BAF 66 - Merlin's Ring, page 39
part #66 of Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series
He swung the little point along the row of seats, until it centered chest high on anyone who would be standing on the platform. He moved it along the row of seats and pondered.
He laid out a measured charge of powder and six small slugs. He arranged his rammer,, his screw for withdrawing the charge, the touch-powder for the firing pan, and his fuse for lighting it.
He weighed a much heavier single slug in his hand, tossing it absently and catching it, and as he did so, he looked ever and anon across the square. He estimated the distance and he frowned.
De Rais watched him impatiently. The gunner shook his head and muttered under his breath.
“What is the matter? Is it too far for your engine?”
The Lorrainer grunted. “I fear me so, Lord Baron. Too great for accuracy. ‘Tis a good fifty feet beyond my usual range.”
“Then put in more powder!”
“That is not the answer. The lead will reach, but the charge may spread into the crowd.”
De Rais snorted with contempt. “So be it that we blow the foul lives out of my Lord Bedford and Bishop, the swine, who will be as loving as two snakes in the winter. I care not who else is struck. We have no friends in the stands.”
“You perceive not the problem. If the charge spreads, those two will be unharmed. The slugs will go by them, left and right. With a single ball I can slay either one you will and create consternation, for you to attempt the rescue. You cannot have both and there will be no time to reload. We must flee the inn at the instant the shot is fired.”
De Rais was at a loss. He absently stroked his naked chin. Gwalchmai said, “Master Jean, do you mix your own powder?”
“That I do, Sir! Whom else would I trust? The best corned powder in France, mixed of the finest ingredients, wetted with the purest water, caked, rolled, and sifted with my own hands and measured out to my own scrupulous exactness. There is no other gunner as precise as I am.”
“I know. I believe you well. And I know there is no gunner so accurate. Tell me, is it not true that with greater strength of powder, your bullets would fly forth with increased force and speed and mayhap have no time to spread?”
“That is a fact Well known to all of us.” Master Jean hung his head. “Even though I have charcoal of limewood, the purest of sulphur, and thrice-crystallized saltpetre, I gain no greater strength.”
De Rais had been following the discourse with interest. Now he interrupted. “Gunner, you spoke of saltpetre. Is it true that this is refined from human urine? No wonder they call it villainous!”
The Lorrainer nodded. “Nitre is found in caves, or under piles of manure as yellow crystals, but by far the best is distilled from the wastes you speak of. A beer drinker’s urine is good, a wine drinker’s is better, according to his appetites. The urine of a cardinal or a bishop is best of all, because they drink the best of wines.”
De Rais was aghast. “By the slavering fangs of Cerberus! Do you mean that Bishop Cauchon is good for something after all? I would never have believed it!”
Gwalchmai found this conversation reminiscent of that he had held with the hapless Wu, of Cathay. He had no intention of personally meddling again, either with ingredients or composition, but only asked, “If your finest of all powders is the touch-powder and if you have sufficient, you might try a blend of half of each to gain both the strength and range you desire.”
Master Jean’s dour expression cleared. He beamed. “It may work. It is worth trying.” He set about the blending and made two charges.
“If there is time, I will use both. The first as you say, and the second through that door, because the hall will be full of English soldiers.”
“Just get the Bishop and Lord Bedford,” snarled De Rais. “I will save the Maid from the fire, in one way or another.”
The day wore on. When it was dark, after eating in the common room, they paced off the distance as though they were ordinary strollers. It proved to be, as Master Jean had feared, a good two hundred and fifty feet—bad for his problem.
Absorbed in dismal thoughts, they returned to the inn, not noticing that the innkeeper followed at a discreet distance. He observed them with curiosity.
These woodcutters and their English soldier friend were odd people, he thought, to have so little interest in city life. He knew they had not visited a church. He was aware that they had remained in their hot room all day. He followed them out and he trailed them back, suspicious and watchful.
