by Deryn Lake
and gone straight away to the rescue of nearby Compiegne, under threat of siege from the Burgundians. The Duke’s army was already besieging two neighbouring towns which controlled the road to Compiegne. Foolishly, blunderingly, Jehanne had offered to go to relieve them.
But as soon as she left, the Governor of Compiegne compelled the King’s troops to withdraw and opened the city gates to Jean of Luxemburg, the Duke of Burgundy’s captain. Then had come a message from Charles for La Pucelle to disband the militia and return to the Loire immediately.
“You must go,” Gilles de Rais had said forcefully. “It is a direct order from the King. It would be tantamount to insurrection if you disobey him.”
“Then you go in my place. My duty is with the people of Compiegne.”
The great blue eyes had looked at her hard. “There is something about this business I don’t trust. I smell a plot here.”
“Please, ma Pucelle,” put in Jacques. “I beg you to leave with the Marechal. Don’t endanger yourself any further. You are being beaten back at every turn.”
“But de Flavy has sent a message that Compiegne is invested on all sides. I can’t turn away from that.”
“You will if you’ve an ounce of sense left in that head of yours.” De Rais lowered his voice so that Jacques could not hear his whispered words. “Jehanne, I beseech you to come with me. It is not God’s will that we should be separated.”
“You speak of God?”
“I speak of His mysteries, of which your death might well be one. Ma Pucelle, you who are my other half, do not desert me now.”
“It is you who are deserting not I.”
The falcon’s eyes had become incandescent. “No, that is not true. I am the Marechal of France. My King has recalled me and I must obey his summons.”
“Then goodbye,” answered Jehanne, and spurred her horse away without another word.
“I curse you,” screamed Gilles after her departing back.
“I curse you, Daughter of God. May you, who will not love me as I do you, know pain and death and all that there is to follow.”
A few days later his curse was fulfilled. On 23rd May, that fateful date in the history of La Pucelle, Jehanne, accompanied by a small band of soldiers and a handful of her gallant captains engaged in an attack on Margny, a Burgundian outpost near the beleaguered town of Compiegne. Strangely, there was no defence, a fact which should perhaps have warned her of impending disaster. But nobody could have anticipated the enormity of the trap, the hordes of enemy soldiers who appeared seemingly from nowhere, surrounding the girl and her tragic little group.
Hopelessly outnumbered, there was only one thing for it, to make a dash for the walled and moated city and count on the goodwill of the townsfolk to let them in.
“Full retreat,” ordered Jehanne, and turned to fight the enemy every step of the way, waiting till last, watching her men and Guillaume de Flavy clatter past her and over the hastily lowered drawbridge.
“Come on, for God’s sake!” shrieked Jean d’Aulon, La Pucelle’s squire, in desperation, and grabbed roughly at her bridle trying to drag her to safety by force.
But it was too late! Even though Jehanne had at last decided to run for her life, the drawbridge was being pulled up in her face.
“Got ‘er!” shouted several Burgundian voices together, and then there was no sound but the girl’s own scream as the enemy closed in relentlessly from all sides.
Thirty-Five
Ten thousand gold crowns was the sum which changed hands between the Duke of Burgundy and the English when he sold Jehanne to them, ransomed as he preferred to put it, in November 1430.
During the middle of that month La Pucelle had been taken from the castle of Beaurevoir, the property of Jean of Luxemburg, brother to Jacquetta, the girl with whom Jehanne’s father Richemont had had a fleeting affair, on the first stage of her grim journey to Rouen. Once before La Pucelle had tried to leave the castle, leaping out of the tower window in a despairing attempt to end her life. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, she had fallen into the moat and despite being very gravely hurt had survived to face trial, accused as she was by the English and the University of Paris of both witchcraft and heresy.
