Time: September 3 – September 8, 1429 Location: Reims / The Road to Château-Thierry
"Your Majesty, the Archbishop and the Duke of Alençon have departed. Constable Richemont's vanguard has also begun its march north."
Magnus stood at the threshold of the king's private chambers. Charles VII did not turn from the window, watching the dust settle over the northern road.
"Have the remaining forces—the First Company, the Scottish Guard, and the field artillery—assemble at the western training grounds," Charles instructed, his tone brisk and entirely focused on the logistics. "Deploy the royal standards. Make it look like a formal review."
Magnus nodded and turned to leave. Lucas, the King's young secretary, hesitated near the door, clutching a stack of ink-stained ledgers.
"Is this not somewhat reckless, Sire?" Lucas asked nervously. "To parade the elite companies in the open while the main host marches away? If the English spies realize we are splitting the army..."
Charles turned from the window. He didn't offer a grandiose speech about destiny. He simply tightened the leather straps of his riding gauntlets. "Calculated risk, Lucas. I cannot sit in this palace and watch Joan burn at the stake again."
Lucas blinked. Again? he thought, confused. The Maid had only just been captured. Before he could ask, Charles strode past him, his dark riding cloak sweeping over the stone floor.
"Bring your saddlebags, Lucas. We ride."
The vast training grounds outside the western gates of Reims were a sea of gleaming steel. Over eight thousand elite soldiers stood in eerie, disciplined silence. The wind snapped the royal banners, but the usual boisterous chatter of a medieval camp was absent.
Charles rode his black destrier onto the observation platform. He looked down at the hardened veterans of Orléans and the newly formed Compagnies d'ordonnance.
"Soldiers of France!" Charles's voice carried over the wind, sharp and commanding. "You followed me from the starving walls of Orléans to the altars of Reims! Before this, the Crown asked everything of you, and paid you only in mud and the cold rain of the Île-de-France."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the front ranks.
"But who was it that brought the light?" Charles demanded. "Who shattered the English myth?"
"The Maid!" Jean de Dunois roared, raising his sword. Instantly, his veterans took up the cry. "The Maid! Joan!"
"And whose Saint is she?"
"FRANCE!" The unified roar shook the ground.
"The English slaughtered our fathers at Agincourt," Charles yelled, pointing his blade toward the western horizon. "And now, they plan to drag our Saint to the fire! But I tell you this: the flames they kindle for her will consume their empire instead!"
He raised himself in the stirrups. "Look to the towers of Notre Dame in your minds! Ten centuries of glory are watching you! I ask only that when you return home, you need only say, 'I fought to take back Paris,' and your people will answer: 'There goes a brave man!'"
"PARIS! PARIS!" The chant erupted in deafening thunder.
Charles slashed his sword downward. "Roll up the standards! Leave the heavy baggage! We march for Château-Thierry, and we do not stop until the horses bleed!"
What followed was a brutal testament to the new military machine. It was a march that defied every established rule of the century.
Henri, a veteran gunner from Orléans, wiped a mixture of sweat and mud from his eyes. He had never seen cannons move like this. Usually, the great bronze beasts crawled at a snail's pace, dragged by lumbering oxen while the army waited.
Now, the sleek, modernized bronze culverins were lashed to heavy warhorses, harnessed double. The gun carriages bounced and groaned violently over the rutted dirt roads, forced to keep pace with the cavalry.
"Don't let it bog down! Keep it moving!" the artillery captain screamed, his voice hoarse.
The wheel of Henri's culverin sank deep into a muddy trench. There was no stopping to set up camp, no waiting for the engineers. "Heave!" Henri grunted, throwing his aching shoulder against the filthy, iron-rimmed spokes. Three other gunners joined him, their muscles screaming in protest until the carriage lurched forward, spraying them with wet clay.
They ate hardtack and dried meat while walking. There were no campfires to warm their freezing hands at night. When horses collapsed, they were instantly unharnessed and replaced. Through it all, the men looked toward the vanguard. Charles rode at the very front, his fine armor coated in the exact same grey mud as Henri's boots. The King did not complain, and so the men pushed on, driven by a shared, terrifying momentum.
In five grueling days, they devoured the distance to Château-Thierry.
That evening, the command tent was pitched hastily in the dark. Rain drummed heavily against the canvas.
Inside, the atmosphere was fraught with tension. A map of the Île-de-France lay on a folding table, illuminated by a single oil lamp.
"We are twelve leagues from Meaux, Sire," Dunois said, tracing the Marne River. His voice was grim. "It is a fortress of immense strength. King Henry V bled his army dry for seven months trying to crack it."
"And we have no heavy baggage, no siege lines, and no foraging parties," Raoul de Gamaches interjected, his aristocratic pride bristling at the unorthodox march. "My men are exhausted, Sire. We cannot assault a fortress of that magnitude with field rations and no proper camp!"
Magnus crossed his massive arms. "But if we bypass it, we must build pontoon bridges across the river under constant arrow fire from the garrison. The casualties will be unacceptable, and it will cost us days."
Charles listened to the heated debate, his eyes tracking the blue line of the river on the map.
"We do not bypass it," Charles said quietly. "We attack Meaux."
Dunois slammed his hand on the table, his frustration boiling over. "With what, Sire? We left the heavy siege bombards in Reims! We only brought field culverins. They are meant for infantry, not for cracking ten-foot stone walls! And the moment we open fire, the garrison will send riders to Paris to warn Bedford that we are in the east!"
Charles looked up at Dunois. "That is exactly what I want him to know."
The tent fell silent. The generals stared at the King, utterly bewildered.
Charles tapped the western road leading out of Meaux. "Magnus. Take the fastest riders of the Scottish Guard. Sweep ahead and blockade this road."
"Blockade it, Sire?" Magnus frowned, his thick brows knitting together.
"When our cannons fire, the English will panic," Charles explained, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "They will immediately dispatch a rider to Paris to cry for help. Let that first rider through."
Gamaches shook his head. "Let him go? He will hand the Regent our position on a silver platter."
"He will hand Bedford a lie," Charles corrected, a chilling smile touching his lips. "He will report a traditional siege. He will tell the Regent that the French King is doing exactly what Henry V did—settling in for a seven-month slog in the mud. Bedford will feel entirely safe pulling his reserves north to face Richemont."
Charles poured a cup of water from a tin pitcher, taking a slow sip to let the tactical reality sink in.
"But after that first rider passes..." Charles set the cup down, his gaze locking onto the Scotsman. "Seal the road."
Magnus nodded slowly, the realization dawning in his eyes.
Charles stepped closer to the map, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Every scout. Every messenger. Intercept them. Kill them all."
Dunois stared at the map, the terrifying math of the Emperor's operational tempo suddenly clicking into place. A slow, incredulous laugh escaped the Bastard of Orléans.
"My God," Dunois breathed, looking at Charles. "You don't intend to besiege it. You plan to shatter the walls of Meaux before they can even send a second messenger."