Sparrow (8 page)

For days on end the king would say nothing more, and then at last he summoned her to him. He was waving a scroll at her as she came in. “You
see Joan? I have it. I have it from the Duke of Burgundy himself. Peace. I have his word, his promise. In fifteen days he will surrender Paris to us. What do you think of that?”

“I think it is a trick,” Joan replied. “You have been ill advised, Charles. Ask yourself why he should ask for fifteen days if it is not to reinforce his garrison with English soldiers. You have been fooled, and not only by the Duke of Burgundy, but by La Trémoille and your own advisers, too. I tell you truly that neither the Duke of Burgundy nor his English masters will come to terms unless it be to their own advantage. Like it or not, we shall have to drive them out. I do not wish for war, nor certainly for bloodshed, but the lance and the sword are all they understand. This treaty, my lord king, is not worth the paper it is written on. I spit upon the Duke of Burgundy and upon his treaty, too.”

And with that she stormed out. The Duc d’Alençon hurried after her.

“You will make dangerous enemies, Joan,” he warned her.

She wheeled round to face him. “Am I right or am I not?”

“You are right,” d’Alençon conceded.

“Well then. And I care not a fig for my enemies. If they are my enemies then they are the enemies of my king and my country. Your enemies too, my fair duke.”

“But they could harm you, Joan.”

“I know it, and no doubt they will try. But meanwhile I would have the army out in the field and ready to march.” She put an arm on his.

“See to it for me, d’Alençon. We must take Paris. If we do not, I tell you, we are lost.” Belami flew
down at that moment and landed on d’Alençon’s shoulder.

“He’s never done that before,” d’Alençon laughed.

“Maybe he trusts you,” said Joan, “as I do.”

Within a few days it was clear that Joan had been right all along. English soldiers under the Duke of Bedford were reported to be pouring into Paris. Even knowing this the king dithered and would not move against him, but waited until the fifteen days of the treaty were up. Only then did he grudgingly allow the Duc d’Alençon and Joan to move on Paris.

From St Denis outside Paris, Joan rode out to reconnoitre the defences. The walls were higher, the ditches under the moats deeper than at Orléans, deeper than she had ever seen before. She rode back in silence with d’Alençon.

“You know it cannot be done, Joan,” he said at last.

“It must be done,” she replied. “And I shall do it. In God’s name I shall do it. The sight of us coming will be enough on its own. The city will rise in our support.”

“Do your voices tell you this?” d’Alençon asked.

For a moment she was silent. “No,” she said. “My voices have not spoken to me for some time now. I hate it when they are silent. I am so alone without them.”

“You have me, Joan,” said d’Alençon. “You will always have me.”

“Nothing and no one is for always,” Joan replied. “Everything and everyone has its end. Only God is eternal. We must not forget that.” She reined in her horse and surveyed the walls of Paris. “Tomorrow, with God’s blessing, I shall say Mass in Paris.”

But she did not say Mass in Paris the next day, nor any other day; neither did the populace rise in
her support as she had hoped. Attack after attack was driven off. But in spite of all d’Alençon’s pleadings, Joan would not hear of retreat. Whenever they saw her standard raised her army would rally again. Wherever she led, they would follow – many, so many, to their deaths. When she was herself wounded in the thigh by an arrow, Louis, her brothers and Richard the Archer had to drag her protesting to safety. “We can try again tomorrow, if you like, Joan,” said d’Alençon. “But for today it is enough. You must rest. The army must rest.”

That night, at Joan’s command and under cover of darkness, the Duc d’Alençon built a wooden bridge across the ditch near St Denis for a surprise attack the next morning; but unknown either to d’Alençon or Joan a terrible treachery was afoot. Before morning came the bridge had mysteriously caught fire. The attack had to be called off. For days,
as Joan lay recovering in her tent, the army could only sit and watch the walls of Paris. Despite all Joan’s best endeavours to persuade the king there were no new assaults. Whispers about the camp told the story, a story Joan found quite impossible to believe when she first heard it. But when her brothers confirmed it, and d’Alençon too, then she had to believe it. King Charles himself, it seemed, the king she had restored to his throne, had personally ordered the bridge to be destroyed, and the attack on Paris to be halted. Behind her back he had come to terms again with the Burgundians and the English. Paris and the north of the country would be left to the Duke of Burgundy and the English, if he could keep all the conquests to the south. The king was going to disband his army, her army, leaving the English still in France. She wept when she heard it, more in anger than in sorrow.