With an air of tragic resignation, assured by her voices as she was that it was her duty to be calm whatever happened, that her saints had forgiven her for attempting suicide and that Compiegne would receive help before Martinmas, the wretched girl had gone under heavy escort to be delivered to the people who had sworn that if ever they caught her they would see her burned as a common enchantress.
The news of the sale and of Jehanne’s journey to Arras, where she had been put into the custody of Count Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, a man whose implacable hatred of La Pucelle was inexplicable even to those who knew him well, sent a frisson of fear to all those attempting to keep some kind of Christmas in the Loire. Because of it the meeting of the court during the Twelve Days of 1430, everyone by now aware that Jehanne was in Rouen and in mortal danger, became the cover for a hub of political intrigue, as courtiers and soldiers alike puzzled over what was best to be done.
At the heart of the matter stood the King himself; now nearly twenty-nine years of age and saved from nervous collapse by the very girl whose fate everyone was discussing, he had these days become a monarch of considerable substance. For Charles had grown in every way since his coronation at Reims, his slender body filling out to man’s estate, his ugly face taking on lines of character, his views on life more cynical yet more rounded, so that now he had no doubts left as to where he was going or what he would have to do to get there.
He had been reunited with Richemont after the battle of Patay, Jehanne herself acting as mediator, extolling the ex-Constable’s virtues, speaking of how bravely and selflessly he had fought. Looking at the scarred warrior, the King had made a note to himself that here lay the man of the future, temporarily disgraced because of de la Tremoille’s dislike of him but obviously the one to succeed the fat Duke when the other had outlived his usefulness. Yet of Georges’s talents at negotiating peace with Burgundy there could be no doubt.
Terrible though it was to admit it, the capture of La Pucelle had in many ways been a diplomatic relief. The campaign conducted just before she had been caught, aimed so hard against Burgundy and his holdings, had been embarrassing to say the least. It had come at a time when discretion and treading carefully were the order of the day and Jehanne’s unauthorised attacks had been the last thing the negotiators had wanted. But the fact that she had blundered and blundered badly did not in any way detract from her present terrible plight nor what plans should be made to help her.
The first person to visit the King on Christmas Eve, 5th January, had been his mother-in-law, not waiting even to settle in before she asked for an audience. Half expecting that he might well have a stream of callers, Charles had set aside the great receiving room overlooking the river in which to see them. And it was there in the chateau of Saumur that Yolande met him, sweeping a dignified straight-backed curtsy, dressed in very dark blue, her skin as white as the snow that threatened to fall from the heavy sky outside.
Charles rose to kiss her, embracing his ‘Good Mother’ on both cheeks, and leading her to a chair by the fire. “Now Madame, how may I help you?” he began, already guessing the reply.
Yolande came straight to the point. “I am here about La Pucelle, Charles. Her trial begins in just a few days’ time, or so my informants tell me.”
“They are quite right. The first hearing is on the 9th.”
“Then what,” the Queen asked forcefully, “do you intend to do about it?”
“I have not yet formulated my plans.”
“But you are going to try something surely?”
“Yes, of course.”
But the truth was that Charles was flummoxed, not knowing how to get out of the dilemma yet keenly aware that action of some sort must be taken.
It was the Bastard of Orleans who lat
er that day suggested a rescue party, an expedition to go into the lands beyond the Seine, to Normandy, to effect some kind of attack on the prison where she was held, snatching the prisoner during the ensuing chaos. But the Marechal de Rais, also present at the discussion, said he would take no part in such foolishness, that the scheme would most certainly fail, that a small band of men working undercover, posing as guards and bribing their way in, would be far more effective.
By the evening, Charles was exhausted with all the many and varied suggestions, with the unsavoury whisperings of Regnault de Chartres that Jehanne had been a cocky little upstart who would never take advice, did everything of her own will, and had got what she deserved; and bored by Georges de la Trémoille constantly assuring him that things really had worked out for the best.
“Well?” he said getting into bed with his safe harbour, his mother figure of a wife, pregnant nine months of the year every year, but with only one surviving son and a horde of daughters to show for it.
