While Jeanne and the captains and the king discussed what they were all to do next, Louis and I explored Reims and discussed the same, for ourselves. I thought often of our dream of Paris, and of the university there—but Paris was held by the enemy, and so was closed to us. Still, Jeanne had sent word to Philip of Burgundy, urging him to make peace with the king. If he agrees, I thought, Paris will be ours, and Louis and I can settle there. Indeed, there soon was a truce, but it was not of Jeanne’s making. “It is La Trémoille’s work,” Nicolas said, “and as such I do not trust it to be fulfilled.”
It was not fulfilled, and when Jeanne heard that new English forces had landed and were marching to Paris, she said angrily that she would fight them, without the king’s support if need be.
“What will you do?” I asked Pierre as we walked through the street of the musicians one evening, past houses decorated with statues of figures playing instruments—a harp, a rebec, a tambourine, and others. It was a street I had come to love, for songs were sold there instead of goods.
“I must follow Jeanne,” he replied, “for I have promised our mother to stay with her, and Jean has left again. And what of you?”
“Pierre, I know not!” I cried, in despair—but inside I knew I would go with Louis if he went with the army, and with the army even if he did not, out of duty as a healer, and duty toward Jeanne, and love for her.
And soon enough, Jeanne’s army prepared to leave, with the king’s reluctant sanction. His advisers were still urging him to negotiate, and it was clear he preferred that to war; perhaps it was Jeanne who had convinced him otherwise. In any case, Louis and Nicolas and I went with them, as did Pierre, marching toward Paris in the dusty heat, for it was now high summer. It seemed to me that the fire had gone out of the army now that the king had been crowned, and many men marched unwillingly, talking of home and wives. They took less care than before about swearing, and encouraged the loose women who followed us in increasing numbers—well behind the carts, though, because of Jeanne’s wrath whenever she saw them. I tended one or two of those women in childbirth, telling them I myself was a woman and making them swear to mention it to no one. But I hardly cared if they did, the heat made me so weary.
Some of the towns where we stopped welcomed us, but others did not, and then there was more fighting. Nicolas and I were soon nearly out of linen for binding wounds, and our store of herbs was slender. Still, we did what we could, as always. Once when I heard moans beside the road, I went into the woods, where I found a badly injured Englishman, and I tended him, too. Quarrels seemed less important to me than suffering; I could not make peace where there was none, but I could perhaps ease the pain of war.
One day, when we were setting up our night’s camp, Pierre came to where Louis and I were sitting by our meager fire. “Be of good cheer, my friends,” he said, easing himself down between us. “It seems they have heard in Paris of our victories at Orléans and along the Loire. Many there are ready to aid us, I am told. And”—he made his eyes round and held out his hands, shaking them in mock horror, reminding me of his boyhood self—“our enemies no doubt tremble. Why,” he continued, stretching comfortably, “I have even heard that a great lady called Christine de Pisan, who lives in a convent at Poissy outside of Paris where the king’s own sister is prioress, has written a poem praising Jeanne, can you imagine? It seems that she says Jeanne is braver than any man.”
Louis raised his eyebrows at this, and looked at me askance, but Pierre continued before either of us could speak; I twisted the stick that held the thin duck we were roasting over the fire.
“She says,” Pierre told us, eyeing the duck with interest, “that this is a joyful year, a time of rebirth and peace, because of Jeanne. She praises our men-at-arms, too, and says God has shown He is for France and our cause. Perhaps hers is only a lady’s poem,” he said, poking the duck, “but if she is right, we will take Paris easily and all will be well. And”—he smiled at us—“I will go home to my wife, and you, I daresay, will have much to do of your own. Imagine living in a house again, and having a quiet life with real meals—I am not speaking against your duck, Gabrielle—and sleeping a whole night through without having to fight the stones on which one lies. That will spur us on, eh, Louis, to take Paris quickly and be done with this war at last.”
What little fat the duck possessed sputtered then, and the duck fell off its makeshift spit into the flames.
We laughed, fished it out, and ate it charred.
August had spent itself two weeks’ worth when we approached the city of Senlis, not far from Paris. We stopped at Montépilloy, below the high castle there, in dry fields—for there had not been much rain, and I knew the farmers must fear for their dying crops. Everyone was uneasy; we had seen clouds of dust on the road, and scouts had brought word that a party of Burgundians, with their English allies, would soon cross the river outside Senlis, and be in position to attack. Then came word that they were indeed crossing it, and so we reluctantly formed for battle, and rode forward. When we arrived, we found most of the enemy were already across, and so we faced them as we had near Meung and Beaugency, and waited. Skirmishes broke out but no major fighting, and Nicolas and I were thankful that we had little to do. By the time the sun set, our men had made no progress, but neither had they been beaten back.
We spent an uneasy night, for most of us were sure there would be a larger battle on the morrow. I feared for Louis and Pierre, and the other dispirited men. By morning, though, when the king returned from Crépy, where he had spent the night, and when Father Pasquerel and Brother Richard had heard confessions and said Mass, there were many in whom the desire to fight was rekindled. Jeanne rode among the troops, smiling and giving them good cheer, urging them to fight for God and Charles and France. As always, they warmed to her words.
