by John Buchan
CHAPTER 5. THE MAID
The hostel of the Ane Raye poured from its upper and lower windowsa flood of light into the gathering August dusk. It stood, a littlewithdrawn among its beeches, at a cross-roads, where the main routesouthward from the Valois cut the highway from Paris to Rheims andChampagne. The roads at that hour made ghostly white ribbons, and thefore-court of dusty grasses seemed of a verdure which daylight woulddisprove. Weary horses nuzzled at a watertrough, and serving-men in adozen liveries made a bustle around the stables, which formed twosides of the open quadrangle. At the foot of the inn signpost beggarssquatted--here a leper whining monotonously, there lustier vagrantsdicing for supper. At the main door a knot of young squires stoodtalking in whispers--impatient, if one judged from the restless clank ofmetal, but on duty, as appeared when a new-comer sought entrance and wasbrusquely denied. For in an upper room there was business of great folk,and the commonalty must keep its distance.
That upper room was long and low-ceiled, with a canopied bed in a cornerand an oaken table heaped with saddle-bags. A woman sat in a chair bythe empty hearth, very bright and clear in the glow of the big ironlantern hung above the chimney. She was a tall girl, exquisitelydressed, from the fine silk of her horned cap to the amethyst buckleson her Spanish shoes. The saddle-bags showed that she was fresh from ajourney, but her tirewoman's hands must have been busy, for she bore nomarks of the road.
Her chin was in her hands, and the face defined by the slim fingers wassmall and delicate, pale with the clear pallor of perfect health, andnow slowly flushing to some emotion. The little chin was firm, but themouth was pettish. Her teeth bit on a gold chain, which encircled herneck and held a crystal reliquary. A spoiled pretty child, she looked,and in a mighty ill temper.
The cause of it was a young man who stood disconsolately by a settle alittle way out of the lantern's glow. The dust of the white roads layon his bodyarmour and coated the scabbard of his great sword. He playednervously with the plume of a helmet which lay on the settle, and liftedhis face now and then to protest a word. It was an honest face, ruddywith wind and sun and thatched with hair which his mislikers called redbut his friends golden.
The girl seemed to have had her say. She turned wearily aside, and drewthe chain between her young lips with a gesture of despair.
"Since when have you become Burgundian, Catherine?" the young man askedtimidly. The Sieur Guy de Laval was most notable in the field but he hadfew arts for a lady's chamber.
"I am no Burgundian," she said, "but neither am I Armagnac. Whatconcern have we in these quarrels? Let the Kings who seek thrones dothe fighting. What matters it to us whether knock-kneed Charles or fatPhilip reign in Paris?"
The young man shuddered as if at a blasphemy "This is our country ofFrance. I would rid it of the English and all foreign bloodsuckers."
"And your way is to foment the quarrel among Frenchmen? You are a fool,Guy. Make peace with Burgundy and in a month there will be no Goddamsleft in France."
"It is the voice of La Tremouille."
"It is the voice of myself, Catherine of Beaumanoir. And if my kinsmanof La Tremouille say the same, the opinion is none the worse for that.You meddle with matters beyond your understanding.... But have done withstatecraft, for that is not the heart of my complaint. You have brokenyour pledged word, sir. Did you not promise me when you set out that youwould abide the issue of the Bourbon's battle before you took arms? YetI have heard of you swashbuckling in that very fight at Rouvray, andonly the miracle of God brought you out with an unbroken neck."
"The Bourbon never fought," said de Laval sullenly. "Only Stewart andhis Scots stood up against Fastolf's spears. You would not have me stayidle in face of such odds. I was not the only French knight who charged.There was La Hire and de Saintrailles and the Bastard himself."
"Yet you broke your word," was the girl's cold answer. "Your word to me.You are forsworn, sir."
The boy's face flushed deeply. "You do not understand, my sweetCatherine. There have been mighty doings in Touraine, which you have notheard of in Picardy. Miracles have come to pass. Orleans has been saved,and there is now a great army behind Charles. In a little while we shalldrive the English from Paris, and presently into the sea. There ishope now and a clear road for us Frenchmen. We have heard the terribleEnglish 'Hurra' grow feeble, and 'St. Denis' swell like a wind inheaven. For God has sent us the Maid...."
The girl had risen and was walking with quick, short steps from hearthto open window.
"Tell me of this maid," she commanded.
"Beyond doubt she is a daughter of God," said de Laval.
"Beyond doubt. But I would hear more of her."
