The Poker Game Begins
June 29, 1429 — MorningGien, The King's Headquarters
The mist was still clinging to the Loire river. The army was awake, a sprawling beast of metal and leather stretching across the fields.
But inside the King's tent, the mood was grim.
Lucas entered first, holding a crumpled parchment. He looked amused, but his eyes were serious.
"Sire," Lucas said. "We have received a 'greeting' from the North. Through the Church channels, I intercepted an edict issued by the Bishop of Auxerre."
He handed the scroll to Napoleon.
Headline:
"WARNING: The Armagnac Whore and the Usurper Bastard approach our gates!"Content:Martial Law declared. Any aid given to the disinherited 'Little King of Bourges' will be treated as heresy. God save the Duke of Burgundy.
Napoleon read it and tossed it onto the table. "He has a colorful vocabulary."
"It is not just words, Sire," Jean Bureau stepped forward, his face covered in soot. "It is reality. Jacques Cœur's convoy is delayed in the mud near Bourges. We have gunpowder for maybe two days of fighting. If Auxerre or Troyes refuse to open their gates, we cannot breach them."
"And we cannot starve them out, either," Dunois added, looking worried. "We have the opposite problem of most armies. We have too many men. Since the 'Invictus' woodcuts spread, every hedge knight and peasant with a pitchfork has joined us. We are eating the countryside bare. If we wait for the supply train, we will starve before we march."
Dunois pointed at the map. "My advice, Sire? We wait. We secure the supply lines first. Marching on enemy fortresses with empty stomachs and empty guns is suicide."
Silence filled the tent. The logic was sound. Any military academy would agree with Dunois.
Napoleon stood up. He walked around the table, his gaze resting on each of them in turn. Bureau, the master of machines. Dunois, the master of tactics. Lucas, the master of shadows.
"Is that what you all think?" Napoleon asked softly.
He picked up the insulting scroll from Auxerre.
"You see walls. I see paper."
He turned to Jean Bureau. "You say we lack cannons. But sometimes, Jean, a war is not won by the ball that hits the wall, but by the fear that it might."
He turned to Lucas, waving the scroll. "You see insults. I see fear. A man who screams this loud is not confident. He is terrified. Strong words are often just the mask of a weak heart."
Finally, he turned to Dunois. "And you say we lack food. You want to wait. But hunger is a weapon, Bastard. It makes wolves hunt harder."
Napoleon leaned over the map, planting his finger on Auxerre.
"We do not wait for supplies. We go to the enemy, and we take theirs."
"It is a gamble, Sire," Dunois said, but his hand was already moving to his sword hilt.
"It is not a gamble," Napoleon smiled, the cold smile of a man who can count cards. "It is a bluff. And I intend to play it."
"Sound the march," Napoleon ordered. "To Reims."
Despite their doubts, the commanders bowed. They had seen Patay. They would follow this man into Hell, even if he carried only a spoon.
The Merchant's Peace
July 1, 1429Outside Auxerre
The Royal Army halted outside the walls of Auxerre. The gates remained barred, but a small side portal opened to release a delegation.
They were dressed in the finest velvet and silk, their horses draped in gold-embroidered cloth. Leading them was the Head Alderman of Auxerre, a man whose belly spoke of peace and plenty.
They tried to ride with dignity, but their route to the King's tent had been carefully chosen. They had to pass through the artillery park.
The horses danced nervously as they smelled the sulfur.
Jean Bureau, the Master of Artillery, was standing next to a massive bombard. He was covered in soot, looking like a demon from the underworld compared to the perfumed merchants.
As the Alderman rode past, Bureau didn't bow. He simply grinned, raising a heavy iron hammer and tapping it against the bronze barrel of the cannon.
CLANG.
The hollow, metallic ring echoed like a funeral bell. The Alderman flinched violently, nearly dropping his reins. He looked at the black muzzle of the gun—it was large enough to fit a man's head—and then quickly looked away, pulling his velvet cloak tighter as if it could protect him from a twelve-pound iron ball.
He realized with a shudder: These are not the ragtag bandits we were told about. These men can crush stone.
But the terror had only just begun.
