February, 1429 – The Courtyard of Chinon Castle
The rain had returned, relentless and grey. It turned the stone and mud into a slurry of decay and discontent.
Two hundred men stood in the courtyard—the last remnants of the "Royal Army." Their Lochaber axes gleamed dully under the drizzle. Rusted chainmail and tartan cloaks clung to their soaked bodies. They were giants, red-faced and brooding, fueled by hunger, unpaid wages, and long memories of English raids.
They knew the truth: for ten years, it had never been the King distributing pay, but La Trémoille. They had endured his whims, his corruption, his absence. And now, the King himself had appeared—suddenly upright, suddenly commanding.
Was this real? Or another passing fancy of a unstable boy?
Patrick Ogilvy stood at the front, silent and solid, his broad shoulders a bastion for the men. He had already pledged loyalty in private. But the soldiers did not yet know. Their eyes searched, skeptical and calculating.
Napoleon limped onto the wooden balcony, the oversized blue velvet cloak draping over his narrow frame. He did not shiver. He did not hesitate.
He surveyed the crowd. Two hundred pairs of eyes were assessing him—not yet following, not yet convinced, but probing.
Then a burly sergeant, scarred across the nose, stepped forward. He didn't bow.
"Sire… we hear La Trémoille ran." The sergeant spat into the mud. "And our pay? Is it his fault, or yours?"
A low murmur ran through the crowd. This was no mockery. This was a trial.
Ogilvy's hand brushed the haft of his axe. He whispered to himself: They are not challenging the King. They are measuring him.
Napoleon leaned forward, gripping the wet railing until his knuckles whitened. The rain struck his face, cold as steel. He spoke, low, deliberate:
"You ask whose fault it is that you were unpaid."
He paused, letting the silence stretch until it was tighter than a bowstring.
"It was mine."
A hush fell. Soldiers shifted, mud squelching under boots. A King admitting fault? That was new.
"For ten years," Napoleon continued, his voice rising, slicing through the rain, "I let a thief hold the purse. I let the Crown of France lie in the mud, trampled by parasites like La Trémoille."
He straightened, letting the rain plaster his hair to his forehead. His eyes, pale and sharp, scanned every face.
"You are right to be cautious. You have seen a Crown, but you have never seen a King."
He pointed a finger at the ground, at the filth of the courtyard.
"But tonight, I am picking it up."
"From this day forward, your pay, your lands, your duty, your France—it belongs to no one but me. The holiday is over. The Owner is back."
He gestured toward the distant road, leading toward the village:
"La Trémoille thinks he can steal from you. He thinks he can flee with your retirement fund. He is wrong."
"Go. Take back what is yours."
He emphasized each word, hammering them home:
"Yours. Every. Penny."
A slow, dangerous rumble rose from the formation. They could almost feel the shift in their own hearts. The abstract concept of "The Crown" had just become very real, and very profitable.
Ogilvy nodded—not secretly this time, but openly. He slammed the butt of his axe onto the stone. Thud. It was a vote of confidence.
Napoleon's gaze swept over them, and he declared:
"I will give you not just pay, but land. English estates. Castles. Farms. You take it, you keep it."
"We recruit the best people, do we not?" Napoleon shouted, channeling the fervor of a rally. "The Scots! The fiercest warriors! Everyone says so! Why should the English have all the land? You will have it. You will be Lords of France."
A hush, then a ripple of desire—greed tempered by disbelief.
"London?" the sergeant asked, tentative, the scar on his nose twitching.
"If you can carry it," Napoleon said, his voice calm, almost playful.
The rain intensified, battering the courtyard. But no one moved to cover. Napoleon's eyes caught the glint of weapons, the tightness in shoulders, the hesitancy turning into willingness.
"But first," he said, voice low and lethal, "we have a pest problem."
"La Trémoille loads your gold. He thinks he can escape. He is wrong. Seize it. Bring it home."
He smiled, cold and sharp.
"And if he resists… well, accidents happen."
Ogilvy raised his massive axe, the signal unmistakable.
"You heard the King! Take back what is yours!"
"SCOTLAND!"
A thunderous roar erupted. Two hundred men surged forward, mud flying, hearts pounding, weapons raised. Scotland had come alive in the courtyard.
Napoleon leaned against the stone wall, wet and shaking slightly—not from fear, but from exhilaration. He had no real money, no real army, and yet he had just bought loyalty, action, and devotion with a promise and a lie.
"See?" he muttered to himself, wiping rain from his eyes. "It's all about the base. You have to energize the base."
He turned toward the castle, already calculating the next move.
"Now… where is this girl who talks to God? Bring her to me."
"I want to see if she is the real deal."