The hostel of the Ane Raye poured from its upper and lower windows a flood of light into the gathering August dusk.It stood, a little withdrawn among its beeches, at a cross-roads, where the main route southward from the Valois cut the highway from Paris to Rheims and Champagne.The roads at that hour made ghostly white ribbons, and the fore-court of dusty grasses seemed of a verdure which daylight would disprove.Weary horses nuzzled at a watertrough, and serving-men in a dozen liveries made a bustle around the stables, which formed two sides of the open quadrangle.At the foot of the inn signpost beggars squatted--here a leper whining monotonously, there lustier vagrants dicing for supper.At the main door a knot of young squires stood talking in whispers--impatient, if one judged from the restless clank of metal, but on duty, as appeared when a new-comer sought entrance and was brusquely denied.For in an upper room there was business of great folk, and the commonalty must keep its distance.
That upper room was long and low-ceiled, with a canopied bed in a corner and an oaken table heaped with saddle-bags.A woman sat in a chair by the empty hearth, very bright and clear in the glow of the big iron lantern hung above the chimney.She was a tall girl, exquisitely dressed, from the fine silk of her horned cap to the amethyst buckles on her Spanish shoes.
The saddle-bags showed that she was fresh from a journey, but her tirewoman's hands must have been busy, for she bore no marks of the road.
Her chin was in her hands, and the face defined by the slim fingers was small and delicate, pale with the clear pallor of perfect health, and now slowly flushing to some emotion.The little chin was firm, but the mouth was pettish.Her teeth bit on a gold chain, which encircled her neck and held a crystal reliquary.A spoiled pretty child, she looked, and in a mighty ill temper.
The cause of it was a young man who stood disconsolately by a settle a little way out of the lantern's glow.The dust of the white roads lay on his bodyarmour and coated the scabbard of his great sword.He played nervously with the plume of a helmet which lay on the settle, and lifted his face now and then to protest a word.It was an honest face, ruddy with wind and sun and thatched with hair which his mislikers called red but his friends golden.
The girl seemed to have had her say.She turned wearily aside, and drew the chain between her young lips with a gesture of despair.
"Since when have you become Burgundian, Catherine?" the young man asked timidly.The Sieur Guy de Laval was most notable in the field but he had few arts for a lady's chamber.
"I am no Burgundian," she said, "but neither am I Armagnac.What concern have we in these quarrels? Let the Kings who seek thrones do the fighting.
What matters it to us whether knock-kneed Charles or fat Philip reign in Paris?"The young man shuddered as if at a blasphemy "This is our country of France.I would rid it of the English and all foreign bloodsuckers ""And your way is to foment the quarrel among Frenchmen? You are a fool, Guy.Make peace with Burgundy and in a month there will be no Goddams left in France.""It is the voice of La Tremouille."
"It is the voice of myself, Catherine of Beaumanoir.And if my kinsman of La Tremouille say the same, the opinion is none the worse for that.You meddle with matters beyond your understanding....But have done with statecraft, for that is not the heart of my complaint.You have broken your pledged word, sir.Did you not promise me when you set out that you would abide the issue of the Bourbon's battle before you took arms? Yet I have heard of you swashbuckling in that very fight at Rouvray, and only the miracle of God brought you out with an unbroken neck.""The Bourbon never fought," said de Laval sullenly."Only Stewart and his Scots stood up against Fastolf's spears.You would not have me stay idle in face of such odds.I was not the only French knight who charged.There was La Hire and de Saintrailles and the Bastard himself.""Yet you broke your word," was the girl's cold answer."Your word to me.
You are forsworn, sir."
The boy's face flushed deeply."You do not understand, my sweet Catherine.
There have been mighty doings in Touraine, which you have not heard of in Picardy.Miracles have come to pass.Orleans has been saved, and there is now a great army behind Charles.In a little while we shall drive the English from Paris, and presently into the sea.There is hope now and a clear road for us Frenchmen.We have heard the terrible English 'Hurra'
grow feeble, and 'St.Denis' swell like a wind in heaven.For God has sent us the Maid...."The girl had risen and was walking with quick, short steps from hearth to open window.
"Tell me of this maid," she commanded.
"Beyond doubt she is a daughter of God," said de Laval.
"Beyond doubt.But I would hear more of her."Her tone was ominously soft, and the young man was deceived by it.He launched into a fervid panegyric of Jeanne of Arc.He told of her doings at Orleans, when her standard became the oriflamme of France, and her voice was more stirring than trumpets; of her gentleness and her wisdom.He told of his first meeting with her, when she welcomed him in her chamber."She sent for wine and said that soon she would drink it with me in Paris.I saw her mount a plunging black horse, herself all in white armour, but unhelmeted.Her eyes were those of a great captain, and yet merciful and mild like God's Mother.The sight of her made the heart sing like a May morning.No man could fear death in her company.They tell how..."But he got no farther.The girl's face was pale with fury, and she tore at her gold neck-chain till it snapped.
