A Monk of Fife<br />Being the Chronicle Written by Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, Concerning Marvellous, Andrew Lang [speld decodable readers TXT] 📗

moved my hand, to take hers in mine—her little hand; and so, for a space, there was silence between us, save for her kind moaning, and in my heart was such gladness as comes but once to men, and may not be spoken in words of this world.

There was silence between us; then she rose very gently and tossed back her hair, showing her face wet with tears, but rosy-red with happiness and sweet shame.  Had it not been for that chance hurt, how long might I have wooed ere I won her?  But her heart was molten by my anguish.

“Hath the pain passed?” she whispered.

“Sweet was the pain, my love, and sweetly hast thou healed it with thy magic.”

Then she kissed me, and so fled from the room, as one abashed, and came not back that day, when, indeed, I did not rise, nor for two days more, being weaker than we had deemed.  But happiness is the greatest leech on earth, and does the rarest miracles of healing; so in three days’ space I won strength to leave my bed and my room, and could sit by the door, at noon, in the sun of spring, that is warmer in France than in our own country.

Now it could not be but that Elliot and I must meet, when her father was in town about his affairs, or busy in the painting-room, and much work he had then on his hands.  But Elliot was right coy, hiding herself from me, who watched warily, till one day, when my master was abroad, I had the fortune to find her alone in the chamber, putting spring flowers in a very fair vessel of glass.  I made no more ado, but coming in stealthily, I caught her boldly about the body, saying—

“Yield you, rescue or no rescue, and strive not against me, lest you slay a wounded man-at-arms.”

For very fear, as I believe, lest she might stir my wound again, she was still as a bird that lies in your hands when once you have caught it.  And all that passes of kiss and kind word between happy lovers passed between us, till I prayed of her grace, that I might tell her father how things stood, for well I had seen by his words and deeds that he cherished me as a son.  So she granted this, and we fell to devising as to what was to be in days to come.  Lackland was I, and penniless, save for my pay, if I got it; but we looked to the common fortune of young men-at-arms, namely, spoil of war and the ransom of prisoners of England or Burgundy.  For I had set up my resolve either to die gloriously, or to win great wealth and honour, which, to a young man and a lover, seem things easily come by.  Nor could my master look for a great fortune in marriage, seeing that, despite his gentle birth, he lived but as a burgess, and by the work of his hands.

As we thus devised, she told me how matters now were in the country, of which, indeed, I still knew but little, for, to a man sick and nigh upon death, nothing imports greatly that betides beyond the walls of his chamber.  What I heard was this: namely, that, about Orleans, the English ever pressed the good town more closely, building new bastilles and other great works, so as to close the way from Blois against any that came thence of our party with victual and men-at-arms.  And daily there was fighting without the walls, wherein now one side had the better, now the other; but food was scant in Orleans, and many were slain by cannon-shots.  Yet much was spoken of a new cannonier, lately come to aid the men of Orleans, and how he and John of Lorraine slew many of the hardiest of the English with their couleuvrines.

At this telling I bethought me of Brother Thomas, but spoke no word concerning him, for my mistress began very gladly to devise of her dear Maid, concerning whom, indeed, she could never long be silent.  “Faithless heart and fickle,” I said in a jest, “I believe you love that Maid more than you love me, and as she wears sword at side, like a man, I must even challenge her to fight in the island.”

Here she stayed my speech in the best manner and the most gracious, laughing low, so that, verily, I was clean besotted with love, and marvelled that any could be so fair as she, and how I could have won such a lady.

“Beware how you challenge my Maid,” said she at last, “for she fights but on horseback, with lance and sperthe, {20} and the Duc d’Alençon has seen her tilt at the ring, and has given her the best steed in his stables, whereon she shall soon lead her army to Orleans.”

“Then I must lay by my quarrel, for who am I to challenge my captain?  But, tell me, hath she heard any word of thee and me?”

Elliot waxed rosy, and whispered—

“We had spoken together about thee, ere she went to Poictiers to be examined and questioned by the doctors of law and learning, after thou wert wounded.”  Concerning this journey to Poictiers I knew nothing, but I was more concerned to hear what the Maid had said about Elliot and me.  For seeing that the Maid herself was vowed (as men deemed) to virginity, it passed into my mind that she might think holy matrimony but a low estate, and might try to set my mistress’s heart on following her own example.  And then, I thought, but foolishly, Elliot’s love for me might be weaker than her love for the Maid.

“Yes,” my lady went on, “I could not but open my heart about thee and me, to one who is of my own age, and so wise, unlike other girls.  Moreover, I scarce knew well whether your heart was like disposed with my heart.  Therefore I devised with her more than once or twice.”

Hiding her face on my breast, she spoke very low; and as my fancy had once seen the children, the dark head and the golden, bowed together in prayer for France and the Dauphin, so now I saw them again, held close together in converse, and that strange Maid and Prophetess listening, like any girl, to a girl’s tale of the secrets of her heart.

