by Deryn Lake
“Only fools cry,” she answered.
“Only fools don’t cry,” he countered and taking one of her childlike and blunt hands in his, patted it gently.
“Oh, oh, it’s all been such a strain,” Jehanne said in a small gruff voice, and then did allow the storm to break and vanished into Richemont’s arms, clinging to him desperately. Jean almost felt he was intruding as he watched the Earl stroke the girl’s cropped hair, murmuring words of comfort.
“Now, now, sweetheart, it will be all right. You are so brave and have fought so gallantly. Don’t worry, I will stay by your side from now on.”
And then Richemont, very gently, drew away, knowing that she must have time to regain her dignity, that La Pucelle, who had seen such wondrous visions and heard the voices of the saints, could not be treated quite as any other ordinary girl.
“So now,” he said, turning to the Bastard. “I would like to find lodging. I’d prefer to stay here with all my old comrades than go back to the camp.”
“My house is yours,” answered Jean.
“Then let us go there as soon as convenient, because from tomorrow I have the feeling we shall all be very busy.”
“You are game to fight then?” asked the girl, her voice still quavery.
“Game?” replied Richemont, grinning. “Why, that’s what I’ve come for.”
“Good, because so have I,” and Jehanne squeezed the Earl’s arm affectionately, obviously more at ease with him than she had been with anyone since her arrival.
“Then let us address ourselves to the English in the morning.”
“After mass,” answered Jehanne.
“To which I shall accompany you,” said Richemont, and gave a joyous smile.
The twin towers of Les Tourelles stood, heavily fortified and transformed into a garrison for the English army, dominating the south bank and overlooking all that went on in the city. So it was that on the morning of 6th May 1429, the English saw a huge troop of French militia under the leadership of de Villars, Gilles de Rais, La Hire, d’Alengon, Richemont riding with them, follow La Pucelle through the Burgundy Gate, the only entrance to the city left open.
They watched as this great force of mercenaries, most of them Scottish, together with soldiers from the royal army and fighting Bretons, swept down to the riverbank and there attempted to cross on the pontoon that had been put up during the hours of darkness. But this operation took longer than the French anticipated as the makeshift bridge turned out to be too narrow to allow more than a few men to pass over it at any one time.
Eventually, however, English hopes were dashed and the first hundred soldiers managed to land on the south bank where they attacked the fort of St. Jean le Blanc, lying close to the monastery, also an English stronghold. It had been a crushing defeat and what Englishmen survived had run at full pelt into Les Augustins. But from there they had launched a massive counter-attack. Panic had broken out amongst the French soldiers who, in the face of so many virulent arrows, had sounded retreat and attempted to cross back over the pontoon against the tide of the royal army who were still pressing forward.
It was Jehanne and La Hire, just arriving on the left bank, who saved this dangerous situation from turning into a fiasco. Tilting her lance into the charge position, La Pucelle went like a fury towards the English fort. The bugle call of retreat was changed to attack and with a wild cry the French troops, as a man, turned and followed her. As wave after wave of fighting men joined them from the pontoon the strength of the assault force grew, and eventually Jean de Lorraine, a formidable artilleryman, put an end to it by smashing the monastery door to smithereens with a single cannonball.
Like quicksilver, Jehanne slid from the saddle and was through the gaping archway, planting her standard as she went.
“Forward in the name of God,” she screamed, and behind her tumbled captains, squires, knights, mercenaries, king’s soldiers, all coming in on the attack.
It was a bloodbath. By nightfall what English survivors there were left had struggled into Les Tourelles, while the French wounded lay tended by the monks of St. Augustin. Jehanne, who had herself sustained a minor injury, returned to Orleans in the company of the army leaders, leaving the fighting men to enjoy themselves, consuming the mountains of food and drink brought to them throughout the night by the grateful citizens of Orleans, who crossed by boat regardless of the English menace on the bridge.
And then, her wound cleaned and dressed, her supper consumed, La Pucelle fell asleep in front of the fire, her feet on a stool, her face looking very young and childish in the soft light of the flames.
