Ultimately, under Laurent's gentle persuasion, the soldiers reluctantly agreed.
What he'd told them wasn't a lie. So long as Jeanne wasn't involved, he really could tilt a battle in their favor.
Laurent planned to infiltrate the upper ranks; battlefield merit was the fastest ladder. When the time came, he could volunteer to fight Jeanne—stage a plausible defeat and withdraw so her path stayed intact. Most important was the final battle when Jeanne turned nineteen. If he prevented her capture then, everything else would fall into place.
That had been the plan. But after killing those angels he wondered—couldn't he just storm straight to Jeanne and take her by force if he wanted? Then he remembered: without the system's map, he didn't even know where he was or how far Jeanne might be. He still needed information. He wanted, above all, to leave Jeanne's wishes untouched.
He remembered the year she left, how she'd confessed her single greatest desire: for the war to end, for killing to stop. He wanted to help make that childish dream real. At the very least, he never wanted to see her cry again.
It wouldn't be easy. Where there are interests and passions, wars will flare—human emotions breed hatred. Enemies won't vanish. Even if England and France reconciled, another conflict would arise. No simple solution could prevent that—unless, perhaps, humanity united against a single, fictitious foe. The enemy of my enemy is a friend; Laurent understood that well.
First, though, he had to figure out what stage of the war he'd landed in. If he recalled correctly, the Battle of the Herrings was pivotal to Jeanne earning trust. Pinpoint that battle's time and place, and he could guess Jeanne's location.
He followed the soldiers until their camp appeared.
They led him to a man: small mustache, armor, the air of someone used to giving orders—nobility at a glance.
"You found… a man?" Sir John Fastolf asked, surprised.
Laurent stepped forward, bowed slightly with practiced politeness. "Indeed, my lord. That man is me."
Fastolf's brow twitched. The soldiers who'd brought Laurent fell awkwardly to one side, afraid to speak. A demon stood beside them; one wrong word might be fatal.
Laurent smiled. "Allow me to introduce myself—I am Évigi. By the way, is your cargo herring?"
He'd seen cans among their supplies. With his sharpened sight he'd recognized them: canned herring—the very cargo tied to the Battle of the Herrings. He ignored the crossbows and powder; who needed them with a biological advantage like herring?
Fastolf blinked. "What about it?"
Laurent's manners bordered on rude. This was a rigid age: a commoner addressing a noble without permission was unthinkable. Yet no one dared correct him. The soldiers who found Laurent knew better than to provoke him; Fastolf, unsure who this stranger was, worried about offending the wrong person.
"We are transporting canned herring," one soldier admitted.
"Then let me join," Laurent said smoothly. "I can be of considerable assistance."
Fastolf studied him. This whole exchange felt off—he'd come to ask about the golden light, not to chat with a random man. Still, with little else to occupy him, he agreed.
"Oh, the golden light—did your investigation find anything?" Fastolf asked.
The nervous soldiers glanced at Laurent, then at the noble. Laurent chuckled and explained, "Tell me, Sir Fastolf—do you believe in the Lord?"
"Of course I do."
"That golden radiance you saw was a divine revelation. The Lord told me to accompany your group and personally escort this cargo so no harm befalls it."
Fastolf's men nodded frantically to back him up. Whatever this demonic lord said, they'd agree—better safe than sorry.
"My thanks, Lord Évigi—"
Laurent cut in, "Just 'Évigi' will do."
Fastolf swallowed. He'd wanted to ask whether Laurent was a noble, but the moment passed.
If only I'd asked whether he's titled… Fastolf thought, annoyed at himself.