February, 1429 – The Great Hall of Chinon
The Great Hall was packed. It smelled of unwashed bodies, roasted meat, anxiety, and bad politics.
Every minor noble, bishop, and hanger-on within fifty miles had crowded into the castle. They had heard the rumors. The "Fake News" mill was churning at full speed: A peasant girl. A visionary. A witch. A savior.
Napoleon stood in the shadows near the massive stone fireplace, warming his hands. He was dressed in a drab grey tunic, blending in with the servants and minor squires.
On the throne sat the Count of Clermont, sweating profusely under the weight of the crown and the royal velvet robes.
"But Sire," Clermont had whispered ten minutes ago, his hands trembling. "What if she is an assassin? What if she has a Burgundian dagger?"
"Then you will die for France," Napoleon had replied dryly, checking his fingernails. "It's a great honor. A tremendous honor. We'll name a street after you."
Now, Napoleon watched the crowd. He wasn't looking for a miracle; he was assessing the market.
Religion, Napoleon analyzed, scanning the whispering bishops. It keeps the poor from murdering the rich. Dangerous, but useful.
He didn't believe in voices from Heaven. He believed in heavy artillery, rapid marches, and compound interest. But he knew that the mob needed magic. They needed a Mascot.
If this girl could convince a few thousand superstitious peasants to charge a line of English longbows, she was worth more than her weight in gold. She was the software to his hardware.
"She is coming!" A herald shouted.
The heavy oak doors groaned open.
The chatter died instantly. Three hundred pairs of eyes turned to the entrance.
She walked in.
Napoleon narrowed his eyes, analyzing her like he would analyze a topographical map of Austerlitz.
She was young, perhaps seventeen. She was not beautiful in the way court ladies were—soft, powdered, useless. She was sturdy. Broad-shouldered. She walked with the stride of someone who had herded sheep across rocky hills and fought off wolves with a stick.
Her hair was cut short, like a soldier's. She wore men's clothes—a rough tunic and hose—which drew audible gasps of scandal from the clergy.
Good, Napoleon thought, a flicker of approval crossing his face. She breaks the rules. She disrupts the narrative. The people will love that.
Joan walked straight down the center of the hall. She didn't look at the crowd. She didn't look at the bishops. Her eyes were fixed on the throne.
Or so it seemed.
She stopped ten paces from the fake King. The Count of Clermont puffed out his chest, trying to look regal, trying to stop his knees from knocking together.
The court held its breath. This was the test. If she was truly sent by God, she would know the blood royal.
Joan stared at the man on the throne. She tilted her head.
Then, she frowned. It was a look of pure, unadulterated disappointment. Like a soldier inspecting a rusted musket.
She turned her back on him.
She didn't hesitate. She began to prowl through the crowd, her dark eyes scanning faces, searching, hunting.
She passed the Dukes. She passed the Generals. She passed the Bishops.
Then, she stopped.
She was standing in front of the fireplace. In front of the man in the grey tunic.
Napoleon did not flinch. He sipped his wine, looking over the rim of the goblet with cold, bored eyes.
The court held its breath.
Joan did not kneel immediately.
She stood there, mud crusted on her boots, smelling of rain and horses, staring straight into the eyes of the man who would be Emperor.
She scanned him—small, frail, yet unyielding. No awe. Assessment.
He is small, she thought. He is frail. But he is not afraid.
Everyone else in this hall smelled of fear. The King on the throne smelled of sweat and terror. But this little man... he smelled of gunpowder and absolute certainty.
Napoleon felt the weight of her gaze. It was heavy. Physical.
She is testing me, he realized with a start. The little peasant is auditing me.
Finally, Joan spoke. Her voice was calm, deliberate, cutting through the silence like a sharpened blade.
"Gentle Dauphin," she said.
She paused, narrowing her eyes as if reading his intent.
"If you are truly he... then I have work to do."
She took a measured step back. Her shoulders squared. Her hands curled slightly at her sides, ready for action.
Then, with precise control, she dropped to one knee. This was no act of worship—it was the soldier's kneel, the stance of one reporting for duty, not praying to an icon.
"My name is Joan the Maid," she declared, her eyes never leaving his. "The King of Heaven sends word. He says you have a war to win. And He says I am to help you win it."
The crowd gasped. "A miracle!" someone shouted. "She found him!"
Napoleon lowered his wine cup. He didn't smile.
He looked down at the top of her short-cropped hair. He calculated the odds. He weighed the pros and cons.
She is crazy, he decided. But she is the right kind of crazy.
"You have good eyes," Napoleon said, his voice flat and loud enough for the court to hear. "Better than my generals. They usually can't find the enemy until they trip over them."
He leaned down, offering her a hand.
"Stand up, General," he whispered, too low for the bishops to hear.
Joan looked up, surprised by the title.
"We don't kneel in my army," Napoleon hissed. "We march."
He pulled her to her feet with surprising strength. They stood nose to nose. The Mystic and the Mechanic. Two forces colliding, each recognizing the other's power.
"Faith is good," Napoleon said, raising his voice for the audience, playing to the crowd. "Faith moves mountains!"
Then he leaned closer, a wicked glint in his eye that only she could see.
"But cannons move walls."
He turned to the stunned court. He raised Joan's hand in the air like a referee declaring a winner.
"You see?" Napoleon shouted, channeling his inner showman. "Even Heaven votes for me! The election was not stolen! The mandate is clear!"
"We are going to Orleans!"
The crowd erupted. Cheers mixed with prayers. The bishops looked terrified. The soldiers looked intrigued.
As the noise washed over them, Joan leaned in. She didn't look at the crowd. She looked at him.
"I do not know what a 'cannon' is, Gentle Dauphin," she whispered honestly.
Napoleon grinned, warm and cruel at once.
"Stick with me, little one," he replied. "You're going to learn."