I glanced at her when she neared me, and she stopped and asked, “How now, are you still dove—or has the sword grown more to your liking?”
“Dove,” I said, with no hesitation, “as, it seems, is our reluctant king.”
“The king is good, but content with too little, and, Gabrielle, my saints tell me we must fight on, lest the English win in the end and take what we have gained. I would rest, too, and return to Domremy, but I cannot.”
I found myself regarding her wearily for a moment, without speaking. “Our ways are different,” I said at last, “and I have no saints to advise me.” I spoke testily, I knew, though I also knew she could not go against her saints. Had I had saints guiding me, I would have done as she did, I am sure.
But I had not, and so I waited with apprehension for the battle to begin, my eyes on Louis, who had ridden up to me and presented me with a dusty orange lily he had found at the edge of the field in which we were camped. “For my lady,” he said, smiling. Then, looking up to the castle of Montépilloy, whose towers stood like dark needles against the sky, he said, “I would we were there instead of here, you and I. But be of good heart; we have many men, and will do well.”
Indeed, the field was full of men, facing each other. The English commander, Bedford, who was married to Philip of Burgundy’s sister, had his men, who were fewer than ours but strong nonetheless, dig ditches and build barricades of brush and thorn to protect them. Jeanne rode boldly up to the enemy, shouting to them as usual to surrender to Heaven or be massacred. The enemy, also as usual, laughed and jeered, and small skirmishes broke out up and down the lines.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, the air grew steamy. We all choked with the dust, which blinded us and became like fog as the fighting grew fiercer. My eyes stung and itched, and I could feel my lips, my arms, my hands, my whole body caked with gritty grime. The battle rose and fell, rose and fell, sometimes raging, and other times at an impasse. But it never included the whole force at once. There were those who grumbled that it would be better to get it over with, to ride in one strong wave at the English, despite their barricades, or so Pierre reported when he came to me with blood dripping from his wrist, to have it bound.
When I had wrapped it in cloth I had taken from the dead, for we had no linen now, and he had left again, I heard a harsh cry for help from the edge of a small skirmish, and saw one of our men fall under his horse; a hoof came down on his chest. Nicolas was cutting out an arrowhead and I was free, so I ran forward, dodging hooves and men. But as I ran, the English surged toward us, and I saw one of them run the downed man through with his sword; he screamed once and lay still. I saw that I could do nothing for him so I turned to go back to Nicolas, but as I did I felt a harsh hand seize the shoulder of my tattered doublet so roughly it tore away its fastenings, laying it and the chemise under it open in front. I pulled them closed again as best I could, but the hand continued to hold me fast, and I looked up into a rough and bearded English face—at least the man spat out words I did not understand, so I assumed he was English. My heart quailed within me when I saw the leer on his lips. His hands grabbed me rudely around the waist and he thrust me away from the skirmish, which was raging anew, and forced me down on the ground a short distance away. I tasted terror in my mouth and my head reeled as if I were losing my senses, even as my hands groped for my mother’s knife. The man was kneeling over me, pulling at his hose and mine, when suddenly he lurched and fell to one side, a crossbow bolt in his back.
I lay trembling for a moment, too stunned to put my clothes to rights. But then someone threw a rough cloth over me, and a French voice said, “He will trouble you no more, little healer whose secret I have kept.” A friendly hand helped me to my feet, and as I clutched my torn chemise around me, I saw that my savior was the rough, black-toothed gunner who had discovered my sex at Orléans, and whose wound I had tended there.
He led me back to the carts, behind the fighting, and I think I thanked him. Though I never saw him more, I pray for him still, every night, and also for the soul of the man he killed for my sake.
By the end of the day, the dust was so thick, Louis said, coming to me with a sword cut in his cheek, that it was impossible to tell who was French or English or Burgundian, even in those places where men fought hand to hand. “I had this,” he said, turning his face so I could see his cheek, “from a Frenchman; at least he who gave it me said, ‘Oh, mon Dieu, vous êtes mon frère!—Oh, my God, you are my brother!’—and apologized as he rode off.”
“Brother or no brother,” I said, dipping a bloody rag in what was nearly the last of the watered wine we had been using for cleaning wounds, “this is a nasty cut, and will pain you sorely. I must close it with pitch, for I cannot tie up your face.” I had recovered enough by then to smile at him and attempt to chuckle, hitting his arm lightly, as if the wound were of no consequence. “If I do not, you will not be able to eat, or talk, and that would be a great loss, would it not?”
He tried to laugh, but I could see it hurt his wound, and I had to stop myself from kissing him, and from putting my arms around him to comfort him and to have him comfort me as well. But I had already decided not to speak of my ordeal, for I knew it would anger him.
