Chapter V

The Coronation and the Capture

On the left bank of the Loire, a few miles above Orleans, is the little city of Jargeau. At the time of which we write it was surrounded by massive walls, and was considered a strong fortress. After the raising of the siege of Orleans the weakness of their position was so apparent that the Duke of Suffolk, with his brothers, Alexander and John de la Pole, fell back to Jargeau. Within a few weeks the Maid of Orleans, as Joan was now generally called, was before its walls with her principal commanders. Her only desire now was to conduct the King to Rheims for his coronation. Notwithstanding her wounds were not yet healed, she left Orleans with La Hire, Dunois, the Duc d’Alençon, and other officers, went to Tours, where the Dauphin was then stopping, and requested him to follow her at once to Rheims. He was not disposed, however, to grant her request. His kitchen, cellar, and money-chest were once more replenished, and as life was now very enjoyable, he decided that it would be rash to hazard such an undertaking until the way was cleared; for notwithstanding the deliverance of Orleans, the enemy was still holding the district. The leaders also declared that it would be in violation of all the rules of war. They must first open the way, and above all, Jargeau must be captured. Joan was obliged to submit to their decision, and join them.

On the 20th of June—the day was Friday—the army arrived before Jargeau. Learning that Falstaff was on his way from Paris with help for Suffolk, no time was wasted. Preparations for the assault were instantly begun, and on Saturday evening a breach had been made in the wall. Early on Sunday morning Joan, in full armor, entered the tent of d’Alençon, he being in chief command.

“Come, noble Duke,” she cried, “let us make the attack.”

“What,” he replied, “to-day? On Sunday?”

“Why not, noble sir? Obedience is the best service to God.”

“But, Joan, is the breach passable?”

“Undoubtedly. God has given the enemy into our hands.”

“But, in the meantime—”

“There is no meantime, noble sir. What fear you? Have you forgotten that I promised to take you back safe to your wife?”

“Well, let the attack begin.”

“Forward, attack!” cried Joan, as she left the tent, waving her banner. The troops advanced, but the apprehensions of the Duke proved to be well founded. The breach was too high. A ladder must be raised. In the meantime, among the daring ones who had rushed forward, was Jean. “Halt, boy,” shouted La Hire, at the same time pulling him back. “I don’t think your skull is tough enough to resist that fellow’s club.” He pointed to the breach. Jean looked up and saw a giant standing in the opening, wielding a massive club, and laughing with fiendish glee as he dashed everything about him to pieces. “Wait a bit,” said La Hire. “I think your namesake, the gunner, can stop that fellow’s laughing.” He was right. The catapult hurled a rock through the air, the giant flung up his arms, and fell backward from the wall, a great shout accompanying his fall.

Joan rushed up the ladder shouting “Forward, forward, my brave ones,” but a stone felled her to the earth.

“Hurrah!” shouted the English, “the witch is dead.” Their joy was short-lived, however. Fear again seized them, as they not only heard her assuring words to those about her, but saw her prepare to ascend the ladder again.

“All right now, boy,” said La Hire, as Jean again rushed forward. “I am with you this time.” They quickly climbed the ladder, but when Jean reached the top some of the English had been thrown down, and others were flying into the city. Among those who had been hurled down was Alexander de la Pole. When the Duke of Suffolk saw his brother fallen, and the French pouring in, he gave up the fight, and, like the others, turned toward the city.

“Halt! halt! surrender!” a strong voice shouted. Suffolk stopped and looked at his pursuer. He could have vanquished him with little effort, but he did not consider it chivalrous to take advantage of an enemy. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Jean Renault,” was the answer.

“Nobleman?”

“Yes.”

“Knight?”

“No.”

“Kneel down.”

Jean obeyed. The Duke raised his sword, and with the words, “In the name of God and Saint George I dub thee knight,” he dealt him three blows upon the shoulder with the flat of the blade, and then offered him his sword.

Jean arose, pressed the Duke’s hand to his lips, and took his sword, saying, “I do not deserve this honor, my Lord Duke, but I am very proud to receive the sword of the first of England’s heroes.”

“You are right,” said a deep voice behind him; and, as if in benediction, La Hire laid his mailed hand upon his head. “You are right, say I. All the knighthood of France would begrudge you this sword. By Saint George, I am just as happy as if I had seen that sword in the hand of my own son.”

“The noble La Hire’s word,” said the Duke, “is sufficient warrant that my sword will be worthily carried, Sir Jean Renault; there is no stain upon it, guard its purity.” Jean’s feelings overcame him, and he could make no reply.

