Time: August 5, 1429 Location: The Palace of Tau, Reims
The Palace of Tau, adjacent to the great Cathedral of Reims, was steeped in the lingering scent of holy oil and triumph. But inside the King's private solar, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.
Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orléans, paced the ancient stone floor like a caged lioness. Her face was flushed, her breath coming in short, impassioned bursts, and the polished steel of her armor clanked sharply with every restless step.
Charles sat behind a heavy oak table, watching her with the calm, terrifying stillness of a man studying a storm.
"Your Majesty!" Joan finally erupted, stopping before the table and gripping the hilt of her sword. She dropped to one knee, then immediately stood back up, too agitated to remain still. "The voices of Saint Michael and Saint Catherine urge me on! There is not a moment to lose! Paris is within our grasp, yet the English and the Burgundians defile the holy city as we speak. Our soldiers are ready to bleed for France. Why do we linger here, entertaining envoys and discussing wine? We must march! The Lord of Hosts is with us!"
Charles did not shout. He did not frown. He simply gestured with a slow, elegant sweep of his hand toward a silver goblet resting on the table.
"Sit down, Joan," Charles said, his voice soft but possessing a gravitational pull that commanded obedience. "And taste the gift Duke Philip of Burgundy has sent us."
Joan looked at the wine, her brow furrowing in deep reluctance. She looked at the King, expecting a warrior; instead, she saw a man who seemed lazily absorbed in luxury. Hesitantly, awkwardly, she sat on the edge of a velvet chair. Charles maintained his earnest, unyielding gaze, his hand still extended in invitation.
Forced by royal courtesy, Joan picked up the goblet and took a tiny, impatient sip.
"Do you know the journey this liquid took before it reached your lips, little girl?" Charles asked, leaning back. "This is from the Clos de Vougeot. For three hundred years, the Cistercian monks in the heart of the Côte de Nuits have cultivated a walled garden. They do not rush. They wait for the golden days of September. Twenty monks hand-pick the Pinot Noir, crushing the grapes gently beneath their bare feet. They press it in heavy wooden vats, and then... they leave it in the dark, silent stone cellars for years."
Charles locked his dark, profound eyes onto hers.
"It takes years of silence and patience in the dark to create something of true power. War, Joan, is no different than the vintage."
"But Your Majesty—!" Joan tried to interrupt, gripping her sword.
"Listen to me," Charles said, raising a finger. The gentle tone vanished, replaced by the solemn resonance of a sovereign and a theologian. He looked toward the crucifix hanging above the hearth. "Your heart is a holy flame, Joan. I know this. But recall the lessons of the Scriptures. Do you remember how Joshua dealt with the Gibeonites?"
Joan blinked, caught off guard by the biblical pivot. "The... the deceivers, Sire?"
"Exactly," Charles nodded slowly. "They came to Joshua with moldy bread and worn sacks, using trickery to secure a covenant of peace. And when the elders of Israel discovered the deception, did they immediately draw their swords and slaughter them?"
Charles leaned forward, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "No. Joshua stayed their blades. He said, 'We have sworn to them by the Lord God of Israel; now therefore we may not touch them.' They gave it time. If we tear up the truce we are negotiating with Burgundy right now, if we break our own diplomatic word before the ink is even drawn, how can we call ourselves the servants of God? They have promised to return Paris to us, peacefully, in fifteen days. God is a God of covenants, Joan. We must wait and see if they truly repent."
Joan's grip on her sword loosened slightly, her brow knitting in fierce internal conflict. "But Sire, if they are like the heretics? If they are merely stalling for time to reinforce their walls?"
"Then their sin is upon their own heads," Charles said, his voice turning grim, striking the final theological blow. "Think of the Albigensian Crusade. Count Raymond of Toulouse knelt before the Pope, whipped his own back, and promised a holy covenant to expel the heretics. But he broke his faith. He tore up the peace treaty. And what did the servants of God—the knights of the north—do? They rode south under the banner of the Cross to punish him! Not out of personal vengeance, but to uphold the sacred covenant."
