Time: August 11, 1429 Location: The Streets of Reims / The Royal Council Chamber
"Make way! In the name of the King, make way!"
A frantic shout tore through the humid afternoon air. The bustling market street instantly dissolved into chaos as fifty light cavalrymen tore through the city gates at a breakneck gallop. At the head of the formation rode Joan of Arc, her white armor caked in gray dust, her destrier foaming at the mouth. She did not slow down, tearing through the narrow avenues like a bolt of white lightning aimed directly at the Palace of Tau.
Merchants abandoned their stalls, mothers grabbed their children, and peasants pressed themselves flat against the stone walls as the violent procession thundered past.
As the dust began to settle and the sound of hooves faded toward the royal quarter, a fruit vendor cautiously stepped out from an alley, waving the dust from his face.
"Holy Mother of God..." the vendor muttered, picking up a bruised apple. "The Maid rides like the Devil himself is on her heels. Are we marching to war again?"
Beside him, a blacksmith crossed his arms, shaking his head grimly. "Who knows? Just two days ago she stood in the square promising us Paris without a single drop of blood. But I told you, Jacques... you cannot trust a Burgundian with a truce any more than you can trust a starving wolf with a lamb."
Inside the Royal Council Chamber, the heavy oak doors flew open with a violent crash.
The heated debate among the high lords of France instantly died. All eyes turned to the doorway. Joan strode in, gasping for breath, the scent of horse sweat and dried blood clinging to her armor.
Charles VII, seated at the head of the long table, did not flinch. He slowly set down his quill, his dark eyes calmly assessing the explosive energy entering his domain. "What has happened, little girl? You departed only days ago. I trust you did not ride your horses to the bone just to miss the wine of Reims."
"Sire!" Joan stepped forward, her voice trembling with righteous fury and exhaustion. "The Burgundians ambushed our supply convoy near the plains of Mailly! Ambroise de Loré and I arrived just in time to save the wagons and slaughter the Écorcheurs."
A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. But Joan did not stop.
"There is something worse, Your Majesty. Loré interrogated their captain on the field. They were not just raiding. They were acting as a rearguard for a massive convoy of 'Flemish wool merchants' heading toward the northern gates of Paris. Hundreds of them!" Joan slammed her gauntleted fist against her breastplate. "We suspect the Duke of Burgundy is sending soldiers disguised as merchants! The truce is a lie to buy them time to fortify the city!"
The council chamber erupted into a cacophony of aristocratic panic and disbelief.
"Preposterous!" scoffed Charles de Bourbon, the Count of Clermont, adjusting his silk collar nervously. He owned vast estates and dreaded the cost of a renewed campaign. "You slaughter a few brigands and suddenly every wool merchant is a phantom army? Maid, you see English demons in every shadow. If you tear up the treaty over a hunch, the blood will be on your hands!"
"A bale of raw wool weighs enough to hide a cuirass, a helmet, and a dozen crossbows," Jean de Dunois, the Bastard of Orléans, countered coldly, his tactical mind instantly seeing the threat. He looked at the Constable of France, Arthur de Richemont. The scarred Constable nodded grimly, his hand resting on his sword hilt. They both knew the Maid was right.
"We must strike now!" Joan pleaded, ignoring the nobles and looking directly at Charles. "We cannot let them seal the trap!"
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Charles gently knocked his knuckles against the wooden table. The sound was not loud, but it possessed a strange, commanding weight. The bickering dukes and counts instantly fell silent, turning their gaze to the King.
Charles did not answer Joan directly. Instead, he turned his head slightly toward a figure in austere clerical robes seated to his right.
"Tell me," Charles asked quietly, his voice a picture of monarchial restraint. "Can we strike?"
Father Lucas stood up. His face was grave, his posture rigid with pious authority. He looked at Joan, then at the assembled lords.
"I must remind this council," Lucas proclaimed, his tone heavy and solemn, "that Chancellor Regnault, our Archbishop, is currently deep inside Burgundian territory. He is negotiating the final terms of this very truce with Duke Philip. If we launch a preemptive strike today, we not only break our sacred oath before God, but we also condemn our Archbishop to a dark dungeon, or worse... the executioner's block."
Lucas spread his hands, looking mortified by the very idea. "Shall we trade the head of the French Church for a few suspicious carts of wool?"
Clermont and the Count of Vendôme immediately nodded in vigorous agreement. "The Father speaks the truth! We cannot jeopardize the Archbishop, nor our honor!" they chimed in, visibly relieved that a moral excuse had been provided to avoid a bloody siege.
Charles watched the fiery Maiden and the terrified dukes with the profound, detached amusement of a grandmaster watching pawns move across a chessboard.
He knew exactly what Duke Philip was doing in Paris. The Burgundians were packing the city with men, turning it into a congested fortress. To a medieval mind, it was an impenetrable defense. To an Emperor of Artillery, it was merely a denser target. Why waste men fighting a mobile army in the field when the enemy was willingly trapping themselves inside a stone box?
He took a slow sip of his wine. There was a military maxim that would not be written for another four centuries, yet it resonated perfectly within his soul at this very moment:
Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.
"Alençon," Charles's voice suddenly cut through the room like a whip.
The Duke of Alençon startled, immediately recovering his aristocratic poise. "Here, Your Majesty."
"What is the status of our new formations?"
Alençon felt the heavy gazes of the room shift to him. He met the eyes of Dunois and Richemont—the true soldiers, who stared at him with burning intensity. Then he saw Clermont and Vendôme looking away, their eyes intentionally avoiding his. The feudal lords were holding back their gold and their best men, waiting to see which way the wind blew. No one wanted to be cannon fodder.
"They... are integrating, Sire," Alençon answered carefully, speaking the political truth. "But they are far from ready for front-line siege warfare. The cohesion is not yet there."
Charles nodded slowly, as if weighing a great tragedy. "There we have it. Between the safety of Archbishop Regnault and the unreadiness of our troops, the strategic imperative is clear. We must be conservative. We will observe the truce. We wait."
"But Sire!" Joan cried out in pure agony.
"If you are so restless, Joan," Charles interrupted, his tone turning sharply authoritative, "go find La Hire."
Even Dunois raised an eyebrow at that name. La Hire was the most foul-mouthed, bloodthirsty, and unpredictable vanguard commander in the entire French army.
"Take La Hire and his Gascons," Charles ordered. "Ride back and reinforce Ambroise de Loré. Secure the supply lines. But hear me well: you are not to launch a preemptive attack on the capital. Do I make myself clear?"
Joan stared at the King. She saw a wall she could not break. With a sudden, furious jerk of her arm, she turned on her heel. Her white cape snapped like a sail in a storm as she stormed out of the council chamber, leaving a suffocating silence in her wake.
Charles did not bother to watch her leave. He placed his hands flat on the table, turning his dark, calculating eyes toward the wealthy dukes and counts.
"Now," the King said, his tone shifting from pious peacemaker to cold pragmatist. "The English and the Burgundians have granted us a fortnight. We shall not waste a single hour of it."
He looked directly at Clermont and Vendôme. "Our new infantry formations require equipment. I am talking about boiled leather cuirasses, padded gambesons, quality yew bows, and tens of thousands of steel-tipped shafts. The royal treasury is presently... exhausted."
Charles offered a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Therefore, to ensure the Crown has the strength to protect your vast, beautiful estates from these 'phantom armies', I expect the high lords of this council to open their coffers. Let us discuss your financial contributions to the training of our soldiers, shall we?"
Under the terrifyingly calm gaze of the Emperor, the wealthy lords of France suddenly realized that war might have been cheaper.