That night, the three heard creakings of floorboards in the hall outside, but as they did not speak to one another, whoever was listening soon went away. After a while, they slept.
They dressed hastily to an uproar. Already a crowd, held back by pikemen, was overflowing the square, although it was not yet seven o’clock. Through their spy-hole they could see every window filled, the roofs clustered with people hanging to the gutters, the ridges, and the gables.
De Rais cursed at the sight, but did not give up hope. He took command and snapped out crisp orders.
“It may be impossible,” he finished, “but I shall try for the rescue. If I can reach her at the moment she is taken down from the cart, I will pretend to hold her fast for the executioner to bind on the chains.
When I stab him—when you see him fall—shoot into the judges, if you cannot fix directly on Lord Bedford and his jackal. Kill as many as you can. In the excitement, I will run with her into the church of Saint-Sauveur, crying, ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!“
“They will not dare refuse me entry. Before England can get her out again legally, her Saints may bring about a miracle. If those devils try to get her out without law, the people of Rouen will tear them apart, in fury at the sacrilege. They are still French!”
Gwalchmai realized that De Rais was snatching at the faintest gleam of hope in formulating this mad plan.
“You will only go to your death, my Lord Baron, if you expect the English to honor the laws of sanctuary. Those were outmoded two hundred years ago. Did not assassins slaughter Thomas a Becket in his own cathedral?”
“He was English. The murderers were English. This is France and I know my French.”
A great shouting brought them again to the window. The sad procession was entering the marketplace. The cart could hardly be seen, so closely were the soldiers of Jeanne’s guard ranked about it, striking right and left with their pike butts, as they had cleared passage all the way from her prison.
A deep growl came up from the mass of the people, but it was not directed at the small girl in the long gown. Hearing it, Gwalchmai felt his heart leap. It would not take much to tip the emotions of a mob, in any direction. Perhaps, it might, just barely might, go the way that De Rais envisioned.
She was praying, as the cart moved toward the platform. Those who could hear her words fell silent as it passed. Some sank to their knees and began to pray also.
It was the moment De Rais awaited. He cast a terrible look upon the other two, sprang to the door, and in an instant they saw him fighting his way into the crowd, driving into a place among the marching men. They opened for him in his uniform, as though he was a latecomer to their ranks. The first step had been achieved.
Master Jean was calmly making ready, talking to himself as he sighted the culverin at the platform. “Ah, my beauty— patience, my pretty one! Soon you shall preach to these proud churchmen out of your mouth of fire! So, a little powder in the pan—up goes the cover and it is waiting. A slow-match, comrade!”
Gwalchmai handed him a smoking fuse and the gunner fixed it into the tube of the drawn-back serpentine-shaped trigger.
“That is it—thus into the sear and soon into the pan and quickly go some souls flying fast into Hell! Do such as these have souls, I wonder? How black they must be!”
The pyre was now ready. They could see that it was composed entirely of dry wood. It would be the torment of a bright fire, instead of the mercy of green wood and suffocating smoke.
De Rais was nowhere to be seen. Gwalchmai wondered what had gone wrong. Jeanne, who had been continuing to pray, as the cart moved up to the stake, was now relieved of her hat, which had before hidden her face. He saw that her head had been shaven. Upon it, one of the Bishop’s serving men placed the paper mitre of shame and derision,
HERETIC. RELAPSED SINNER.
APOSTATE. IDOLATOR.
She could not read the slander, but she knew what the words meant. She wept then—and with her wept many in the crowd.
Some of the judges covered their faces, clambered down from their platform and fled, pursued by curses. Even Bishop Cauchon squeezed out a tear. Jeanne gazed at him steadily and said, “Bishop, I die through you.” He could not meet her reproach and looked at the ground. It was her only word of blame.
The executioner touched her shoulder gently. Two Dominican friars stood by him to escort her to the stake.
“Is it time? I ask your pardon, reverend fathers, and you also, sir. I did not mean to keep you waiting.”