Her tone was ominously soft, and the young man was deceived by it. Helaunched into a fervid panegyric of Jeanne of Arc. He told of her doingsat Orleans, when her standard became the oriflamme of France, and hervoice was more stirring than trumpets; of her gentleness and her wisdom.He told of his first meeting with her, when she welcomed him in herchamber. "She sent for wine and said that soon she would drink it withme in Paris. I saw her mount a plunging black horse, herself all inwhite armour, but unhelmeted. Her eyes were those of a great captain,and yet merciful and mild like God's Mother. The sight of her made theheart sing like a May morning. No man could fear death in her company.They tell how..."
But he got no farther. The girl's face was pale with fury, and she toreat her gold neck-chain till it snapped.
"Enough of your maid!" she cried. "Maid, forsooth! The shame of her hasgone throughout the land. She is no maid, but a witch, a light-of-love,a blasphemer. By the Rood, Sir Guy, you choose this instant between meand your foul peasant. A daughter of Beaumanoir does not share her loverwith a crack-brained virago."
The young man had also gone pale beneath his sunburn. "I will notlisten," he cried. "You blaspheme a holy angel."
"But listen you shall," and her voice quivered with passion. She marchedup to him and faced him, her slim figure as stiff as a spear. "This veryhour you break this mad allegiance and conduct me home to Beaumanoir.Or, by the Sorrows of Mary, you and I will never meet again."
De Laval did not speak, but stood gazing sadly at the angry lovelinessbefore him. His own face had grown as stubborn as hers.
"You do not know what you ask," he said at length. "You would have meforswear my God, and my King, and my manhood."
"A fig for such manhood," she cried with ringing scorn. "If that is aman's devotion, I will end my days in a nunnery. I will have none of it,I tell you. Choose, my fine lover--choose between me and your peasant."
The young man looked again at the blazing eyes and then without a wordturned slowly and left the room. A moment later the sound of horses toldthat a company had taken the road.
The girl stood listening till the noise died away. Then she sank alllimp in a chair and began to cry. There was wrath in her sobs, andbitter self-pity. She had made a fine tragedy scene, but the glory of itwas short. She did not regret it, but an immense dreariness had followedon her heroics. Was there ever, she asked herself, a more unfortunatelady?
And she had been so happy. Her lover was the bravest gallant thatever came out of Brittany; rich too, and well beloved, and kin to deRichemont, the Constable. In the happy days at Beaumanoir he wasthe leader in jousts and valiances, the soul of hunting parties, thelightest foot in the dance. The Beaumanoirs had been a sleepy stock,ever since that Sir Aimery, long ago, who had gone crusading with SaintLouis and ridden out of the ken of mortals. Their wealth had bought thempeace, and they had kept on good terms alike with France and Burgundy,and even with the unruly captains of England. Wars might sweep roundtheir marches, but their fields were unravaged. Shrewd, peaceablefolk they were, at least the males of the house. The women had beendifferent, for the daughters of Beaumanoir had been notable for beautyand wit and had married proudly, till the family was kin to half thenobleness of Artois and Picardy and Champagne. There was that terriblegreat-aunt at Coucy, and the aunts at Beaulieu and Avranches, and theendless cousin
hood stretching as far south as the Nivernais.... And nowthe main stock had flowered in her, the sole child of her father, andthe best match to be found that side of the Loire.
She sobbed in the chagrin of a new experience. No one in her softcushioned life had ever dared to gainsay her. At Beaumanoir her wordwas law. She had loved its rich idleness for the power it gave her.Luxurious as she was, it was no passive luxury that she craved, but thesense of mastery, of being a rare thing set apart. The spirit of thewomen of Beaumanoir burned fiercely in her... She longed to set herlover in the forefront of the world. Let him crusade if he chose, butnot in a beggars' quarrel. And now the palace of glass was shivered, andshe was forsaken for a peasant beguine. The thought set her pacing tothe window.
There seemed to be a great to-do without. A dozen lanterns lit up theforecourt, and there was a tramping of many horses. A shouting, too, asif a king were on the move. She hurriedly dried her eyes and arrangedher dress, tossing the reliquary and its broken chain on the table. Somenew guests; and the inn was none too large. She would have the landlordflayed if he dared to intrude on the privacy which she had commanded.Nay, she would summon her people that instant and set off for home, forher company was strong enough to give security in the midnight forests.
