Châlons came to our side easily, as we expected, and we went from there to the castle of Sept-Saulx. This was the residence of Archbishop Regnault de Chartres, but he still ignored Jeanne as he had at Blois, despite being her host. He fawned on the dauphin as much as did his ally La Trémoille—but both of them, Nicolas had told me, were reluctant to acknowledge Jeanne, fearing that she might become more popular than they, or even more popular than the dauphin. “They want to control him,” Nicolas said, “for their own gain.” I could see why Nicolas disliked being at court, when it was peopled with such creatures!
At last, word came to us that the Reimois—the residents of Reims—had accepted the dauphin as their king. I had heard cheers from our men before, but never such cheers as those I heard from them that day, nor had I ever heard such joyous prayer from Jeanne or seen such frantic preparations for departure, for the news came on a Saturday and tradition holds that kings must be crowned on Sunday. We rode in haste that very day toward Reims, and the people ran out of the city to greet the dauphin. As he went through the gate, they cried, “Hooray! Hooray!”—but their eyes followed Jeanne with as much joy, and with even greater curiosity. Some Burgundian nobles, seeing this, declared they now wished to be for Charles! And new troops joined us, along with dusty travelers who, like our friends from Domremy, had walked to Reims from their villages and their estates. Soon it seemed that the city could not hold one more soul.
There were many reunions as soldiers found relatives among the crowds, but the greatest of all, I think, was my own and Jeanne’s and her brothers’ with Isabelle Romée and Jacques d’Arc, who were waiting for their children at an inn called the Striped Donkey, near the cathedral where the king was to be crowned. When I heard they were there, I said my farewells to Nicolas, who went to rejoin the king’s household, and to Louis, whom I promised to try to find later. Then I rode Anglais to the Striped Donkey, close behind Pierre, Jean, and Jeanne, and stood quietly by while the d’Arcs embraced, until Isabelle moved aside. Looking kindly at me and cocking her head, she said, “But, Pierre, what feminine page is this?”
Pierre started to explain, saying I had been his page and now was another’s, moving as gradually as possible to the fact that I was who I was—but long before he finished, I saw that Isabelle knew me. I ran to her, and she embraced me as if I were another daughter.
“I see you served my child well before going to the surgeon—but,” she added with what I soon learned was only mock severity, “perhaps not the child I intended you to serve.”
I searched for words to defend myself, but she put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Oh, my poor child, I jest! Things turn out as they turn out, and I can see with my own eyes that my brave Jeannette is well, as are both my sons. But come, let us all take our meal together, and we will talk of home.”
We did talk of home, for many hours, and I found I was hungrier for news of my family than for food, especially since I now knew from Henri how deeply I had angered my father. “He loves you still,” Isabelle told me, “and I am sure he will be glad to hear of your Louis, and that you have not fallen into looseness, as your mother and I assured him you would not.”
“I have taken no vows,” I told her quietly, “but you may tell my father—and my mother, too—that I will not lie with Louis till we are wed.”
Isabelle nodded and patted my cheek. Then, smiling, she looked into my eyes and said, “That takes great strength, I think,” and I nodded back, returning her smile.
My new brother was well, Isabelle said, made much of still by my sisters and father; my mother was well also, and as far as Isabelle knew, not with child. I was to be an aunt, though, for my sister Catherine was soon due, and so large Maman was sure she would be blessed with twins. Marguerite’s cough was better, as it often was in summer, and Paulette and Cécile were growing daily. Brigitte was merry and made everyone laugh—but none of them, it seems, had a gift for midwifery or healing, so if I wished to come home …
Oh, part of me did, truly—but I still longed for a life other than the one I knew I would have in Domremy, like the warp of a coverlet woven in predictable colors, with as predictable a weft. I could see sympathy in Isabelle’s eyes about my desire to learn reading, but when I told her about Louis’s noble birth, she gently asked how his parents would feel if we wed, and how we would live together harmoniously despite our differences. I told her our differences did not matter to us, and that I had seen enough of the world to believe one could be easily lost in it, and was sure that if we wished no one to find us, no one would.
