Time: July 20, 1429
Location: The Archbishop's Palace, Reims · The King's Study
The ink on the Reims Articles of Organization was barely dry, but the weight of it was already bending the table.
Charles VII sat behind the heavy oak desk. To his left stood Magnus, a shadow in the corner. To his right sat Lucas le Breton, his quill hovering over the ledger like a hawk waiting to strike.
Facing them were the architects of the new army: The Duke of Alençon, Captain Raoul de Gamaches, and Ambroise de Loré.
Alençon looked tired. His eyes were rimmed with red, but his posture was rigid. He placed a heavy stack of parchment on the desk.
"The reports are in, Sire," Alençon said. "The reform has begun. But as you predicted... the ink flows differently depending on whose hand holds the quill."
Ghosts in the Ranks
"First," Alençon announced, tapping the top document. "My own house. The 2nd Compagnie d'ordonnance is formed."
"One hundred Lances. Six hundred men. Verified by Gamaches."
He looked at the veteran captain.
"They are raw, Sire," Gamaches added bluntly. "But they are structured. The Five Fingers are drilling them now. It is a trial company (un essai), but the mold is set."
"Good," Charles said. "Now, show me the others."
Alençon spread four scrolls across the table. Each bore the heavy wax seal of a Great Lord.
"The Bastard of Orléans (Dunois)," Alençon pointed to the first.
Strength: 100 Lances.Commander:Florent d'Illiers.Verdict: "Clean. Dunois knows war. He has cut the dead wood. d'Illiers is a hard man, but honest."
"The Constable de Richemont," Alençon moved to the second, bearing the ermine seal of Brittany.
Strength: 150 Lances.Commander:Pierre de Rostrenen.Verdict: "He refuses to adopt the full 'mixed lance' structure immediately, claiming Breton custom. But his men are killers. He demands judicial immunity for his captains within the camp."
Charles nodded. "Grant it. Richemont fights for power, not money. If he delivers victory, he can have his court."
Then, Alençon hesitated. He pushed forward the third scroll. The wax seal was unnecessarily large, stamped with the elaborate arms of Bourbon.
"The Count of Clermont," Alençon said, his voice flat.
Strength: 120 Lances (720 men).Commander:Marshal Gilbert Motier de La Fayette.
"One hundred and twenty?" Charles raised an eyebrow. "He brought fewer than four hundred men to Reims."
"He has been... creative," Alençon said dryly. "The list includes 'squires' who were peeling potatoes in his kitchen last week. And 'archers' who have never held a bow."
"His commander, Marshal de La Fayette, is a legend of the old war, Sire. But he is old. He signs whatever Clermont puts in front of him."
Magnus stepped out of the shadows. He didn't speak. He simply reached over and dragged a fingernail across the bottom of Clermont's roster.
Scritch.
"Page four," Magnus said, his voice like grinding stones. "Twenty 'archers'. Ages twelve to fifteen. No horses listed."
Lucas le Breton did not look up. "A fausse montre," he said, almost gently. "A false muster."
Lucas le Breton's quill stopped scratching. The silence in the room was absolute. This was fraud, plain and simple. Stealing the King's wages.
"And finally, The Count of Vendôme," Alençon finished.
Strength: 80 Lances.Commander:Jean de Bueil.Verdict: "Young de Bueil is capable, Sire. A reformer at heart. But Vendôme has tied his hands with old retainers who cannot be fired."
Charles looked at the lies spread out on his table. The bloated numbers of Clermont, the struggling compromise of Vendôme.
He picked up the Royal Seal.
"Approve them," Charles said.
Alençon blinked. "Sire? Clermont is stealing from you. Those twenty boys..."
"Are a trap," Charles cut him off. He pressed the seal into the hot wax on Clermont's roster.
"Approved—for muster," Charles said. "Pay is another matter."
"If I reject them now, Clermont will claim I am disarming a Peer of France. He will sulk in his tent."
"Let them march. Let them stand in the line."
Charles looked at Magnus.
"The English arrows will filter the cowards. And the audit... will filter the liars."
Lucas's eyes flicked once to Clermont's oversized seal. "He wants it seen," he murmured. "Let him."
The Blank Page
"The second matter," Alençon said, shifting the mood. "The Order of the Thorns."
He presented a new set of lists. These were the nominations for the new medals.
