The Altar of Lies
July 11, 1429
Cathedral of Troyes
The city of Troyes did not burn. There was no looting. There was only a terrifying, disciplined silence.
Napoleon walked down the nave of the Cathedral of Saint-Peter-and-Saint-Paul. His boots clicked loudly against the stone floor—the same floor where, nine years ago, the Treaty of Troyes had been signed.
The altar was still there. The place where his mother, Queen Isabeau, had declared him a bastard and married his sister to Henry V of England.
Standing by the altar was the Bishop of Troyes. Yesterday, this man had excommunicated anyone who helped the "Witch." Today, he stood in his finest robes, holding a golden cross, sweat trickling down his pale forehead.
Napoleon stopped at the foot of the altar. He didn't kneel. He looked at the Bishop.
"My Lord Bishop," Napoleon said, his voice echoing in the vast, empty hall. "I am told that this is a holy place. Yet, it seems to have a very poor memory."
The Bishop swallowed hard. "Your Highness... we..."
"Yesterday," Napoleon interrupted, pointing to the pulpit. "You preached that God favored the Duke of Burgundy. Today, I assume God has changed His mind?"
"The Holy Spirit... moves in mysterious ways, Sire," the Bishop stammered.
"No," Napoleon stepped closer. "The Holy Spirit did not move. My cannons moved."
He gestured to Regnault de Chartres, who was standing nearby, looking smug.
"But I am a forgiving man," Napoleon smiled—the kind of smile that asked for gratitude rather than forgiveness. "I do not require your head, Bishop. I require your voice."
He pointed to the choir loft.
"Sing the Te Deum. Now. Bless the King you cursed yesterday. And do it loud enough for the people outside to forget the Treaty they signed here."
As the choir began the trembling, forced hymn of praise, Napoleon turned and walked out.
Outside the city gates, Guillaume de Flavy sat on his horse, his hand resting on his sword hilt. He was watching the Burgundian garrison march out. They were allowed to leave with their lives, but without their weapons.
"Shall we kill them, Sire?" Flavy asked, his eyes following the retreating enemies like a wolf watching wounded deer. "They are vulnerable."
"No," Napoleon said, mounting his horse. "Let them go. Dead men tell no tales. But living men... they will run to the next town and tell them that resistance is useless. They are our best messengers."
The Reunion
July 14, 1429
Outside Châlons-sur-Marne
The fall of Troyes triggered the avalanche.
When the army reached Châlons, there was no siege. The Bishop of Châlons met them three miles outside the city gates, kneeling in the dust, holding a velvet cushion with the iron keys to the city.
Napoleon took the keys without slowing his horse. He tossed them to Lucas like a worthless coin.
"Open the wine cellars," Napoleon ordered casually. "The army is thirsty."
He didn't care about the Bishop. He was watching Joan.
The Maid had stopped by a group of peasants who had come out to see the "miracle." They were not from Châlons. They were travelers from the south—from a village called Domrémy.
"Jeannette!" A rough, sun-weathered man cried out.
Joan froze. The armor of the "Saint" cracked, revealing the girl underneath.
"Uncle Laxart!" She jumped off her horse. She ran to the dirty peasants, embracing them, ignoring the mud on her white tabard.
Napoleon watched from a distance. He saw the tears. He saw the genuine, human joy on her face. It was the first time in months he had seen her look like a nineteen-year-old girl.
"Are you not afraid, child?" One of the women asked, touching Joan's steel gauntlet with awe. "Fighting kings and demons?"
Joan wiped her eyes. She smiled, but it was a sad smile.
"I am not afraid of the English, godmother," Joan whispered, loud enough for Napoleon to hear. "I only fear treachery."
Napoleon's face remained impassive.
Treachery, he thought. Poor child. You think treachery is a monster waiting in the dark. You do not understand that it is just the shadow cast by power.
"Let her have her moment," Napoleon signaled the army to move on. "Idols are not allowed to have friends. Moments like this did not repeat themselves in history."
The Six Faces of God
July 15, 1429The Road to Reims
The road was clear. The summer sun was golden.
Lucas rode between Napoleon and Archbishop Regnault. He held a fan of crumpled parchments in his hand, like a poker player revealing a winning hand.
"Sire," Lucas said, a playful glint in his eyes. "I have arranged the church announcements chronologically. It seems your rank has improved remarkably with every mile we marched."
He pulled out the first scroll—the one from Auxerre. He didn't bother reading the text; he just pointed to the headline.
"July 1st, Auxerre," Lucas announced dryly. "'The Usurper Bastard.'"
Napoleon chuckled. Regnault shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.
Lucas flipped to the next one—the one Friar Richard had read at Troyes.
"July 5th, Troyes," Lucas continued. "'Charles of Valois and his Sorcerers.'"
He flipped another page, faster now.
"July 10th, Troyes—after the surrender," Lucas smiled. "'His Highness, the Dauphin.'"
He held up the fourth scroll from Châlons.
"July 14th, Châlons," Lucas's voice rose theatrically. "'The King and the Saint.'"
He paused for effect, pulling out the final letter, sealed with the wax of the Reims Cathedral Chapter.
"And finally... July 15th, Reims."
He handed it to Regnault. "For you, Archbishop. From your loyal subordinates."
Regnault broke the seal. He read the salutation aloud, his voice echoing in the silent air:
"To His Most Christian Majesty, King Charles VII... and our beloved Shepherd."
Lucas laughed, a sharp, cynical sound. "From 'Bastard' to 'Most Christian Majesty' in two weeks. A miraculous conversion."
There was one more title that no parchment dared to print yet.
It waited in Reims, sealed in oil and silence.
"It seems your subordinates are quicker to read the wind than you are, Regnault," Napoleon said, looking straight ahead. "They know when the ship is sinking."
Regnault folded the letter, his face thick with the shamelessness of a seasoned politician.
"It is the power of faith, Sire," Regnault smiled, recovering his composure. "Or perhaps... Providence has a remarkable respect for weight and range."
"Write this down, Lucas," Napoleon said coldly. "Loyalty is not a virtue. It is merely a function of distance and fear."
He spurred his horse.
"Burn the papers. We are done with reading."
The Spires
July 16, 1429
Outside Reims
And there it was.
Rising from the plains of Champagne, the twin towers of Notre-Dame de Reims pierced the sky.
It was a mountain of carved stone. Saints, kings, and angels covered every inch of its facade. It was the spiritual heart of France. For a thousand years, no man could call himself King until he had knelt there and felt the oil of Clovis on his forehead.
The army stopped. A silence fell over the thousands of soldiers.
Joan stared at the spires, tears streaming down her face. To her, this was the House of God. The promise fulfilled.
Regnault de Chartres stared at it with greedy relief. To him, this was his seat of power, his ticket to controlling the realm.
Napoleon stared at it with cold calculation.
He didn't see God. He saw a government building. He saw a registry office where he would file the paperwork to legitimize his rule.
Without that building, Napoleon thought, I am just a successful warlord. I am a 'Usurper'.
But inside that stone box, there is a bottle of oil. Once that oil touches my head, I become the Law. I become France.
He felt a ghost of a memory—Notre Dame de Paris, 1804. He had crowned himself then. He had taken the crown from the Pope's hands.
This time, he thought, I will let them play their rituals. I will let them chant. But I know who truly puts the crown on my head.
He looked at the army. He looked at the Maid. He looked at the guns.
"Gentlemen," Napoleon said, his voice cutting through the reverie.
"Let us go get my oil."