Confirmation of her king’s treachery was not long in coming. He summoned her to him, and told her abruptly that he had run out of money. He could not afford to continue the siege of Paris, he said. He was disbanding the army, and she must accompany him and his court back to the Loire. The campaign was over.

“You are God’s anointed King of all France,” she told him, “and so I must obey you.” And looking hard at La Trémoille and the king’s advisers, she went on. “You serve neither your king, nor your
country but only yourselves. What you have done you will live to regret, I promise you.” And sweeping them with a gaze of undisguised contempt, she left them.

Filled with anger and disgust she went at once to the cathedral of St Denis, where she pulled off her armour and hurled it to the ground by the tombs of the French kings. D’Alençon found her praying there some time later, Belami perched nearby. D’Alençon knelt beside her. He could see she was in tears.

“Such a man is not worth crying for, Joan,” he said. “Such a man should not be king.”

“Do not speak ill of him,” she replied. “He is our king. God’s anointed. I am crying for France, not for him. I shall go on fighting for France till the end, whatever the end may be. My king will not stop me. None of them will.” She turned to him. “As for you,
my fair duke, you have done all you can. No man has been a greater friend to me. But the rest I must do on my own. My voices tell me so.”

“They have spoken to you again?”

“Just now,” she said. “As I was praying. Like my Lord in Heaven, like Jesus himself, they say I must be alone in the wilderness a while, and only after that shall we have a final victory. They have promised it. So I must send you away, back home to your wife, as I promised I would.” D’Alençon tried to protest, but he could see how determined she was.

“Go now,” she said, getting to her feet and embracing him fondly.

“Will I ever see you again?” he asked, her hands in his.

“God willing,” she replied. And he walked away and left her there alone amongst the tombs, her armour scattered all around her feet.

For Joan the wilderness was not the wilderness of the desert but the wilderness of loneliness, of boredom. For months she trailed loyally round after her indolent king and his court of sycophants, from castle to castle, from town to town, his tame warrior saint, to be shown off like some prize exhibit. All the time she begged to be allowed to attack Paris again, or to drive the English out of Normandy, but neither the king nor La Trémoille would agree to it. In her despair she talked more and more to Belami. To her brothers, to Louis, she betrayed none of her deepest fears, none of her growing doubts. Only to Belami. “The blessed St Margaret and St Catherine tell me that all shall be well, that I shall soon have my army again: but they do not say when, nor why I must wait. Be patient, they say. But how long must I be patient, Belami, how long? Oh, Belami, they would not
deceive me, would they? Would they? I must not even think of it.”

By the spring, the king and La Trémoille had to accept that the Duke of Burgundy was playing them false, for even they could see that the Burgundians and English were breaking the treaty at will. He sent for Joan, who came at once.

“I want you to frighten them for me, Joan,” he said. “To remind them who is the rightful King of France, I want you to remind them of what you did at Orléans, at Patay. That should make them keep their treaties. I cannot give you many men, Joan, but ten Frenchmen behind your standard are worth a thousand traitorous Burgundians, two thousand English Godoms.”

With great joy Joan set out again on her campaign. News spread quickly that Joan the Maid was on the march again. She had only a small force,
but it was enough, to begin with. Towns rose spontaneously in rebellion against their Burgundian masters, against their English occupiers. One such town was Melun, where the citizens opened the gates to greet their Joan, their liberator.

Belami flew off to drink down by the river. When he returned he found Joan leaning out over the ramparts, looking at the sunset. He landed beside her. “I shall be taken prisoner, Belami,” she whispered. “The blessed St Margaret has just told me so. I must not be surprised, she says. It is necessary for this to happen, she says. I must accept it with good grace. God will help me. God will help me. Oh, I hope so. If they take me, Belami, I’d rather be killed. I told her that, Belami. I want to be killed, I do not want to be their prisoner. I begged her, but she made me no reply. Oh, may God preserve me.” And she put her head on her
arms and wept bitterly. Belami came nearer to comfort her, but she would not be comforted. The sun had gone down leaving the world black and cold about them before Joan raised her head again. She touched Belami tenderly. “Oh, Belami,” she said, “what must be, must be. I must put it from my mind entirely, or I shall not be able to fight as I must. Stay with me, Belami, whatever happens, please stay with me.”

