The Prodigal Bishop
July 16, 1429 — Sunset
Reims Cathedral Square
The bells of Reims were deafening. They rang with a frantic, desperate joy, as if trying to apologize for six months of silence under Burgundian rule.
The city gates stood open. The people of Reims lined the streets, cheering until their throats were raw.
But the man leading the procession was not the King.
Regnault de Chartres, the Archbishop of Reims, rode a white mare at the very front. He had changed into his finest vestments—gold-threaded silk that shimmered in the dying sun.
He did not look like a refugee returning home. He looked like a landlord coming to collect back rent.
He waved to the crowd with wide, benevolent sweeps of his hand, blessing the very people he had abandoned years ago.
"My children!" Regnault called out, his voice thick with emotion. "I have returned! The Shepherd is back!"
Behind him, Napoleon rode in silence. He wore his simple grey campaign coat, a stark contrast to the Archbishop's glittering gold.
He watched Regnault's performance with cold amusement.
Look at him, Napoleon thought. He thinks he is the hero. He thinks the cannons fired for him. He thinks the English ran because they feared his mitre.
Regnault stopped his horse in front of the massive facade of the Cathedral. He pointed a trembling finger at the rose window, glowing like a jewel in the twilight.
He turned to Napoleon, tears streaming down his face—tears of pure vanity.
"Sire," Regnault choked out. "Look. The stone is still there. The light is still there. I knew my city would wait for me."
Napoleon pulled his horse up alongside the prelate.
"It is a fine pile of rocks, Regnault," Napoleon said dryly. "But remember: it was Jean Bureau who unlocked the door. You are just holding the keys again."
Regnault blinked, the spell momentarily broken. But he recovered quickly, smiling the smile of a man who knows that possession is nine-tenths of the law.
"God works through many instruments, Sire," Regnault bowed. "Even gunpowder."
Napoleon spurred his horse past him.
"Enjoy your applause, Bishop. Tomorrow, you have work to do."
The Stakeholders
July 16, 1429 — Night
The Palace of Tau (Archbishop's Palace)
The Great Hall of the Palace was a stark contrast to the mud of the battlefield. It smelled of beeswax, roasted pheasant, and ancient power.
Napoleon stood by the high window, looking down at the courtyard.
Below, the cobblestones clattered with the hooves of a hundred horses. Torches flared in the darkness as retinue after retinue arrived.
Banners of blue, gold, and crimson intertwined.
"Finally," Napoleon murmured to Lucas, who stood in the shadows with his inevitable ledger.
"They smell the meat. The vultures... and the eagles."
The doors to the Great Hall swung open. Dunois, the Bastard of Orléans, stepped in. He looked tired but triumphant. He acted as the herald of the new order.
"Sire," Dunois announced. "The Peers of France have arrived."
They walked in, one by one. The men who owned the land, the men who commanded the armies, the men who held the gold.
First was the Duke of Alençon. Young, handsome, his eyes shining with hero-worship. He practically ran to the King, kneeling with a fluidity that spoke of genuine love.
"My Gentle King!" Alençon beamed. "We are here. It is really happening."
Next came the old guard—Charles de Bourbon, Count of Clermont, and Louis, Count of Vendôme. They walked stiffly, their velvet robes hiding the fact that they had been hedging their bets until the very last moment.
They bowed low—lower than they ever had to the "Little King of Bourges."
"Your Majesty," Clermont murmured, sweating slightly. "We have ridden day and night to answer your call."
"I am sure you did, Cousin," Napoleon smiled thinly. "It is amazing how fast a horse can run when the wind of victory is at its back."
Then, the air in the room changed.
Heavy boots struck the stone floor. A man walked in who did not wear velvet. He wore scarred leather and rusted mail. His face was a map of old violence—a slash across the nose, a missing earlobe.
Arthur de Richemont, the Constable of France.
The man who had been banned from the court by the fat parasite La Trémoille. The man who had been fighting a lonely war in Brittany while the King slept.
He stopped in front of Napoleon. He didn't bow like a courtier. He dropped to one knee like a soldier, the impact echoing in the silence.
"Sire," Richemont's voice was like grinding stones. "I heard the fat man is gone."
"He is," Napoleon said.
"Then my sword is yours." Richemont unbuckled his heavy scabbard and held it up with both hands. "I have waited ten years to give this to a King who knows how to use it."
Napoleon reached down. He didn't take the sword. He took Richemont's hands and pulled him up.
"Keep it, Arthur," Napoleon said softly. "You are the Constable. Tomorrow, you will hold the Sword of State. I don't want you kneeling. I want you standing at my right hand."
Richemont's hard eyes shimmered. He nodded once, a pact of iron sealed without ink.
Suddenly, the doors banged open again. A gust of cold wind swept through the hall.
A figure strode in, bringing the night with him.
He was tall, disturbingly handsome, with a beard that gleamed blue-black in the torchlight. His eyes were wide, burning with a frantic, artistic intensity.
Gilles de Rais, the Marshal of France.
He was covered in dust. In his hands, he cradled a small box wrapped in purple velvet as if it were a newborn babe.
"I have it," Gilles whispered, his voice trembling with awe.
He walked to the table and gently, reverently, placed the box down. He unwrapped the velvet to reveal a small, ancient glass vial.
