Виктория Холт - Epitaph for Three Women

He handed his banner to Dunois who wisely refused to take it.

‘Listen,’ he said with patience, ‘this is not the time for quarrelling amongst ourselves. It is true that the people are in a mood of euphoria. They think that the Maid will work miracles. We have to fight for victory and we must make no more mistakes. It is true that much time has been wasted. It is also true that we need the help of the troops from Blois. Take back your banner, my lord. I myself will leave at once for Blois. I will return with the troops. Then we shall start our action.’

It was agreed that this was the wisest plan and chafing with impatience Jeannette consoled herself that in the Bastard of Orléans they had an inspired leader.

It was proved how right he was for when he reached Blois it was to find that those who deplored Jeannette’s spectacular rise to importance were determined to destroy her – even if it meant the loss of the city of Orléans to the English.

Her chief enemy was Regnault de Chartres, Bishop of Rheims, who had resented the effect she had had on the Dauphin and wanted to prove himself right. A most ill-favoured man – with rough hair and beard and a mouthful of bad teeth – he hated her fresh youth. And when Dunois arrived at Blois he was just in time to change the decision to ignore the call for troops to come to Orléans.

There was consternation among the English outside Orléans. They talked constantly about Joan the Maid. They had anglicised her name and although some tried to mock her they did so with apprehension. There had been a change in the attitude of the French since her arrival. She was bold and it was clearly a strange thing that a young girl should arise in such a manner and force herself into the presence of the Dauphin, as she apparently had done.

It was all very well to call her a strumpet. She was scarcely that. It was said that she insisted on all recognising her virginity, and that though she had passed her nights in the company of rough soldiers, none dared attack her. She said she was sent by God.

It smacked of witchcraft, said the English.

But the fact remained whether God or the Devil it was beyond the understanding of natural men and either of those two would be an extremely uncomfortable adversary.

The English watched the arrival of the troops from Blois and wondered what the future held. They would be glad to see an end to this siege. It had gone on too long and they had endured too many hardships. They were waiting for the day when they should enter the city and enjoy those rewards of conquest which were the very reason why so many were engaged in the profession of war.

* * *

So they were ready. Jeannette was exultant. She had no doubt of the issue. Her voices were urging her on. Now she was going to carry out the first part of her mission and free Orléans.

Many were going to die. She was sorry for them. And many would go unshriven as was the case in war. If she could only convince the English that they must give up Orléans, that it was the Divine Will that it should be given up, much bloodshed could be avoided.

She mounted the bastion which directly faced that of Les Tourelles, the chief stronghold in the hands of the English.

She called for Sir William Glasdale whom she knew to be the captain in charge.

‘I call you to give up,’ she cried. ‘I have the command of God and His saints, and I tell you that your place is not here. Go away that your lives may be saved.’

Sir William Glasdale laughed at her. ‘Go back to your fields, cow girl,’ he shouted. ‘It is where you belong. Meddle not in matters beyond your understanding.’

‘You speak bold words,’ retorted Jeannette. ‘But consider well. You shall soon depart. You should repent with haste. Many of your people will be slain but you will not be there to see it.’

Glasdale descended from the tower.

He was a little shaken. There was something about the girl, he decided. She unnerved him. What was it? An innocence? Should he, a hardened soldier, be afraid of innocence?

She is a witch, he told himself.

But in his heart he did not really believe that. There was a radiance about her, a brightness. It was as though a prophet spoke through her.

He was very uneasy. It was no way for a commander to go into battle.

* * *

The battle had raged for several days. The Orléannese were certain of victory because God was on their side; Jeannette had said so and they believed Jeannette. It was no easy fight. The English had become accustomed to victory since Agincourt and they really believed that one English man was worth half a dozen French. But the French had found a new inspiration. They had the Maid, and the Maid came from God.

She was in the thick of the battle – a small figure but easily distinguishable because of her size, the litheness of her movements and the words of encouragement she constantly offered. When she was wounded in the foot, there was consternation. How was it that God and His saints could forget their own? She felt a tremor of uneasiness – not for herself but for the effect this would have on those about her.

It was nothing, she told them. She felt it not at all.

Les Tourelles must be stormed and taken, she knew that. If that could fall into French hands not only would the English have lost their most important bastion but the effect on both sides would be tremendous.

But the English would not give in easily. They had heard that Joan of Arc had been wounded. That was good news. She was just a milkmaid, a cow girl after all. For some reason she had wormed her way to the fore and the French were using her as a symbol. God’s messenger indeed! If God wanted to help the French why didn’t He strike all the English dead? Not very difficult for God, surely. Why go to all the trouble of bringing forward a peasant girl?

The battle was now beginning to sway in favour of the English.

‘We must take Les Tourelles,’ cried Jeannette desperately.

There were some French who wanted to call off the battle.

‘No, no,’ cried Jeannette. ‘You have done that too often. This time we are going on until we win. We are going to take Les Tourelles.’

She took a scaling ladder and had started to climb when an arrow struck her between the neck and shoulder and she fell.