Perhaps it was the months of enforced idleness, or maybe it was the knowledge that her time was short, but Joan lost no opportunity now to attack the English and Burgundians whenever she could. She moved towards Compiègne, a town loyal to the king and being threatened by both the English under the Duke of Bedford and the Burgundians. Her daring and her dash inspired her small army to great feats of courage, often attacking much
grater forces that stood in their way. But she missed the companionship of d’Alençon and the support of La Hire. She was general now, and captain and standard bearer too. It was a heavy burden. They cut a swathe through enemy country, reaching Compiègne at last after a lightning march through the forest.

Once in the town, Joan rested only briefly, then sallied out that same evening to spy out the land, Belami flying overhead. She would have to cross the bridge over the river. Behind her there were archers on the walls covering her retreat and men with crossbows in boats in case of ambush. Joan had always been daring, but never reckless, until now. When she saw the enemy, she attacked at once; but suddenly there were more of them, and then more still, charging at her out of the trees. Before she knew it she found herself surrounded. They fought their
way back to the bridge, towards the drawbridge, her brothers, Louis and Richard the Archer alongside her. It was no one’s fault. They thought everyone was safe inside and pulled the drawbridge up. Everyone was safe, except Joan and Richard the Archer who was struck down as he tried to defend her.

Joan was alone now amongst her enemies. They were tugging on her horse’s bridle. Then rough hands were dragging her off to the ground, and manhandling her back across the bridge and into captivity. She looked up at the sky and saw Belami. “Fly Belami,” she cried. “Fly.” Just the sight of him up there and flying free gave her new courage. “You cannot cage me,” she cried, kicking and struggling against them.

“Cage you?” laughed one of her captors. “We’re not going to cage you, Joan. We’re going to burn you. We burn witches, don’t we?”

Within hours of her capture she was led before the Duke of Burgundy himself. She looked him hard in the eye, a look that stared deep into his soul and troubled him.

“They say you will burn me,” she said.

“Not I,” said the Duke. “I’ll not have your death on my hands. No, I’ll sell you to the English. I’ll let them do my dirty work for me.”

“Have you forgotten my king?” cried Joan. “Do you think he would stand by and let you sell me to the English?”

“Which king do you speak of? Your King in Heaven or the knock-kneed imbecile you crowned at Reims?”

“Both. My King in Heaven will protect me. He has promised us victory over you and the English, and so sooner or later we shall have it. And my king on this earth will either pay you more than
the English or come to my rescue. Either way you will not hold me long.”

The duke, stirred to sudden anger, pulled out his dagger and would have plunged it into her heart then but for the restraining arm of Jean of Luxembourg. “Leave her with me, my lord duke. I shall take her to my castle at Beaurevoir. We can keep her there as long as you like, until the price is right. English, French – no matter – she’s worth a fortune to us alive. Very little if she’s dead.”

“Very well,” said the duke, sheathing his dagger. “In the meantime I shall take Compiègne and put every man and woman in the town to the sword. Now they have none of her devilish powers to protect them any more, they will soon surrender. Take her to Beaurevoir then. But if she escapes, Jean, I shall have your head.”

So Joan was taken to Beaurevoir, a fine castle
overlooking the River Escaut. Unnoticed, of course, Belami went with her, from rooftop to chimney, from hedgerow to tree, never far out of her sight, and then at last flew in the window of the high tower where she was held.

In those first weeks of captivity Joan was as well looked after as she could possibly have hoped for. Burgundian in his sentiments though he was, Jean of Luxembourg was honoured to have her as his prisoner and treated her more like an important guest. They may have fought one another, but he admired her courage and wondered at how a peasant girl from Lorraine could have beaten them on the field of battle so soundly and for so long. Secretly, like many others, he relished her victories over the arrogant English. Burgundian allies they might have been, but they were not much liked.

Secure in her tower Joan was at last amongst
women, Jean of Luxembourg’s wife, and his aunt and stepdaughter. In the circumstances they could not have been kinder. They did try to persuade Joan to change out of her men’s clothes, and even made her a dress, white with embroidered wild roses. It fitted perfectly, but still Joan would not put it on. “I thank you but I may not,” she told them. “My voices have forbidden it. I am a soldier, you see.”

If it were ever possible to be happy and be a captive at the same time, then Joan achieved this at Beaurevoir. She had her Belami beside her. She had gentle, kindly women to attend on her. She could say Mass whenever she wanted. Yet still she was restless and troubled. Those last threatening words of the Duke of Burgundy – how he would butcher everyone in Compiègne, how the English would burn her – echoed in her head. And worse, as time passed, she did begin to wonder why it was that
her king had not yet sent an army to rescue her, nor had she any news that he had even tried to pay her ransom.