Clermont and Vendôme's lists were long. Every name began with "de". Cousins, nephews, illegitimate sons. The justifications were flowery: "For noble bearing," "For ancient lineage."
They treated the Bronze Thorn like a party favor.
Dunois and Richemont were more disciplined. Their lists contained knights, but also a few sergeant-majors and veteran archers.
Then, Charles looked at the lists for the 1st and 2nd Compagnies d'ordonnance—the King's own troops.
The parchment was blank.
Lucas slid the blank sheet a finger's breadth across the desk. The paper made a dry, reluctant sound—like a door that did not wish to open.
"Where are your nominees?" Charles asked.
"We have none, Sire," Alençon said, standing tall.
"Gamaches and I agreed. We are the new model. We cannot claim honors for old wars. If we want the Thorns, we must earn them in the mud of the next campaign."
Gamaches stepped forward. He touched the Golden Thorn that Charles had pinned to his chest two days ago.
"The men see this, Sire. They are hungry. They do not want a medal given for showing up. They want a medal torn from the enemy's grip."
Charles looked at them. For a moment, the room faded. He saw the spirit of the Vieille Garde—the Old Guard—forming in the air. Men who served for glory, not for loot.
"I will not lose this time," Charles whispered to himself.
He turned to Lucas.
"Issue provisional letters under seal for all noble nominees—pending proof at the next muster."
"Temporary, Sire?" Lucas asked.
"Yes. Let Clermont's favorites wear the Bronze Thorn. Let them strut."
Charles's voice dropped to a chill.
" But add a clause: 'Subject to field verification by the Provost Marshal before the next muster.'"
Magnus smiled. It was not a nice smile.
" I will check their scars, Sire. And if I find soft hands… the Thorn comes off—publicly. "
Alençon felt the shift in the room: they did not fear the Thorn—only the hand that could take it back.
The Interest on the Loan
"Final matter," Charles said, turning to the Scotsman. "Your detachment, Magnus. The men who will guard the grain with Jacques Cœur."
Magnus handed over a short, precise list.
"I need three men from the Guard: Gaston the Cleaver, Arnaud Bone-Breaker, and a sergeant."
"But for the sergeant... I need a brain, not a sword."
Magnus pointed to a name on the list.
"Didier, called L'Abaque. The artillery quartermaster."
Alençon hissed a breath. "Jean Bureau will never agree. He guards his artillerymen like a dragon guards gold. He thinks everyone is trying to steal his gunpowder recipes."
"Didier is the only man who can count faster than Jacques Cœur can lie," Magnus insisted. "And I need Chaplains. Men with Lucas's authority to silence the abbots."
Charles looked at the list. He was stripping his own household and his most valuable technical corps to build this police force.
"You are asking me to borrow against my own capital, Magnus," Charles said. "You want my personal guard, the Church's authority, and Bureau's secrets."
He leaned forward.
"The interest on this loan is very high. How do you intend to repay me?"
Magnus did not flinch.
"With Order, Sire."
"I will repay you with a kingdom where a sack of grain leaving Tours arrives in Reims without missing a single grain."
Charles stared at him for a long beat.
"Done."
He turned to Lucas.
"Draft the order for Jean Bureau. Tell him I am borrowing Didier for one month. If he complains, tell him I will buy him two new culverins."
"And issue the Ecclesiastical Mandate. Give the chaplains the seal of the Vicar General."
"All costs," Charles added, pointing to the ledger, "are to be charged to the Royal Treasury—which means Jacques Cœur pays for the rope that binds him."
Lucas's quill hovered. "Bureau counts cannon the way kings count heirs," he said quietly. "He will not forgive this debt."
The Iron Door
The council was dismissed.
Alençon and Gamaches left to drill their men. Magnus left to sharpen his knives.
"Are you retiring, Sire?" Lucas asked, gathering the signed warrants.
Charles stood up and walked to the window. He looked out over the city of Reims. In the distance, near the walls, a plume of thick, black smoke rose into the sky. It was not a kitchen fire. It was the industrial smoke of a foundry.
"No," Charles said. "We have organized the men. We have secured the food. We have defined the honors."
He looked at the black smoke.
"But men and bread are soft. To take Paris, we need something harder."
He turned to the door.
"I am going to see Jean Bureau."
"We have the keys to the granary. Now, I want the keys to the thunder."