In the Bastard of Orleans’s house, Richemont and his host were also hurriedly snatching a meal.
“There’s to be a council meeting in the governor’s place in an hour. We’d better get a move on,” said Jean, gulping his wine as if it were the last drop he would ever taste.
Richemont swallowed the mouthful he was eating and gazed at him in surprise. “We? Am I invited then?”
“Not officially, but I’d appreciate your presence.”
There was something in his voice that made the Earl look at the Bastard sharply.
“Anything wrong?”
“Not exactly. It’s simply a feeling that de Gaucourt is deliberately trying to keep La Pucelle out of things. I don’t think he wants her to have any of the glory. It’s odd.”
“It’s not odd at all,” snorted his companion. “De Gaucourt is in the pay of de la Trémoille, always has been, so of course he wants to keep her out. It is in the interests of both him and the fat man to belittle her in the eyes of the world.”
“Well that must never happen. The girl deserves all the credit due to her. Did you see her today? It was unbelievable. I swear to God she’s been trained to fight.”
“She has,” Richemont answered softly. “Don’t ask me how I know but just be assured I do.”
“I had guessed as much. But that aside, will you come tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
He was shaking the governor of Orleans as if he were a rat, holding the man by his velvet collar and rattling him about till de Gaucourt’s teeth chattered and his eyes started to bulge out of his head.
“You bloody little squirt,” hissed Richemont. “I’ll see you in Hell before you make one more move against her.”
“For God’s sake, my Lord,” the Bastard pleaded urgently. “Put him down. This is a council of war not a wrestling match.”
“But we must attack tomorrow,” countered the Earl, reluctantly lowering de Gaucourt to his feet. “Surely you can all see that.”
“Our forces are too few,” said the governor’s secretary. “We must wait for reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements be damned. There were so many of us today we could scarce get over the bridge. For God’s sake see sense.”
“I’m making a charge against you, Richemont,” said de Gaucourt huskily, regaining his voice. “I’ll have you clapped in gaol for assault.”
“No, by God you won’t,” shouted the Bastard, losing his temper at last. “I’ll need every man I can get when I ride to the attack tomorrow.”
“There’ll be no attack,” retorted the governor through drawn lips. “There will be no more fighting till more men and more supplies reach this city.”
“Coillons to you,” thundered the Earl. “I stand by the Bastard. Come and arrest me if you dare.”
And with that he banged the table with his fist until the papers and inkwells jumped, then crashed out through the door, pushing over a chair as he went.
She was still asleep in front of the fire when the messenger from the governor came to tell her that the council had decided to call a halt to the fighting and that because of the superior number of English troops no men-at-arms would be sent out tomorrow. For response Jehanne had simply looked at the man coldly.
“Tell Monsieur Governor from me that I too have had counsel — with my voices. And, you can believe me, the coun
cil of the Lord will stand — and yours will come to nothing.”
“Leave La Pucelle in peace,” commanded the young Abbot, Jehanne’s confessor, who many found so frightening with his vivid all-seeing eyes. “She stands in the sight of God which you do not.”
Somewhat daunted, the messenger bowed his way out. “Jacques, are we truly alone?” asked Jehanne.
“We are.”
“Then will you hear my confession?”
“I will tomorrow. Before you go to fight.”
“Then you may have to hear it twice, for during the day I shall be wounded and will need to prepare my soul for death.”
“God’s mercy, surely not!”
“Oh, yes. Blood will flow from my body over the breast. Warn Father Pasquerel that he, too, must stay close when that happens.”
“I will, ma Pucelle.”
“And bless me when I wake, Jacques, for I know I will have more than ever to do.”
“I bless you now and then, Jehanne.”
And with that the Abbot swiftly bent over her and kissed her suddenly icy cheek.
*
She rose at three and heard Mass, then rode out of the city in the darkness, ignoring the governor and his protests, and crossing the Loire by boat. Richemont and the Bastard were with her and so were all the loyal hearts of Orleans, determined not to see such bravery fight alone.
