Виктория Холт - Epitaph for Three Women

She stood on the ledge. The cool air fanned her face. She stepped out into nothing.

They found her lying unconscious on the stone floor and carried her in. She was badly hurt and unable to move. The Count was deeply disturbed. She might have killed herself. The English would have been pleased, but what of his ransom?

Jeannette wakened to find two women at her bedside. As she opened her eyes she thought they were Saints from Heaven because of the sweetness of their faces.

One of the women was very old, the other much younger, but she sensed the kindliness in both of them.

‘Ah, you are awake,’ said the older of the two. ‘You have had a bad fall but you are going to recover. You must rest though. There is nothing to fear. We have been looking after you.’

‘Where am I?’ asked Jeannette.

‘In the castle of Beaurevoir.’

‘Still here.’

‘Yes, you fell from the window.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am the Countess Jeanne of Luxembourg – the Count’s aunt – and this is his wife, Jeanne of Bethune.’

Jeannette closed her eyes. She knew now that her attempt had failed; she was not in Heaven; she was still a captive in the hands of her enemies.

But the two women could scarcely be called that. As Jeannette recovered she realised how much she owed to their kindness. She began to understand that the elderly lady was of some importance for she held the Luxembourg estates and, if she decided to, could leave them to someone other than the Count. He was therefore most respectful to her which amused Jeannette. The young Countess of Luxembourg was a gentle girl and deeply religious; both of these women were sorry for Jeannette and nursing her when she was close to death had made them aware of her piety. They could well believe that she had been following a divine purpose and although they were on the other side through Luxembourg’s allegiance to Burgundy, they did not hold that against her.

They said she should have some women’s clothes to wear. ‘Something attractive,’ suggested the young Countess.

‘We will send for materials,’ said the elder one.

Jeannette shook her head. She wanted no women’s clothes. Her voices had said she must dress as a man until they told her otherwise. She would keep to what she already had.

For the first time since her capture she began to feel a little happier. Her position was desperate, she knew, and still the threat of being passed to the English hung over her, but there was comfort in the society of other women.

* * *

The Count of Luxembourg was in desperate need of money and the capture of Jeannette d’Arc seemed to him like a gift from Heaven. He was avaricious by nature and was unsure of his inheritance. He had to be very careful not to offend his aunt; he had just built the castle of Beaurevoir and as usual such projects turned out far more costly than had at first been calculated. He needed money badly.

He was desperately anxious to get that ransom. The Duke of Burgundy, he guessed, was toying with the idea of paying it himself. He was one of the few who would be able to afford it. In fact so rich was Burgundy that it might well be that even the English would not be able to outbid him. He could see Burgundy’s motive. He would hold Jeannette as a threat to the English. That was an uneasy partnership. Even though Bedford had married Burgundy’s sister there was a great deal of suspicion between them.

But it was the English who would get her in the end. The Count was certain of that and he was waiting for the day.

While he was thinking of this and imagining the gold trickling through his fingers his aunt came in to see him.

‘She will recover,’ she said. ‘Poor girl. She’s little more than a child.’

‘A child, my lady, who wrought a great deal of havoc in a very short time.’

‘She sees it as good.’

The Count shrugged his shoulders.

‘I believe in her,’ said the Countess. ‘So does your wife. That girl is good. Be careful how you treat her.’

‘She will be no concern of mine once she has passed out of my hands.’

‘What will her fate be at the hands of the English?’

‘They will make her out to be a witch.’

‘She is no witch. She is a good saintly girl.’

‘Dear lady, it is not for me to say.’

‘But it is for you to say. You must not let her pass into the hands of the English. Charles should pay the ransom. How can he not? Consider what she has done for him!’

‘Charles could not afford to pay the ransom for which he would be asked.’

‘By you?’

‘I am the fortunate man who holds the prize.’

‘Jean, you must not sell this girl to her enemies.’

‘My dear lady, you do not know what difficulties I find myself in. The building of this castle has cost so much. And if my Lord Burgundy should decide the girl should be given over, then so must it be. He is my master.’

‘He understands the laws of chivalry enough to let the matter rest with you.’

‘You do not know the Duke of Burgundy.’

‘I know myself, nephew. And I should be most displeased if you sold Jeannette d’Arc to her enemies.’

She swept out of the room. She had always been a forceful lady, fond of getting her own way. She was warning him that if he accepted a ransom for Jeannette d’Arc she might decide to cut him off from the Luxembourg estates.

* * *

The Duke of Bedford was with the Duke of Burgundy, and the matter they were discussing was Jeannette’s fate.

They had both heard of the attempts at escape.

‘The angels had deserted their posts while she jumped,’ commented Bedford wryly.

‘Indeed so,’ replied the Duke, ‘and what they were doing to allow that porter to be on guard when she might have slipped out of Beaulieu I cannot imagine. Seriously, the girl is a fraud.’

‘How did she manage to inspire the Orléannese?’

‘Fear. You know that well enough. You should have allowed the town to surrender to me.’

‘After I had spent time and men and money making the siege?’

‘You were not going to beat the bushes for someone else to get the birds. Remember? That was one of your rare blunders. The Blunder of the Birds. But for that Orléans would not have been lost to Charles.’