She was about to blow a little silver whistle to call her steward when astep at the door halted her. A figure entered, a stranger. It was a tallstripling, half armed like one who is not for battle but expects a brushat any corner of the road. A long surcoat of dark green and crimson fellstiffy as if it covered metal, and the boots were spurred and defendedin front with thin plates of steel. The light helm was open and showed ayoung face. The stranger moved wearily as if from a long journey.
"Good even to you, sister," said the voice, a musical voice with thebroad accent of Lorraine. "Help me to get rid of this weariful harness."
Catherine's annoyance was forgotten in amazement. Before she knew whatshe did her fingers were helping the bold youth to disarm. The helm wasremoved, the surcoat was stripped, and the steel corslet beneath it.With a merry laugh the stranger kicked off the great boots which weretoo wide for his slim legs.
He stretched himself, yawning, and then laughed again. "By my staff,"he said, "but I am the weary one." He stood now in the full glow of thelantern, and Catherine saw that he wore close-fitting breeches of finelinen, a dark pourpoint, and a tunic of blue. The black hair was cutshort like a soldier's, and the small secret face had the clear tanof one much abroad in wind and sun. The eyes were tired and yet merry,great grey eyes as clear and deep as a moorland lake.... Suddenly sheunderstood. It may have been the sight of the full laughing lips, or thesmall maidenly breasts outlined by the close-fitting linen. At any rateshe did not draw back when the stranger kissed her cheek.
"Ah, now I am woman again," said the crooning voice. The unbuckled swordin its leather sheath was laid on the table beside the broken reliquary."Let us rest side by side, sister, for I long for maids' talk."
But now Catherine started and recoiled. For on the blue tunic she hadcaught sight of an embroidered white dove bearing in its beak thescroll De par le Roy du ciel. It was a blazon the tale of which had gonethrough France.
"You are she!" she stammered. "The witch of Lorraine!"
The other looked wonderingly at her. "I am Jeanne of Arc," she saidsimply. "She whom they call the Pucelle. Do you shrink from me, sister?"
Catherine's face was aflame. She remembered her lost lover, and thetears scarcely dry. "Out upon you!" she cried. "You are that false womanthat corrupt men's hearts." And again her fingers sought the silverwhistle.
Jeanne looked sadly upon her. Her merry eyes had grown grave.
"I pray you forbear. I do not heed the abuse of men, but a woman'staunts hurt me. They have spoken falsely of me, dear sister. I am nowitch, but a poor girl who would fain do the commands of God."
She sank on the settle with the relaxed limbs of utter fatigue. "I washappy when they told me there was a lady here. I bade Louis and Raymondand the Sieur d'Aulon leave me undisturbed till morning, for I wouldfain rest. Oh, but I am weary of councils! They are all blind. They willnot hear the plain wishes of God.... And I have so short a time! Only ayear, and now half is gone!"
The figure had lost all its buoyancy, and become that of a sad,overwrought girl. Catherine found her anger ebbing and pity stealinginto her heart. Could this tired child be the virago against whom shehad sworn vengeance? It had none of a woman's allure, no arts of thelight-of-love. Its eyes were as simple as a boy's.... She looked almostkindly at the drooping Maid.
But in a moment the languor seemed to pass from her. Her face lit up,as to the watcher in the darkness a window in a tower suddenly becomesa square of light. She sank on her knees, her head thrown back, herlips parted, the long eyelashes quiet on her cheeks. A sudden stillnessseemed to fall on everything. Catherine held her breath, and listened tothe beating of her heart.
Jeanne's lips moved, and then her eyes opened. She stood up again, herface entranced and her gaze still dwelling on some hidden world... Neverhad Catherine seen such happy radiance.
"My Brothers of Paradise spoke with me. They call me sometimes when Iam sad. Their voices said to me, 'Daughter of God, go forward. We are atyour side.'"
Catherine trembled. She seemed on the edge of a world of which inall her cosseted life she had never dreamed, a world of beautiful andterrible things. There was rapture in it, and a great awe. She hadforgotten her grievances in wonder.
"Do not shrink from me," said the voice which seemed to have won anunearthly sweetness. "Let us sit together and tell our thoughts. You arevery fair. Have you a lover?"
The word brought the girl to earth. "I had a lover, but this night Idismissed him. He fights in your company, and I see no need for thiswar."
Jeanne's voice was puzzled. "Can a man fight in a holier cause than tofree his country?"
"The country..." But Catherine faltered. Her argument with Guy nowseemed only pettishness.
