Early April 1429 – A Small Archive Room, Chinon Castle
Night had painted the castle in dark iron tones. At times, Chinon felt less like a palace and more like a giant cage pressed by war, debt, and impending failure.
Scattered ledgers littered the stone table, candlelight flickering in the draft. Jacques Cœur was poring over the kingdom's accounts, frowning deeper with every page. The numbers were bleeding.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
It was Charles (Napoleon).
He entered alone, still wearing his grey coat, walking with the heavy, purposeful stride of an artillery officer inspecting a position at midnight.
Jacques jumped up. "Sire? At this hour… you should not be here."
Napoleon didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept over the dusty room.
"I have never seen a country so poor," Napoleon said casually, running a finger along a ledger spine. "And yet… so rich."
Jacques understood instantly. Poor in the Treasury; Rich in the private cellars.
Napoleon picked up a small leather pouch from the table—Jacques' own coin purse—and tossed it lightly in the air. Clink.
"Tell me, Jacques, what is the value of a nation's gold? Numbers? Weight? Or belief?"
Jacques stared at the coins. "Belief, Sire. But belief is fragile."
Napoleon poured the coins onto the table. "These coins are nothing more than a promise. I promise they have value, and you promise to believe me."
"You want to create a new currency?"
"No." Napoleon smiled faintly. "I want to create Confidence."
The candlelight caught in his eyes.
"I need money, Jacques. Not taxes. Taxes make people hate you. I need investment."
Jacques swallowed. "But Sire… the guilds will never agree. They hoard gold like dragons."
Napoleon waved his hand.
"So I will not tax them. Nor will I borrow."
He moved to the window, staring into the dark Loire.
"I will make them come to me willingly. Even compete to invest."
Jacques inhaled sharply. "Sire… you mean to bind the outcome of the war to their private fortunes?"
Napoleon turned, locking eyes with him.
"Bind it to me."
In that instant, Jacques felt he was facing not the feeble King, but a force of nature.
"Sire," Jacques spoke carefully. "If you wish… I could help certain people 'understand' your direction. Before you speak."
Napoleon patted Jacques on the shoulder.
"You are a clever man, Jacques. Clever men do not need much said."
"I will let them believe in your vision," Jacques bowed, "before they even hear it."
Napoleon turned to leave. Before the door closed, he looked back.
"Remember, Jacques. We are not asking them for charity."
A thin, shark-like smile.
"We are giving them an Opportunity."
The Following Night – The Guild House of the Drapers
Jacques Cœur walked through the wet stone streets to the Guild House. Inside, the hall buzzed with the smells of wool, wax, and wine. Half of France's liquidity sat here in doublets and rings.
Jacques entered quietly. He let the chatter swirl. Then, when several powerful merchants were gathered, he let the first seed fall.
"His Majesty," Jacques murmured, "has an unexpectedly subtle mind for revenue."
Three men turned. "Revenue?" "No new tax, is there?"
Jacques blinked with mild surprise. "Oh, no. Quite the opposite."
He leaned closer.
"I believe His Majesty intends to invite the prosperous men of France to profit from the liberation."
A silence. Calculation.
"You might say," Jacques smiled a small, private smile, "the King intends to let France's future pay for the present."
"A subscription?" an old merchant asked. "A royal subscription?"
Jacques raised both hands. "I said nothing. You said everything."
The room stirred.
Jacques added softly: "Indeed. And lateness, in finance, is rarely profitable."
A ripple of laughter—nervous, excited, greedy.
Now that the scent of gold was in the air, Jacques delivered the final line.
"The King," he said quietly, "has no intention of raising taxes this year."
The merchants froze. No new taxes meant stability. Stability meant investment.
Someone whispered: "God bless the King."
Jacques lowered his eyes humbly.
No, gentlemen, he thought. Bless the man who knows exactly which fear to calm and which hunger to feed.
Two Days Later – The Great Hall of Chinon
The merchants arrived expecting a Royal Banquet. They wore velvet robes, expecting roasted swan.
Instead, they found a long, bare wooden table.
Napoleon sat at the head in his grey coat. Behind him stood Patrick Ogilvy, resting his massive axe on the floor.
"Sit," Napoleon commanded.
The merchants sat. Beside them sat the high nobility, led by the Duke of Alençon, looking offended.
In front of each man was a wooden plate containing a single, rock-hard piece of black biscuit and a cup of watered-down vinegar wine.
"Eat," Napoleon said, biting into his own biscuit with a loud crack.
Master Godard, the Salt King, looked at the biscuit. "Sire... is this a joke?"
"This is the menu," Napoleon chewed. "It's what my soldiers are eating in Orléans. It keeps them alive."
He washed it down with sour wine, then leaned forward.
"I look around this table, and I see talent. But I also see a problem. The English are killing us on trade. It's a bad deal for France."
He stood up, pacing behind their chairs.
"I am going to fix that. I am going to kick the English out. Open markets. But to do that, I need to build a Wall of Iron."
He unveiled the parchment.
"The Victory Bond."
"An investment in the liberation of France. Not a tax. A stake in victory."
The Duke of Alençon shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "A King does not sell shares in his country! This is madness!"
The merchants hesitated. They looked at the parchment. They remembered Jacques' rumor.
"Sire," Master Godard squeaked. "My liquidity is—"
Napoleon looked at Jacques Cœur.
Jacques stood up.
"The old ways of Valois were taxation," Jacques said coldly. "Now His Majesty gives you a choice—you may invest, or you may not."
The room quieted.
"Though I hear," Jacques added lightly, checking his fingernails, "that the King has already prepared exclusive salt licenses in Normandy and supply contracts for the army."