“I will not be taken by the English, Belami.” She would often say it when they were alone. “I would rather die first. My king wouldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t, would he, Belami? Would he?” But the more she asked the question, the more she doubted the answer. She prayed for hours on end for guidance, but her voices told her nothing, only that she must be patient. She began to despair. “But the more I am patient and the longer I wait,” she told Belami one night, “the more I know that my king has deserted me. Where is he? Where is La Hire? Where is my fair d’Alençon, and Jean and Bertrand? Have they all abandoned me, Belami, all my friends? Well, I will not abandon the people of Compiègne. They need me. The people of France
need me. Here I can do nothing. I shall wait no longer, despite all my voices tell me. I must leave here, Belami. I cannot fight my way out – there are soldiers everywhere. So I will do what you do, Belami. I will fly. My voices have forbidden it, but I must do it in spite of them. In this I must disobey them. And you will be with me, won’t you Belami?”

Belami was there at dawn the next day as she crept out of her room and out on to the roof. He flew frantically around her beating his wings against her head, trying to stop her. “I will not look down,” she said. “I must not.” She crossed herself, commended herself to God and jumped.

As she lay senseless and still on the grass, one leg twisted underneath her, blood coming from her mouth, Belami was quite sure she was dead. So were the soldiers when they found her some minutes later and carried her up into the castle. But when
they laid her out on the bed they found she was still breathing. By the time the ladies had finished bathing her, her eyes had opened. She sat up and looked about her, bewildered, but only for a moment. “Ah,” she cried, and fell back again, weeping pitifully. “So I am still a prisoner. I have lost my best chance, my only hope.” To begin with she refused to eat, and wanted only to die, but the ladies insisted. Two days later she had recovered almost completely. She limped a little on her swollen ankle, but otherwise she was quite unharmed. The doctor who examined her could not believe what he saw. “It’s a miracle,” he told Jean of Luxembourg. “She should be dead. The angels held her up. The angels saved her.”

“Where she is going,” said Jean of Luxembourg sadly, “I fear they will not call them angels. They will call them devils.”

“What do you mean?” asked his wife. He told them then what he dreaded telling them: that Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais and a staunch ally of the English, was already on his way to Beaurevoir; that a deal had been struck. The English would pay ten thousand pounds for Joan. They were the masters in France. He had no choice but to accept. “Any day now Cauchon will be here,” he said. “God only knows what the English will do to her.”

“Poor girl,” said his wife. “Poor, poor girl. How they will make her suffer.”

When Joan first heard she was to be delivered into the hands of the Bishop, that she was to be taken to Rouen, to be tried in a church court, that her judges were to be bishops and priests and abbots, she cried for joy. “Then I am safe, Belami, safe. For no court of priests would condemn me
for loving God, for doing His will, and that is all I have done, all I have ever done.”

She thought it strange, though, when she left Beaurevoir on her long journey to Rouen that her guards were English soldiers, stranger still that they chained her each night like a dog. Strange became ominous when the Bishop of Beauvais would not look her in the eye, would not answer her questions, and when he would not allow her to say Mass nor have a priest to confess to. Gone were the niceties of her time at Beaurevoir. Surrounded now entirely by men, rough men who took pleasure in mocking her and abusing her, who allowed her little or no privacy, Joan took refuge in defiant silence. Now she knew. She didn’t need to be told what they intended for her. The English had bought her. The Church would try her and condemn her if they could. Then hand her over to the English for
burning. In the depths of night when her guards were asleep she would sit in the corner of whatever dark dungeon they had thrown her into and wait for Belami to come to her. She knew that Belami would find a way to get to her and he almost always did. Through Crotoy, Arras and Dieppe, they took her. Belami was with her all the time. If ever they were alone, she would talk to him, open her heart to him. “It is as I said it would be, Belami, just you and me now. I shall not weaken, Belami, I shall not cry in front of them, no matter what they do, what they say. My voices speak to me all the time now, Belami – the Blessed St Margaret, the Blessed St Catherine – they will not desert me. France will be free of the enemy, they have promised it. And all will be well for me. They have promised me that, too. And what they have promised has always come to pass. Only when I get above myself and do not
listen to my voices, only then, do I come to grief – when I attacked Paris, remember? Or when I jumped from my tower at Beaurevoir. They have told me they will help me through my ordeal. They will find a way for me. They have promised it.” She sighed as she stroked him. “How I miss Louis, and my fair d’Alençon, and my dear brothers and my mother and my father, and Hauviette. How I miss Hauviette. You know, Belami, I have almost forgotten what she looks like. It’s as if I knew her in another life.”