A Monk of Fife<br />Being the Chronicle Written by Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, Concerning Marvellous by Andrew Lang (top e book reader .txt) 📕

and then, alas! forth from it broke little knots of our men, foot-soldiers, all running for their lives.  Behind them came more of our men, and more, all running, and then mounted men-at-arms, spurring hard, and still more and more of these; and ever the footmen ran, till many riders and some runners had crossed the drawbridge, and were within the boulevard of the bridge.  There they stayed, sobbing and panting, and a few were bleeding.  But though the foremost runaways thus won their lives, we saw others roll over and fall as they ran, tumbling down the sides of the causeway, and why they fell I knew not.

But now, in the midst of the causeway, between us and Margny, our flying horsemen rallied under the Maiden’s banner, and for the last time of all, I heard that clear girl’s voice crying, “Tirez en avant! en avant!”

Anon her horsemen charged back furiously, and drove the Picards and Burgundians, who pursued, over a third part of the raised roadway.

But now, forth from Margny, trooped Burgundian men-at-arms without end or number, the banner of the Maid waved wildly, now up, now down, in the mad mellay, and ever they of Burgundy pressed on, and still our men, being few and outnumbered, gave back.  Yet still some of the many clubmen of the townsfolk tumbled over as they ran, and the drawbridge was choked with men flying, thrusting and thronging, wild and blind with the fear of death.  Then rose on our left one great cry, such as the English give when they rejoice, or when they charge, and lo! forth from a little wood that had hidden them, came galloping and running across the heavy wet meadowland between us and Venette, the men-at-arms and the archers of England.  Then we nigh gave up all for lost, and fain I would have turned my eyes away, but I might not.

Now and again the English archers paused, and loosed a flight of clothyard shafts against the stream of our runaways on the bridge.  Therefore it was that some fell as they ran.  But the little company of our horsemen were now driven back so near us that I could plainly see the Maid, coming last of all, her body swung round in the saddle as she looked back at the foremost foemen, who were within a lance’s length of her.  And D’Aulon and Pierre du Lys, gripping each at her reins, were spurring forward.  But through the press of our clubmen and flying horsemen they might not win, and now I saw, what never man saw before, the sword of the Maid bare in battle!  She smote on a knight’s shield, her sword shivered in that stroke, she caught her steel sperthe into her hand, and struck and hewed amain, and there were empty saddles round her.

And now the English in the meadow were within four lances’ lengths of the causeway between her and safety.  Say it I must, nor cannon-ball nor arrow-flight availed to turn these English.  Still the drawbridge and the inlet of the boulevard were choked with the press, and men were leaping from bank and bridge into the boats, or into the water, while so mixed were friends and foes that Flavy, in a great voice, bade archers and artillerymen hold their hands.

Townsfolk, too, were mingled in the throng, men who had come but to gape as curious fools, and among them I saw the hood of a cordelier, as I glanced from the fight to mark how the Maid might force her way within.  Still she smote, and D’Aulon and Pierre du Lys smote manfully, and anon they gained a little way, backing their horses, while our archers dared not shoot, so mixed were French, English, and Burgundians.

Flavy, who worked like a man possessed, had turned about to give an order to the archers above him; his back, I swear, was to the press of flying men, to the inlet of the boulevard, and to the drawbridge, when his own voice, as all deemed who heard it, cried aloud, “Up drawbridge, close gates, down portcullis!”  The men whose duty it was were standing ready at the cranks and pulleys, their tools in hand, and instantly, groaning, the drawbridge flew up, casting into the water them that were flying across, down came the portcullis, and slew two men, while the gates of the inlet of the boulevard were swung to and barred, all, as it might he said, in the twinkling of an eye.

Flavy turned in wrath and great amaze: “In God’s name, who cried?” he shouted.  “Down drawbridge, up portcullis, open gates!  To the front, men-at-arms, lances forward!”

For most of the mounted men who had fled were now safe, and on foot, within the boulevard.

All this I heard and saw, in a glance, while my eyes were fixed on the Maid and the few with her.  They were lost from our sight, now and again, in a throng of Picards, Englishmen, Burgundians, for all have their part in this glory.  Swords and axes fell and rose, steeds countered and reeled, and then, they say, for this thing I myself did not see, a Picard archer, slipping under the weapons and among the horses’ hoofs, tore the Maid from saddle by the long skirts of her hucque, and they were all upon her.  This befell within half a stone’s-throw of the drawbridge.  While Flavy himself toiled with his hands, and tore at the cranks and chains, the Maid was taken under the eyes of us, who could not stir to help her.  Now was the day and the hour whereof the Saints told her not, though she implored them with tears.  Now in the throng below I heard a laugh like the sound of a saw on stone, and one struck him that laughed on the mouth.  It was the laugh of that accursed Brother Thomas!

I had laid my face on my hands, being so weak, and was weeping for very rage at that which my unhappy eyes had seen, when I heard the laugh, and lifting my head and looking forth, I beheld the hood of the cordelier.

“Seize him!” I cried to Father François, pointing down at the cordelier.  “Seize that Franciscan, he has betrayed her!  Run, man, it was he who cried in Flavy’s voice, bidding them raise drawbridge and let fall portcullis.  The devil gave him that craft to counterfeit men’s voices.  I know the man.  Run, Father François, run!”

