On the outskirts of the village Jeanne and her brothers met Jacques D’Arc, their father, who was driving his flocks and herds from the commune for the night. He was a peasant of sturdy appearance, an upright man, unusually strict and careful of the behaviour of his children. Jeanne’s firm chin and wistful mouth were inherited from this parent. Now as they ran to help him in his task he greeted them briefly:
“There is company,” he told them. “Your Gossip[1] Beatrix has come, Jeanne, and two soldiers of France who have escaped from the Burgundians. By our Lady, this being upon the highroad has its drawbacks! ’Tis getting so that no day passes without some wayfarer stopping for bite and bed. The house is overrun.”
“But you like it, father,” reminded Jeanne, slipping her hand into his. “For do not the wayfarers bring you news of all that happens beyond the mountains?”
“That is well enough,” admitted Jacques grumblingly. “But even so, no man likes his house always full. There! let the matter rest. We must hasten with the cattle. The night grows apace.”
“And mother will have need of me to help her,” cried Jeanne, quickening her steps. “With so much company there will be much work to be done.”
[1]
Gossip––A name usually given to godmothers.
CHAPTER II
THE KNIGHT’S STORY
“By a Woman Shall France Be Lost; By a Maid Shall
It Be Redeemed. ”
Old Prophecy. MERLIN, THE MAGICIAN.
The house where Jeanne D’Arc lived was a stone cottage with the roof sloping
from a height on one side half way to the ground on the other. In front there were but two windows, admitting but a scanty light. Close by the door, as was usual in that country, were piles of faggots and farm tools covered with mud and rust.
The enclosure served also as kitchen garden and orchard.
Beyond the cottage, scarce a stone’s throw distant, only separated from it by a small graveyard, stood the village church, and north of both buildings there was a square towered monastery.
A streamlet that flowed down into the Meuse trickled noisily by the cottage and church, dividing them from the other houses of the village. Perhaps it was because of this fact that the church seemed to Jeanne to belong more to her a2n 4 d
to her family than it did to the other inhabitants of Domremy. Born under its very walls, she was lulled in her cradle by the chime of its bells, and cherished a passionate love for them in her heart. Involuntarily the little girl paused with her hand on the latch to cast a lingering, tender glance at the church before opening the door of the cottage. Before she had crossed the threshold a tall woman, who was stirring the contents of a large iron pot which hung on a tripod before the fire, turned quickly at the sound of her sabots, and seeing that it was Jeanne hastily left her task and drew the maid once more without the door. It was Isabeau Romée,[2] the wife of Jacques D’Arc. In marriage the wife always retained her maiden name, so Jeanne’s mother was always spoken of as Isabeau
Romée of Vauthon, her native village. She was mild in manner, but her usual
serenity was at this moment disturbed by anxiety.
“Right glad am I that you have come, Jeanne,” she remarked. “Your Gossip Beatrix has been asking for you. She came this afternoon. And but a short time
since two men-at-arms came, asking for supper and bed. Gentles they are, who
have but escaped from the hands of the Burgundians, having been prisoners for
many months. Sup them I will right gladly, but bed them I can not. The house is full. It galls your father that we must refuse them.”
“And why not bed them, mother? Let little Catherine sleep with you, and I can
lie upon the floor before the hearth. Then the gentles may have my bed.”
“But you are wearied from your play, my little one, and to-morrow we go to the
river to wash the clothes. You will need a good rest.”
“Fear not, mother; I shall sleep well,” answered Jeanne cheerily. “If the poor men have but escaped from prison perchance they have had naught but the cold
stones of a dungeon to lie upon. Do let it be as I say, mother.”
“As you will then, my little one. In truth it would have grieved me sorely to refuse the bed, but I knew not what to do. You have a good heart, child. Go now, and carry in more faggots for the fire. The night grows chill, though the day was so warm. A bundle will not be too much for the chimney. Then bring forth the
drinking cups and the knife for cutting the bread and put them upon the table. I will go to the oven for another loaf.”
“The dear child,” mused the mother as Jeanne obediently gathered up a large bundle of the faggots and turned toward the cottage. “The dear child! Ever ready is she to give up her own comfort for that of others. May our Lady watch over
her!”
Meantime Jeanne had hastened into the house, and had thrown her bundle of faggots into the great chimney, over which hung a white stone mantel shaped somewhat like a pent house. On one side of the hearth flags sat an elderly woman who was amusing Jeanne’s sister, Catherine, a child a few years younger
than she. Jeanne returned the woman’s warm greeting affectionately, then drew
the deal table before the hearth, glancing as she did so at the two men who sat at the far end of the hearth flags.
One was a man of thirty-five or so; the other looked to be ten years his junior.
That they were well born was apparent from their bearing and manner, but their
armour and clothing were in sad condition. Their hucques[3] were in tatters, and only the closest inspection revealed that they had been of velvet. They wore no
helmets, and many plates were missing from their rusty armour, leaving their bodies fair marks for arrows or cross bolts. Noting all this Jeanne was startled to observe that from the right arm of the younger knight a tiny stream of blood trickled through the steel sleeve. She was a timid girl with strangers, therefore it was a full minute before she could muster courage to approach the young man.
“You bleed, messire,” she said, touching him shyly on the shoulder.
“Eh? What?” The young man started quickly, for he had been dozing in his chair.
“Oh! The wound?” following her glance at his arm. “’Tis naught. The scratch has but broken out anew.”
“It should be dressed,” asserted the little girl with concern. “I like not to see French blood flow.”
“She speaks truth, Bertrand,” interjected the older man. “A green wound tingles and burns, and there may be many a fray before us ere we behold Châlons. Here!
I will be your squire for the nonce, and unbuckle your armour. ’Tis a good little maid!”
The young man addressed as Bertrand rose, and let his friend assist him to remove his armour, protesting against the need of it as he did so. Jeanne meantime brought a basin of water, and when the knight had pushed back the sleeve of his doublet she washed the blood from the wound gently. Then, with all the deftness that Isabeau had taught her––for many were the wounded who had
experienced their services––she applied a compress of oil, and bandaged the arm with bands of serge.
“I thank you, my little maid,” spoke the young man gratefully. “It does in truth feel better, and though but a scratch, was indeed painful. What is your name?”