Marie shook her head. “No, not well.”
“Because of La Pucelle?”
“Yes, of course. You’ve got to get her out, Monsieur. Or at least you’ve got to try. She saved you once, now it’s your turn.”
“I’ve decided to give the Bastard money to fund an expedition.”
Marie looked dubious. “It might work but it means battles and armies and noisy things. I would have thought secret negotiations would have been better.”
“But with whom?”
“Well, who is her principal gaoler? Do you know?”
‘The Earl of Warwick is governor of Rouen.”
“Then you must send an intermediary to him at once. Bargaining for Jehanne’s life must begin straight away.”
“But what about Bedford? He wants her dead.”
“Then the way is clear. You must treat with Warwick.”
“But who should I send? The Bastard, de Rais?”
“No, they are both too militant. It should be someone the English know and respect. Someone older.”
They both said, “Richemont,” together.
“But can I trust him?”
“Charles, he only turned against you when pushed to the limit by old Fatty. And since that one transgression I would have thought he has proved his loyalty a hundredfold. Besides, he seems genuinely fond of Jehanne and I believe would do anything to save her.”
“Let. me sleep on it,” said Charles, blowing out the bedside candle.
“Very well. But I shall want to know your reply in the morning.”
“You shall have it. Now, snuggle close. It’s snowing outside.”
Great with child and comfortable as a feather bed, Marie enveloped him.
“You will save Jehanne?” she whispered into the darkness.
“I’ll do my best,” answered her husband as he drifted off towards sleep.
On 9th January, the day that the court assembled for the start of Jehanne’s trial, Arthur de Richemont came to Yolande in the darkness of night. Making his way by water so as not to disturb the sleeping inhabitants of the Queen of Sicily’s chateau in Saumur, he was let in at the River Gate by a drowsy porter, then silently climbed a little-used spiral staircase to the Queen’s apartments, to find that though she had sat up to wait for him, Yolande had, at this late hour, fallen asleep in her chair. In normal circumstances he would have woken his mistress with a kiss but the current situation was too desperate for a second to be wasted on niceties. Casting good manners aside, the Earl shook the Queen roughly by the shoulders.
She opened her eyes at once, saying, “I’ve been asleep. I’m so sorry,” then gasped as she took in who it was. “Richemont! You’re here already!”
“The King has sent for me. He wants me to undertake a highly delicate mission. To go to Warwick and redeem Jehanne’s ransom. Though I’ve a mind to try Bedford first because of our past connections.”
“But has Charles got enough money for that? He told me he was putting all his spare funds into financing an expedition led by the Bastard.”
“I have offered to pay,” the Earl answered, looking grim. “Why, I’d sell everything I own, even the clothes I stand up in, to see her safe.”
Yolande smiled. “Isn’t there a proverb about great minds thinking alike? I was going to suggest you went to Rouen and tried to bribe someone in a high place. I even have the money ready, fourteen thousand livres toumois…”
“But that’s a fortune!”
“I pawned the great emerald to a Jew, what else could I do? The rest of my jewels went to pay for Orleans.”
Richemont held her close. “Between us we have amassed a king’s ransom.”
“And is it not worth every sou? Poor Jehanne, my gallant daughter.”
“Your lionhearted daughter, our brave heart. If only you could have seen her fight. She is better than a brace of sons.”
“What a typically masculine remark.”
Richemont changed the subject. “Does she really hear those voices she talks about or do they lie in her own imagination?”
“She hears them but whether they are just a product of her mind we will never be certain.”
The Earl poured himself a measure of wine from Provence. “Yet she knew that the wind would change at Orleans, in fact some people believe she did change it. And she found the hidden sword at Ste. Catherine de Fierbois as if by magic.”
“Those two things will go against her if she is to be tried for witchcraft.”