At sunrise the battle began and by sunset it was done. There were four assaults on Les Tourelles each of which failed, the English sending showers of arrows and cannonballs, and pushing down the ladders by which the attacking force were trying to enter the fort. Shortly after midday Jehanne came into the sight of an English crossbowman who deftly planted an arrow between her breastplate and her neck. On foot at the time, she fell to the ground and did not get up.
“The Armagnac’s whore is dead,” came the cry from the English, and there was an almighty cheer.
Richemont was at her side as quickly as the arrow that had felled her but not as fast as Gilles de Rais, who was bent over La Pucelle, pulling the bolt from her breast, sucking out the bad blood. The obscenity of seeing such a man with Jehanne’s liquid on his lips struck the Earl forcibly, and he practically threw de Rais off the girl’s motionless body.
“Is she dead?” he demanded angrily.
“No, I’m not,” answered Jehanne in a whisper, opening her eyes. “Carry me away and let me recover. We must not lose the day because of me.”
But they nearly did. With La Pucelle gone there was a lull in the fighting during which the English began to recover themselves, firing repeatedly at the engineers who were striving to rebuild the bridge with planking from the Orleans side.
“Should we sound the retreat?” the Bastard asked Richemont, bright tears rushing down his face.
“No, by God, no. My girl will come back.”
It was odd phraseology but Jean ignored it, his tears suddenly dried by the sight of La Pucelle, secured to her horse but mounted none the less, her standard grasped in her bloody hand, coming towards them.
“Sound the attack,” she gasped.
“But it’s nearly dark.”
“Do so, Bastard, and we will win. I’m telling you.”
Then Jehanne lowered her banner as if it were a lance, charging towards Les Tourelles shouting, “Forward! Come on! It’s ours!”
The entire might of the French army rallied for the last time and careered after her while the English, under the command of Sir William Glasdale, began to pull up the drawbridge of Les Tourelles, lowered to facilitate their bowmen, in order to save themselves.
“Clasdas! Clasdas!” screamed Jehanne, the nearest she could get to saying his name correctly. “Surrender! You who called me a whore!”
The drawbridge creaked upwards, then splintered beneath the weight of all the men standing on it. With a horrible crack it broke in half and Glasdale and many others were suddenly in the Loire, deep and dark in the fading light.
“God have mercy on their souls,” Jehanne said, blessing the drowning men, then turned away in floods of tears.
“Amen,” said Jacques, and, lifting her from the saddle, held her close to him.
And with those words, the battle of Orleans was won.
Thirty-Three
She had not stayed merry-making in the city but had gone straight from the battlefield to Loches where she had found the King amongst his courtiers. Without ado she had gone on one knee before him.
“Orleans is yours, sweet Dauphin. The English withdrew on 8th May. Now you must come with me to Reims for your coronation.”
“But it lies in enemy hands.”
“Not for much longer,” answered Jehanne certainly.
“But what of the Loire? I would see it conquered before I receive the holy oil.”
“If you straighten your shoulders I shall get it for you, gentle Prince.”
“What did you say?”
“I said stand straight, let the world see your beauty and the victory that is soon to come.”
“There is no beauty in me, Jehanne.”
“You have the beauty I do. The beauty of God’s love and inspiration. Come, sweet Dauphin, and pray with me for a transformation.”
And she had led him, without protest, into the chateau’s private chapel.
What happened afterwards was, some claimed, a minor miracle, but others recognised it simply as a man regaining his confidence. Charles stood tall, unstooped, his lean body suddenly filling his clothes; the clearwater eyes lost their hunted expression and glittered and shone as they had done in his youth; the long nose flared at the nostrils, sensitive and eager; the full mouth curved upward, the drooping lips a thing of the past.
“Win the campaign of the Loire and I will go to Reims with you,” he had said.
“It will take two months,” Jehanne had answered, nodding at the same time as if someone else were speaking to her. “Your voices are telling you this?”
“They are, mon Prince.”
“Then, for certain, it will happen.”
