Time: September 3, 1429 Location: The Palace of Tau, Reims
The grand hall of the Palace of Tau was dead silent, save for the trembling voice of Lucas, the King's secretary, reading the parchment that had just been delivered under a flag of truce.
"To Charles of Valois, who falsely styles himself the King of Bourges:" Lucas began, swallowing hard as he felt the temperature in the room plummet.
"In the name of His Most Christian Majesty, Henry VI, by the Grace of God King of England and true King of France, you are hereby summoned to appear before the Parliament of Paris. You are to answer for your continued rebellion, your usurpation of royal titles, and your reliance upon demonic witchcraft to wage your unlawful war.
"We extend this invitation with the utmost grace. Furthermore, we must inform you that the Louvre currently hosts a most peculiar guest—a certain shepherdess from the village of Domrémy. Bishop Cauchon and the Holy Inquisition are most eager to hear her confession.
"We await your arrival, Charles. However, I advise you to make haste. The faggots for the pyre dry quickly in the late August sun, and the patience of the Holy Church—much like the lifespan of your false saint—is profoundly limited.
"— Signed, John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, Regent of France."
Lucas rolled up the parchment, his hands shaking. The English envoy, a haughty knight wearing the livery of the House of Lancaster, stood in the center of the hall, his chin raised in blatant defiance.
For a fraction of a second, the silence held. Then, the hall erupted.
The French generals roared in absolute outrage. Swords were drawn half out of their scabbards. The massive Gascon, La Hire, despite his recent demotion, looked ready to tear the envoy's throat out with his bare hands. "I will mount your head on a pike and send it back to Bedford myself!" he bellowed.
"Silence."
The word was not shouted, but it cut through the clamor like a guillotine blade. Charles VII rose slowly from his high-backed chair. The medieval king had vanished; the cold, calculating aura of the Emperor radiated through the vast chamber. He stepped down from the dais, walking slowly toward the English envoy. The Lancastrian knight tried to maintain his haughty sneer, but as he met Charles's abyssal, pitch-black eyes, an involuntary shiver ran down his spine.
"Return to Paris," Charles said, his voice dangerously soft. "Tell the Duke of Bedford that I graciously accept the invitation of his child-king. Tell him I shall attend his Parliament."
Charles paused, turning his head slightly. Through the open archways of the palace, the cold glint of polished bronze cannons parked in the courtyard caught the autumn light.
"But assure him," Charles continued, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling, "I will not come in the robes of a penitent. I shall attend with a helmet on my head, my bronze cannons at my back, and sixty thousand men to witness the verdict. Tell Bedford to spare his court the trouble. Truth lies only within the range of my cannons. My bronze guns shall deliver the final verdict!"
The envoy paled, the arrogant sneer entirely wiped from his face. He bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and practically fled from the hall.
As the heavy oak doors slammed shut behind the Englishman, the French nobles turned to their King, their blood boiling with the anticipation of a glorious, immediate march on Paris.
Charles watched the doors for a moment. Then, his rigid posture suddenly relaxed. He let out a long, weary sigh and rubbed his temples, as if the sheer weight of the crown was crushing him. The terrifying Emperor vanished, replaced seamlessly by a cautious, calculating politician.
"Calm yourselves, my lords," Charles said, walking back to his throne and sinking heavily into the cushions. "Against the English, intimidation is often far more useful than drawn steel. Bedford expects us to march in a blind rage. We shall not give him the satisfaction of dictating our movements."
The Duke of Alençon stepped forward, his eyes wide in disbelief. "Sire? You just told the envoy—"
"I told the envoy exactly what he needed to hear to spread panic in the streets of Paris," Charles interrupted smoothly. "But wars are not won by angry men rushing into fortified traps. We must proceed with extreme caution."
Charles turned to Archbishop Regnault de Chartres, who stood near the hearth, nervously clutching his treaty documents. "Archbishop, you shall proceed to Paris immediately to negotiate the ransom and ensure the terms of the truce are formally recognized by Bedford. Duke of Alençon, you and your Second Compagnie d'ordonnance will escort the Archbishop."
"Escort the Archbishop?!" Alençon exploded, his face turning a deep shade of crimson. "Sire! We must attack! The English will not negotiate! This is a fool's errand that only wastes precious time while Joan rots in a dungeon!"
Charles's gaze snapped to the young Duke, his eyes instantly turning to ice. "Duke of Alençon, the Second Company's task is to protect the seals of France, not to indulge your personal fantasies of chivalry. If you cannot follow a direct order, I will strip you of your command right here and give it to a man who can."
Alençon clenched his jaw so hard it looked as though his teeth might shatter. He bowed stiffly, humiliated and furious, unable to speak.
Charles then turned to Arthur de Richemont, the seasoned Constable of France, and the Counts of Vendôme and Clermont. "Constable Richemont. You will take the main host—the heavy infantry, the traditional men-at-arms, and the levies. You will march north, moving deliberately down the main axis toward Saint-Denis. If the Archbishop's negotiations fail, you will be in position to lay a formal siege."
Richemont pounded his mailed fist against his breastplate. "It shall be done, Your Majesty."
