by Deryn Lake
“Keep faith,” Arthur had whispered as they parted. “Stay on the King’s Council and be afraid of no one.”
“I’ll get you back to Charles somehow,” Yolande had promised. “There’s got to be a way.”
“There’ll be no way for any of us until he pulls himself together.”
“We need a miracle,” the Queen had said.
Even as she spoke the words, Yolande was aware of an idea buzzing at the back of her mind that had not, as yet, taken shape, and in an attempt to crystallise her thoughts the Queen had gone out of doors, walking on the riverbank watching the boat carrying Richemont away from her as it turned into a distant dot before vanishing altogether. Then, and only then, had she known what to do.
A year ago, a brief and coded message from Alison, arriving in the spring of 1428, had informed Yolande d’Anjou that Jehanne had returned home, fully trained and prepared to undertake her mission. Here then, in the shape of her own child, lay the cause to which poor dying France could rally. The Queen had replied at once, ‘Advise the Grand Master to act and act quickly.’
The reply had come back, ‘Madame, he already has. Jehanne was requested to begin her campaign but was turned back by the commander of her nearest town. Now that town lies under siege and nothing further can be done at present. Is it your wish that I apprise René of the true facts about Jehanne?’
Terrified of the consequences should her letter fall into the wrong hands, the Queen of Sicily had answered, ‘Tell him nothing except that he should continue with his plans. Make it sound as if you express your own views. Do not mention me. I shall not write again.’
And then there had been silence as the world plunged into the abyss. Charles, amused and bemused by Georges’s large twinkling presence, bowed to his dictatorship; while Bedford, the Regent, sensing the loss of interest in France amongst the English nobles, determined to end the French campaign as quickly as possible by attacking Angers, which he had already claimed as his own personal property. Only at the last minute did he decide to make Orleans the target and Yolande, solitary, with Richemont in exile, drew a breath of relief as on 12th October 1428 the siege of that city began and Angers was thus given a reprieve.
Inside the city, the Orleanists went hungry, and beyond the walls so did the besiegers. Supplies of herrings and ‘lenten stuff’ were conveyed to the English army by a convoy under the command of Sir John Fastolfe, which was savagely ambushed by French soldiers led by Charles, Duke of Bourbon, kinsman of the King. Sir John had defended himself and his wagons nobly and won the Battle of the Herrings as it came to be known. The English had eaten well, the French had not, and with this subtle blow it had seemed that the fate of Orleans was irrevocably sealed. Just like Rouen before it, yet another gallant French city would have to capitulate rather than starve to death.
Alone in her chateau in Saumur, Yolande, terrified to write anything further, sat willing her second son to fetch Jehanne out of the wings and onto centre stage in an attempt to retrieve something from the death throes of an entire nation.
And now the moment had come at last. In the darkness of the previous night one of René’s messengers had galloped into the courtyard, his letter handed over at once to Yolande’s grand maître. With a thudding heart, the Queen of Sicily had broken the seal and seen Alison’s neat hand. ‘She is on her way. God grant her strength.’
Yolande wept for joy that the child given to her by the Earl of Richmond had been chosen by God, fate, destiny, call it what you will, to come to the King’s aid and rally France to her side. She went to the desk and wrote an immediate reply.
‘Say nothing of this to anyone, secrecy is vital. But before Jehanne is sent to Charles — and I will make it my personal responsibility to see that he agrees to receive her — I desire you to bring her to me at Saumur.’
Twenty-Nine
“She’s back,” said Simon from the doorway. “And she’s downstairs.”
“Jehannette?”
“Yes. Got a new horse too. Present from the Duke of Lorraine.”
“She cured his gout then?”
“No, didn’t try. But he still liked her. Apparently told him to give up Madame du May for the sake of his soul, and he just laughed his head off. Cheeky, eh?”
“Very,” answered Robert de Baudricourt. “Cheeky and fearless, all rolled into one.”
“Any word from the King?”
