Time: August 20, 1429 Location: The Palace of Tau, Reims
The midday sun streamed through the magnificent stained-glass windows of the council chamber, casting a kaleidoscope of warm colors across the long oak table. For the first time in weeks, the heavy, suffocating air of war had lifted.
The Royal Steward moved gracefully around the room, pouring chilled white wine from the vineyards of Champagne into the silver goblets of the high lords.
"And so, Your Majesty," the weary but beaming messenger from Arras concluded, "Archbishop Regnault has secured the signatures. The fifteen-day truce is absolute. He bids you not to worry for his safety; he is taking a slow journey back to inspect the dioceses, but assures you he shall arrive in time to celebrate the peaceful handover of Paris!"
A genuine, collective sigh of relief washed over the room.
Charles VII took a sip of his wine, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint, unreadable smile. Around him, the nobles broke into rare, unfiltered laughter.
"Well, if the Archbishop is so persuasive," the Duke of Alençon chuckled, swirling his wine glass, "perhaps I should send him to speak with the English Regent next. I would very much like the keys to my ancestral lands handed back to me on a velvet cushion!"
The Count of Vendôme and the Count of Clermont laughed the loudest, raising their goblets in a cheerful toast. The palace was momentarily filled with the intoxicating, lighthearted delusion of a bloodless victory.
Then, the heavy oak doors groaned open.
The laughter died on their lips. Magnus, the towering commander of the Scottish Guard, stepped into the room. He was not smiling. Behind him, he half-carried, half-dragged a man whose tabard was unrecognizable beneath a thick crust of dried mud, sweat, and soot. The stench of exhausted horses and smoke immediately overpowered the sweet aroma of the wine.
The man collapsed to one knee, gasping for air. He was a courier from the deep south, bearing the seal of Jacques Coeur.
The smiles were still frozen on the faces of the dukes as Charles set his goblet down. The faint amusement in the King's eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating obsidian.
"Speak," Charles commanded.
"Sire," the courier wheezed, handing a sealed parchment to Magnus, who placed it before the King. "Master Coeur sends urgent word from Chinon. The war bonds succeed... but the royal supply line has been severed. On the tenth of August, a massive English cavalry force bypassed our southern defenses. They hit the crossing at Azay-le-Brûlé. The grain is gone, Sire. Burned to ash. Only the gunpowder was spared because it was hidden."
A deathly silence fell over the chamber. Charles broke the wax seal, his eyes scanning the ledger-like precision of Jacques Coeur's report. His face grew darker with every line.
Without a word, Charles slid the letter across the table to Alençon. The other nobles immediately crowded around the Duke's shoulders.
"August the tenth," Alençon muttered, his blood running cold. He looked up at the King. "Sire... Joan and Loré were ambushed by Burgundian raiders on the plains of Mailly on August the ninth. And the very next day, the English strike our deepest supply lines in the south? This is no coincidence. They are moving in unison!"
"Nonsense," Clermont stammered, his face pale as he backed away from the table. He looked at Vendôme for support. "It must be a coincidence! A stray raiding party! If we accuse them of a coordinated breach of the truce, the Archbishop is dead!"
"A coincidence that starves our army?" Jean de Dunois scoffed, his fists clenching.
Charles raised a hand, silencing the erupting panic. He looked at the trembling lords with unnerving calm. "Master Coeur has proposed a countermeasure to protect our surviving arteries. He suggests we strip the royal Fleur-de-lis from our wagons. He wishes to replace our banners with those of the Drapers' Guild and private merchants, turning the King's lifeline into a chaotic smuggling operation to avoid English eyes. What say you?"
The reaction was instantaneous and explosive.
"Sacrilege!" Vendôme shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "Hide the King's banner beneath the rag of a wool merchant? It is an insult to the Crown! It is a humiliation before the eyes of God and our enemies!"
Alençon frowned, clearly torn, but even he nodded slowly. "Sire, a King cannot hide his colors in his own realm. What would the commoners think? It projects intolerable weakness."
Charles sighed softly, the perfect picture of a monarch trapped by the pride of his vassals. "Our supply lines stretch for hundreds of miles. You can hide a thief for a thousand days, but you cannot guard a house for a thousand days. Yet, if honor forbids it..."
Before the King could finish his feigned surrender, Father Lucas stepped forward from the shadows of the hearth.
"Your Majesty," Lucas's voice rang out, carrying the absolute weight of the pulpit. "Did the Lord not send His angels in the guise of mortal men to walk through Sodom, precisely to avoid the eyes of the wicked? Did the young King David wear the heavy, shining armor of Saul when he faced Goliath? No! He wore the simple tunic of a shepherd. It was not cowardice; it was divine wisdom!"
The nobles stared at the priest, stunned by the theological pivot.
Lucas swept his gaze across the room, locking eyes with Vendôme. "To cloak the kingdom's survival in the humble garments of merchants is not a humiliation, My Lords. It is a shield forged by God! If the grain reaches the front lines, the King is using his supreme wisdom to borrow the shell of the commoners to deliver heavenly justice. When Paris is ours, the world will not laugh at missing banners. They will praise a King whose intellect towers above the pride of men. A King whose flag is a target for a thousand days is foolish; a King who hides his army behind a merchant's sail is invincible!"
Charles almost smiled. It was the perfect bridge. But he needed a hammer to drive it home.
He didn't have to wait. Arthur de Richemont, the scarred Constable of France, stood up. The scraping of his heavy chair against the stone floor sounded like a drawn sword.
"I am sick to death of hearing about silk banners," Richemont snarled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. He glared at Clermont and Vendôme with open disgust. "My lands in Normandy are currently under the boots of the English. I have nothing left of my noble titles but the name! Let me tell you about honor, My Lords: if disguising our wagons as carts of pig shit would keep my soldiers fed long enough to drive the English into the sea, I would personally drive the first cart!"
The absolute, brutal reality of the Constable's words struck the chamber like a physical blow. Alençon bowed his head in deep shame.
"The Constable is right," Alençon said quietly, stepping forward. "We cannot starve the army to feed our pride. I advise Your Majesty to accept Master Coeur's proposal."
The resistance crumbled. Even Vendôme muttered a reluctant agreement, unwilling to meet Richemont's murderous gaze.
Charles nodded earnestly, playing the relieved monarch to perfection. "I am gladdened to see that France still possesses men of profound loyalty and pragmatism. Father Lucas, draft the royal decree. Tell Jacques Coeur he has my full authority. Instruct all southern cities to discreetly coordinate with these... 'merchant caravans'."
The tension in the room finally began to ebb. The crisis had been managed. The nobles began to take their seats, reaching for their forgotten wine goblets to soothe their frayed nerves.
"Sire! Make way!"
A frantic, blood-curdling scream echoed from the stone corridor outside, followed by the chaotic, slipping clatter of armored boots sprinting toward the chamber.
The doors did not open; they were violently slammed back against the stone walls. A cavalry scout fell into the room, his chest heaving so violently he could barely speak.
"Sire!" the man gasped, his eyes wide with absolute terror as he looked at the King. "The Maid! The Maid... has taken the army with her."