“Prepare yourself mentally and spiritually. And know, Monsieur, that at your coronation I shall carry the banner of my Order. For when I have finished my tasks for you their great work must be resumed.”
She had left him then and ridden off with her entourage; shortly afterwards had started the succession of messengers arriving daily to keep the King informed of La Pucelle’s progress.
It had been phenomenal! On 12th June, the town of Jargeau had surrendered to her, on the 15th, Meung, and on the 17th the citadel of Beaugency. But over this victory there had been a certain amount of controversy regarding the Earl of Richmond, who many said had fought at La Pucelle’s side at Orleans — although about this fact there seemed to be a conspiracy of silence — who had suddenly reappeared with his private army and literally saved the day.
Reports on the Beaugency triumph stated that the French troops were about to be caught in a classic battle trap, penned between the castle and the oncoming English force under the leadership of Talbot, still smarting from his trouncing at Orleans, and Sir John Fastolfe, the victor of the Battle of the Herrings. Hopelessly outnumbered, Jehanne’s troops had been on the point of retreat when suddenly, out of nowhere it would seem, Richemont had appeared with she hundred men-at-arms and four hundred archers.
Hearing the news, Georges de la Trémoille, who had once been inseparable from the Constable but who had now succumbed completely to an insatiable lust for power, had instantly suspected that the rescue had somehow been pre-arranged between Richemont and Jehanne, that moves were being made to restore the Earl in the King’s favour. But there had been no proof of it nor would there ever be and the fat man had simply had no choice but to let the matter drop.
And then, on 18th June, with Richemont as one of her companions-in-arms, Jehanne had finally avenged Azincourt at the Battle of Patay. Two thousand Englishmen had fallen that day and, unbelievably, only two French soldiers. At the end of the battle John Talbot, the Engli
sh nobleman and captain who had retreated from Jehanne at Orleans, had knelt before her and proffered his sword, surrendering himself to captivity. Sir John Fastolfe, his fellow captain, had escaped only by reason of having a very fast horse.
When news of that victory reached the fortress of Yenville it surrendered at once, and the English, now in deep trouble, packed up their things, evacuated the rest of their forts, and took the long road back to Normandy. The mills of God were at last beginning to turn their mighty sails.
That night, the night of the victory at Patay, Jehanne went to give thanks in the cathedral at Orleans, riding in triumph, her standard bearer walking in front of her. But on this occasion he did not carry her usual banner depicting God and the world. Instead there fluttered from his pole a blue and white flag, written on it the words Non nobis, Domine, non nobis sed nomini tuo da gloriam.
“Give us not glory, God, but give it to your name,” translated one of the onlookers. “But surely that was the motto of the Knights Templar.”
“Aye, and those are their colours. The people, blue, and the clergy, white.”
“Well, well,” murmured the Bastard, greeting La Pucelle with a fond kiss, and thought the rest of his thoughts in silence.
It was Sunday, 17th July 1429, nine o’clock on a pearl-misted morning. Very early, shortly after daybreak in fact, when the haze had hung heavy over the valleys and hills, six noble lords, the Sires de Boussac, de Graville, and the olive-skinned Lord de Rais, together with the Sire St. Sévère and the Admiral de Culant, had gone to the Abbey of St. Remi to fetch the Holy Ampulla to be used in the King’s anointing, which now lay ready in the cathedral’s vestment room, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
As the sun had stolen slowly up over the city of Reims, the people had come, both great and humble, to pack the place with their thankful presence. Yet amongst that enormous multitude gathered together in the Cathedral there were some significant missing faces. The Duke of Burgundy was not there nor had even bothered to reply to his invitation. Also missing was the Earl of Richmond, much restored in the King’s favour thanks to La Pucelle but still not able to come face to face with de la Trémoille. The Queen of Sicily, too, was noticeably absent for mysterious reasons of her own, though nobody could guess what they were. And the Queen of France, brimming with child, had felt unable to undertake the journey. Representing her and her mother, however, were Marie’s two brothers: Louis, the jade-eyed Duke of Anjou, and Prince René, smiling his saturnine and secret smile.