The Captain shook his head. “No, nothing at all. I only hope the messenger got through.”
“Very tricky,” answered Simon, pulling a tangled curl. “Swarming with Angloys and Françoys, to say nothing of brigands, that bit of the country. What will you do if you don’t get an answer?”
“I’ll send someone else,” Robert replied. “Somebody who can mingle into the background. Probably yourself.”
“No thanks,” the servant answered rapidly. “Me, personally, I fall off horses. You’ll have to choose a better man.”
“Oh, come now,” said the Captain, grinning, but the eye at the door crack had rapidly vanished.
So the girl had proved herself a success with the Duke of Lorraine, though small wonder at it with Rend there, for she had obviously made a great impression on that particular Prince if his letter were anything to go by.
‘Please take my advice and help her. According to the Franciscan friars, Jehannette is God’s messenger and will put the English archers to flight.’
“Franciscan friars! That’s a new one,” de Baudricourt had muttered to himself.
Yet everything said in defence of the girl was in a way a further worry, for if Charles should write back refusing to see her it could put him, the Captain, in a very awkward position indeed.
“Why me?” Robert asked himself for the millionth time. “Why me for such a quandary?”
Then his heart lurched in fright as there came a gentle but firm tap on the door.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Jehannette.”
“Come in, come in.”
She looked well, he thought, in her funny little suit, a black doublet with twenty aiguillettes secured to trunk hose, a short grey cloak tossed over it, hanging from shoulder to knee.
“You’re very smart.”
“The townspeople gave it to me. They thought I was dressed too much like a ragamuffin to meet the Duke of Lorraine.”
“And so you were.”
Robert was trying to keep the conversation light and bantering, not wanting her to ask him about the King’s message, but in Jehannette’s very next breath out came the dreaded question.
“Have you had a reply from the Dauphin yet?”
“No I’m afraid not. The messenger’s journey was both long and hazardous and then, of course, even if he did arrive safely, one can hardly expect the King to come to a decision straight away.”
“Why not?” the girl answered angrily, her eyes clouding. “The more he delays the more likely he is to lose the war. He suffered a severe blow at Orleans today and the situation will get worse every hour he keeps me waiting.”
“Listen, sauce box,” said de Baudricourt, rising purpose-fully from his desk. “One does not speak about one’s King like that. He can keep anyone waiting he chooses. You have no right to give yourself such airs.”
“They’re not airs,” the girl answered bitterly. “I speak the truth as told to me by my voices from the Lord.”
“Lord or no Lord there’s something mighty suspicious about you,” replied the Captain, glinting an eye at her. “I have a friend at the court of Lorraine and he told me all about your interview with the Duke. How, for a peasant girl, you ride like the Devil himself, so much so that Duke Charles gave you a great black horse and said it would suit you better than a village nag, to say nothing of his present of four gold francs to buy necessities. My friend also informs me that you asked the Duke to lend you his son-in-law and some men to lead you into France. Couldn’t wait for my reply, could you? What are you, Jehannette Dare, that you dare to order your eld
ers and betters about the way you do?”
The dark eyes, looking at him so angrily, suddenly overflowed and the strange little boy figure crumpled as the girl threw herself into a chair in a waterfall of tears.
“I don’t want to do it,” she said, “but I must. It’s my destiny. I was born to save France and thus have no choice.”
“You are a very silly, very small, simpleton,” answered the Captain, and applied his handkerchief vigorously to her face.
“Don’t be angry with me,” she said, sniffing and sobbing. “It would make things so much easier if you weren’t.”
The same childish appeal that had won the heart of Prior Hugh shone from the tragically young countenance.
“I’m not,” Robert said in a more gentle voice than he had ever used to her before. “I admire you actually. Whether you be saint or sinner you certainly have a prodigious courage. Now, dry your tears, go back to your lodgings and go to bed. If the King does send for you you’ve got a lot lying ahead. You’re going to need all the rest and sleep you can get.”
