Dove and Sword: A Novel of Joan of Arc

As we neared our spot by the wall, we saw Brother Antoine hurrying there from another direction, with three men behind him. I could tell that one was a friar or a monk, from his robe. The other two were wearing boots and leather doublets. “Men-at-arms,” Louis whispered. “My oldest brother’s squire has a doublet like that. It looks like leather, and it is, but it is two layers thick, with metal between the layers.”

Brother Antoine rushed up to us, clearly bursting with news.

“Well met!” he cried. “What do you think? I have found my old friend Jean—Father Pasquerel—here for the Jubilee. In turn he has found these two worthies, who serve squires attending—wonderful to say!—the very Jeannette from your village, Gabrielle. These two”—he gestured to the men-at-arms—“have been sent to urge Father Pasquerel to go to Jeannette, to protect her and be her confessor. As they have news of her, I am taking them to meet our good Madame Isabelle, so that she might hear about her child.”

So we hurried to our spot by the wall, and found Isabelle gazing out over the fields and plains.

Brother Antoine winked, and put a finger to his lips, motioning us to be silent. He crept toward Isabelle, then seized her arm and shouted, “Oho, sister! And do you search for us, and we right here?”

Isabelle put her hand to her heart as if frightened. I could see Louis was displeased at the jest, and Father Pasquerel as well. I myself was also, for the color drained from Isabelle’s face and she looked for a moment as if she might swoon.

“’Tis you, Brother Antoine; how you did affright me!” she exclaimed, her hand fluttering to her throat.

Father Pasquerel, a dignified man of middle height, with a solemn, kindly face and eyes that were not altogether happy or at ease, stepped forward then. Bowing low before Isabelle, he raised her hand to his lips, a surprisingly courtly gesture, I thought, for a simple friar. “Madame,” he said gravely, “I am honored to meet the mother of the holy Maid of whom these men have told me much good.”

Isabelle looked confused, but Brother Antoine nodded, and said, “It is true, friend Isabelle. This worthy friar is my old friend Jean Pasquerel, an Augustinian from Bayeux and more lately of Tours, where he serves as lector. He has come here, like us, for the Jubilee. And these men”—he gestured to the men-at-arms, who came forward and bowed, one smiling, the other reserved—“serve men who serve your Jeannette.” He pointed toward the smiling man, who I could see had a deep scar on his face, as from an old wound. “This is Claude de Novellompont, who serves Jean de Metz, one of Robert de Baudricourt’s knights …”

“And I, madame,” said the more reserved man quietly, “serve Bertrand de Poulengy, who serves the dauphin, as indeed do we all. I am from Vaucouleurs, which town I think you know well, and am called Philibert.”

“They both, madame,” said Brother Antoine eagerly, “have such good report of …”

“Oh, good sirs,” Isabelle cried, interrupting. “What of my child? How does she fare? How is she received? Is she the butt of humor as I sometimes fear she must be, or of praise, as I feel she should be? She is so good, so pure, and so pious—but it is hard for great men to believe, perhaps, that a poor maid from Domremy could …”

“Be assured, madame,” said the scarred man, Claude de Novellompont, “that she is well received. We traveled together to Chinon, our masters and the Maid and us.”

“At night, madame,” Philibert de Vaucouleurs added quietly, “your daughter slept chastely between our two masters, for protection.”

De Novellompont nodded, and resumed the tale. “When we reached the great castle of Chinon,” he said, “the Maid was ushered into the room where the dauphin was. The dauphin contrived to hide among his nobles, for he doubted the Maid’s mission, and he had another sit in his place.”

“But your daughter, madame,” put in his companion, “went straight to the dauphin nonetheless, and knew who he was without sign or signal from any living soul. All who were there much marveled at it, and were sure then that she was sent from God.” He turned to de Novellompont as if for confirmation.

“It is so,” de Novellompont agreed, and Isabelle gave a little cry, clasping her hands joyfully together.