Charles stood up, walking around the table, placing a firm, warm hand on the armored shoulder of the Maiden.
"The lesson of Béziers is still sung today, Joan: He who breaks a holy vow invites the wrath of Heaven. If the Burgundians do not surrender Paris in fifteen days, breaking their sacred promise... then we shall emulate that holy crusade. It will not be a hasty slaughter, but a righteous punishment. God will know who kept the faith and who broke it. And when that fifteenth day passes, your sword will be truly unstoppable, for it will carry the full weight of divine justice. Fifteen days, Joan. For France. For the glory of God. Endure it."
Joan lowered her head. The King's logic was an impenetrable fortress of piety. The fire in her eyes remained, but the frantic urgency had cooled into a focused, simmering ember.
"...Your Majesty speaks the truth," Joan whispered, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. "The priest in Domrémy told us the story of the Gibeonites... I hear the voices of God, and I obey my King. But I do not believe Duke Philip. If he lies to us... I swear by Saint Michael, I will be the first to scale the walls of Paris."
"And I shall be right there beside you," Charles smiled, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
Suddenly, Joan's eyes lit up with renewed purpose. "Sire! Permit me to speak to the people of Reims in the square. I must tell them of this. I must let the citizens know that we are faithful to God's laws. We will wait fifteen days, and then, peacefully or by the sword, Paris will be ours!"
Charles chuckled softly, masking his profound satisfaction. "You may. And while you wait, I have a task for you. Go to the Duke of Alençon. I am assigning you command of the 2nd Compagnie d'ordonnance. I want you to ride southwest and help Magnus patrol the supply lines between Troyes and Orléans. We have seen English reconnaissance cavalry probing our rear. No raiding yet, but I want you to stretch your legs, clear your mind, and test the combat readiness of our new troops."
Joan's face erupted into a radiant, warlike smile. Action, even a patrol, was better than waiting in a palace. "I will find the Duke of Alençon at once! Thank you, Your Majesty!"
Two hours later, the grand square before the Cathedral of Reims was packed with thousands of cheering citizens.
Joan of Arc stood upon a wooden dais, her white armor gleaming like a beacon in the afternoon sun. A scribe stood beside her, hastily copying her booming words onto parchment—a letter that would soon be distributed throughout the kingdom.
"People of France!" Joan's voice rang clear and pure over the silent, enraptured crowd. "The Duke of Burgundy has made a promise to the King! A truce of fifteen days has been agreed upon, and at the end of these fifteen days, he has sworn to deliver the city of Paris to our sovereign!"
A murmur of astonishment and joy rippled through the crowd. Paris, without a siege?
"You may ask why I do not march today!" Joan cried out, raising her banner high. "I am not entirely satisfied with truces made in this manner. I doubt them! But if a truce is made, it must be honored! We shall wait fifteen days out of respect for the King's covenant! But hear me well! If peace does not come by the fifteenth day, the army of God will march, and we shall take our capital by the edge of the sword!"
The crowd erupted into deafening cheers, throwing flowers and hats into the air.
At the edge of the square, watching from the balcony of the palace, Charles VII stood with a glass of the Clos de Vougeot in his hand. He took a slow sip, enjoying the complex, bloody taste of the vintage, while the Saint rallied the masses to a cause he was already preparing to exploit.
Down below, the great iron-bound gates of Reims swung open.
Joan of Arc leaped onto her white destrier, lowering her visor. Behind her, however, was not the chaotic, singing mob of crusader-peasants that had followed her to Orléans.
Behind her rode six hundred men of the 2nd Compagnie d'ordonnance. One hundred heavily armored knights, flanked by standardized mounted archers, coutiliers, and pages. They wore matching surcoats. They did not sing. They did not break formation. They moved with the terrifying, synchronized silence of a perfectly calibrated machine of war.
Joan raised her sword, and the mechanized beast of France's new army marched out of the city gates, heading southwest toward the sprawling plains between Reims and Troyes.