She smiled, such a vulnerable smile, that de Baudricourt added gently, “You’re not much more than a child are you?”
“I was seventeen on 6th January.”
He shook his head. “You’re far too young for all this, you know. Jehannette, please take my advice, given in friendship, and stop now. You really are too small to be a soldier.”
A few days later an amazing thing took place. Not only de Baudricourt’s rider returned but with him one of the King’s own chevaucheurs, Colet de Vienne, carrying a box bearing the fleur-de-lis to denote his royal status and accompanied by a bodyguard, Richard, a leathery-looking archer.
With hands that shook and sweated, the Captain opened the sealed parchment they brought, noticing as he broke it that the device in the wax was not that of Charles de Valois but his mother-in-law’s. The Queen of Sicily herself had written to answer his request.
‘René again!’ thought Robert. ‘There’s some thread behind all this. But what?’
He scanned Yolande’s fine writing.
“She’s to go,” he said shortly to the small crowd that had gathered in the great hall. “The Queen of Sicily asks on the King’s behalf that Jehannette attend them at court.”
There was a spontaneous cheer and the Captain, much to his surprise, found that he was joining in.
“I’ll go and fetch her,” called Jean de Metz, bright with pleasure.
“Yes, go and bring her and her few belongings to the castle. She had better stay here until she is ready to go.”
“If this wondrous virgin is going to save Orleans she’ll have to get on with it,” put in Colet de Vienne. “There was a terrible defeat there, the Battle of the Herrings they’re calling it, only last week.”
“When exactly?” asked the Captain sharply.
“On Thursday. Why do you ask?”
“Mon Dieu, that was the day she came to see me! The day she said there had been trouble at Orleans.”
“So she really is a mystic!” said the cynical de Vienne. “Do you know, I’m beginning to think so.”
“And will she save us all?”
“Either that or die in the attempt,” de Baudricourt answered grimly.
Within the following twenty-four hours all was prepared for the girl to leave. Jehanne’s escort, Bertrand de Poulengy and his squire Julien de Honecourt, Jean de Metz and his squire, Julien’s brother Jean, were all sworn in, giving their solemn oath to take Jehannette to the King and on the journey protect her with their lives if necessary. De Poulengy, the eldest at thirty, was put in command of the little band and everyone, including the girl, was told to take their orders from him.
“But, Captain,” he said, as he and de Baudricourt sat late on the night prior to departure, before the fire, drinking their final drinks. “What do I do about her girlish problems?”
“What do you mean?”
“We will be sleeping rough most of the time. What of her natural functions? We are all men together but a young female is something very different. Supposing she should menstruate?”
Robert shook his head. “The same thought has already occurred to me and I’m afraid I have come up with no answers. All I can say is tell the others to be discreet about what they do and give her time to herself.”
“It’s a worry.”
“It certainly is.”
They drank in silence for a few minutes and then de Baudricourt said, “Poor little thing. What a daunting venture.”
“She’s taking on so much.”
“Not to mention a huge and mighty army who wouldn’t scruple to kill her.”
“I pray it all works well for her.”
And so did every inhabitant of Vaucouleurs, by now convinced that the girl really was God’s messenger, La Pucelle, as the party set off on the evening of 13th February 1429, their plan to ride all night and sleep during the day to avoid being noticed.
Jehannette wore her one and only suit, a black plumed hat on her head, a sword provided by Robert de Baudricourt in a scabbard at her side.
“I don’t know how you’re going to handle this,” he had said, almost apologetically, as he had passed it to her.
“I’ll manage,” the girl had replied cheerfully, and something about the way she had taken it from him and buckled the sword on had convinced the Captain that somehow, most strangely, she was used to bearing arms.
“Good luck,” he called now as he watched her swing into the saddle aloft the powerful black horse given by the Duke of Lorraine.
