During supper,to which they called me,my master showed me the best countenance that might be,and it was great joy to me to eat off clean platters once again,on white linen strewn with spring flowers.As the time was Lent,we had fare that they called meagre:
fish from the Vienne water,below the town,and eggs cooked in divers fashions,all to the point of excellence,for the wine and fare of Chinon are famous in France.As my duty was,I waited on my master and on the maid Elliot,who was never silent,but babbled of all that she had heard since she came into the town;as to where the Pucelle had lighted off her horse (on the edge-stone of a well,so it seemed),and where and with what goodwife she lodged,and how as yet no message had come to her from the castle and the King;and great joy it was to watch and to hear her.But her father mocked,though in a loving manner;and once she wept at his bourdes,and shone out again,when he fell on his knees,offering her a knife and baring his breast to the stroke,for I have never seen more love between father and child,my own experience being contrary.Yet to my sisters my father was ever debonnair;for,as I have often marked,the mothers love the sons best and the sons the mothers,and between father and daughters it is the same.But of my mother Ihave spoken in the beginning of this history.
When supper was ended,and all things made orderly,I had no great mind for my bed,having slept my fill for that time.But the maid Elliot left us early,which was as if the light had been taken out of the room.
Beside the fire,my master fell to devising about the state of the country,as burgesses love to do.And I said that,if I were the Dauphin,Chinon Castle should not hold me long,for my "spur would be in my horse's side,and the bridle on his mane,"{9}as the old song of the Battle of Harlaw runs,and I on the way to Orleans.
Thereto he answered,that he well wished it were so,and,mocking,wished that I were the Dauphin.
"Not that our Dauphin is a coward,the blood of Saint Louis has not fallen so low,but he is wholly under the Sieur de La Tremouille,who was thrust on him while he was young,and still is his master,or,as we say,his governor.Now,this lord is one that would fain run with the hare and hunt with the hounds,and this side of him is Burgundian and that is Armagnac,and on which of the sides his heart is,none knows.At Azincour,as I have heard,he played the man reasonably well.But he waxes very fat for a man-at-arms,and is fond of women,and wine,and of his ease.Now,if once the King ranges up with the Bastard of Orleans,and Xaintrailles,and the other captains,who hate La Tremouille,then his power,and the power of the Chancellor,the Archbishop of Rheims,is gone and ended.So these two work ever to patch up a peace with Burgundy,but,seeing that the duke has his father's death to avenge on our King,they may patch and better patch,but no peace will come of it.
And the captains cry "Forward!"and the archbishop and La Tremouille cry "Back!"and in the meantime Orleans will fall,and the Dauphin may fly whither he will,for France is lost.But,for myself,Iwould to the saints that I and my lass were home again,beneath the old thorn-tree at Polwarth on the green,where I have been merry lang syne."With that word he fell silent,thinking,I doubt not,of his home,as I did of mine,and of the house of Pitcullo and the ash-tree at the door,and the sea beyond the ploughed land of the plain.So,after some space of silence,he went to his bed,and I to mine,where for long I lay wakeful,painting on the dark the face of Elliot,and her blue eyes,and remembering her merry,changeful ways.
Betimes in the morning I was awakened by the sound of her moving about through the house,and having dressed and gone forth from my little chamber,I found her in the house-place,she having come from early Mass.She took little heed of me,giving me some bread and wine,the same as she and her father took;and she was altogether less gay and wilful than she had been,and there seemed to be something that lay heavy on her mind.When her father asked her if the gossips at the church door had given her any more tidings of the Maid,she did but frown,and soon left the chamber,whence my master led me forth into his booth,and bade me show him my hand in writing.This pleased him not ill,and next I must grind colours to his liking;and again he went about his business,while I must mind the booth,and be cap in hand to every saucy page that came from the castle with an order from his lord.
Full many a time my hand was on my whinger,and yet more often Iwished myself on the free road again,so that I were out of ill company,and assuredly the Lorrainer Maid,whatever she might be,was scarcely longing more than I for the day when she should unfurl her banner and march,with me at her back,to Orleans.For so irksome was my servitude,and the laying of colours on the ground of banners for my master to paint,and the copying of books of Hours and Missals,and the insolence of customers worse born than myself,that I could have drowned myself in the Vienne water but for the sight of Elliot.Yet she was become staid enough,and betimes sad;as it seemed that there was no good news of her dear Maid,for the King would not see her,and all men (it appeared),save those who had ridden with her,mocked the Pucelle for a bold ramp,with a bee in her bonnet.But the two gentlemen that had been her escort were staunch.Their names were Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulengy,good esquires.
Of me Elliot made ofttimes not much more account than of her jackanapes,which was now in very high favour,and waxing fat,so that,when none but her father could hear her,she would jest and call him La Tremouille.