As they approached the King's tent, the horses shied away again. Standing on either side of the entrance were the Scots Guard.
Giants from the Highlands, wearing chainmail that looked like dragon scales. They didn't hold ceremonial halberds; they rested their hands on massive claymores—double-handed swords almost as tall as a man. Their eyes were cold, blue, and utterly void of mercy.
Sir Patrick Ogilvy, the Captain of the Scots Guard, stood in the center. He didn't bow. He simply stepped aside, his hand lingering near his dagger, allowing the trembling merchants to pass.
Inside, Napoleon sat on a simple camp stool, peeling an apple with a small knife. Joan stood to his right.
The Alderman composed himself, bowing with practiced elegance, though his hands were still shaking from the sight of the cannons.
"My Lord Dauphin," the Alderman began, his voice oily. "The City Council of Auxerre sends its greetings. We are a free city, bound by treaties, and we wish to remain neutral in this... dynastic dispute."
He signaled to a servant, who placed a heavy chest on the ground. The lid was opened, revealing the dull shine of gold coins.
"However, to show our goodwill, we offer you 2,000 gold écus. Consider it a gift for your travel expenses. In exchange, we ask that you bypass our walls and leave our fields untouched."
The Alderman smiled, confident. In his world, gold solved everything. Even Kings needed to eat.
Napoleon didn't look at the gold. He continued peeling his apple.
Lucas stepped forward from the shadows. He was holding a piece of parchment—the insulting edict from Scene 1.
"Two thousand écus," Lucas said, his voice light but sharp as a razor. "A generous sum."
He walked up to the Alderman, holding the parchment up. But he did not read it.
Instead, he pressed the parchment against the Alderman's chest, forcing the man to take it.
"I found this on your church doors, Alderman. The ink is still fresh."
Lucas looked at the document with a disgusted expression, as if holding a dead rat.
"I will not sully the air of this tent by reading such filth aloud. It is unfit for a King's ears."
He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that chilled the room.
"But you know what it says. Look at it."
The Alderman's trembling hands held the paper. His eyes darted to the headline he knew too well. He didn't need to read it to hear the words screaming in his mind: Usurper. Bastard. Whore.
Lucas turned to the giant Scot standing by the door.
"Captain Ogilvy," Lucas asked casually. "The Alderman here represents a city that officially questions the King's bloodline. And the Maid's virtue."
Ogilvy stopped sharpening his dagger. He slowly lifted his head. His blue eyes locked onto the fat merchant like a wolf spotting a limping sheep.
"Is that so?" Ogilvy said. His voice was a low rumble, thick with menace.
"The Scots are very traditional about honor," Lucas explained to the terrified merchant, his tone helpful but terrifying. "When someone insults their Chieftain... they don't want gold. They want tongues."
The Alderman turned pale as a sheet. The paper shook violently in his hands.
In his mind, he was screaming at the Bishop of Auxerre. Those damned priests! They write insults to show off their loyalty to Burgundy, and now WE have to die for their big mouths! They sit safe in the cathedral while I stand here in front of these savages!
"No! No, no, no," the Alderman stammered, almost dropping the parchment. "That edict... it was a mistake! A rogue clerk! Unauthorized! We have already tore them down! We burned them!"
He looked at Napoleon, who was slicing a piece of apple, ignoring him. The silence from the King was more terrifying than the threats from the Scot.
"We... we did not mean to offend!" The Alderman's arrogance was gone, replaced by the desperation of a man trying to save his neck. "We wish for the King's success! Truly!"
"Wishes do not fill stomachs, Alderman," Lucas said coldly.
"Provisions!" The Alderman blurted out. "Yes! Not just gold! We have barges on the river! Bread, salted beef, wine! Twenty barges! Take them all!"
He fell to his knees, looking at Napoleon.
"Please, Your Highness. Accept our humble contribution. We will pray for your safe arrival in Reims. Just... please, keep the Scots away."
Napoleon finally looked up. He skewered a slice of apple on the tip of his knife and ate it.
"Twenty barges," Napoleon said. "And the gold."
"Yes! Of course! All of it!"
Napoleon stood up. He walked over to the kneeling merchant, looking down at him.