"As for myself," Charles said, waving a dismissive hand as he leaned back against the velvet. "Reims has only just been secured. The administration of the realm and the logistics of the treasury require my presence here. I will remain to govern the center. The fate of Paris, gentlemen, now rests in your capable hands. Whether by the Archbishop's quill or the Constable's sword, I have prepared the finest wine in Reims, and I shall wait here to toast your triumphant return."
With that, Charles dismissed the court.
Outside, the autumn wind whipped through the grand courtyard of the Palace of Tau as the nobles made their way to their horses.
The Count of Vendôme pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around his shoulders, glancing back at the magnificent facade of the palace. "It seems His Majesty has grown rather fond of his new home," Vendôme murmured, a hint of disdain in his voice.
The Count of Clermont let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "The velvet cushions of the Palace of Tau are certainly softer than the mud of the Île-de-France. Our glorious King is, in the end, nothing more than an engineer who likes to play at war from a safe distance. He talks a grand game of cannons and verdicts, but when it comes to the blood and horse-dung of a real melee, he lacks the courage of his ancestors."
Marshal Richemont swung himself onto his massive warhorse, the steel plates of his armor grinding together. He looked down at the two sneering counts with the hard, uncompromising eyes of a lifelong soldier.
"I do not care if the King sleeps on velvet or in a ditch," Richemont growled. "As long as he does not order me to retreat, I care not where he sits. If he points me toward the enemy, I will be at the front."
Without waiting for a reply, the Constable spurred his horse, accelerating rapidly toward the northern encampments to prepare the vanguard.
Back inside the Palace of Tau, the grand hall had completely emptied. The flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows across the stone floor.
Charles stood alone by the large windows, watching Richemont ride away. He remained motionless until he heard the soft, rhythmic clicking of the palace doors being locked and bolted from the inside.
"They are gone, Sire."
Charles turned. Standing in the center of the hall, stripped of any courtly finery and wearing practical, unadorned riding armor, were the men he had quietly ordered to stay behind.
Jean de Dunois, the Bastard of Orléans.
Raoul de Gamaches, commander of the First Compagnie d'ordonnance.
Guillaume de Flavy, the ruthless young captain.
And Magnus, the towering, stone-faced commander of the Scottish Guard.
They were the young wolves. The pragmatists. The men who had embraced the new tactical doctrines without the cumbersome baggage of feudal pride. As Charles looked at them, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. For a fleeting moment, the stone walls of Reims faded away. He did not see medieval knights; he saw the ghosts of his Grande Armée. He saw the aggressive brilliance of Murat, the unwavering loyalty of Lannes, the iron discipline of Davout.
He was home.
A low, chilling chuckle escaped Charles's lips, shattering the heavy silence of the hall. The men exchanged brief, excited glances. The weary, cautious politician they had seen on the throne twenty minutes ago was entirely gone.
"The public road has been paved, gentlemen," Charles said, his voice crackling with a terrifying, electric energy. He walked over to a large oak table and unrolled a massive map of the Île-de-France. "Richemont will march north to Saint-Denis. They will kick up enough dust to block out the sun, and Bedford will scramble every man he has to the northern gates of Paris to meet them."
Charles planted his hands on the table, leaning forward, his dark eyes burning with the fire of Austerlitz.
"But I have a smaller, quieter path I wish to walk with you. A path that, if we move fast enough, will hand us Paris on a silver platter."
The young commanders stepped closer to the map. Gamaches leaned in. "We are yours to command, Sire."
"We do not march north," Charles declared, dragging his finger across the parchment, tracing the blue ribbon of a river. "We take the Marne River Valley. We leave immediately."
Dunois frowned, tracing the route. "The Marne? Sire, the river road is faster, yes, but we will have no baggage train. We cannot sustain a siege from the east."
"There will be no siege, Dunois. This is a strike," Charles corrected him sharply. "You will strip the First Company and the Scottish Guard of all heavy baggage. No tents. No supply wagons. Every soldier carries his own rations. You will requisition every flat-bottomed barge on the river. The heavy siege bombards stay here. We take only the field artillery—the new bronze culverins. And you will harness double the horses to every gun carriage."
Magnus's eyes narrowed as he grasped the sheer audacity of the logistical math. "You want us to match the speed of the cavalry... while dragging cannons?"
"I want you to outrun the wind," Charles said coldly. "When the English are bracing for an anvil strike at the northern gates of Saint-Denis, we will be the hammer that smashes through their eastern flank at the Porte Saint-Antoine. We will bring the culverins right up to their moat before they even realize we have left Reims."
Flavy grinned, a feral light in his eyes. "A lightning strike. But Sire, what of the fortress at Meaux? It blocks the river. King Henry V bled for seven months trying to take it. If they spot us, they will send riders to Paris."
"Let them," Charles said, a predatory smile finally breaking across his face. "I want Bedford to hear the cannons at Meaux. Let him think I have blundered into a seven-month siege. Let him set his hourglass by the rules of medieval warfare. By the time his sand runs out..."
Charles drove his dagger directly into the parchment, the blade piercing the eastern gate of Paris.
"...he will already be a dead man. Prepare the men. We march in one hour."