The hours passed in talk of home, but when at length Isabelle turned to Jeanne and spoke privately with her, and I politely with Jacques, there was a clatter outside on the cobblestones and we rushed out to see what had made them ring so. The sky was still dark, but I saw torches, and men on horseback, and the dauphin himself, entering the cathedral.
“He must watch there all night,” said our host, who had joined us when we went outside, “as a man watches over his sword and armor before he is dubbed knight. And we,” he said, “should perhaps repair to our beds, to be ready for the new day.”
We did so, I with Isabelle and Jeanne and the daughters of the house. But I rose before the others, at first light, and went outside again, when the sun was just touching the silent, lofty cathedral. Its carved stone glowed with glory, as if reflecting the joy of France on this day of days. Already there were people in the square in front of it; many had been there all night, I was sure, waiting to go inside or to glimpse the grand procession as it passed.
The front of the cathedral was heavy but many-surfaced, lightened and softened by delicate stonework—leaves and spheres and other curving, graceful shapes—and by tall, narrow, arched windows. As I looked up, I could see statues in every niche, angels and saints and other holy figures. The stonemasons must have hung from the sky with their chisels and mallets—and must have to hang still, I thought, for I had been told their work was not yet finished.
There were three great doors in front, framed by deep, intricately carved arches, and above the center door was an enormous round window—a rose window, I had learned this was called in cathedrals. From the inside, with the light coming through, it was splendid with reds and blues and golds, dazzling the eyes.
At the hour of Terce, when the three doors opened and people streamed in, I feared being trampled or lost among so many, but Pierre led me to a side door. Taking me firmly by the waist, he propelled me to a tall stone column by the stalls, right in the choir, and whispered, “You are small enough to stand here. Keep your back to the column and do not move, and I think you will see the king.” Then he vanished, and I do not know where he or his parents or brother stood for the ceremony. But I could see much of it, and what I could not see, I heard, either as it happened or as people near me reported it to those who could not see.
I could make out little of the building itself through the crowd, but I had a sense, even inside, of it stretching toward Heaven, because the gracefully vaulted ceiling was so high above my head. As I stood there, watching the lords and ladies and knights, I found myself wishing for a wonderful dress to wear, a velvet gown, tight to the hips and then flaring in a wide long skirt, with tight buttoned sleeves whose streamers would be of soft flowing silk hanging to the ground, rich with embroidery—and I had never wished for this before. My page’s clothes, though I had cleaned them as best I could, seemed ill-suited for such an occasion, though they were drab enough to keep me unnoticed against my column, and for that I was grateful. I found that if I stood on the square base that edged the column’s roundness, I could just see between the heads of those who sat in the stalls in front of me. That gave me a good view of the altar and the place before it where knelt the king.
The first thing I remember is a clattering in the rear, and the sound of horses’ hooves. Four men, fully armed, among them the Greensnake, Gilles de Rais, rode with their banners held high straight down the center aisle; the people moved to each side, opening a path so they could pass. Among the riders was a holy abbot walking under a golden canopy. I could see only the canopy and the horsemen, but those around me said the abbot bore the sacred ampulla containing the holy chrism—the oil used to anoint the kings of France—which was kept at the nearby abbey of Saint-Remi.
The men dismounted, solemnly though noisily in their armor, which echoed loudly as they walked. Then there was silence and those around me whispered that the archbishop was taking the ampulla to the altar. I could not see it, but a tall knight behind me, who described everything he saw to his short companion, said it was very old and very beautiful. It was in the shape of a golden dove, he said, with feet made of pink coral from deep under the sea, set into a silver plate, all trimmed about with precious stones. In the dove’s belly was the glass vial holding the sacred oil.
I could just see Jeanne, in her armor and with her standard. Brother Richard was near her, and I saw him take her standard once or twice, and wondered why it was not Father Pasquerel instead, for surely he should have had that honor, since he had been with her longer. And I saw Jeanne’s beau duc Alençon, who was, the knight behind me said, taking the place that Philip, Duke of Burgundy, should have held among the peers of France attending the dauphin—but Philip of Burgundy, of course, would not want to see Charles crowned.
