Time: September 2, 1429 Location: The Gates of Reims / The Palace of Tau
The return to Reims was not marked by the blare of triumphant trumpets, but by a suffocating, funeral silence.
Weeks ago, Joan of Arc had ridden through these very gates in pristine white armor, leading the King to his sacred coronation amidst a rain of flowers and the deafening cheers of a liberated people.
Today, the sky was a bruised, overcast grey. The vanguard returning through the gates was a procession of ghosts.
Rumors, moving faster than any horse, had already poisoned the city for days. Merchants fleeing the north whispered of a bloodbath at Senlis. Now, the citizens of Reims lined the cobblestone streets, their eyes scanning the weary, battered column of returning cavalry. They looked past the stoic, mud-caked face of Magnus. They looked past the wounded men slumped in their saddles.
They were searching for a flash of white armor. They found nothing.
The air grew heavy with a terrifying realization. As the massive Gascon general, La Hire, rode past, a local blacksmith could no longer bear the suspense. He stepped out from the silent crowd, his leather apron stained with soot, and called out in a trembling voice.
"General... General La Hire?" the blacksmith asked, his eyes darting frantically through the ranks. "Where is the Maid? Why did she not ride back with you?"
La Hire, the foul-mouthed, battle-crazed warlord who feared no man or demon, froze. He looked down at the blacksmith. The giant man's lips trembled. He did not answer. Instead, he slowly lowered his head, a single tear cutting a clean path through the dried blood and dirt on his cheek. Around him, the surviving cavalrymen averted their eyes in profound, agonizing shame.
The silence of the crowd turned into a collective, stifled sob. The rumor was true. The Saint had fallen into the hands of the enemy.
"By all the laws of war, I should have you hanged from the highest battlement of this city!"
The voice of Charles VII echoed like a whip-crack through the grand hall of the Palace of Tau. The King's eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of terrifying, icy wrath.
La Hire was on his knees before the throne, his heavy armor clanking against the stone floor. He wiped a mixture of tears and grime from his face with the back of his massive hand. "Sire... put me in irons, whip me, but please! Let me rally the remaining men! Give me three days, and I will tear apart the English lines and drag her back!"
"You will do nothing!" Charles snapped, his voice vibrating with absolute authority. "You took my vanguard, severed your own supply lines, and handed the symbol of France over to the Duke of Bedford! You have compromised the entire theater of war!"
The Duke of Alençon paced frantically beside the hearth, his face pale with panic. "Sire, we cannot abandon her! Joan cannot remain in English hands! If they put her on trial, if they label her a heretic... the morale of the entire kingdom will collapse! We must march!"
"I must remind you, Duke of Alençon, that we are currently under a truce," the Count of Vendôme drawled smoothly, his voice carrying a leisurely, almost satisfied tone.
Before the argument could escalate, the heavy oak doors swung open. Archbishop Regnault de Chartres strode into the hall, a triumphant smile plastered across his face, accompanied by two clerks carrying heavy, wax-sealed parchment rolls.
"Your Majesty! I have returned!" the Archbishop announced, gesturing grandly to the documents. "The mission is a resounding success! The Duke of Burgundy has formally signed the fifteen-day truce. We have absolute assurances of peace, and..."
The Archbishop's voice trailed off. He noticed La Hire kneeling in the dirt, the panicked look on Alençon's face, and the murderous chill in the King's eyes. The triumphant smile vanished from his lips.
"Speak freely, Archbishop," Charles commanded, sitting back in his throne. "Do not let our domestic troubles dull your diplomatic triumph."
Regnault cleared his throat, his political instincts instantly taking over. "Sire... I must confess. While at Arras, my spies informed me that Chancellor Nicolas Rolin was not only negotiating with us, but holding secret audiences with the English envoys." The Archbishop paused, looking at La Hire. "And... when I entered the city gates yesterday, the streets were rife with rumors. They say the Maid took the northern towns, but was swept up by English cavalry?"
"The rumors are true," Charles said flatly. "What is your counsel, Chancellor of France?"
Regnault's face grew grave, but his mind quickly calculated the political math. "If she is held by the English, this is a delicate matter. But it is not unsolvable. According to the laws of chivalry and feudal warfare, we must immediately dispatch an envoy to the Duke of Bedford. We offer a King's ransom. I estimate twenty thousand gold crowns should be sufficient to buy back the girl without breaking the truce."
The hall erupted.
"Twenty thousand?!" the Count of Clermont squawked. "The treasury is empty! We are already squeezing the merchants dry to arm the infantry! We cannot bankrupt the state for a single prisoner!"
"She is not a single prisoner, you fool!" Alençon roared back. "She is the savior of Orléans!"
As the nobles fell into a bitter, chaotic shouting match over gold and feudal laws, Charles slowly tuned them out. His gaze drifted past the bickering lords, staring blankly at the stained-glass window above the doors.
So, this is the terrifying inertia of history, the Emperor thought, a profound sense of isolation washing over him.
He had calculated everything. He had built a modern logistical network. He had forged the Compagnies d'ordonnance. He had thought that by keeping her close, he could easily bypass her historical capture at Compiègne next year. But the universe had simply found a different muddy field, a different ambush, months ahead of schedule.
Is it inevitable? he asked himself. Must I sit on this throne and watch them burn you at the stake in Rouen? Will the flames consume you, little girl, just to satisfy the timeline?
A cold, familiar fire suddenly ignited in Napoleon's chest. The fire of Austerlitz. The fire of a man who had crowned himself.
No.I do not bow to destiny. Destiny bows to my artillery. "ENOUGH!"
The single word exploded from the King's lips with such terrifying force that the entire hall fell dead silent.
Charles stood up. The medieval King was gone; the Emperor of the French stood before them.
"Master of Ordnance!" Charles commanded, not looking at the nobles, but directly at his military staff. "I want a full inventory of every bronze cannon, every bombard, and every pound of black powder currently in Reims. Magnus! Assemble the general staff. We transition to full combat readiness immediately."
The Count of Vendôme stepped forward, thoroughly confused. "But Sire! Just days ago you said we must not be the ones to break the peace treaty! You said the new army needed more time to integrate!"
Charles turned his dark, penetrating gaze to Vendôme, and then to the Archbishop. "We are not breaking the treaty. The English have shamelessly ambushed and kidnapped a high-ranking commander of the French army during a period of negotiated peace. They have spat upon the truce, and we are merely answering their treachery with the steel they deserve."
He looked directly at Regnault. "Tell me, Archbishop. Do you truly believe the Duke of Burgundy will honor his 'assurances of peace' now that his English allies hold our Saint?"
The Archbishop opened his mouth to defend his treaty, but looking into the Emperor's eyes, the words died in his throat. Regnault looked down at the stone floor. Sometimes, silence is the loudest answer of all.
Charles did not wait for a reply. He looked down at the kneeling, weeping Gascon giant.
"Alençon, take command of the vanguard. La Hire!"
The giant looked up, his eyes wide.
"You and the Maid marched without my orders. By right, you should face the firing squad," Charles said, his voice cold but devoid of its earlier wrath. "But I have need of monsters. You are temporarily stripped of your rank and reassigned to the Second Compagnie d'ordonnance. You will fight under my direct command to earn your life back."
Charles looked out over the assembled lords of France, his presence radiating an unstoppable, mechanical certainty.
"Rest the horses today. We march on Paris. And remember this, my lords..." Charles's eyes gleamed with a chilling, calculated light. "We do not negotiate with thieves. The heavier our cannons strike their walls, the safer the Maid becomes."