A Monk of Fife

A >> Andrew Lang >> A Monk of Fife


A stronger wind rising out of the west now blew towards us with a sweet
burden of scent from flowers and grass, fragrant upon our faces. So we
waited, our hearts beating with hope and fear.

Then I, whose eyes were keen, saw, blown usward from Margny, a cloud of
flying dust, that in Scotland we call stour. The dust rolled white along
the causeway towards Compiegne, 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 Francois, 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 Francois, 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 Compiegne, 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 COMPIEGNE, WITH THE END OFTHAT
LEAGUER


About all that befell in the besieged city of Compiegne, after that
wicked day of destiny when the Maid was taken, I heard for long only from
the Jacobin brothers, and from one Barthelemy 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 Barthelemy,
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, Barthelemy, that there is neither marrying nor giving in
marriage."

"Faith, the more I am fain of it," said Barthelemy, "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 Compiegne 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 sport, and will have for long.'"

"Was there an onfall of the enemy?"

"Nay, they are over wary. He shot them as they dug behind pavises. {36}
For the Duke has moved his quarters to Venette, where the English lay,
hard by the town. And, right in the middle of the causeway to Margny,
two arrow-shots from our bridge end, he is letting build a great
bastille, and digging a trench wherein men may go to and fro. The
cordelier was as glad of that as a man who has stalked a covey of
partridges. 'Keep my tally for me,' he said to myself; 'cut a notch for
every man I slay'; and here," said Barthelemy, waving his staff, "is his
first day's reckoning."

Now I well saw what chance I had of bringing that devil to justice, for
who would believe so strange a tale as mine against one so serviceable in
the war? Nor was D'Aulon here to speak for me, the enemy having taken
him when they took the Maid. Thinking thus, I groaned, and Barthelemy,
fearing that he had wearied me, said farewell, and went out.

Every evening, after sunset, he would come in, and partly cheer me, by
telling how hardily our people bore them, partly break my heart with
fresh tidings of that devil, Brother Thomas.

"Things go not ill, had we but hope of succour," he said. "The Duke's
bastille is rising, indeed, and the Duke is building taudis {37} of oaken
beams and earth, between the bastille and our boulevard. The skill is to
draw nearer us, and nearer, till he can mine beneath our feet. Heard you
any new noise of war this day?"

"I heard such a roar and clatter as never was in my ears, whether at
Orleans or Paris."

"And well you might! This convent is in the very line of the fire. They
have four great bombards placed, every one of them with a devilish
Netherland name of its own. There is Houpembiere,--that means the beer-
barrel, I take it,--and La Rouge Bombarde, and Remeswalle and Quincequin,
every one shooting stone balls thirty inches in girth. The houses on the
bridge are a heap of stones, the mills are battered down, and we must
grind our meal in the city, in a cellar, for what I can tell. Nom Dieu!
when they take the boulevard we lose the river, and if once they bar our
gates to the east, whence shall viands come?"

"Is there no good tidings from the messenger?"

"The King answers ever like a drawer in a tavern, 'Anon, anon, sir!' He
will come himself presently, always presently, with all his host."

"He will never come," I said. "He is a . . . "

"He is my King," said Barthelemy. "Curse your own King of Scots, if you
will. Scots, by the blood of Iscariot, traitors are they; well, I crave
your pardon, I spake in haste and anger. Know you Nichole Cammet?"

"I have heard of the man," I said. "A town's messenger, is he not?"

"The same. But a week agone, Cammet was sent on a swift horse to Chateau
Thierry. The good town craved of Pothon de Xaintrailles, who commands
there, to send them what saltpetre he could spare for making gunpowder.
The saltpetre came in this day by the Pierrefonds Gate, and Cammet with
it, but on another horse, a jade."

"Well, and what have the Scots to do with that?"

"No more than this. A parcel of them, routiers and brigands, have crept
into an old castle on the road, and hold it for their own hands. Thence
they sallied forth after Cammet, and so chased him that his horse fell
down dead under him in the gateway of Chateau Thierry."