“She spoke apart to the dauphin for a time,” de Novellompont continued, “and he smiled and seemed satisfied that she was as she claimed to be. Even so, the dauphin has sent her to Poitiers, to be examined by churchmen and other officials there, to prove that she is from God. Our masters are sure, however, that she is and that she will …”

“As you no doubt know, madame,” Philibert de Vaucouleurs interrupted, “the Duke of Orléans is a prisoner of the English in London. And yet the English, who according to the rules of chivalry should not threaten the lands of a prisoner, have put Orléans under siege …”

“And if they succeed in taking it,” de Novellompont continued, himself interrupting, “they will have a clear route into France along the Loire River, into those lands our own dauphin now holds.”

“But,” de Vaucouleurs said quickly, “our masters are sure that your daughter will raise the siege of Orléans. Then she will fetch the dauphin, or he will go to her from wherever he is staying at the time—Loches, perhaps, or Tours, or Bourges, for he has many castles. And, finally, she will escort him in triumph to Reims, there to receive his rightful crown.”

“The siege of Orléans!” Isabelle gasped. “But surely that is men’s work! Lead an army to Reims, yes, to protect the dauphin on his journey, but …”

“It is all God’s work, madame,” said Father Pasquerel, who had been standing quietly by. “Your blessed child is His instrument, if all I have heard is true.”

“Our masters,” said Philibert de Vaucouleurs, “knowing the Maid to be holy and yet a woman, have asked us to beg this worthy friar to accompany her and be her confessor.”

Isabelle turned to Father Pasquerel, her eyes full of tender supplication. “Father, would you?” she cried. “I would be easier in my heart if my Jeannette had you with her. If she is to go to Orléans, and perhaps into battle …” She checked herself then, and said instead, “And since you are friend to Brother Antoine, who I know is a just and worthy man of God, surely you must be one also.”

Father Pasquerel bowed gravely. “I cannot resist a mother’s plea,” he said, “especially in this place where we are all come to pay homage to the greatest and most holy Mother who ever lived, the Blessed Mother of God.”

“Well said,” Brother Antoine pronounced, clapping Father Pasquerel heartily on the back, and the two men-at-arms looked pleased.

Louis, though, seemed thoughtful, and was silent while the others discussed details and reminisced about Jeannette—Jeanne, la Pucelle—Jeanne, the Maid—as it seemed she now was called. And my mind was busy, too, so when Louis called me to one side, I was eager to speak with him, wondering if he had been wrestling with the same thoughts as I.

He had, for when we were apart from the others he said, “Gabrielle, you will remember that I want to go to war, like my elder brother.”

“I do remember,” I told him. “And you will remember that I do not want to go home to Domremy and spend my life on women’s daily chores.”

He smiled. “And so …”

“And so,” I said boldly, “I would go with you when you go with Father Pasquerel.”

He squeezed my hand. “I hoped you would say that. But will Isabelle allow it?”

“Perhaps I can find the means to convince her.”

When we went back to the others, huddled now by the puny smoking fire in the rapidly chilling air, I had an argument ready in my mind. “Would it not be more seemly,” I said primly to Isabelle when the subject of my going had been broached, “for Jeannette to have a woman with her, one she knows and who knows her?”

There was a loud silence.

“I am tempted,” Isabelle said, “to go myself.”

“Surely,” said Brother Antoine to her quickly, “your wifely duty is with your husband.”

Isabelle sighed. “Yes,” she said, but I could hear the reluctance in her voice and pitied her, even as I rejoiced for myself. “I know it is my duty.” She turned to me. “What would I tell your good mother, Gabrielle? And what woman will protect you?”

“As to protection,” I said promptly, “I will be with a priest and three good men. And you can tell my mother I was willful and went without your leave.”

“Willful you are, ma petite, and clever, but I will not lie for you.”

“You are right,” I said, ashamed. “Say the truth, then: that I felt Jeannette should have a woman with her, and you did, too, but could not go, and that I offered, and you tried to convince me otherwise, for my safety, and that I said—that I said if you refused, I would disobey and go without your blessing, following the men secretly and no doubt falling prey to …”

“Enough!” cried Isabelle, laughing. “Enough. I will tell your mother something—and you do have my blessing.”