“Thank you, Monsieur — for everything.” Jehannette turned to go and then impetuously wheeled back and, leaning down low, planted a kiss on his cheek. “You believe in me at last, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I do.” Suddenly he was blubbing like a babe. “Jehannette…”
“Yes?”
“Take care, won’t you.”
“God will if I don’t,” she answered, and was gone into the dusk.
“Funny girl,” said Simon, right behind him.
“Funny and wonderful,” replied the Captain gruffly, and went away to get thoroughly and monumentally drunk.
“He’s sweet on her,” muttered Simon. But there was no one left to listen for they had all run up the road, going as fast as they could to try and catch a last glimpse of La Pucelle as she started on her magnificent journey. With a shake of his grizzled head, Simon went hastily to join them.
The death of Bonne de Giac, tiring of her though Charles had been, had plunged him into the depths of despair. But, in a way, the killing of her unspeakable husband had had an even more terrible effect. For the King had been plotting, planning, scheming; spending every day of his house arrest perfecting the manner of Pierre de Giac’s removal from the world. And then in had walked Richemont, cool as dew, and taken the situation out of Charles’s hands.
It had destroyed him; that and no longer being allowed to fight, kept at home because he was too valuable to put at risk. And yet, if truth be told, the King did not particularly like war and skirmishes, preferring by far to play his games of chess with people and pawns. But what had really driven Charles to the depths below the ocean had been the taking away of whatever small, insignificant power he had once possessed. The bright gleaming faun who had called on his loyal men to march with him into battle had not so much been wiped out as transmogrified. A goat now lived where that glittering creature had so superbly dwelled, an ugly goat with a shabby coat and downcast eyes, a goat that had in every sense reached the end of its tether.
As the war had grown in intensity, as the Armagnacs had been beaten back and back, so Charles’s soul had shrivelled a little more every day. He had undergone the loathsome experience of seeming to stand outside himself, of seeing a powerless King, a laughing-stock of a ruler, losing everything before the ruthless war machine which was the Angloys-Françoys army. And when, even in his own pathetic kingdom, he had been treated like a fool by Pierre de Giac and been u
nable to avenge himself, something had slipped in his mind.
Then had come the conviction that fate was against him, that the predictions of long ago had been hollow and untrue, probably uttered by a Devil’s man in order to fill him with false hope and longings. From there it had not been too great a step to see himself as the butt of destiny, the most inept and tragic King that France was ever to know.
It had been too much for Charles and he had broken on All Souls Day, the day when the dead are especially prayed for. That night, having watched dreary black processions for hour upon hour, the King had risen from his bed and gone into a screaming fit of hysteria, calling upon God either to show His face or leave him in peace, let him just be, let him wallow in the failure that was obviously the evil fairy’s gift to him at birth.
Marie had come running, weeping in distress that he had slipped so far away from her. His Gentlemen had appeared only to be driven away by the overwrought Queen.
“I can bear no more,” her husband had sobbed, his head in her lap. “I can’t go on. I am no longer master of my fate, my soul does not belong to me. I am going to leave this benighted kingdom and go to live in the Dauphine or away in exile in Scotland or Spain. I am finished, done, I never want to hear the name of France again.”
She had not known how to console him. Comfortable little Marie, Charles’s safe harbour, his port in a storm, was completely at a loss. Kisses and scolding had both failed equally to rouse him from his terrible depression. It was obvious to everyone, including his wife and her mother, that the boy they had cherished since childhood was suffering a total breakdown.
“What’s to be done?” the distraught young woman had said to Yolande.
“Help may yet come.”
“What help?” Marie had asked defiantly. “Who can help Charles if I can’t?”
“Somebody inspired perhaps.”
And after that the Queen of Sicily would say no more.
Rising high above the river, flamboyantly beautiful with its white stonework and dove-grey roofs, the Chateau of Saumur dominated not only the left bank of the Loire but also the little town that huddled around its elegant foundations, its emerald rock, as the ramparts were known to the natives of the town.