She stood up. Supported by the executioner, she stepped down from the cart, but before mounting the stairs, she stopped and cried out, “A cross! Am I not to be given a cross?”
There was a swirl in the array of pikemen and a man broke free. An officer struck out, but he came on. It was De Rais.
He swept up a couple of fallen twigs from the cobble stones, drew his “knife, and went up to the group, binding the crossed twigs together—the knife still bare in his hand, as he held out the little cross with the other.
Jeanne recognized him, for even at that distance, Gwalchmai saw her eyes widen. She smiled and took the cross and kissed it.
He took a quick step closer toward her, swinging upon the executioner as he did so. The knife glittered. He reached— and the officer, with two burly sergeants close behind, had him in an iron grip, to hale him, struggling, fighting, cursing, back into the ranks.
Jeanne, placing inside her gown the last gift that any friend could give her, mounted the stairs without looking back and was fastened to the stake.
The second friar, who had run into the church, came back bearing the crucifix from the altar. He held it up so she could embrace it. She kissed it ardently.
“Keep it, I pray you, in my sight until the end.” He could not speak, but with face twisted in grief and pity, merely nodded.
While this was going on, Gwalchmai had come to a decision. He was far from being a fatalist, but he remembered that Corenice had said that a plan, of which they were but an infinitesimal part, was being followed. Was it possible that this was part of the plan?
Jeanne had said, “I must do my devoir. It is for this that I was born.”
Was it more than accident that De Rais had failed; that he himself now found it impossible to aid Jeanne, either by force of arms or magic?
Without Merlin’s Ring, he was bereft of any aid that might be derived from sorcery. Had it been intended that he should be so disarmed? But it could not be necessary that she should suffer!
He knew himself faced with the same dreadful choice Huon had once been forced to make.
“Master Jean, the only thing that girl ever feared was the fire! Can you reach the stake with your culverin?”
“Not with the six slugs. Perhaps with a single one. But I could never do it—I could not pull the trigger!”
“Then in God’s name, make ready! Pull your charge! Aim your cannon at her heart and I will fire the shot She must not burn!”
The gunner quickly dismounted the culverin. With a twist of his screw, he pulled the patch that held the loose shot and tipped them out. His fingers trembled as he dropped in one large slug to fill the barrel and drove it well home.
Gwalchmai looked out upon the scene below. As though to confirm his thoughts concerning mystical interventions in the plans of man, he now saw an individual he recognized. It was the landlord of the inn where they were staying.
He stepped out of the crowd and peered into the face of De Rais standing in the ranks, still held there under restraint. He said something to the officer and pointed up at the window where Gwalchmai was watching. Other faces lifted. Gwalchmai knew that they had come under suspicion.
He turned on the gunner. “Hurry. We have been found out.”
“Almost ready,” Jean panted. He pounded in another greased patch of linen with his ramrod, slammed the culverin back into its fork, and sighted upon the straight small figure leaning against the stake. The executioner was whirling his torch to fan it into flame.
The Lorrainer stepped back. He motioned Gwalchmai to take the gun. Already the hall echoed with running feet A heavy body crashed against the chamber door. Jean hurled himself against it
“Shoot! Shoot!” he cried. Gwalchmai hesitated. “It is all you can do for her now!” Th& thought of Huon’s courage steeled his heart.
He pulled the trigger and the sear dipped down into the firing pan. There was no explosion. In his haste, Master Jean had not reprimed, for when he stood the hand-cannon on end to pull the charge, the touch-powder had fallen out.
In the next instant, the room was filled with shouting men and they were prisoners. He could see nothing from the window as they hustled him away. It was well, for he could not have borne the sight of what he knew was taking place. The sound was terrible enough.
Yet the single long cry that went up was not a wail of fear, not a scream of agony. It was a jubilant voice holding praise and trust. It was a prayer from one attesting to a great truth—who had been granted a vision in itself a confirmation of a lifetime of belief—an utmost proof of a sublime faith.