Richemont seemed hardly to hear her. “Jehanne left that sword on the altar at St. Denis in Paris as a votive offering, together with a suit of white armour she had won. She took it from a soldier who surrendered to her. But she parted with both things gladly as a gift for the saint.”
“Perhaps she shouldn’t have done that, perhaps her luck ran out when she gave them away.” Yolande clasped her lover by the arm. “Richemont, you will be able to save her, won’t you? Do you think your old connection with the Duke of Bedford will be enough to persuade him? Or can the Earl be bribed?”
“I don’t know Warwick very well. He might be bribable, he might not. But as far as the Duke is concerned I have a trump card to play.”
“And what is that?”
“His mistress, Jacquetta of Luxemburg, was a friend of mine many years ago. I thought I might pay her a visit and see what influence she can bring to bear.”
“Anything,” Yolande answered despairingly. “Arthur, try anything.”
“To save my girl,” he answered, his voice intense and
his hands shaking, “I would go to Hell and bring out Pierre de Giac.”
“Don’t say it even in jest,” Yolande replied hastily, and crossed herself in terror at the very thought.
The castle of Bouvreuil in Rouen, consisting of seven main towers, one of them much larger than the rest, stood huge and forbidding just beyond the ancient town, a grim and stark dwelling which, none the less, contained as well as the keep and the outbuildings, the royal apartments, the King’s logis and the Regent’s personal suite.
It was to this place that the young Henry VI of England would come when in the city, accompanied by his mother Queen Catherine, who had now recovered from her obsession with Henry V and was living out of wedlock with a handsome Welsh squire, Owen Tudor, to whom she had already borne several sons. And it was in the Chapel Royal of Bouvreuil Castle on 21st February 1431, that Jehanne was finally brought to face her judges and assessors.
Her hair had grown long since she had been in prison but in order for it not to look incongruous with her man’s attire, the girl had rolled it en rond above her ears. As she stood there, just nineteen years old, dressed like a boy, many of the great men who had come to judge her could hardly credit what they were seeing. If this were the devil’s bitch, the arch-enemy, she most certainly had assumed a very young and innocent air with which to deceive them all. Sitting at the very back, his thin face supported by his hand, Henry V’s brother, the Regent of France, Duke John of Bedford, c
ould scarcely believe his eyes.
“You must give your name and take the oath,” commanded Jean Estivet, the official promoter of the case, the man with overall responsibility for procedure and records.
“A moment,” interjected Bishop Cauchon, rising. “Before the prisoner does so there is something that I feel I must draw to the court’s attention. As the prisoner has constantly begged and requested that she might hear Mass, I have taken counsel with other wise and prominent persons from whom I have learned that, taking into account the crimes of which she is accused and defamed and also the fact that she insists on wearing male clothing, the request must be refused, and so now I rule.”
‘So that’s it!’ thought Bedford. ‘She’s obviously a transvestite and they’re going to get her for it.’
And staring at the girl before him, her muscular body, her above average height of five foot two, the Duke wondered how long it would be before, tough looking though she was, the prisoner would crack under Cauchon’s obvious antipathy towards her.
She hadn’t done so by the end of the second day, when the hearing was directed towards Jehanne’s voices, suggestions being made that their source was other than divine. Nor did the girl weaken when it was put to her that she had been brought up to hate Burgundians and also to take part in fairy rites, dancing round their tree and searching for them, making garlands, playing in the woods. Bedford, listening, began to believe that the girl certainly was a witch and that her condemnation as such would be perfectly justified. But on Tuesday, 27th February, the Regent felt that the girl had answered more foolishly than with evil intent when questioned about her fasting.
“Have you been fasting all Lent?”
“Is that pertinent to your case?”
“Yes. Truly, it is pertinent to the case.”
“Then, yes. Truly, I have always fasted.”
“Have you heard your voices since Saturday?”
“Yes. Many times.”
“Did you hear them in this room on Saturday?”
“That is not pertinent to your case.”
“Oh yes it is.”