"They would be men of the Land Debatable," I cried: "Elliots and
Armstrongs, they never do a better deed, being corrupted by dwelling nigh
our enemies of England. Fain would I pay for that horse; see here," and
I took forth my purse from under my pillow, "take that to the attournes,
and say a Scot atones for what Scots have done."

"Norman, I take back my word; I crave your pardon, and I am shamed to
have spoken so to a sick man of his own country-folk. But for your
purse, I am ill at carrying purses; I have no skill in that art, and the
dice draw me when I hear the rattle of them. But look at the cordelier's
tally: four men to-day, three yesterday; faith, he thins them!"

Indeed, to shorten a long story, by the end of Barthelemy's count there
were two hundred and thirty-nine notches on the rod. That he kept a true
score (till he stinted and reckoned no more), I know, having proof from
the other side. For twelve years thereafter, I falling into discourse
with Messire Georges Chastellain, an esquire of the Duke of Burgundy, and
a maker both of verse and prose, he told me the same tale to a man, three
hundred men. And I make no doubt but that he has written it in his book
of the praise of his prince, and of these wars, to witness if I lie.

Consider, then, what hope I had of being listened to by Flavy, or by the
attournes (or, as we say, bailies), of the good town, if, being recovered
from my broken limbs, I brought my witness to their ears.

None the less, the enemy battered at us every day with their engines,
destroying, as Barthelemy had said, the houses on the bridge, and the
mills, so that they could no longer grind the corn.

And now came the Earls of Huntingdon and Arundel, with two thousand
Englishmen, while to us appeared no succour. So at length, being smitten
by balls from above, and ruined by mines dug under earth from below, our
company that held the boulevard at the bridge end were surprised in the
night, and some were taken, some drowned in the river Oise. Wherefore
was great sorrow and fear, the more for that the Duke of Burgundy let
build a bridge of wood from Venette, to come and go across Oise, whereby
we were now assailed on both hands, for hitherto we had been free to come
and go on the landward side, and through all the forest of Pierrefonds.
We had but one gate unbeleaguered, the Chapel Gate, leading to Choisy and
the north-east. Now were we straitened for provender, notably for fresh
meat, and men were driven, as in a city beleaguered, to eat the flesh of
dead horses, and even of rats and dogs, whereof I have partaken, and it
is ill food.

None the less we endured, despite the murmuring of the commons, so strong
are men's hearts; moreover, all France lay staked on this one cast of the
dice, no less than at Orleans in the year before.

Somewhat we were kept in heart by tidings otherwise bitter. For word
came that the Maid, being in ward at Beaurevoir, a strong place of Jean
de Luxembourg, had leaped in the night from the top of the tower, and
had, next morning, been taken up all unhurt, as by, miracle, but
astounded and bereft of her senses. For this there was much sorrow, but
would to God that He had taken her to Himself in that hour!

Nevertheless, when she was come to herself again, she declared, by
inspiration of the Saints, that Compiegne should be delivered before the
season of Martinmas. Whence I, for one, drew great comfort, nor ever
again despaired, and many were filled with courage when this tidings came
to our ears, hoping for some miracle, as at Orleans.

Now, too, God began to take pity upon us; for, on August the fifteenth,
the eighty-fifth day of the siege, came news to the Duke of Burgundy that
Philip, Duke of Brabant, was dead, and he must go to make sure of that
great heritage. The Duke having departed, the English Earls had far less
heart for the leaguer; I know not well wherefore, but now, at least, was
seen the truth of that proverb concerning the "eye of the master." The
bastille, too, which our enemies had made to prevent us from going out by
our Pierrefonds Gate on the landward side, was negligently built, and of
no great strength. All this gave us some heart, so much that my hosts,
the good Jacobins, and the holy sisters of the Convent of St. John,
stripped the lead from their roofs, and bestowed it on the town, for
munition of war. And when I was in case to walk upon the walls, and
above the river, I might see men and boys diving in the water and
searching for English cannon-balls, which we shot back at the English.