One word was enough, a word that held in it the essence of all man’s hope. “Jesus!” Only that and then the rush and crackle of the rising flames.
But following it—in the ghastly silence that had fallen over the immense crowd—was another cry receding from the square as though the man who uttered it was running for his life, in blind madness.
As with the first voice, this too was one Gwalchmai knew. Gilles of the Blue Beard, Lord of Machecoul, Baron of Rais, Marshal of France, master of many manors and castles—today, at this tragic moment, a man stricken to the heart, who felt his soul was dying, who saw the end of faith and hope and dreams. It was a scream to chill the blood:
“Ye are all damned! Ye have burned a saint!”
24
The Plays The Thing
People in high places, we common folk despise,
And they believe that what we think is nothing much to prize,
But I know what I saw and I saw it with these eyes—
A Princess of God’s Kingdom, going home to Paradise!
Now the man who rests on velvet can bleed like other folk .
And peasants are not oxen, though they wear an unseen yoke,
And I for one, do think it time an angry voice be heard
To find out why our Saint did die—without a saving word!
Songs of Huon
The dungeons of Rouen were cold and grim. Gwalchmai languished there, without news of Master Jean, for many months. The gunner had in fact been slaughtered out of hand, having long been a marked man to the English. Sometimes food was thrown in; sometimes Gwalchmai was neglected for what he was certain was more than a full day. He was left in silence and in ignorance of events.
He surmised that he was spared torture only because of his white hair. His limp, also, gave him a decrepit appearance he did not feel. The marvelous elixir still held some potency, but it did not cure the cough he contracted, where water was puddled on the stone floor and nitre lay white against the walls. It did not ease the pain of his crushed ribs.
Upon a day in spring, when his mood was somber in the extreme, his cell door was flung open. His surly guard mo-tioned him out He blinked in the courtyard sun, with rheumy eyes.
His back was stooped and his bones ached from the damp. He was dirty, gaunt, and unable to recognize the splendid figure before him.
“Who are you?” he croaked, in a voice rusty with disuse.
“Ah, Basque, can this poor wreck be really you? Do you not remember old D’Aulon?”
Gwalchmai reached out and touched his visitor with a grubby hand. More than one phantasm had kept him company in his cell of captivity. There had not even been mouse or rat into which he could insert his spirit as Corenice had taught Mm. Nor had she communed with him at any time. He could not imagine the reason.
“Intendant? How can you look upon me? We failed your charge. We loved her and we failed her. Do you know that? We tried and we failed.
“She said to them, ‘I come, sent by God. I pray you, send me back to God from whom I am come,’ and they did, didn’t they, D’Aulon? They sent her back—by the fire! Oh, Intendant, what a poor, gray world it is now without her!”
Weak tears streamed down his cheeks. D’Aulon put his arm around Gwalchmai. “Come, brother, it is all over. You are free. Your ransom has been paid. We are going to do something about it.
“The English think the war is over and France is theirs again. They shall see that the Maid still has friends. A Phoenix will rise from those ashes. Come now, where brave knights are gathering. Come home with me.”
“Where is home, D’Aulon? What home is there for a transient in this world like me?”
“Where the man lives who bought your freedom. To the Baron De Rais and the castle of Machecoul.”
D’Aulon supported him to the guardroom. The warder flung down Gwalchmai’s little pile of possessions. His shirt of mail, still bloodstained from the struggle at the inn, which he had worn under his woodcutter’s clothing, Roland’s sword and Jeanne’s, which he had never thought to see again. Often he had regretted carrying it to Rouen, but at the time he could not bear to be parted with it.
These things held precious memories, but there was one other more ancient than they by far—the leather belt, studded with Roman coins, which his mother had given him when he started on his long futile journey still stretching so endlessly before him.
He buckled it around him snugly. It felt like her loving clasp. A little of his old confidence and courage came back, but he felt that the arrogance he had once possessed would never return. It had been purged from him by the death of the Maid and the long, dark, sleepless days and Bights in the dungeon.