"You are a wise man, Alderman. You understand that ink is cheap, but blood is expensive."
He signaled to Ogilvy.
"Escort our friends out. And ensure the barges arrive within the hour."
As the terrified delegation scrambled out of the tent, practically running past the grim Scots Guards to get away from the cannons and the killers, Napoleon glanced at Lucas.
"Well played," Napoleon murmured. "You squeezed the sponge dry."
Lucas bowed. "Fear is a wonderful appetite stimulant, Sire."
Napoleon looked at the map.
"We take their food. We eat their bread. And we use it to march on Troyes. That is where the real war begins."
The Exorcism & The Council
July 5 - July 9, 1429Outside Troyes
Troyes was not a merchant city like Auxerre. This was the fortress where the Treaty of Troyes had been signed, the very altar where the French Crown was sold to England.
The garrison consisted of 500 hardcore Burgundians who knew that if Charles entered, their world would end.
The Rejection
Charles had sent a letter at dawn, demanding surrender. The reply came at noon. It was addressed to "Charles of Valois". The text was dripping with arrogance:
"We acknowledge no King but Henry of England and the Duke of Burgundy. As for your 'Maid', tell her to return to her cows. We do not fear witches; we burn them."
To prove their point, they dragged the few priests inside the city who had dared to speak of Joan's miracles to the walls and expelled them, calling them "heretics."
The Test
In the afternoon, the drawbridge lowered just a foot. A single figure squeezed out. It was Friar Richard, a famous wandering preacher known for his apocalyptic sermons. The City Council had sent him on a specific mission: To test the spirit.
He walked toward the French camp, holding a scroll in one hand and a holy water sprinkler (aspergillum) in the other. He was trembling.
He stopped ten paces from Joan and Napoleon, unfurling the scroll with shaking hands.
"I bear the Edict of the Council of Troyes!" Richard shouted, his voice cracking.
Headline:
"Charles of Valois and his Army of Witches have arrived."Content:"The madwoman is filling the moats. Citizens, man your walls! Do not be deceived by the so-called 'Saint'. It is a phantom of the Devil! Satan has come to Troyes!"
Having read the condemnation, Richard stepped forward. He dipped the sprinkler into his bucket of holy water and began to fling droplets frantically at Joan, sketching the sign of the cross in the air.
" Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... (We exorcise you, every unclean spirit...)" Richard chanted, watching Joan closely. If she were a witch, the water would burn her like acid. If she were a demon, she would fly away.
La Hire's face turned purple.
"You worm!" The giant captain roared, drawing his sword. "You dare treat the Saint like a possessed cow? I'll carve the devil out of your belly!"
La Hire lunged forward. The friar shrieked, cowering behind his bucket.
"Stop!"
Joan's voice was not loud, but it froze La Hire in his tracks.
She dismounted and walked calmly through the spray of water. The droplets hit her armor and her face, glistening in the sun. She did not burn. She did not fly.
She stopped right in front of the terrified friar and smiled—a smile of terrifying gentleness.
"Approach boldly, Brother," Joan said, kneeling so she was eye-level with him. "I shall not fly away."
She took his trembling hand.
"Do not blame yourself for not hearing God's voice, Richard. Fear is a loud noise." She looked at the city walls behind him. "I will not abandon you, nor will I abandon them. For what is a Shepherd's duty, if not to seek the sheep that has forgotten the flock? Every soul behind those walls is just a child of God who has lost their way home."
Richard lowered his sprinkler. The water hadn't hurt her. But her words hurt his pride.
"If you are of God," Richard asked, his voice shaking but regaining some intellectual courage, "why do you bring the sword? God is Peace. You are War."
Napoleon, who was watching from his horse, leaned forward. This was the trap.
But Joan didn't look at the King for the answer. She looked at the monk.
"Peace is not the absence of war, Brother," Joan said softly. "Peace is the presence of Justice."
"When a garden is choked with weeds, does the gardener hate the garden because he uses a hoe? No. He uproots the weeds so the flowers may breathe." She pointed to the English banner on the wall. "That is the weed. I am the hoe. The peace you seek... lies on the other side of my sword."
