Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

"Nay, my son, you are not fit," said the monk.

"It must be done," answered Jean Charost. "What matters it to any one if I die? He can not coin my clay into golden pieces. I will not pay this ransom so long as my mother lives. Let me have ink and paper."

Jean Charost wrote; but he was soon obliged to abandon the task, for he was still too feeble. The next day he wrote again, however, and two letters were accomplished. The one was sent off to his mother, the other to the Lord Willoughby. To the latter he received an answer courteous and kind, desiring him not to hurry his departure for England, but to wait till he was well able to bear the journey. There was one sentence somewhat confused in expression, intended to convey a regret that the ransom fixed upon prisoners of his rank was so high; but Jean Charost was irritated, and threw the letter from him.

The other letter conjured his mother to his side with all speed, and she brought his little Agnes with her; for she had a notion that the presence of the child would be balmy to him.

Let us pass over her remonstrances, and how she urged him to sell all and pay his ransom. For her sake, he was firm. He would not impoverish his mother; and though there were bitter tears, he departed from his native land. Now let us change the scene. Between three and four years had passed since the field of Azincourt had received some of the best blood of France, and thinned the ranks of French chivalry. Every city, every village, almost every family was full of trouble, and the place that was at one day in the hands of England was another day in the hands of France, and a third in the hands of Burgundy. All regular warfare might be said to have come to an end. Each powerful noble made war on his own hand, and linked himself by very slender ties to this faction or that. His enterprises were his own, though they were directed, in some degree, to the benefit of his party; but if he owned in any one a right to command him, it was only with the reservation that he should obey or not as he pleased. Armed bands traversed the country in every direction. Hardly a field between the Loire and the Somme was not at some time a scene of strife. None knew, when they sowed the ground, who would reap the harvest; and the goods of the merchant were as often exposed to pillage as the crop of the husbandman.

Yet it is extraordinary how soon the mind of man, and especially the gay, volatile mind of the Frenchman, accommodates itself to circumstances. Here was a state almost intolerable, it would seem, to any but savages; but yet, in France, the skillful cook plied his busy trade, and the reeking kitchen sent up fragrant fumes. The auberge, the cabaret, the gite, the repue, all the places of public, entertainment, in short, were constantly filled with gay guests. The tailor's needle was never more employed, and as much ornament as ever was bestowed upon fair forms which might be destined a few days after to meet with a bloody death. The village bells called people to prayer and praise as usual, and rang out merrily for the wedding, even when hostile spears were within sight of the steeple.

Such was the state of the country, when, one day in the latter part of the summer of one thousand four hundred and nineteen, a young man, dressed in the garb of a monk, entered a small town near the city of Bourges. His feet were sandaled; he carried the pilgrim staff in his hand, and he was evidently wayworn and fatigued. The greater part of the peasantry were in the fields; and the street of the little place, running up the side of a small hill, lay almost solitary in the bright sunshine. The master of the gite, or small inn, however, was sitting at his own door, with an ancient companion, feeble and white-bearded, and they made some comments to one another upon the young stranger as he approached, which were not very favorable to monks in general.

"Oh, he is going to the Gray Friar's monastery, doubtless," said the host to his companion, "and doubtless they fare well there. He will have a jovial night of it after his journey, especially as this is Thursday."

"Ay, that's the time they always appoint for the women to come to confess," said the other; "and I dare say they talk over all the sins they hear pleasantly enough. See, he seems tending this way."

"Not he," replied the landlord; "we have but little custom from the brethren, though they can pay well when they will. Upon my life, I believe he is coming hither; but perhaps 'tis but to ask his way."