March, 1429 – The Great Hall of the Palace of Poitiers
Three days of questioning had squeezed the air dry.
The Great Hall smelled of ink, incense, and intellectual stagnation. Fifty theologians sat in a crescent—the Church's most educated, and therefore its most useless, men. Their robes glittered with wealth that could have fed an army.
At the center, on a bare wooden stool, sat Joan.
Her clothes were dusty from the road. Her braids were half undone. Her eyes burned with a fatigue that was turning into fury.
Above the chamber, Napoleon leaned over the gallery rail, peeling an apple with a short knife[1]. Each curl of apple skin dropped like a countdown.
"These men," Napoleon muttered, "could waste eternity discussing how many angels can do cavalry charges on the head of a pin."
Beside him, Archbishop Regnault wiped sweat from his brow.
"Sire, the Church must examine her. The people demand certainty. If she is a witch—"
"If she were a witch," Napoleon whispered, slicing a wedge of fruit, "she'd have turned you into a goat two days ago."
Below, Brother Séguin, the fat Dominican, leaned forward. His thick Limousin accent butchered the French language as thoroughly as English soldiers butchered peasants.
"You claim to hear God," he boomed. "In what tongue does He speak to you?"
Joan lifted her face. She was tired, but not broken.
"A better one than yours."
Gasps rippled through the hall. Quills scratched furiously.
Séguin swelled with fury.
"Blasphemy! Insolent girl! If God intends to save France, why does He need soldiers? Why not strike our enemies dead Himself? Answer me!"
It was the trap. A polished theological snare.
Napoleon's knife paused.
Joan did not hesitate. She stood up.
"The soldiers will fight," she announced, her voice ringing off the stone, "and God will give the victory."
A perfect division of labor: Material cause plus Final cause.
Napoleon smiled. That was his General.
From the shadowed edge of the hall, a man watched with sharper interest than any theologian: Jacques Cœur, the merchant of Bourges.
He had come only to deliver updated revenue reports from Poitou, but the moment he stepped inside, he sensed something unusual—not in the clerics, whose pompous chatter filled the hall like spoiled incense, but in the King.
He watched Napoleon descend the gallery steps with a ledger in one hand.
Not a Bible. Not a decree. A ledger.
Jacques felt a jolt—professional, visceral.
This one understands numbers. This one understands power.
Theologians were still shouting when Napoleon reached the floor.
"Enough."
His voice dropped like a guillotine blade.
"Sire," Brother Séguin sputtered, rising to block him. "This is a sacred examination. You cannot interfere—"
Napoleon unrolled the parchment in his hand.
Not scripture. Not doctrine. Columns.
"I have reviewed the Church's tax situation in Poitou," Napoleon said casually. "It appears the English are collecting tithes from three of your dioceses."
Murmurs. Panic. The rustle of expensive silk.
"You speak of God's will?" Napoleon asked, pacing slowly around the crescent of theologians. "God's will is expensive. Armies are expensive. And your abbeys," he tapped the ledger with the knife, "are behind on contributions."
Jacques watched every movement, breath held. He had seen lords intimidate with threats, merchants with contracts, soldiers with steel.
But this—this was the first time he saw a king rule with arithmetic.
Napoleon stopped in front of the fat friar.
"I am invoking emergency powers."
Cold silence. Ink drying mid-air.
"You have one hour. One. You will conclude your investigation, stamp her authorization, and release her to me."
Regnault swallowed. "And… if we refuse?"
Napoleon looked at him as if the question were genuinely stupid.
"Then I suspend clerical immunity, seize your abbey revenues at fifty percent, and declare the war effort a sacred tithe."
Half the hall stopped breathing.
Jacques nearly smiled. Exact numbers, exact pressure, exact leverage.[2]
This is how empires are financed.
Napoleon leaned toward Séguin.
"I amdraining the swamp[3], Brother. Do you wish to be among the creatures found at the bottom?"
The friar wilted.
"She… she is pure," he croaked. "We have concluded. The Maid is authorized."
"Splendid," Napoleon said, reclaiming the ledger. "I adore efficiency."
He turned to Joan.
"General. Bring your sword. We're leaving."
Napoleon strode out, Joan following.
Jacques Cœur remained in the shadow of a pillar, heart pounding with a quiet, electrified recognition:
"Un roi… qui compte." (A king who counts.)
That was the moment Jacques Cœur decided something important:
If this king is going to turn the Kingdom into a business... then I want to be his shareholder.[4]
The Courtyard
Light exploded across the courtyard as they emerged. Horses stamped; soldiers straightened.
La Hire was waiting.
Étienne de Vignolles—mercenary, monster, legend. He leaned against his horse chewing a stale Gascon sausage, looking every inch the war-god's disreputable cousin.
When he saw Joan in men's garb, he barked a wet laugh.
"Pity the priests didn't roast you, girl. You'd smell better than this sausage."
Joan's hand flew to her sword.
Napoleon moved first.
He approached La Hire, stopping so close the man's garlic-laden breath mingled with steel and sweat.
"That sausage," Napoleon said, "is it from Gascony?"
La Hire blinked. "Aye. Stale, but—fine enough."
"Give it to me."
"Sire?" La Hire frowned. "It's soldier's scraps. It's grease."
Napoleon snatched it and bit off a huge chunk. Grease dripped onto his tunic. He chewed, swallowed, wiped his mouth.
"Needs pepper," he declared. "But it tastes like courage."
He tossed it back. La Hire caught it like a relic.
"You like food, La Hire?" Napoleon asked.
"Aye."
"Good. If we fail at Orléans, we'll be chewing boiled leather before winter."
Napoleon's gaze slid to La Hire's ragged cloak—muddy, blood-stiff, wind-torn.
Unacceptable.
He unclasped his own mantle—the royal deep-blue cloak seeded with fleur-de-lis. The last piece of monarchy he possessed.
He threw it over La Hire's shoulders and pulled the clasp tight, drawing the giant down to eye level.
"It's warm," Napoleon murmured. "But more importantly… it marks you."
He tightened the clasp a fraction—just enough to press La Hire's throat. A velvet noose. A coronation. A warning.
"I eat with you. I bleed with you. You are my brother now."
He tapped the man's massive chest.
"But she"—he nodded toward Joan—"is the Flag. The Spirit. You mock her, you mock France."
A thin, cold smile.
"And if you mock France… I will find a sausage large enough to choke you with."
La Hire swallowed. Respect replaced bravado.
He approached Joan without meeting the King's eyes and offered his scarred hand.
"Up you go, Maid."
It was rough. But it was respect.
Napoleon mounted his own horse, satisfied.
Empires are built, he thought, one sausage and one symbol at a time.
He raised his hand.
"To Blois!"
The courtyard roared.
[1] Maybe it is the most disrespectful apple in history.
[2] It feels like they've known each other forever.
[3] Make France Great Again starts here.
[4] Smart money follows the smart King.