The fact was, the people of Orleans were probably eating better than the English.
The troupe finished with a flurry, and Hotspur sat up and waved them away.
“I thank you,” he said, his French perfect, “and would that you thank the Comte de Dunois”—
the Comte was more generally known as the Bastard of Orleans, but Hotspur thought it more polite to give him his name—”for his generosity.”
The leader of the troupe bowed and made some flowery politenesses of his own, and then the troupe packed up and left.
“Well,” Hotspur said once they had gone. “Is it time to start the day’s bombardment?”
Hotspur’s immediate subordinates, Lord John Talbot and Lord Thomas Scales, both shrugged.
“Might as well,” said Scales with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Nothing much else to do.”
“Perhaps that soldier manning the tower near the western gate will put on his usual performance,” Talbot said.
Hotspur shot Talbot a dark look. The French were blessed with a sense of humor that Hotspur, as most of his command, had come to loathe.
And they loathed nothing more than the anonymous French ham in the tower by the western gate.
Almost every day, as the English began their regular afternoon bombardment, this clown sprang into action. As soon as a missile had landed within fifty feet of his particular tower he would stumble screaming onto the parapets, clutching at some part of his anatomy, then theatrically collapse onto the stone walkway.
Within minutes, two of his comrades would sally forth from the tower bearing a stretcher—
weeping and wailing themselves—load up the still screaming soldier, and transport him back into safety.
After only another minute or two the “wounded” humorist would emerge from the tower jumping up and down and waving his arms as if he were possessed by demons and shouting that the prayers of the Blessed Damsel Joan had saved him and he was whole again.
Despite all the arrows and missiles the English sent his way they’d never managed to truly murder him yet.
Having agreed with his command that there was nothing better to do with their afternoon than commence another lackluster bombardment, Hotspur had taken one step toward the door when a soldier came in.
“My lord,” he said, holding forth a small leather satchel. “A letter.”
“From Richard, I hope,” Hotspur said as he took the satchel and removed the letter.
“And hopefully with orders for us to come home,” Talbot said. “I don’t fancy sitting here taking pot shots at this overgrown French wart for the next several years of my life.”
Hotspur’s face went completely devoid of expression as his eyes scanned the letter.
“Not from Richard,” he said. “Listen”:
You, Henry Percy, who call yourself Hotspur: Do justice to the King of Heaven and surrender to me, the Maid of France, who is sent here from God, King of Heaven, and raise your ungodly siege. Take your archers and men-at-arms and go hence back into your own country in God’s name; and if you do not so, expect to hear news of the Maid, who will shortly come to see you, to your very great damage.
If you will not believe this news from God and the Maid, wherever we find you, there we shall strike; and we shall raise such a battle-cry as there has not been in France in a thousand years. And know surely that the King of Heaven will send more strength to the Maid than you can bring against her and her good soldiers in any assault. And when the blow begins, it shall be seen whose right is the better before the God of Heaven.
You, Hotspur: the Maid prays and beseeches you not to bring on your own destruction. If you will do her justice, you may yet come in her company there where the French shall do the fairest deed that ever was done for Christendom. So answer if you will makepeace in the city of Orleans.
And if you do not, consider your great danger speedily.
Written this Thursday before the fourth Sunday after Trinity.
Joan, Maid of France.
“Lord God save us!” cried Talbot as Hotspur finished and folded up the letter. “Be quiet!”
Hotspur snapped, then tapped the letter against his chest as he thought. “Where did you get this?” he asked the soldier who had carried the message to him.
“It was carried to the tower by a guard from the Bastille de Augustines,” the man said, naming the English fortification tower directly below the bridge. “The messenger who delivered it said that the letter’s author was but a few hours away.”
Hotspur swore, slapped the letter into Talbot’s hands, and strode from the chamber.
JOAN STOOD on the southern bank of the Loire, some two miles upriver from Orleans, and fought against the too-human urge to lose her temper completely.
Behind her, Philip sat his horse and smirked, delighted to see the Maid of France so discomfited.
They’d ridden hard for the south these past few days, making better time than Philip had
thought possible.
But then, the column was fed by a fire of religious fervor that few had seen since the Crusades, was it not?
Yesterday they had deposited the Dauphin and all the women save Joan in a small but secure town five miles to the east: the Dauphin had insisted he wait out the inevitable conflict from there.
Charles’ sulky, cowardly display—even though Joan had expected it—had been the start of her foul temper.
Then she’d resisted the advice of several commanders and decided to cross to the southern bank of the Loire in order to approach Orleans … which sat on the northern bank.
Perhaps, Philip thought, Joan believed it safer to keep a wide river between her and her objective.
But now here they were, an armed and fervent column of some eight thousand men, stuck on the southern bank with no easy way to cross the river and both Orleans and most of the English fortifications on the northern bank.
Philip’s smile stretched a little further. The raising of the siege would be Joan’s first great test.
On the ride south she’d proclaimed at every chance how she spoke for God and how her angelic voices and apparitions told her that this would be a great victory, and every night she’d encouraged more and more soldiers to make their confessions. Now, she would have to come through on her promises and prophecies.
As Joan stood staring across the Loire, her hands on her hips and her entire stance bespeaking her frustration, it began to rain; a hard, pelting rain that threw up great droplets of mud as high as a man’s shoulder.
Philip shrugged deep inside his cloak and urged his horse up to Joan’s side.
“Come away, Joan!” he shouted above the roar of the sudden downpour. “You do no good here!”
Stunningly, when she turned her face to him it was shining with ecstasy.
“This is God’s work!” she shouted. “Sent to aid us!”
Sweet Jesu, Philip thought, she’s finally lost her senses.
“Look!” she screamed, gesturing toward the now choppy river. “Look!”
He raised his head, squinting against the rain.
The fury of the storm had forced the river’s waters upstream, exposing a stony ford, wide enough for several men to ride abreast.
“Come!” she shouted. “Come!”
Her roan stallion materialized out of nowhere, and Joan sprang to his back, waving the column forward.
“To Orleans and God’s will,” she cried, and Philip felt a coldness trickle down his spine that was not entirely due to the effects of the storm.
CHAPTER III
The Saturday before the Fourth Sunday after Trinity
In the second year of the reign of Richard II
(16th June 1380)
THE DAY WAS clear and bright, washed clean by the supernatural storm of yesterday afternoon and evening.
While it had lasted the English had huddled within their fortifications, thinking that every other creature caught in its fury would have so huddled.
When they’d emerged, late at night, it was to discover Orleans ablaze with light and festival, and the damned Maid’s name being screamed from every one of its towers and ramparts.
Somehow, Joan and her force had gained entry to Orleans.
Hotspur was angry and frustrated, not merely that Joan had managed to sneak into the city, but at the moody whispers now spreading about the English camp.
God had sent an angel to aid the French.
The English would he razed by holy fire the instant they lifted a single weapon against the
Holy Maid Their only hope to live was to run … now!
Hotspur had lost almost a fourth of his force to the insidious creepings away that had already occurred under the cover of darkness, and he seriously doubted whether he could get the remaining force to put up much of a resistance when Joan levelled her heavenly fury against him.
Damn it, Hotspur didn’t know if he wanted to fight someone with God’s might behind her.