There was a shout from the English.

‘The Maid is down. The Maid is dead. So much for God’s messenger!’

Someone was bending over Jeannette. It was the Sire de Gamaches who had so resented her at the council of war.

‘Take my horse,’ he said. ‘Get into safety. I have wronged you. Forgive me. I admire you. Bear me no malice.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jeannette. ‘I bear you no malice. I never saw a more accomplished knight.’

The Sire de Gamaches called one of his men. ‘Take her to safety,’ he ordered.

She was put on a horse and taken within the city walls. She was half fainting as they removed her armour. They shook their heads when they saw the ugly wound, with the arrow still protruding.

One of the men knelt by her. ‘Save yourself,’ he said. ‘You have powers. You can cure it with words.’

‘I know no such words,’ she answered. ‘If I am to die then die I must.’

‘The English are saying you are dead. Our men are losing hope.’

‘Then,’ she replied, ‘I must show them.’ She seized the arrow in both hands and with a mighty effort pulled it out. For a moment she lost consciousness but only for a moment.

Dunois had heard what had happened. He came hurrying to her.

‘Jeannette,’ he said. ‘Oh little Maid, is this the end then?’

She opened her eyes.

‘How goes the fight?’ she asked.

‘They saw you fall,’ he said. ‘They jeer. “So much for God’s help” they say. I think we cannot hold out much longer. We must retreat behind the walls.’

‘No … no …’ she cried.

He was looking at the ugly wound in her shoulder. Someone was applying oil and lard, the known remedy in such cases.

As the wound was padded the faintness was passing.

‘Help me into my armour,’ she said. ‘I am going out there. We are going to be inside Les Tourelles before nightfall.’

So they brought her armour and she rode out once more.

When the French saw her they sent up a cry of joy. This was a miracle. She had fallen seemingly fatally wounded and now here she was as though nothing had happened.

The English saw her too. They could not believe it. She must have risen from the dead. Truly she had Divine powers. God was against them … God or the Devil … and in either case what chance had they?

It was the turning point of the battle. Sir William Glasdale saw at once that they would have to abandon Les Tourelles. He called for the retreat. While he was passing over the drawbridge a shot from the walls of the city broke down the bridge. Wounded Glasdale fell into the water and drowned with several of his men.

The French stormed into Les Tourelles where they discovered food and ammunition. The English had fled clear of the city and the French took possession of the rest of the bastilles which were equally well provided with the provisions they so sorely needed.

The English were in retreat, and the siege of Orléans was over.

SHE had accomplished the first part of her mission. Orléans was free. Now she must bring about the second: the crowning of the Dauphin who should be Charles the Seventh of France.

Messengers had been sent with all speed to Chinon and Jeannette was preparing to leave Orléans immediately with most of the army. There was no time to spend rejoicing in Orléans. The Orléannese would do that. She must meet the Dauphin at Blois and they would go on from there to Rheims.

She had expected him to have arrived already, all jubilation, all eagerness to take his rightful place in his country. It was disappointing to wait two days at Blois and still find he had not come.

In due course a message came that he was about to set out for Tours and Jeannette immediately left Blois for that city.

She met the Dauphin just outside Tours. Their horses drew up almost touching and Jeannette removed her bonnet and bowed low. The Dauphin took her hand and kissed it. It was a deeply moving moment.

She thought he looked transfigured and she did not see him as the debauched young-old man. To her he was the King and all kings had an aura of sanctity to folks in Domrémy; and this one was the chosen of the Lord. She had been singularly blessed, selected for her simplicity and given this task by Almighty God.

The Dauphin was moved. She had saved the city of Orléans – this young peasant maid. She had magical powers, it was certain. She had assured him of his legitimacy; then gone on to save the all important city for the French. Why should a girl do this? He should have ridden at the head of his troops instead of skulking in Chinon. If he had been a great warrior like some of his ancestors this domination by the English would never have taken place.

What could he say to the saviour of Orléans? He could welcome her; he could kiss her hand; he could treat her with respect – but he could not repress the twinge of resentment for he was envious because she had done it, when that duty was his.

Together they rode into Tours. What rejoicing was there in the streets, but even while Jeannette revelled in success it was as though an icy hand clutched at her heart. This was how it must have been on that Sunday long ago when the people waved their palm leaves and welcomed one other, crying Hosanna.

They rested at Tours. Jeannette was all impatience to be gone but the Dauphin was uncertain. This was pleasant … here in Tours. The people were for him. They liked to see him riding with the Maid. It reminded them that God was on their side and God, they said, was invincible.

But how Jeannette chafed against delay and how the Dauphin revelled in it! It was so pleasant at the moment, he thought. Why not linger in such a happy state?

But they must ride on, said Jeannette.

It might mean riding on through hostile country to Rheims, she was reminded.

‘So be it,’ she replied. ‘We have come so far. The Lord God will not desert us now. It is His Will that the Dauphin should be crowned at Rheims and it is for this purpose that I am here.’