After the capture of Jargeau, Joan rested for a time, meanwhile forwarding reinforcements to Orleans, for more victories must yet be achieved in the district of the Loire. While her fame attracted recruits every day to her banner, the fear of her very name was so overpowering that Meung, Beaugency, Guetin, and other cities surrendered without offering resistance. The English force which came from Paris under Talbot and Falstaff was defeated at Patay, and two of its generals were taken prisoners. The evacuation of Paris was the result of this battle.[25]

Joan returned with the Duc d’Alençon to Orleans, and thence repaired to Gien to see the Dauphin. “Sire,” she said, “the district of the Loire is now clear. Go with me to your coronation at Rheims.”

The Dauphin still hesitated. “The way is even yet dangerous,” he said. “Many castles and cities in Champagne are still in the hands of the enemy. How easy it would be for them to fall upon our rear from Normandy.” His councillors in attendance decided that his fears were well grounded.

“Oh, you saints of heaven,” cried the Maiden, her eyes shining with enthusiasm, “help me to inspire the noble Dauphin with a little of that courage you have given me!” Her prayer was answered at once. The King was moved by her soulful eyes, her steadfast faith, and her lofty inspiration. “Yes, Joan, we will trust you,” he exclaimed. “On to Rheims.”

Orders were sent in all directions. The leaders and their troops quickly assembled, and the march began. Joan led the vanguard. At the mere announcement of her coming the cities of Auxerre, St. Florentin, Chalons, and Sept-Sceaux capitulated. Troyes did not surrender until preparations for assault were made. At Sept-Sceaux, four leagues from Rheims, they rested. Charles then sent three of his principal councillors to San Remy to fetch the holy oil which was kept there.[26] They returned, escorted by a grand procession headed by the Abbot of San Remy, who walked under a canopy, carrying the phial.

From all the towers of Rheims the bells announced the memorable ceremony of July 17, 1429, which completed Joan’s mission. The pealing organ and a majestic hymn of praise welcomed the long coronation procession as it entered the Cathedral of St. Denis. Joan accompanied the King to the vestibule, where the Archbishop of Rheims met him and conducted him to the high altar. The choir was occupied on each side by the commanders and leading dignitaries, knights and lords, squires and attendants, while a vast multitude of people crowded the cathedral to its utmost capacity. Joan stood next to the King, her eyes shining with sacred joy, holding her banner in her left hand and her sword in her right.[27] It was a position which ordinarily only the first marshals of the kingdom were entitled to occupy; but no one questioned her right to it or envied her.

The sacred function began at nine o’clock in the morning and lasted until two o’clock in the afternoon. The opening ceremony was the administering of the oath by the Archbishop, during which Joan, following the old custom, held her sword over the King’s head. Then followed the knighting, for Charles had not yet received this honor, without which he could not ascend the throne. He knelt and the Duc d’Alençon knighted him. The third ceremony was the consecration and anointing with the holy oil, and was performed by the Archbishop. The last act was his coronation by the same prelate. As soon as the royal symbol glittered upon his head the cathedral resounded with the enthusiastic acclamations of the great multitude: “Hail, hail, King Charles the Seventh!” accompanied by a fanfare of trumpets, the roll of drums, and majestic chorales.

Joan was the first to proclaim allegiance to the Crown. She threw herself at the King’s feet, and after kissing his knee, said: “Sire, the will of God is accomplished. You are now the true King of France. My mission is ended. Permit me to return to my home and resume the humble life of the shepherdess.”

“No, Joan,” replied the King, “I cannot spare you. All that I now am is due to you. You must accompany me on the return.”

Joan rose sadly. She felt that in remaining longer she would be disobeying the divine voices which had commissioned her to perform only the two tasks now successfully accomplished. The King rewarded her by granting a patent of nobility to her whole family, whence it is that she is called “Jeanne d’Arc.” Her coat of arms was a blue shield with two gold lilies and a silver sword bearing a golden crown on its point. These distinctions, however, were of little interest to Joan. She grew sadder and sadder, and ardently longed for her home fields and her loved Fairy Tree. This feeling became all the more intense when her brother Pierre arrived; but she rushed joyously into his arms and was somewhat consoled when the King appointed him her page, and she knew that he would never leave her. She took part in many more military operations; but although she entered many cities whose gates opened at the sound of her name, though she was everywhere greeted as a saint and welcomed with enthusiastic acclamations and songs of praise, she no longer felt the early unquestioning faith and the sacred inspiration. An ill-starred movement against Paris, in which she was wounded afresh, confirmed her in the belief that she had exceeded her duty, and that she was no longer under the protection of her saints. She was haunted with gloomy presentiments of death. They pursued her in dreams, and at last she again implored the King to let her go.

“What do you fear, Joan?” said the King. “If you are wounded it shall be my care to heal you. If you are captured by the English I will release you, if it costs half my kingdom. You are the guardian angel of France. I cannot let you go.” He placed her in command of his own corps and sent her once more into the tumult of battle.