Richard stared at her. The theology was simple, brutal, and unassailable. He looked at the "Witch" and saw only a pious girl. He looked at the "Tyrant" Charles and saw a King waiting patiently.
He dropped the holy water bucket. He fell to his knees and kissed the hem of her robe.
"I will go back," Richard whispered. "I will tell them. They are not fighting a demon. They are fighting Providence."
Richard returned to the city. But the gates did not open. The garrison was stubborn. The "seeds" of doubt had been planted by the Friar, but they needed time to grow.
And time was what the French Army did not have.
The Crisis
Five days passed. Friar Richard's preaching inside the city was causing unrest, but the Burgundian commander held firm. Outside, the French army was dying. The barges from Auxerre were empty. Soldiers were boiling leather straps and picking unripe beans.
Inside the King's tent, the heat was suffocating.
Regnault de Chartres, the Archbishop of Reims, wiped sweat from his balding head. He had ridden ahead of Jacques Cœur's slow supply train, hoping to bring "reason" to the King.
"We must retreat to Gien!" Regnault slammed his hand on the table. "Friar Richard has failed to open the gates! I have read your victory letters from Patay, Sire, but you are flying too close to the sun. This... cult of the Maid... it is dangerous. The men are eating grass! If we stay, we die."
The Count of Clermont nodded vigorously. "The city is too strong. The garrison mocked your letter, calling you 'Charles of Valois'. "If we stay another two days, the army will dissolve.""
Napoleon sat in the corner, peeling a withered apple. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp.
Suddenly, the tent flap was thrown open. Joan entered, uninvited. She looked pale from fasting, but her eyes burned with a terrifying intensity.
"Noble Dauphin," Joan said, her voice cutting through the arguments. "Stop this long and useless council. In God's name, give me three days, and I will lead you into Troyes."
Regnault rolled his eyes. "Three days? We will be dead in two!"
Napoleon stood up. The room went quiet.
"The Saint has spoken," Napoleon said, his voice unreadable. "She insists on the impossible."
He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the doubters.
"Perhaps the Archbishop is right. We cannot risk the whole army for one city."
Napoleon walked to the map, tracing the line back to the Loire.
"So, here is a proposal. We retreat. But the Maid says God wants this city. So... we leave her here."
Gasps filled the room.
La Hire stepped forward, his hand on his sword, face flushing red. "Leave her? Sire, are you mad? I stay where she stays!"
Dunois frowned, looking at the King with confusion. This is not his style, he thought. What is he playing?
Lucas stood in the shadows, his face a mask of stone.
Regnault, however, could not hide his relief. "A wise decision, Sire! Let the girl test her miracles alone. We must save the Kingdom's army!"
From the dark corner of the tent, a cold, mocking laugh broke the tension.
Napoleon turned. "The man in the corner. You find this funny?"
A young commander stepped into the light. He was gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes.
"I laugh at the Archbishop," the man said, his voice dripping with disdain. "He understands neither God nor logistics. A retreat now, through hostile territory with a starving army, will kill more men than a siege ever could."
"Who are you?" Regnault demanded, his face turning purple. "Who let this insolent whelp in?"
"Guillaume de Flavy, Seigneur de Flavy," Lucas interjected smoothly, reading from a roster. "A poor knight from Picardy. But he brought 300 cavalry, equipped better than the Duke's own guard. Financed, I hear, by... aggressive tax collection in the North."
Napoleon's eyes lit up with recognition.
"Ah. You are the one who cleared the bridge yesterday. I heard you pushed three noble carriages into the river and whipped the drivers."
"They were blocking the artillery, Sire," Flavy said flatly. "A carriage is wood. A cannon is victory."
Napoleon walked up to him. "Guillaume," he said softly, "you seem like a rational man. You have studied the law?"
"A little, Sire."
Napoleon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a conspiracy.
"In Roman Law, there is a maxim for desperate times: Necessitas non habet legem. (Necessity knows no law)."
Flavy paused.
"We are riding a tiger, Guillaume," Napoleon continued, his eyes cold as ice. "The Maid insists on suicide. The Archbishop insists on retreat... To save the army, to save the State... leaving the girl behind is a necessity. And if it is necessary, it is not a crime."
