And so that winter passed, unusually cold, all said, and Madame was often weak with illness, despite my efforts to heal her. But age can only be eased, not cured, and most of her ills came, I thought, from a tired body.
As winter waned, news came that at Christmas King Charles had made Jeanne and all her family nobles—but Paris was still in Burgundian and English hands.
Early that spring, we heard that supporters of the king, Armagnacs who had been making raids near Paris, attempted to enter Paris itself. But they did not succeed; many were arrested and some killed. Soon after this news, Pierre came to see me, much to my surprise and, at first, delight.
I was alone when he arrived, for Madame had fallen ill again, with the fluctuating heart, and I had moved her to the infirmary where I could better care for her with the help of a lay sister who was now my assistant. Sister Georgette did little any longer save give advice, for the coldness of winter had seeped into her hands and would not leave, even though the weather was now warming.
For a moment all I could do was stare at Pierre and, as he folded me in his arms, think what a dear brother he was to me as well as to Jeanne, and how I had missed him.
But the mischief-light that had always cheered me had gone out of his eyes, and he was thin.
“We had a hard winter,” he said as I poured him wine and set out bread and salt herring—poor fare, but it was Lent. “Jeanne has been so restless I cannot contain her.”
“But you are a nobleman now, I hear,” I said, smiling, and cutting him a generous slice from the round loaf.
Pierre smiled back wanly; in other days he would have grinned. “A sop thrown to us by a king who will not fight for what is his,” he said bitterly, “intended to make Jeanne content. But it has not done so.”
“Tell me of the war,” I asked uneasily.
“There is little to tell. We fought against Saint-Pierre-le-Mouton successfully and took it. That was in November, and it restored us much after our failure at Paris. But then we besieged La Charité, and stayed a month outside its walls, as cold and hungry as those within, or more so, and at last we left with it still in enemy hands. And so we went on to Jargeau, where the king gave us the patent of nobility, which means we are now called du Lys, and have a coat of arms, which will pass to all our heirs. For that, I suppose, I am grateful. Our children’s lives may be easier than ours because of it.”
“What is the coat of arms?” I asked, wondering at it.
“A sword uplifted with a crown at its tip, to show that by fighting we crowned the king, flanked by fleurs-de-lis, for France and, I suppose, also for our name. It is a silly thing.” Pierre took a great swallow of wine.
“And then?” I prompted softly. “After Jargeau?”
“Back to Orléans for a time—and that was good, though Jeanne was restless, as was I, and also Jean, who still comes and goes as he wishes, sometimes being with us and sometimes God knows where. He puts much store in his new status and in the symbol of it, and acts as if it were he who earned it for us, not our sister. We went from Orléans to Sully, to the king’s court, which is a dull life with much meaningless ceremonial foolishness, feasting and gaming and hunting and light talk and entertainment, confection substituted for bread. If it were not for Jeanne,” Pierre said, hitting his fist against the table, “I would return to Domremy and my wife, and be content to farm.” He glanced around the room, at the books and at the fresh herbs I had begun to gather now that it was spring, and at the few pots of unguents I had devised and was still devising. “And you,” he said, “it looks as if you fare well—and learn.”
Briefly, I told him of Madame and of my lessons.
He folded my hand in his. “Your Louis would be glad,” he said. “He is rejoicing in Heaven, I am sure, to see you so.”
Sorrow rose in my throat, stealing my voice; I could only nod.
“But now,” Pierre said gruffly, “I come to ask if you will return to us, for we are to wage real war soon, on behalf of our friends at Compiègne. The good Nicolas is dead, and …”
“Nicolas dead!” I cried. “Of what wound?”
“Of no wound at all, but an ague, at La Charité. You cannot imagine the cold,” he said, and I fancied I saw him shiver, remembering it. “Many died there, of agues and ills of the stomach. It was a horror, Gabrielle; I am glad you were spared it, though perhaps you could have saved some and eased others. But now …” He stood, his big frame dwarfing our little hut where only women lived.
“Pierre, I am not sure. I …”
He held up his hand. “Hear me first, Gabrielle,” he said. “Please.”
I nodded.
“The town of Compiègne, which is for the king, has been given by treaty to Burgundy, with no regard for its people’s wishes. This was last summer. But the people have steadfastly refused to agree to it, and have resolved to fight, to lose all rather than be disloyal.”
I thought of the cat suddenly, and of the helpless mouse, even as I closed my eyes with dislike of what I knew must be coming next.
“Jeanne, rightly I believe, wishes to aid Compiègne. The people love her, Gabrielle; there are songs about her now, calling her l’Angélique, the angelic one. Women bring their rosaries for her to bless and name her godmother of their children. The people of Compiègne grow discouraged, but her support and the army’s would give them the spirit they need to sustain their fight and win. You have seen how it has been with her, putting heart into the men-at-arms and all whom she comes near …”
And I have seen, I thought, how when I leapt at the cat, the mouse, which had been paralyzed with fright, looked at me once in disbelieving gratitude and then ran off to safety …
“We tarried at Sully for too long,” Pierre was saying, “and so Jeanne, deciding it was time to leave, rode out the other day without the king’s leave, saying she was going for pleasure only. But she confided in me that she meant to ride to Melun, where there are many who are for the king, and then to Compiègne itself, if she could summon troops. She asked me to come here for you, for we will have need of a surgeon again, and the king does not seem willing to spare us the man he has chosen to replace Nicolas, nor does that surgeon wish to come, being a pale indoor man, unused to the rigors of armies.”
The mouse, I kept thinking, the mouse; it is necessary to free the mouse.
“Is there no other way to undo the treaty?” I asked Pierre.
“Had there been one,” Pierre said gently, “it would no doubt have been found.” He opened his arms to me. “Come,” he said, smiling. “I have need of my page again, and of my companion of long ago. I have missed you, Gabrielle. Jeanne has also. She speaks of you often, and of your Louis, and she has grieved for you, and hopes you are well. And …”
“Enough!” I cried, shunning his arms, and trying to swallow the heaviness that was lodged in my throat like a stone. I closed my eyes, seeing it all again—the mud, the dust, the moldy food when there was food at all, the noise of battle and the smell of blood, Louis smiling beside me, Louis cleaving the Englishman, Louis lying dead …
I did not want to return. I was well content with my books and with Madame, and with giving what aid I could to the nuns and the village women.
But then I saw the men, ragged, tired, thin, weak, suffering wounds that their squires could not treat, sustaining them for love of France and King and Maid, so that their women and children would not be oppressed under the paws of the English and the Burgundians. I whispered a quick and silent prayer, hoping God would not find my actions ill, and said to Pierre, “Very well. I will go with you.”
