Time: August 11, 1429 (Morning) Location: Château de Loches
The morning sun cast long shadows over the white stone courtyards of the Château de Loches. As Jacques Coeur stepped through the archway, he heard the sharp, rhythmic clack-clack of wood striking wood, accompanied by the fierce, high-pitched grunts of a child.
In the center of the yard, a six-year-old boy was relentlessly attacking a heavily padded royal guardsman with a custom-made ash-wood practice sword. The sword was slightly too heavy for him; his strikes were clumsy, and his small chest heaved with exhaustion, but his pale blue eyes were locked onto the guard's knees with a terrifying, unblinking intensity.
"Yield!" the boy demanded, his voice cracking slightly, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
"I yield, My Prince," the giant guardsman smiled indulgently, lowering his wooden shield.
Jacques Coeur stood by the stone pillar, a warm smile touching his lips. "A fierce assault, Your Highness. The English will surely tremble."
Louis, the Dauphin of France, spun around. He frowned, his incredibly sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the man in the dusty traveling cloak. For a six-year-old, his gaze felt uncomfortably penetrating.
Then, recognition sparked.
"You are Jacques," Louis said, lowering his wooden sword. He did not use royal titles; he went straight to the facts. "I saw you at Chinon four months ago. When my father was angry and made all the fat lords buy the Victory Bonds. You count the money."
Coeur blinked, genuinely taken aback by the boy's flawless memory. "I do, Your Highness. And I have just returned from the north."
Louis took a step closer, firing questions with the rapid, aggressive cadence of a prosecuting magistrate. "How is my father? Did he kill the English Regent? When can I go to him and fight the English?"
"Your father is well, My Prince," Coeur chuckled gently, kneeling so he was eye-level with the boy. "He has been crowned at Reims. Orléans is free. And the Duke of Burgundy has sent envoys to seek peace. Things are finally getting better."
Louis tilted his head. The excitement of battle faded from his face, replaced by a strange, quiet calculation.
"Peace?" Louis asked, his voice dropping. "Does that mean Burgundy will fight the English with us?"
"No, Your Highness," Coeur replied patiently, explaining it as one would to a child. "They are not going to fight us anymore. But they are not going to fight the English, either."
Louis dragged the tip of his wooden sword across the dirt, drawing a slow, deliberate line.
"Then Burgundy is waiting," the six-year-old concluded softly, almost whispering to himself. "Like a cat on a wall watching two dogs fight over a bone. They want to see who bleeds the most before they jump down."
A cold shiver ran straight down Jacques Coeur's spine.
He stared at the boy. It had taken the finest diplomatic minds in France weeks to deduce Philip of Burgundy's true strategy. And this six-year-old child, playing in the dirt, had just casually dismantled the entire geopolitical landscape of Western Europe.
God in Heaven, Coeur thought, masking his shock with a tight smile. What kind of creature has Queen Marie given birth to?
Before Coeur could respond, Louis seamlessly changed the subject, becoming a child once more. "Did you see my mother and grandmother? I want to see them, but Mother insists I stay here and memorize my Latin verbs."
"I saw them yesterday, Your Highness. They are both well, and they miss you dearly."
"Did Father say when he will come back?" Louis asked. For the first time, a flicker of genuine childish vulnerability crossed his face, instantly masked by a defensive pout. "Or when he will send for me to go to Reims?"
"The King has many burdens ahead of him, Your Highness," Coeur said diplomatically. "When the realm is secure, he will surely send for his heir."
Louis didn't look convinced. He kicked a small pebble. "Are you going back to him? Do you have a mission? I want to help."
"I am indeed on the King's business, My Prince. But it involves riding across the country, haggling with stubborn men, and dealing with dusty ledgers. It is exhausting and dangerous. You must stay here, master your Latin, and practice your sword. When I truly need the power of a Prince to help me, I will come straight to you."
Louis looked at the merchant, his pale eyes serious and entirely devoid of childish whimsy.
"Alright, Jacques," the Dauphin nodded slowly. "If you ever run into a problem you cannot fix... you must come find me."
"I give you my word, Your Highness," Coeur smiled, bowing deeply.
Coeur turned and walked back through the heavy iron portcullis of the Château de Loches. He took a deep breath of the peaceful, sunlit air of the Loire Valley, his mind already shifting from the unnerving child to the colossal logistics of the Chinon supply depot.
He unhitched his horse, preparing for the short ride back to the guildhalls.
Suddenly, the frantic, erratic thunder of hooves echoed down the cobblestone road.
Coeur looked up. A lone rider was tearing up the path toward the castle gates, whipping his exhausted, foam-lathered horse without mercy. The man was slumped forward in the saddle, swaying dangerously with every stride.
It was Gaston. Had he not just departed to escort the first batch of supplies to Orléans?
Gaston did not look like a proud royal guard. His blue surcoat was torn to shreds and soaked in dark, wet crimson. Half of his face was covered in a mask of fresh blood, and a jagged, broken arrow shaft protruded sickeningly from the gap between his steel pauldron and breastplate.
The horse collapsed to its knees just yards away. Gaston pitched forward, crashing heavily onto the cobblestones.
"Gaston!" Coeur shouted, sprinting forward and dropping to his knees beside the bleeding man. "God in Heaven, Gaston! Guards! Get a surgeon!"
Gaston gripped Coeur's velvet collar with a trembling, blood-slicked, iron-hard hand. He coughed, a spray of red dotting his pale lips. His eyes were wide with a terror Coeur had never seen in the veteran's face.
"Lord Jacques..." Gaston gasped, his voice a wet, rattling wheeze. "Our supply train... they hit the crossing at Azay-le-Brûlé..."
Coeur's heart stopped. Azay-le-Brûlé. It was barely a few leagues from Chinon. The heavy carts, filled with the very grain and salt he had just mortgaged the kingdom to buy, were barely out of the gates.
"What happened?" Coeur demanded, gripping the man's arm. "Who hit you? Brigands?"
Gaston's head fell back against the stones, his breathing ragged.
"Not brigands..." Gaston whispered, his eyes rolling back. "English reconnaissance cavalry."