The Sainte Ampoule.
"The Monks of Saint-Rémy didn't want to give it up," Gilles giggled—a sound that made Clermont shiver. "I told them I would burn their abbey to the ground if they kept God's gift from God's King. They saw I wasn't joking."
Gilles looked at the vial, entranced.
"Look at it, Sire," he breathed. "It's not just oil. It's blood. It's light. It's... beautiful."
Napoleon looked at Gilles. He saw the madness lurking behind the brilliance. A useful monster, he thought. But a monster nonetheless.
"You did well, Gilles," Napoleon said. "Guard it with your life. Tonight, you are the Keeper of the Oil."
Gilles bowed deeply, his eyes never leaving the vial.
Finally, the last guest stepped forward.
He had been standing in the back, quiet, unassuming in his dark merchant's robes. But everyone knew that without him, none of them would be wearing silk tonight.
Jacques Cœur.
Napoleon turned to him, his face relaxing into a mask of camaraderie.
"You are late, Jacques," Napoleon said, his voice echoing in the hall.
He tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. Tap. Tap.
"I seem to recall a promise made in Gien. 'Two days', you said. Supplies, powder, gold."
Napoleon leaned forward, a shadow falling across his face.
"It has been five days. Tell me, did the Duke of Bedford offer you a better interest rate on the road? Did the English gold shine brighter than French promises?"
The room went deadly silent. Alençon stopped smiling. Richemont's hand drifted to his dagger. To these men, treason was a smell they knew well.
Jacques Cœur did not flinch. He did not kneel. He stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the most powerful bloodlines in France, armed with nothing but a ledger.
He looked at the King. He saw the glint in Napoleon's eye—not of anger, but of a challenge.
"Your Majesty," Jacques began, his voice steady. "If I were looking for profit, I would have sold the grain to the English in Paris. They pay in cash, not credit."
He took a step forward.
"But I did not. Because the English can only offer me gold. Gold is heavy. It drags a man down."
Jacques looked around the room—at the scarred face of Richemont, at the fanatical eyes of Gilles de Rais, at the hopeful face of Alençon.
"The English have burned my effigy. The Burgundians have seized my warehouses. I have no bridges left to burn, Sire."
He bowed low to Napoleon.
"Everyone knows whose man I am. I am a man of France.I am a man of the Crown.And above all... I am your man."
He straightened up, a rare, fierce pride replacing his usual courtly mask.
"No one else will give me a choice, and I would not choose again."
"Because I have already placed the wager of my life on this table. And unlike a casual gambler, Sire... I do not play to break even. I play to own the house. And unlike some..." he glanced briefly at the Count of Clermont, "...I do not hedge my bets."
A beat of silence.
Then, Napoleon laughed—a short, sharp bark of approval.
"Well said, Moneyman," Napoleon grinned. "Then let us make sure the dice roll in our favor."
The Architecture of Glory
July 16, 1429 — Late Night
The Map Room
"Regnault," Napoleon turned to the Archbishop. "Give them their scripts. Tomorrow, we put on a show for God. And for the English."
Regnault unrolled a large parchment. He looked like a stage director arranging his actors.
"The Protocol of Coronation is strict," Regnault said. "We are missing half the Peers of France. The Duke of Burgundy is not here. The Count of Flanders is not here."
"We have substitutes," Napoleon waved his hand. "Proxies."
Regnault nodded. "Very well."
He pointed to Alençon.
"My Lord Duke, you are the highest blood. You will stand in for the Duke of Burgundy. You will knight the King, and you will strap the spurs to his heels."
Alençon beamed. "It is the honor of my life."
Regnault pointed to Clermont.
"Count of Clermont. You will carry the banner of the Duke of Normandy."
Clermont froze. "Normandy? But... the King of England calls himself Duke of Normandy."
"Exactly," Napoleon cut in, his eyes cold. "You will carry his title. It is a message. Normandy belongs to us."
Regnault turned to Richemont.
"Constable. You will carry Joyeuse—the Sword of State."
Richemont nodded grimly. The scarred soldier holding the sword of Charlemagne. It was a statement: This reign will be forged in iron.
Regnault looked at Gilles de Rais.
"Marshal. You brought the Oil. You will stand at the altar, holding the Ampoule. Do not let anyone touch it until the moment of Anointing."
"No one will touch it," Gilles whispered, caressing the box. "I will kill them if they try."
Finally, Regnault looked at the King.
"And you, Sire. You will kneel. I will apply the oil to your head, your chest, and your shoulders. Then... I will place the Crown."
Napoleon looked at the heavy gold crown sitting on the table. He looked at Regnault.
"We shall see, Regnault," Napoleon said softly. "We shall see."
He stood up.
"Go. Rest. Polish your armor. Tomorrow, we are not just men."
He looked at his reflection in the dark window—a frail body casting a long, imperial shadow.
"Tomorrow, we are the Law."
As the nobles filed out, Napoleon remained alone with the map of France.
He traced the line from Reims to Paris.
Clermont the Coward. Richemont the Butcher. Gilles the Madman. Jacques the Gambler.
And Joan... the Saint.
What a strange foundation for an Empire, he thought. But concrete is made of sand, gravel, and water. It is the mixture that makes it strong.
He blew out the candle.