‘Then,’ said Zabillet, ‘who is now the King of France?’
Jeannette said fiercely: ‘It is the Dauphin. He should be crowned King.’
There was silence and all looked at Jeannette because it was not fitting for young people to talk as their elders might, and in the company of strangers it was behaving with a forwardness which was frowned on in all well conducted households.
Jacques was about to deliver a reproof when Zabillet laid a hand on his arm. Zabillet loved this daughter dearly; she had had a strong feeling from the day of her birth that she was different from the others.
‘Jeannette is deeply moved,’ she now whispered to her husband. ‘Let her speak as she wishes.’
And for some reason he could not explain, the reproof died on Jacques’ lips.
Then Jeannette went on: ‘He will be crowned. He shall be crowned.’
The traveller said: ‘Nay, little maid, ’twill not be our Dauphin who is crowned. It is a little baby who lives in England. He is now the King of England and calls himself the King of France.’
‘Wicked men call him so,’ said Zabillet. ‘He is too young to be blamed for that.’
Jeannette’s outburst had been passed over and the traveller went on to tell them that the little boy, the son of their own Princess, would be brought to France to be crowned when he was a little older.
‘By that time,’ said Jacques, ‘perhaps God will have come to our aid.’
‘Yes,’ said Jeannette, ‘He will come. I know it in my heart.’
‘Bring some wine for our guest, Jeannette,’ said her mother. ‘He will be thirsty.’
As Jeannette went away to do her mother’s bidding there was certain exultation in her heart.
Times were growing worse. There were only brief periods of relief. A traveller coming one day told them that the Duke of Bedford, who had become Regent on the death of King Henry and whose ally the Duke of Burgundy had been, was now not on such good terms with Burgundy. It seemed that Bedford had a brother called the Duke of Gloucester who had deeply offended Burgundy.
‘Let us pray that this will bring the Duke’s loyalty back where it belongs,’ said Jacques. ‘But for this warring within our country we should not now be in this bitter position. If this quarrel brings Frenchmen together then it is God’s work.’
But God’s work, if it were, brought little relief. The next news was that the Duke of Bedford had married the sister of the Duke of Burgundy and this had strengthened the weakening alliance between them.
‘How can a noble French lady marry a Godon?’ asked Pierrelot. ‘They are not as we are. They have tails like monkeys.’
‘That is nonsense,’ Jeannette told him. ‘They have no tails. They are men and women as the French are. Their wickedness is in their souls which they have sold to the devil.’
‘And have all the French sold their souls to God?’ Pierrelot wanted to know.
‘Let us pray they will do so,’ said Jeannette.
Jeannette was growing more pious every day. They all noticed it. ‘It will pass,’ said Zabillet gravely. ‘But only in a measure I trust. My Jeannette is a good girl. Sometimes I think she is different from the rest of us.’
The struggle between the Armagnacs and the Burgundians was as strong as ever. The Armagnacs had never forgiven the Burgundians for murdering Louis of Orléans and now the Burgundians were not going to forgive the Armagnacs for retaliating by murdering John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy. Duke Philip was determined to avenge his father. In the meantime so did he hate the Armagnacs that he was supporting the English against the very crown of France.
There was even conflict between the villages. Domrémy was staunchly for Armagnac and that meant the crown; but the village of Maxey on the other side of the river was staunchly Burgundian. When the boys of these villages met it would not be long before they were fighting each other. Jeannette often saw her brother come home bruised and bleeding and when she asked how he had come to be so would be told: ‘Oh, it was fighting against Burgundy.’
There followed a period of increased anxiety. The war was coming nearer to Domrémy. Sometimes they saw the smoke of burning villages in the distance and they knew that the soldiers were near. Whether it was English against French or Armagnac against Burgundy they did not know. Did it matter? Jeannette asked angrily. It was a stupid, senseless war.
Every night there were watchmen on the tower of the church and sometimes when a warning was given they would round up the flocks and herds and go across to the island fortress.
So far Domrémy had escaped.
But there was one terrible night when the battle came very near. From the castle Jeannette watched the flames rising to the sky and she knew that it was the village of Maxey which was being pillaged. Her first thoughts were for Mengette and her husband Collot Turlant whom she had married two years before. They should have joined them in the castle and yet, thought Jeannette, if any of these soldiers were of a mind to take the castle what would prevent them?
In the morning they went back to Domrémy. Everything was as they had left it, and although the relief of the return was almost unbearably great, everyone knew that they should not rejoice too gladly because from the safety of one day they could be plunged into the disaster of the next.
That turned out to be a sad day after all. Mengette came to Jeannette as she sat at her spinning wheel and one look into her face told Jeannette what she had feared.
She rose and took her friend in her arms.
‘What is it, Mengette?’ she said.
‘Collot,’ whispered the young wife. ‘I saw it … the cannon struck him … and he fell. There was blood on the ground, Jeannette … his blood.’
‘Oh Mengette, my poor Mengette!’
‘It was so short a time that we had together. It is only two years, Jeannette, and then … these stupid wars. Why do the men make wars? Do I want wars? Do you? Did Collot? If they want wars, let them fight and die … not us … not us. What does it matter to me … Armagnac or Burgundy … France or England … ?’
‘Hush,’ said Jeannette. ‘You are overwrought. I will get you some wine.’
Mengette shook her head.
‘I hate them all. I hate them,’ she said. ‘They have taken Collot. What harm did he do? It was La Hire … the Gascon … It was his men. He comes from the Dauphin to kill Frenchmen … good Frenchmen, like Collot.’
Jeannette had heard of the ferocious soldier of Gascony, Etienne Vignolle, who was known as La Hire; his men would have attacked Maxey ostensibly because that village was Burgundian in its sympathies, but these men revelled in war, not for a cause but to satisfy their lust for blood. They killed people like Collot Turlant and turned Mengette into a widow.
What could she say to comfort her friend?
She stroked her hair. ‘My dear little Mengette,’ she whispered, ‘you must try not to grieve. One day everything will be good again in France. I heard a prophecy today. Do you know what it was? It was Merlin long, long ago who said that a wise virgin would arise from the people of France and repair the damage which had been wrought by a wicked woman.’
Mengette was not listening; she sat staring blankly before her, thinking of all she had lost.
Jeannette went on: ‘The wicked woman is the Queen of France, Isabeau of Bavaria. She has cheated our King and our country; she has been false to both and she has given our crown and our Princess to the English. She is the wicked woman of whom Merlin spoke, Mengette. But the wise virgin will come.’
It was a few days later when a party of soldiers rode into Domrémy. The villagers hurried into their houses and prepared for the worst. The soldiers dismounted and selecting the house of Jacques d’Arc because it was the largest in the village and in a prominent position close to the church, rapped on the door.