"You are a great lady," said Jeanne, "and to such as you libertymay seem a little thing. You are so rich that you need never feelconstraint. But to us poor folk freedom is life itself. It sweetensthe hind's pottage, and gives the meanest an assurance of manhood....Likewise it is God's will. My Holy Ones have told me that sweet Franceshall be purged from bondage. They have bidden me see the King crownedand lead him to Paris.... After that they have promised me rest."
She laid an arm round Catherine's neck and looked into her eyes.
"You are hungry, sister mine," she said.
The girl started. For the eyes were no longer those of a boy, but of amother--very wise, very tender. Her own mother had died so long agothat she scarcely remembered her. A rush of longing came over her forsomething she had never known. She wanted to lay her head on that youngbreast and weep.
"You are hungry--and yet I think you have been much smiled on byfortune. You are very fair, and for most women to be beautiful is to behappy. But you are not content, and I am glad of it. There is a hungerthat is divine...."
She broke off, for the girl was sobbing. Crumpled on the floor, she benther proud head to the Maid's lap "What must I do?" she cried piteously."The sight of you makes me feel my rottenness. I have been proud ofworthless things and I have cherished that wicked pride that I mightforget the doubts knocking on my heart. You say true, I am not content.I shall never be content, I am most malcontent with myself.... Would toGod that like you I had been born a peasant!"
The tragic eyes looked up to find the Maid laughing--a kind, gentlemerriment. Catherine flushed as Jeanne took her tear-stained face in herhands.
"You are foolish, little sister. I would I had been born to yourstation. My task would have been easier had I been Yoland of Sicily orthat daughter of the King of Scots from whom many looked for the succourof France. Folly, folly! There is no virtue in humble blood. I would Ihad been a queen! I love fine clothes and rich trappings and the greathorse which d'Alencon gave me. God has made a brave world and I wouldthat
all His people could get the joy of it. I love it the more becauseI have only a little time in it."
"But you are happy," said the girl, "and I want such happiness."
"There is no happiness," said the Maid, "save in doing the will of Godour Father."
"But I do not know His will.... I am resolved now. I will take the vowsand become a religious, and then I shall find peace. I am weary of allthis confusing world."
"Foolish one," and Jeanne played with the little curls which strayedaround Catherine's ear. "You were not born for a nunnery. Not that wayGod calls you."
"Show me His way," the girl implored.
"He shows His way privily to each heart, and His ways are many. For somethe life of devout contemplation, but not for you, sister. Your blood istoo fiery and your heart too passionate.... You have a lover? Tell mehis name."
Docilely Catherine whispered it, and Jeanne laughed merrily.
"Sir Guy! My most loyal champion. By my staff, you are the blessed maid.There is no more joyous knight in all the fields of France."
"I do not seek wedlock. Oh, it is well for you who are leading armiesand doing the commands of God. Something tells me that in marriage Ishall lose my soul."
The girl was on her knees with her hands twined. "Let me follow you,"she cried. "I will bring a stout company behind me. Let me ride with youto the freeing of France. I promise to be stalwart."
The Maid shook her head gently.
"Then I take the vows." The obstinate little mouth had shut and therewere no tears now in the eyes.
"Listen, child," and Jeanne took the suppliant hands in hers. "It istrue that God has called me to a holy task. He has sent His angels toguide me and they talk with me often. The Lady of Fierbois has given mea mystic sword. I think that in a little while this land will be freeagain.... But I shall not see it, for God's promise is clear, and for meit does not give length of days. I did not seek this errand of mine. Iresisted the command, till God was stern with me and I submitted withbitter tears. I shall die a maid, and can never know the blessednessof women. Often at night I weep to think that I shall never hold a babenext my heart."
The face of Jeanne was suddenly strained with a great sadness. It wasCatherine's turn to be the comforter. She sat herself beside her anddrew her head to her breast.
"For you I see a happier fate--a true man's wife--the mother of sons.Bethink you of the blessedness. Every wife is like the Mother ofGod--she has the hope of bearing a saviour of mankind. She is thechannel of the eternal purpose of Heaven. Could I change--could Ichange! What fortunate wife would envy a poor maid that dwells in theglare of battle?... Nay, I do not murmur. I do God's will and rejoice init. But I am very lonely."
For a little there was silence, an ecstatic silence. Somethinghard within Catherine melted and she felt a gush of pity. No longerself-pity, but compassion for another. Her heart grew suddenly warm.It was as if a window had been opened in a close room to let in air andlandscape.
"I must rest, for there is much ado to-morrow. Will you sleep by me, forI have long been starved of a woman's comradeship?"
