A Monk of Fife<br />Being the Chronicle Written by Norman Leslie of Pitcullo, Concerning Marvellous by Andrew Lang (famous ebook reader .TXT) 📖

“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 Barthélemy, 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 Barthélemy, 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 Houpembière,—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 Barthélemy.  “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 Château 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 Château 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 attournés, 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 Barthélemy’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 attournés (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 Barthélemy 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 Compiègne 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 Barthélemy 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 Barthélemy 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 Barthélemy; 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 Barthélemy; “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, Barthélemy 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 Barthélemy 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 Barthélemy; “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