Henry VI of England was the signal for it to start. The Earl was banished from court and stripped of his Constable’s pension by his erstwhile friend de la Trémoille, daily growing fatter and ever more luxuriant. Furious, Richemont had retired to his estates in Parthenay, while Yolande had hurried back to find her work in ruins, her lover gone.
She had nearly panicked then, her mind goi
ng round like a mouse on a treadmill. But then the Queen of Sicily had rallied. A storm of weeping and hysteria could do nothing but delay her strike back. She must remain and fight de la Trémoille with every weapon at hand. But the next time she had seen the fat man, Yolande had allowed herself the pleasure of one small insult.
“Gracious, my Lord, with your golden robes and your long beard I half mistook you for some Grand Vizier from the east! But how foolish of me. They, of course, have many wives and a harem and never involve themselves with widows, but then they have no need of other people’s money.”
De la Trémoille had smiled coldly and Yolande had felt a wave of hatred that someone she and Richemont had looked on as a friend could have treated them so badly.
But one good thing had come out of Georges’s new rule. Jean the Bastard, disgraced and sent away from court when his father-in-law, Louvet, had fallen from favour, had come back, as handsome and debonair as ever, ready to fight for his old allegiances. But even he, beloved childhood friend, could do nothing to bring the sparkle of life into Charles de Valois’s eyes.
The winter of 1427 had passed bitterly, Richemont and de la Trémoille both trying to have each other killed. A small band of the Earl’s loyal men had crept into Georges’s chateau one night, catching him and the former Madame de Giac in flagrante delicto. Creeping up behind the thrusting couple, the assassins had plunged daggers into de la Tremoille’s back to no effect, his avoirdupois saving him from harm and the stabs appearing merely as superficial cuts. The attackers had fled, overcome with horror at the fat man’s apparent immunity to fatal wounds.
Yolande had remained alone, distressed beyond measure, as Richemont and his Breton troops, fighting back, had taken over Bourges in July 1428. For that crime her lover had been permanently exiled and stripped of office and she had seen him only once more that year, it now being too dangerous for them to meet. The former Constable had come to the Chateau of the Queen of Sicily in Saumur and there they had made love for what was to be the last time for twelve months.