“And what counsel gave the Maid?” I said; “or had she any prophecy of our fortune?”

“Nay, on such matters she knows no more than you or I, or knows but seldom, nor seeks to learn from her counsel.  Only she is bidden that she must rescue Orleans, and lead the Dauphin to his sacring at Rheims.  But she wished me well, and comforted me that your heart was even as my own, as she saw on that day when you wore woman’s gear and slew him that blasphemed her.  And of you she spoke the best words, for that you, who knew her not, took her part against her enemy.  And for your wound she sorrowed much, not knowing, more than I who am simple, whether it would turn to life or death.  And if to life, then, if she could but persuade the doctor and clergy and the King’s counsellors to let her go, she said that you should follow with her to the wars, and she, if so the saints pleased, would be the making of your fortune, you and I being her first friends.”

“The saints fight for her!” I said, “for we have done our part thus far, and I would that I may be well ere she raises her standard.”

But here Elliot turned right pale, at the thought of my going to the wars, she holding my face off and gazing steadily upon me with wistful eyes.

“O God, send that the Maid go speedily!” she cried, “for as now you are not fit to bear arms.”

“Thou wouldst not have me lag behind, when the Maid’s banner is on the wind?”

“Nay,” she said, but slowly, “thee and all that I have would I give for her and for her cause, and for the saints.  But now thou must not go,”—and her eyes yearned upon me—“now that I could overthrow thee if we came to war.”

So here she laughed again, being like the weather without—a changeful thing of shower and shine.

Thus we continued devising, and she told me that, some days after my wounding, the Maid had held converse apart with the King, and then gave him to wit of certain marvellous matters, that none might know save by heavenly inspiration.  But what these matters might be none could tell, save the King and the Maiden only.

That this was sooth I can affirm, having myself been present in later years, when one that affected to be the very Pucelle, never slain, or re-arisen by miracle, came before the King, and truly she had beguiled many.  Then the King said, “Welcome Pucelle, ma mie, thou art welcome if thou hast memory of that secret thing which is between thee and me.”  Whereon this false woman, as one confounded, fell on her knees and confessed her treason.

This that Elliot told me, therefore, while the sun shone into the chamber through the bare vine-tendrils, was sooth, and by this miracle, it seems, the Maid had at last won the ear of the King.  So he bade carry her to Poictiers, where the doctors and the learned were but now examining into her holy life, and her knowledge of religion, being amazed by the wisdom of her answers.  The noble ladies about her, too, and these mendicant friars that were sent to hold inquisition concerning her at Domremy, had found in her nothing but simplicity and holy maidenhood, pity and piety.  But, as for a sign of her sending, and a marvel to convince all men’s hearts, that, she said, she would only work at Orleans.  So now she was being accepted, and was to raise her standard, as we had cause to believe.

“But,” said Elliot, “the weeks go by, and much is said, and men and victual are to be gathered, and still they tarry, doing no great deed.  Oh, would that to-day her standard were on the wind! for to-day, and for these many days, I must have you here, and tend you till you be fit to bear arms.”

Therewith she made me much good cheer; then, very tenderly taking her arms from about me, lest I should be hurt again, she cried—

“But we speak idly, and thou hast not seen the standard, and the banner, and the pennon of the Maid that my father is painting.”

Then I must lean on her shoulder, as, indeed, I still had cause to do, and so, right heedfully, she brought me into the painting-chamber.  There, upon great easels, were stretched three sheets of “bougran,” {21} very white and glistering—a mighty long sheet for the standard, a smaller one, square, for the banner, and the pennon smaller yet, in form of a triangle, as is customary.

The great standard, in the Maiden’s wars, was to be used for the rallying of all her host; the pennon was a signal to those who fought around her, as guards of her body; and about the banner afterwards gathered, for prayer and praise, those men, confessed and clean of conscience, whom she had called and chosen.

These cloths were now but half painted, the figures being drawn, by my master’s hands, and the ground-colours laid; but some portions were quite finished, very bright and beautiful.  On the standard was figured God the Father, having the globe in His hand; two angels knelt by Him, one holding for His blessing the lily of France.  The field was to be sown with fleurs-de-lys, and to bear the holy names: Jhesu—Maria.  On the banner was our Lord crucified between the Holy Virgin and St. John.  And on the pennon was wrought the Annunciation, the angel with a lily kneeling to the Blessed Virgin.  On the standard, my master, later, fashioned the chosen blazon of the Maid—a dove argent, on a field azure.  But the blazon of the sword supporting the crown, between two lilies, that was later given to her and her house, she did not use, as her enemies said she did, out of pride and vainglory, mixing her arms with holy things, even at Rheims at the sacring.  For when she was at Rheims, no armorial bearings had yet been given to her.  Herein, then, as always, they lied in their cruel throats; for, as the Psalmist says, “Quare fremuerunt gentes?”

All these evil tongues, and all thought of evil days, were far from us as we stood looking at the work, and praising it, as well we