On the 27th of May Joan appeared with her army before Compiègne,[28] which was occupied by the French but was closely invested by the Duke of Burgundy, who was in alliance with the English. She successfully entered the city, and of course was received with the greatest enthusiasm. Early on the next day she made a sally at the head of six hundred troopers. She wore her usual armor, with a short silver-gilt cape over it, and carried her small battle-axe, sword, and banner.

Philip of Burgundy’s army was composed of experienced troops, and its various divisions were led by Noyelles, John of Luxemburg, and John of Montgomery. Joan swept among them like a whirlwind, carrying everything before her, and for the time throwing them into utter confusion. A cry of terror—“The Maiden, the Maiden”—was raised in the camp, but when Philip of Burgundy appeared with reinforcements the English, recovering from their first surprise and confusion, began to hold their ground. Finding herself confronted by a tenfold increased force, she ordered a retreat. She was the last in the line, and was closely pressed by the enemy, but when the boldest of them came too close she turned upon them and drove them back. In this manner she forced her way successfully to the gate. As there was much crowding and disorder there, she turned once more at the head of her rear guard against her pursuers, and beat them back, thus gaining time for her troopers to get into the city; but when she herself made a dash for the gate she found an English troop barring the way. She slashed right and left and hewed her way through; but, alas! the gate was shut. No one heard her call, no one opened the gate, for it was feared that the English might rush through. Joan turned her horse, hoping to reach open country or find another gate. The enemy, seeing that she rode alone, plucked up courage. She was quickly surrounded, and a desperate fight ensued. An archer stole under her horse, seized her by her velvet cape, and pulled her down. She gathered all her strength for a last effort, but, overcome by superior numbers, sank exhausted upon her knee, and still fought on with her little remaining strength. Longingly she watched the city, but no one came to her rescue. At last she surrendered her sword to Lionel, one of the leaders in the Duke of Luxemburg’s corps.

“The Maiden is captured,” shouted the soldiers. The news flew from place to place and from troop to troop. The English celebrated the event with as much enthusiasm as if they had won a pitched battle. Well might they rejoice, for Joan’s prowess had cost them two-thirds of their French possessions.

The Duke of Bedford, the Earl of Warwick, and the Bishop of Winchester instructed Brother Martin, Vicar General of the Inquisition, to demand the delivery of “the witch” into the hands of the Church. Martin wrote to the Duke of Burgundy as follows:—

“By virtue of the regulations of our order and of the Holy Roman See which give us the authority, we entreat and command, under lawful penalties, that you deliver to us the prisoner, the Maiden Joan, who is suspected of heresy, that she may be proceeded against in the Court of the Holy Inquisition.”

“Both of us know,” said the Duke of Burgundy to John of Luxemburg, “that Joan is not a witch but a noble maiden, and that we are bound to deliver all noble prisoners to our English allies for a consideration of ten thousand pounds. But we also know that the Maiden is an exception, as it is altogether probable that Charles VII will ransom her, for he has promised to do so.” John of Luxemburg was satisfied, as he hoped to get more from the King than from the English. In the meantime he sent Joan to his castle Beaurevoir, where she was affectionately greeted by his wife.

Month after month passed, but nothing was heard from Charles VII. In the luxurious life he was leading he had not time to think of his rescuer, whom he had promised to ransom even if it cost him half his kingdom. For this reason the English were anxious to expedite matters. They instructed Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, in whose diocese Joan had been captured, to request her delivery to him and to conduct her examination. They offered ten thousand pounds to the Duke of Luxemburg, the ransom price of a general, and an annuity of three hundred pounds to Duke Lionel. In the middle of September the Duke of Luxemburg sent word to his wife he could wait no longer, but by her earnest pleading and by her excuse that the Duke of Bedford had not yet sent the money, she secured a further respite for Joan.

Joan burst into tears as she now for the first time realized the actual character of the situation. “Oh, I knew it would be so!” she exclaimed. “They have sold me, but I would rather die than be given into the hands of the English.”

One stormy November evening the castle guards heard a scream which was audible even above the howling of the gale. They rushed to the spot and found Joan in the moat. She had thrown herself from her window, but she had failed in her purpose. She was not dead. The event made the avaricious master of the castle fearful that he might lose his reward entirely, for how could he give security that this desperate maiden, in spite of the utmost watchfulness, might not carry out her purpose yet?

A few weeks later the rabble of Rouen stood before an iron cage suspended from a tower. Derisive epithets and cruel insults passed from lip to lip and were greeted with indecent laughter. In a corner of the cage sat a cowering figure bound with fetters. Her face could not be seen, for her head was bowed in anguish. One of the mob thrust his lance toward her to make her look up. He was successful. She slowly raised her head, and the crowd looked upon eyes full of sorrow, eyes full of purity and beauty,—the eyes of Joan. The Duke of Luxemburg had completed his infamous bargain. He had delivered her to the English.