“You are distraught with very grief,” said the good father, the tears running down his own cheeks; “that is Brother Thomas, the best artilleryman in France, and Flavy’s chief trust with the couleuvrine.  He came in but four days agone, and there was great joy of his coming.”

Thus was the Maid taken, by art and device of the devil and Brother Thomas, and in no otherwise.  They who tell that Flavy sold her, closing the gates in her face, do him wrong; he was an ill man, but loyal to France, as was seen by the very defence he made at Compiègne, for there was none like it in this war.  But of what avail was that to us who loved the Maid?  Rather, many times, would I have died in that hour than have seen what I saw.  For our enemies made no more tarrying, nor any onslaught on the boulevard, but rode swiftly back with the prize they had taken, with her whom they feared more than any knight or captain of France.  This page whereon I work, in a hand feeble and old, and weary with much writing, is blotted with tears that will not be held in.  But we must bow humbly to the will of God and of His Saints.  “Dominus dedit, et Dominus abstulit; benedictum sit nomen Domini.”

Wherefore should I say more?  They carried me back in litter over the bridge, through the growing darkness.  Every church was full of women weeping and praying for her that was the friend of them, and the playmate of their children, for all children she dearly loved.

Concerning Flavy, it was said, by them who loved him not, that he showed no sign of sorrow.  But when his own brother Louis fell, later in the siege, a brother whom he dearly loved, none saw him weep, or alter the fashion of his countenance; nay, he bade musicians play music before him.

I besought the Prior, when I was borne home, that I might be carried to Flavy, and tell him that I knew.  But he forbade me, saying that, in very truth, I knew nought, or nothing that could be brought against a Churchman, and one in a place of trust.  For I had not seen the lips of the cordelier move when that command was given—nay, at the moment I saw him not at all.  Nor could I even prove to others that he had this devilish art, there being but my oath against his, and assuredly he would deny the thing.  And though I might be assured and certain within myself, yet other witness I had none at all, nor were any of my friends there who could speak with me.  For D’Aulon, and Pasquerel, and Pierre du Lys had all been taken with the Maid.  It was long indeed before Pierre du Lys was free, for he had no money to ransom himself withal.  Therefore Flavy, knowing me only for a wounded Scot of the Maid’s, would think me a brain-sick man, and as like as not give me more of Oise river to drink than I craved.

With these reasonings it behoved me to content myself.  The night I passed in prayers for the Maid, and for myself, that I might yet do justice on that devil, or, at least, might see justice done.  But how these orisons were answered shall be seen in the end, whereto I now hasten.

CHAPTER XXVII—HOW NORMAN LESLIE FARED IN COMPIÈGNE, WITH THE END OFTHAT LEAGUER

About all that befell in the besieged city of Compiègne, after that wicked day of destiny when the Maid was taken, I heard for long only from the Jacobin brothers, and from one Barthélemy Barrette.  He was a Picardy man, more loyal than most of his country, who had joined the Maid after the fray at Paris.  Now he commanded a hundred of her company, who did not scatter after she was taken, and he was the best friend I then had.

“The burgesses are no whit dismayed,” said he, coming into my chamber after the day of the Ascension, which was the second after the capture of the Maid.  “They have sent a messenger to the King, and expect succour.”

“They sue for grace at a graceless face,” said I, in the country proverb; for my heart was hot against King Charles.

“That is to be seen,” said be.  “But assuredly the Duke of Burgundy is more keen about his own business.”

“How fare the Burgundians?” I asked, “for, indeed, I have heard the guns speak since dawn, but none of the good fathers cares to go even on to the roof of the church tower and bring me tidings, for fear of a stray cannon-ball.”

“For holy men they are wondrous chary of their lives,” said Barthélemy, laughing.  “Were I a monk, I would welcome death that should unfrock me, and let me go a-wandering in Paradise among these fair lady saints we see in the pictures.”

“It is written, Barthélemy, that there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.”

“Faith, the more I am fain of it,” said Barthélemy, “and may be I might take the wrong track, and get into the Paradise of Mahound, which, I have heard, is no ill place for a man-at-arms.”

This man had no more faith than a paynim, but, none the less, was a stout carl in war.

“But that minds me,” quoth he, “of the very thing I came hither to tell you.  One priest there is in Compiègne who takes no keep of his life, a cordelier.  What ails you, man? does your leg give a twinge?”

“Ay, a shrewd twinge enough.”

“Truly, you look pale enough.”

“It is gone,” I said.  “Tell me of that cordelier.”

“Do you see this little rod?” he asked, putting in my hand a wand of dark wood, carven with the head of a strange beast in a cowl.

“I see it.”

“How many notches are cut in it?”

“Five,” I said.  “But why spoil you your rod?”

“Five men of England or Burgundy that cordelier shot this day, from the creneaux of the boulevard where the Maid,” crossing himself, “was taken.  A fell man he is, strong and tall, with a long hooked nose, and as black as Sathanas.”

“How comes he in arms?” I asked.

“Flavy called him in from Valenciennes, where he was about some business of his own, for there is no greater master of the culverin.  And, faith, as he says, he ‘has had rare