There was singing, and the dauphin suddenly vanished from my view. “He is on the floor,” whispered the knight. “He must lie there till he is raised—there, he is up now; the archbishop himself has raised him!” Then I could see for myself, though my toes and legs ached from the strain of making myself as tall as I could. Archbishop Regnault de Chartres led the dauphin in a mighty and solemn oath, wherein he promised to defend the Catholic faith as well as our country, and guard the church and honor those who had gone before him as kings, and see that justice was done throughout his realm. I wondered if the archbishop was glad or sorry to crown the king at last, and what La Trémoille felt as well.
I saw Alençon step forward with his sword, looking full of importance. The dauphin knelt, and Alençon struck him lightly first on one shoulder and then the other, knighting him—at which I wondered, for is not king higher than knight, so what need had he of the lower office? But such is tradition among the nobility.
The next part was curious, and gave me more to wonder at, for garment by garment the dauphin laid aside his rich robes, at which I was surprised and then alarmed, for it did not seem a kingly thing to do before so many people. He stopped, though, when he had reached a simple tunic fastened with silver cords. The archbishop, who had not once looked at Jeanne, though she still stood nearby, opened the cords one by one, touching the dauphin, who was kneeling now, in several places with a long golden needle dipped each time in the holy oil. During this the people sang, and after it the dauphin put on a tunic of a purplish color and then a long and heavy robe—it looked very warm—decorated with fleurs-de-lis.
And then the archbishop handed him baton and scepter. “Not the real ones,” the knight whispered to his friend. “They’re at Saint-Denis, near Paris, and there was no time to fetch them. The same with the crown.”
But there was a crown, and even though it was not the real one, when the archbishop put it on the dauphin’s head there was a great sigh from the crowd, as if all had been holding their breath. Then he conducted the dauphin to a high throne that had been placed in readiness, and each peer touched the crown. And at last, the archbishop, his miter in his hand, bowed and kissed the dauphin’s hand and cheek, as did each of the peers, again our own Alençon among them. How the other captains must envy him, I thought, and then I wondered what La Hire would say of it all!
Jeanne was on her knees, and I could see, from the way the light struck her, that there were tears on her cheeks.
Then came prayers and blessings, and afterwards everyone shouted “Hooray!” and “Long life to Charles the Seventh!” until the very stones of the cathedral’s vaults and arches shook with the cry. It was as if all of France was rejoicing.
As the shouting slowly faded and people began to leave, I felt a tug behind me and turned to see Pierre again. “Come,” he whispered, “for I have more need of my page than Nicolas has of his apprentice.” He took me outside and gave me new gray hose and a short blue tunic woven of a soft, heavy fabric and decorated with embroidered vines, plus a red broadcloth shirt with flowing sleeves to wear under it. Where he got these garments I know not, but he himself was splendid in a long robe with embroidered sleeves. “Borrowed clothes,” he whispered, thrusting mine at me, “and we must return them, but we are to attend the coronation feast, and so must look like fancy folk.”
We went back to the Striped Donkey, where I changed in the empty house, and then Pierre led me to the archbishop’s palace, next to the cathedral, to a great hall there, where he sat at the low table with Jean and Isabelle and Jacques, and I was to wait on them, as his page. But I was in such awe of the silks and damasks, taffetas and velvets of the ladies’ gowns, with trailing skirts and ermine trim, and of their jewels and headdresses, some horned, as if a crescent moon had fallen sideways onto a lady’s head, and others peaked, with floating saillike veils, that I stared more than I served, I am sure!
At that splendid feast, which cooks and chefs must have labored all night to prepare, there were pies of many birds baked together, confections in the shape of castles, a loaf carved into a horse and knight, delicate soups and roasted pigs and sheep, and much wine. As it ended, Jeanne rose to her feet and said, “Gentle king, now is executed the pleasure of God, who wanted the siege of Orléans to be raised and who has brought you to the city of Reims to receive your holy consecration, showing you that you are the true king and that the kingdom of France belongs to you.”
All raised their wine cups to that pretty speech, and cheered and drank. None rejoiced more than I as I turned my thoughts toward Louis, and study, and peace.
But that was not to be.