Bedford was silent. He was a man who had made very few mistakes, which was why he deplored them when they did occur. The affair of the birds was only half a mistake. He would not have been very happy to see Orléans in Burgundy’s hands – better than Charles’ though, he had to admit – and that his men had been beaten by this strange girl was indeed a disaster.

‘Luxembourg wants the ransom,’ said Burgundy, ‘but his aunt has forbidden him to take it.’

Bedford raised his eyebrows.

‘A very pious lady, most virtuous. She has been nursing the Maid and will not allow Luxembourg to take the ransom.’

‘And he dare not?’

‘He stands to lose a great deal if he displeases the lady.’

Bedford was mildly relieved. He was by no means an impulsive man. He was content for matters to remain as they were for the time. Joan of Arc could do no harm in prison, and he was not quite ready to pay the heavy ransom which would be demanded.

‘The old lady won’t last long,’ said Burgundy. ‘She is very old and not in the best of health. As soon as she has gone, then you will see.’ He leaned towards Bedford. ‘I have thought of making a bid myself.’

Bedford was horrified. Burgundy was the one bidder he feared. The richest man in France, he could offer almost anything and Luxembourg by reason of his position would have to accept Burgundy’s offer even if it were less.

Burgundy was smiling slyly. There was little he enjoyed more than watching his ally’s discomfiture.

‘You would be very unpopular, my friend, if you harmed the Maid,’ suggested Bedford.

‘Not with her enemies.’

‘What would you do with her?’

‘She’s a witch,’ said Burgundy. ‘I have little doubt of that. I might keep her in prison for the rest of her life. I might burn her as a witch.’

If he burned her at the stake … all well and good, thought Bedford. But he wouldn’t, he was too wily. He would hold her and keep her to threaten his English allies whenever he felt the need to do so. The Maid must not fall into Burgundy’s hands.

Bedford said: ‘Trade with the Flemings flourishes in England.’

The Flemings were in Burgundy’s vast domains. They lived by their weaving. There would be a revolt if their trade were interfered with.

Burgundy was thoughtful. Bedford could stop their woven goods being exported to England at the stroke of a pen.

Burgundy was thoughtful. He did not really want to be burdened with Joan of Arc.

When the time came he would let the English have her.

Soon after that the time did come. The old Countess of Luxembourg was found dead in her bed one morning. No one was very surprised; she had been ailing for some time. Her estates naturally passed to her nephew who was delighted to have the threat of her displeasure removed for ever.

Then the English came along with a very good offer and Burgundy, thinking of the Flemish weavers, allowed his vassal to accept it.

So Jeannette passed into the hands of her enemies the English and was taken to the capital of Normandy, Rouen, there to await the judgement they would pass on her.

IT was in cold December, two days before Christmas, when Jeannette arrived in Rouen. She was deeply depressed. That which she had greatly feared had come to pass. She felt deserted by the King and worse still by her voices.

Her prison was a cell in the tower of the castle. It was not small but very dark. There was nothing but a straw pallet on the floor and only one window too high for her to see what was outside.

Twice she had tried to escape and her captors were determined that she should not do so again. They put fetters on her legs and an iron belt was fixed about her waist – and all these were chained to the wall.

There had been a great deal of talk about her purity. If she was to be condemned as a witch she could scarcely be a virgin, and it was very necessary that she should be condemned as a witch. Therefore her gaolers were chosen from that most brutal section of the army notorious for its barbarous behaviour. When these men raided towns and villages they brought terror to the inhabitants who had given them the name of houspilleurs which meant tormentors. Among those selected to watch over Jeannette there were two men whose reputations were slightly worse than those of the others. They were William Talbot and John Grey. When she saw them such fear as she had never known in the heat of battle seized Jeannette. One look at the brutalised faces of these men was enough to tell her what their intentions would be. She prayed then with an even greater fervour than ever before.

How could this have happened to her? It had all been so gloriously successful. She had believed she would go on until she had driven the English out of France. How foolish she had been! She had loved the glory and had sought it after her mission was done; and now she must pay for it. It seemed that God and her voices had deserted her. When she had recovered in Beaurevoir castle after throwing herself from the window, she knew. Right up to then she had believed they would save her. Perhaps she had thrown herself down being tempted as Christ was in the wilderness.

‘If they are going to kill me,’ she prayed, ‘oh God let them do it quickly.’

All her chains would allow her to take were three paces forward and back.

There was no heating in the cell and the weather was bitterly cold. The one window which gave little light and no view for her provided the draughts. She was to be tried and proved to be a witch and she was in the hands of the Inquisition who had their special methods for proving a prisoner guilty.

Her gaolers sought to insult her at every turn. They teased her, they liked to frighten her. Their words did not frighten her; it was their acts she feared.

They had set up a table and stools and played with dice. While she watched them, inwardly she prayed for the strength she would need when the time came, as she knew it would.

They would sit in a corner of the room with their dice – cursing and swearing. They muttered about her. ‘But for this naughty Maid we should not be here in this cold room passing the hours away. We should be out … in the taverns … having a good time with the wine and the wenches.’