It chanced, one day, that I was sitting and sunning myself in the warm
September weather, on a settle in a secure place hard by the Chapel Gate.
With me was Barthelemy Barrette, for it was the day of Our Lady's Feast,
that very day whereon we had failed before Paris last year, and there was
truce for the sacred season. We fell to devising of what had befallen
that day year, and without thought I told Barthelemy of my escape from
prison, and so, little by little, I opened my heart to him concerning
Brother Thomas and all his treasons.

Never was man more astounded than Barthelemy; and he bade me swear by the
Blessed Trinity that all this tale was true.

"Mayhap you were fevered," he said, "when you lay in the casement seat,
and saw the Maid taken by device of the cordelier."

"I was no more fevered than I am now, and I swear, by what oath you will,
and by the bones of St. Andrew, which these sinful hands have handled,
that Flavy's face was set the other way when that cry came, 'Down
portcullis, up drawbridge, close gates!' And now that I have told you
the very truth, what should I do?"

"Brother Thomas should burn for this," quoth Barthelemy; "but not while
the siege endures. He carries too many English lives in his munition-
box. Nor can you slay him in single combat, or at unawares, for the man
is a priest. Nor would Flavy, who knows you not, listen to such a
story."

So there he sat, frowning, and plucking at his beard. "I have it," he
said; "D'Aulon is no further off than Beaulieu, where Jean de Luxembourg
holds him till he pays his ransom. When the siege is raised, if ever we
are to have succour, then purchase safe-conduct to D'Aulon, take his
testimony, and bring it to Flavy."

As he spoke, some stir in the still air made me look up, and suddenly
throw my body aside; and it was well, for a sword swept down from the low
parapet above our heads, and smote into the back of that settle whereon
we were sitting.

Ere I well knew what had chanced, Barthelemy was on his feet, his whinger
flew from his hand, and he, leaping up on to the parapet, was following
after him who smote at me.

In the same moment a loud grating voice cried--

"The Maid shall burn, and not the man," and a flash of light went past
me, the whinger flying over my head and clipping into the water of the
moat below.

Rising as I best might, but heedfully, I spied over the parapet, and
there was Barthelemy coming back, his naked sword in his hand.

"The devil turned a sharp corner and vanished," he said. "And now where
are we? We have a worse foe within than all the men of Burgundy without.
There goes the devil's tally!" he cried, and threw the little carven rod
far from him into the moat, where it fell and floated.

"No man saw this that could bear witness; most are in church, where you
and I should have been," I said.

Then we looked on each other with blank faces.

"My post is far from his, and my harness is good," said Barthelemy; "but
for you, beware!" Thenceforth, if I saw any cowl of a cordelier as I
walked, I even turned and went the other way.

I was of no avail against this wolf, whom all men praised, so serviceable
was he to the town.

Once an arbalest bolt struck my staff from my hand as I walked, and I was
fain to take shelter of a corner, yet saw not whence the shot came.

Once a great stone fell from a turret, and broke into dust at my feet,
and it is not my mind that a cannon-ball had loosened it.

Thus my life went by in dread and watchfulness. No more bitter penance
may man dree than was mine, to be near this devil, and have no power to
avenge my deadly quarrel. There were many heavy hearts in the town; for,
once it was taken, what man could deem his life safe, or what woman her
honour? But though they lay down and rose up in fear, and were devoured
by desire of revenge, theirs was no such thirst as mine.

So the days went on, and darkened towards the promised season of
Martinmas, but there dawned no light of hope. Now, on the Wednesday
before All Saints, I had clambered up into the tower of the Church of the
Jacobins, on the north-east of the city, whence there was a prospect far
and wide. With me were only two of the youngest of the fathers. I
looked down into the great forest of Pierrefonds, and up and down Oise,
and beheld the army of our enemies moving in divers ways. The banners of
the English and their long array were crossing the Duke of Burgundy's new
bridge of wood, that he had builded from Venette, and with them the men
of Jean de Luxembourg trooped towards Royaulieu. On the crest of their
bastille, over against our Pierrefonds Gate, matches were lighted and men
were watching in double guard, and the same on the other side of the
water, at the Gate Margny. Plainly our foes expected a rescue sent to us
of Compiegne by our party. But the forest, five hundred yards from our
wall, lay silent and peaceable, a sea of brown and yellow leaves.