Napoleon patted Flavy's shoulder.
"I give you a privilege, Guillaume. You are the Rear Guard Commander. You can leave her. That is the 'Necessity' I grant you."
Silence. Dead silence.
La Hire looked ready to kill someone. Regnault looked hopeful.
But Flavy did not thank the King.
His hands trembled. Not from fear, but from a burning shame. He looked at the King, this man who had won Patay, and felt like he had been slapped.
Suddenly, Flavy dropped to one knee. Thud.
"Sire!" His voice was raspy, but hard as iron. "If that is your order, then I ask you to rescind it!"
Napoleon narrowed his eyes. "You defy me?"
"I defend your honor!" Flavy looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "If an Empire can only survive by selling its heroes, then it has already fallen! If the Crown of France requires a woman's blood as a sacrifice, then it is worth nothing!"
He took a breath, and threw the Latin maxim back at the King.
"'Necessity' may know no law, Sire. But a soldier must have a spine!"
"As long as I, Guillaume de Flavy, draw breath, I will not abandon a single subject of France. Let the English come. I will die before I lock a gate on a comrade!"
The wind howled outside. Flavy stayed kneeling, sweat dripping onto the stone floor. He waited for the axe to fall.
A hand reached down.
It gripped his wrist and pulled him up.
Flavy looked at the King. The coldness was gone. Napoleon was smiling—the smile of a wolf who just found another wolf.
"Remember what you said tonight, Guillaume," Napoleon adjusted the young man's cloak. "Don't let me down. From now on, you are the Royal Rear Guard Commander. Remember your spine. Do not abandon anyone."
Napoleon turned to the room.
"So," he announced, his voice ringing clear. "My Saint insists on the city. My Rear Guard refuses to leave her. It seems I am outvoted."
He looked at the Archbishop.
"Anyone who wishes to leave may go now. But I warn you: leave tonight, and you are a traveler. Leave tomorrow, and you are a traitor. Archbishop Regnault, you are free to go back to Chinon, find the Queen Mother, and crown another 'Little King of Bourges'."
Regnault wiped his forehead with a trembling hand. He looked at the fanatic soldiers, at the cold eyes of Flavy, at the serene face of Joan.
"France has only one King, Sire," Regnault bowed low. "And that is you."
"Good," Napoleon nodded. "Since we all agree to take Troyes... let us follow the Saint's instructions."
As the council dispersed, Lucas lingered behind. He walked up to Napoleon.
"A message from Jacques Cœur's riders, Sire," Lucas whispered. "The supply train—and the powder—will be here in two days."
Napoleon smiled. It was the smile of a gambler who had known the cards all along.
"Two days," Napoleon murmured. "Just enough time for a little theater."
The Bluff
July 10, 1429
The Walls of Troyes
That night, Joan did not sleep.
She stood by the moat, shouting orders like a seasoned engineer.
"Faggots! Bring the wood! Throw the doors in!"
Under her command, thousands of starving soldiers worked like demons. They filled the moat with bundles of wood, tables, even debris from the burned suburbs.
Behind her, La Hire rolled the cannons into position.
They were empty. They had no powder.
But under the moonlight, the bronze barrels gleamed like the teeth of a dragon.
Inside the city, the defenders watched in horror.
"They are filling the moat," a Burgundian soldier whispered. "They are going to storm us."
"Look at them," another said, pointing at the frantic activity. "They aren't starving. They are rabid. That Witch... she is preparing a massacre."
The next morning, as the sun rose, Napoleon sat on his horse in full view of the walls. He raised his baton.
Inside Troyes, the Bishop and the City Council watched. They saw the "Army of Witches" ready to unleash hell. They remembered Patay.They remembered Friar Richard's warning.
Fear broke them.
The great gates of Troyes groaned. A white flag appeared on the ramparts.
"They are opening!" La Hire gasped, lowering his empty weapon. "By God's teeth, they are opening!"
Napoleon lowered his baton.
"The bluff worked," he whispered to Lucas.
He rode up to Joan. She was covered in mud, exhausted, but triumphant.
"Well done, Maid. You conquered the capital of the Treaty with a bundle of firewood... and a wandering monk."