He let that hang in the air. Greed began to replace fear.
The nobles shifted in their seats. The Duke of Alençon leaned toward the Count of Vendôme, whispering behind a gloved hand. Their eyes darted from the merchants to the parchment—calculating not honor, but loss.
"We cannot spare the coin!" a minor Baron protested weakly.
Jacques turned to them.
"My lords, if you think England will let us live in five years, then by all means, keep your gold."
He paused, looking at Alençon.
"But dead men have no use for liquidity."
The hall fell deadly silent. This was the true threat—Reality.
Napoleon smiled. Game recognizes game.
He stepped back into the spotlight.
"Master Godard. How much? 10,000?"
Godard looked at Jacques. "Twenty thousand," he squeaked. "For... for the salt license."
"Done!" Napoleon pointed. "A patriot!"
"Jacques?"
"Twenty-five thousand," Jacques said calmly. "And the logistics contract."
"Done."
One by one, the dominoes fell. By the time the black biscuits were finished, 150,000 livres lay pledged on the table.
The Corridor
Napoleon walked out of the Great Hall. The heavy oak doors closed with a dull thud.
The corridor was quiet and cold. He leaned against the rough wall, exhaling a long breath. For a second, the mask of the invincible Commander slipped.
150,000 livres, Napoleon calculated silently. Enough for powder. Enough for grain. But not enough for a campaign.
Patrick Ogilvy followed him.
"That is enough gold to buy a kingdom, Sire," Ogilvy rumbled. "Why go out there? The night is freezing."
Napoleon listened to the distant roar from the courtyard.
"Gold is cold, Patrick," Napoleon whispered. "It doesn't bleed. It doesn't charge a line of pikes."
He tapped the list of merchants.
"Economics alone won't win this war. These men... they gave me ink. But ink doesn't pull a trigger."
Ogilvy frowned. "Hot blood, Sire? From them?"
Napoleon let out a short, dry laugh.
"God, no. Those men in there have ice water in their veins. They would sell their mothers for a 5% margin."
Napoleon buttoned his coat. His eyes hardened.
"The hot blood isn't in there. It's out there." He pointed to the courtyard doors.
"Rally the town, Patrick. Tell every smith, every baker, every soul that the King is calling for Hope."
Ogilvy grinned.
"Aye, Sire."
The Market Square
Ten minutes later, Napoleon walked straight into the mud of the market square.
It was raining lightly. Hundreds of faces turned toward him—blacksmiths, tanners, refugees.
They saw their King. Standing in the mud, holding a piece of black biscuit like a weapon.
Napoleon climbed onto a wooden crate.
He took a bite of the bread, chewing it slowly.
"Citizens of Chinon!" he shouted, his voice raw.
"I just came from a dinner with the Guild Masters! The men in silk!"
He held up the half-eaten biscuit.
"And I fed them this!"
"Because if I eat it, and my soldiers eat it—then the rich eat it too!"
The crowd roared with savage laughter. They loved seeing the high and mighty brought low.
Napoleon slammed the merchants' pledges onto a table.
"Godard: 20,000! Cœur: 25,000! The rich are paying, finally!"
Shock. Awe. Vindication.
"But their money is cold," Napoleon shouted. "I need something hot. I need you."
He tossed his own gold signet ring onto the table.
"My contribution. I am creating the Victory Bond. You lend me 100 sous today—I return 150 when we take Normandy."
"We do it together. The rich pay for the powder. You pay for the steel. And I..." he tapped his chest, "...I deliver the Glory."
"Who's with me?"
Silence.
Then an old blacksmith stepped forward, his leather apron stained with soot. He dug a small, heavy pouch from his belt. It hit the table with a dull thud.
"For the King!"
Napoleon did not smile. He did not wave. He raised a hand, stopping the man.
"Wait."
He pointed to a shivering man standing behind Ogilvy—the Royal Scrivener, clutching a quill and a roll of parchment, looking miserable in the rain.
"Master Clerk! Bring the ledger here."
Napoleon pointed to a wine barrel. "Set up your desk. Right here in the mud."
He looked back at the blacksmith. "Your name, citizen?"
"Thomas, Sire. Thomas the Smith."
"Write it down," Napoleon commanded the clerk. "'Thomas the Smith. 50 sous.' And give him a receipt. Stamped with the Royal Seal."
The crowd murmured. A receipt? From the King?
"This is not a donation," Napoleon announced, his voice ringing across the square. "This is not charity. This is a contract."
He looked Thomas in the eye.
"You are no longer just a subject, Thomas. You are a Creditor of the Crown. If France wins, you get paid before the Dukes do."
The blacksmith straightened his spine. He wasn't just giving money; he was buying a piece of the victory. He took the scrap of parchment from the clerk like it was a patent of nobility.
The dam broke.
A washerwoman stepped up next. "Marie! 3 sous!"
"Write it down!" Napoleon shouted.
A baker. "Pierre! 10 sous!"
"Record it!"
It was a frenzy. But it was an organized frenzy. The clerk scratched furiously, the pile of coins grew, and every person walked away clutching a piece of paper that tied their fate to the King's.
From the edge, Yolande of Aragon watched. She walked up to him as the line stretched across the square.
"You are selling them a dream, Charles," she whispered, looking at the washerwoman clutching her receipt. "If we lose, these bonds are worthless paper. You will bankrupt the entire city."
Napoleon flipped a gold coin in his hand.
"If we lose, Yolande… the economy will be ashes anyway."
He caught the coin. His eyes were cold, reflecting the torchlight.
"But if we win..."
"I own them."
He turned back to the crowd, flashing a smile that was not kind, but victorious.
"Keep it coming, folks! Let us forge the iron wall!"