In the great canopied bed the two girls lay till morning. Once in thedarkness Catherine started and found her arms empty. Jeanne was kneelingby the window, her head thrown back and the moonlight on her upturnedface. When she woke in the dawn the Maid was already up, trussing thepoints of her breeches and struggling with her long boots. She wascrooning the verse of a ballad:
"Serais je nonette' Crois que non--"
and looking with happy eyes at the cool morning light on the forest.
"Up, sleepy-head," she cried. "Listen to the merry trampling of thehorses. I must start, if I would spare the poor things in the noon.Follow me with your prayers, for France rides with me. I love you, sweetsister. Be sure I will hasten to you when my work is done."
So the Maid and her company rode off through the woods to Compiegne, anda brooding and silent Catherine took the north road to Picardy.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The promise was kept. Once again Catherine saw and had speech of Jeanne.It was nearly two years later, when she sat in a May gloaming in thehouse of Beaumanoir, already three months a bride. Much had happenedsince she had ridden north from the inn at the forest cross-roads. Shehad summoned de Laval to her side, and the lovers had been reconciled.Her father had died in the winter and the great fortune and wide manorsof the family were now her own. Her lover had fought with Jeanne in thefutile battles of the spring, but he had been far away when in the fatalsortie at Compiegne the Maid was taken by her enemies. All the summer ofthat year he had made desperate efforts at rescue, but Jeanne wastight in English hands, and presently was in prison at Rouen awaitingjudgment, while her own king and his false councillors stirred not handor foot to save her. Sir Guy had hurled himself on Burgundy, and with apicked band made havoc of the eastern roads, but he could not break theiron cordon of Normandy. In February they had been wed, but after thatBeaumanoir saw him little, for he was reading Burgundy a lesson in theSanterre.
Catherine sat at home, anxious, tremulous, but happy. A new-made wifelives in a new world, and though at times she grieved for the shame ofher land, her mind was too full of housewifely cares, and her heart ofher husband, for long repining. But often the thought of Jeanne drovea sword into her contentment.... So when she lifted her eyes from herembroidery and saw the Maid before her, relief and gladness sent herrunning to greet her.
Long afterwards till she was very old Catherine would tell of that hour.She saw the figure outlined against a window full of the amethyst sky ofevening. The white armour and the gay surcoat were gone.
Jeanne was still clad like a boy in a coarse grey tunic and blackbreeches, but her boots did not show any dust of the summer roads. Herface was very pale, as if from long immurement, and her eyes were nomore merry. They shone instead with a grave ardour of happiness, whichchecked Catherine's embrace and set her heart beating.
She walked with light steps and kissed the young wife's cheek--a kisslike thistledown.
"You are free?" Catherine stammered. Her voice seemed to breakunwillingly in a holy quiet.
"I am free," the Maid answered. "I have come again to you as I promised.But I cannot bide long. I am on a journey."
"You go to the King?" said Catherine.
"I go to my King."
The Maid's hand took Catherine's, and her touch was like the fall ofgossamer. She fingered the girl's broad ring which had come from distantancestors, the ring which Sir Aimery of Beaumanoir had worn in theCrusades. She raised it and pressed it to her.
Catherine's limbs would not do her bidding. She would fain have risen ina hospitable bustle, but she seemed to be held motionless. Not by fear,but by an exquisite and happy awe. She remembered afterwards that fromthe Maid's rough clothes had come a faint savour of wood-smoke, as fromone who has been tending a bonfire in the autumn stubble.
"God be with you, lady, and with the good knight, your husband. Remembermy word to you, that every wife is like Mary the Blessed and may bear asaviour of mankind. The road is long, but the ways of Heaven are sure."
Catherine stretched out her arms, for a longing so fierce had awoke inher that it gave her power to move again. Never in her life had she feltsuch a hunger of wistfulness. But Jeanne evaded her embrace. She stoodpoised as if listening.
"They are calling me. I go. Adieu, sweet sister."
A light shone in her face which did not come from the westering sun. ToCatherine there was no sound of voices, but the Maid seemed to hear andanswer. She raised her hand as if in blessing and passed out.
Catherine sat long in an entranced silence. Waves of utter longingflowed over her, till she fell on her knees and prayer passionately toher saints, among whom not the least was that grey-tunicked Maid whoseeyes seemed doorways into heaven. Her tirewoman found her asleep on herfaldstool.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Early next morning there came posts to Beaumanoir, men on
weary horseswith a tragic message. On the day before, in the market-place of Rouen,the chief among the daughters of God had journeyed through the fire toParadise.