Soon after that came news that La Trémoille had fallen, and Nicolas, I could see, was at some pains to hide his pleasure. But before I could wonder what would happen if he were killed or taken prisoner, we learned he had been saved, and Nicolas, sighing, fell to work once more. The sun at last began to set, and the fighting eased, then stopped. Men went about burying the dead in shallow trenches, and we withdrew to our encampment of the night before, wearily, to find what food and rest we could.
“I know we cannot, for honor’s sake,” I said to Louis as we sat that night within the forest, away from the others, “but I wish we could leave, just you and I, and …”
“And what?” he asked, his words muffled because he could not move his face for the pain of his wound. “Would my father take us in? He is many leagues from here. Even if he would accept us, we would have to travel through Burgundian lands to reach him, and …” He stopped himself and, leaning his head against me, his uncut cheek downmost, he said, “Forgive me, Gabrielle; it is the wound talking. You are right; it is honor that prevents us from leaving. That, and that I am sure it will be over soon. It must be. Once Paris is the king’s, it will be over.”
“And,” I said, “if Paris does not become the king’s?”
“That cannot happen,” Louis said stubbornly. “I have heard there are Armagnacs still there, men loyal to the king, who merely wait for us to approach. They will rise up from the inside as we attack from the outside, and Paris will fall. And at last”—he bent to kiss me, clumsily because of the pain, and I winced for him, returning his kiss—“at last, changeling, we will escape, you and I. Soon you will be tending to housewifely arts by day and studying with me by night—studying,” he said mischievously, “all manner of things …”
“Including medicine,” I said just as mischievously, for my body had begun to tingle and I knew well what he meant. “But as for housewifely arts, my lord,” I continued, putting on a prim air, “I like them little, and so may choose to practice them little.”
“Then perhaps I must have two wives.”
I reached out my hand to slap him playfully, but remembered his cheek in time, and drew it back. Then we tussled gently, mostly holding each other and tickling and touching, but we were too tired to keep awake long, and soon we fell asleep in each other’s arms on a bed of dry moss; it had shriveled in the heat, but was softer, still, than the scorched and dusty earth.
The next morning, we waited for something to happen—some motion or order—but none came, and by afternoon the enemy had turned south toward Paris. We rode north, first to Crépy, where the king had been sleeping at night, and then with him to Compiègne, which had much love for him and for Jeanne. We stayed there, quietly, for several days, though Jeanne was impatient, eager to move on to Paris.
Some lodged in the town, and this time I longed for a town’s comfort, but something inside me told me to stay near Louis, and so I did, camping in the field with him, away from Nicolas and Pierre and all others. Had it not been for his cheek, which pained him and which I dressed daily with fresh yarrow and pig’s grease, though Nicolas said I fussed too much, it would have been even harder than it was to keep to my resolve of waiting to lie with him until we were wed. Indeed, there was a time when, bathing in the river there, we came upon each other, part by accident and part, I think, by design, and embraced under the water. We would be there still, perhaps, had not a sound in the woods frightened us and made us pull apart. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can feel Louis’s lean and slippery body pressed against mine, and mine against his, and there are times I am sorry there was no sin in it.
But I am glad we had those days in Compiègne together, even so. Louis scratched letters on the underside of bark he cut from trees, showing me more of the alphabet that he had begun to teach me so long ago, and I, begging a needle from a woman in the town the one day we ventured into it, and some thread, mended our tattered clothes. I bore Louis’s teasing about housewifely arts with good will, for I knew it was just teasing, and that he understood my feelings there as he did in all things. I told him, once when he teased, about my clumsiness at spinning.
We were lying by the river, in the sun; ducks were floating by, dipping upside down to feed. Birds were singing anthems in the leafy trees above, and a swan with her cygnets was sailing by. “We will have,” Louis said, chewing gently, because of his cheek, on a long piece of sweet grass, “servants, then, to do the spinning, and you shall sit like a great lady and—embroider.” He rolled onto his stomach and flung his arm across my chest, pinning me, or so he seemed to think.
But I wriggled out from under him. “‘Embroider!’” I shouted. “When I cannot spin?”
“What?” he said innocently. “Is not the one easier than the other?”
I pulled the needle from the folds of the cloth my savior had thrown over me, and that I had kept, and handed it to him with a bit of thread. “Here,” I said. “Thread this and I will show you.”
He squinted, and turned the needle this way and that in his big hands, and tried to poke it into the thread, and then the thread into it, and then, half succeeding, split the thread in twain. At last, pressing his lips together in a way he had when he was bested, he sheepishly handed thread and needle back to me, and said, “Touché. Your point is well taken.” And I, holding the needle toward him like a dagger, said, “My point?” and made to stab him with it. He darted away, and I, quickly securing the needle and dumping my cloth on the ground, chased after him, and we ran and tagged and hid from one another like children till, exhausted, we fell again onto the riverbank. When we could breathe again, we talked, and he described to me plays he had seen at festivals and fairs, making them so vivid I could see them myself. And so we dallied all that day, until the sun went down and we returned to our camp.
I cherish, still, that day’s sweet memory.
