Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

Since the death of the Duke of Orleans, however, acting altogether as his own master, seeing more of the general world, and with his mind relieved from the oppressive cares and anxieties which may be said to have frozen his youth, he had warmed, as it were, in the sunshine, and all the more gentle things of the heart had come forth and blossomed. I know not whether the love of that dear, beautiful child had not greatly aided the change--whether his tenderness for her, and her adoring fondness for him, had not called out emotions, natural but latent, and affections which only wanted something to cling round. Whenever he returned from any of the scenes of strife and trouble in which he embarked with the rest, one of his first thoughts was of Agnes. When he approached the gates of the old castle, his eyes were always lifted to see her coming to meet him. When he sought a time of repose in the plain and unadorned halls of his father, no gorgeous tapestry, no gilded ceiling, no painted gallery could have ornamented the place so well as the smiles of that sweet, young face. The balmy influence of innocent childhood was felt by him very strongly.

He was very indulgent toward her. His mother said he spoiled her. But he used to laugh joyfully, and declare that nothing could spoil his little Agnes; and, in truth, with him she was ever gentle and docile, seeming to love obedience to his lightest word.

And now he was going to leave her--to leave all he held most dear in life for a long much--for a fierce strife--for a struggle on which the fate of France depended. He was not without hope, he was not without confidence; but if almost all men feel some shade of dread when parting from a well-loved home on any ordinary occasion--if a chilling conviction of the dreary uncertainty of all earthly things comes upon them even--what must have been his sensations when he thought of all that might happen between the hours of parting and returning?

But the trumpet had sounded throughout the land. Every well-wisher of his country was called upon to forget his domestic ties, and selfish interests, and private quarrels, and arm to repel an invader. The appeal was to the hearts of all Frenchmen, and he must go. Nay more, he had taxed his utmost means, he had mortgaged the very bequest of the Duke of Orleans, he had done every thing--but impoverish his mother--in order to carry with him as many men as possible to swell the hosts of France.

The last piece of his armor was buckled on--Martin Grille took up the casque--a cup of wine was brought, and Jean Charost embraced his mother and the child.

"How hard your breast is, Jean," said the little girl.

"None too hard," said the mother. "God be your shield, my son. He is better than sword or buckler."

"Amen!" said Jean Charost, and left them.

Now let us change the scene once more, for this must be a chapter of changes. Stand upon this little hill with me, beside the great oak, and let us look on, as day breaks over the fair scene below us. See how beautifully the land slopes away there on the north, with the wooded heights near Blangy, and the church steeple on the rise of the hill, and the old castle hard by. How the light catches upon it, even before the day is fully risen! Even that piece of marshy ground, sloping gently up into a meadow, with a deep ditch cut here and there across it, acquires something like beauty from the purple light of the rising sun. There is a little coppice there to the westward, with a wind-mill, somewhat like that at Creçy, waving its slow arms on the gentle morning breeze. How peaceful it all looks; how calm. Can this narrow space, this tranquil scene, be the spot on which the destiny of a great kingdom is to be decided in an hour?

So, perhaps, thought a man placed upon the hill near Blangy, as he looked in the direction of Azincourt, one half of the steeple of which could be seen rising over the slope. Soon, however, that quiet scene became full of life. He saw a small body of some two hundred men run rapidly along under cover of the coppice, bending their heads, with no apparent arms, except what seemed an ax slung upon the shoulder of each. They carried long slim wands in their hands, it is true; but to the eye those wands were very unserviceable weapons. They reached the edge of a ditch upon the meadow, and there they disappeared. A loud flourish of martial music followed, and soon after, from behind the wood, came on, in steady array, a small body of soldiery. They could not have numbered more than one or two thousand men at the very most, and little like soldiers did they look, except in the even firmness of their line. There was no glittering steel to be seen. Casque and corselet, spear and banner were not there. Not even the foot-soldier's jack and morion could be descried among them; but, tattered, travel-worn, and many of them bare-headed, they advanced, with heavy tramp and steady countenance, in the same direction which had been taken by the others. The same long wands were in their hands, and each bore upon his shoulder a heavy, steel-pointed post, while a short sword or ax hung upon the thigh, and a well-stored quiver was within reach of the right hand. Before them rode a knight on horseback, with a truncheon in his hand, and behind them still, as they marched on, sounded the war-stirring trumpet.