The Survivor's Guilt
May 19, 1429
Paris, The Hôtel des Tournelles (English HQ)
The atmosphere in the council chamber was suffocating. The air was cold, smelling of old stone and damp tapestries.
Sir John Fastolf, the hero of the Battle of the Herrings, the most prudent commander in the English army, was kneeling on the floor. He was still wearing his mud-splattered armor.
Around him, the other English nobles were shouting, their hands hovering over their sword hilts.
"Coward!"
"You abandoned Talbot!"
"You had 3,000 men! You should have turned and fought!"
John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, the Regent of France, sat in the shadows of the high chair. He raised a single hand.
Silence fell instantly. It was the silence of absolute authority.
Bedford walked slowly down the steps and stopped in front of Fastolf.
"John," Bedford said softly. "Look at me."
Fastolf looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, haunted. He didn't look like a general; he looked like a man who had seen a ghost.
"Tell me," Bedford asked, his voice devoid of anger. "Why did you run?"
"It was a trap, My Lord," Fastolf's voice trembled. "We were fighting the Guard in the front... and then... the woods behind us erupted."
"Erupted?"
"Trumpets. Thousands of them," Fastolf's eyes widened, reliving the terror. "And banners. I saw the Royal Standard. Not one, but dozens. The trees were thick with them. It was the King's main host, My Lord! They had encircled us!"
Bedford stared at him for a long moment. His face was unreadable.
He walked over to the large map on the wall, picking up a pointer.
"The King's main host..." Bedford traced a line on the map. "Intelligence says Charles was in Orleans two days ago. His Vanguard was at Patay. Tell me, John, how did an army of ten thousand men march through the woods, bypass your scouts, and get behind you without snapping a single twig?"
Fastolf froze. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
"I..." Fastolf stammered. "But I heard them. The charge... the noise... it shook the earth."
Bedford turned back to him, his voice as cold as a grave.
"You didn't run from an army, John."
Bedford leaned down, his face inches from the trembling knight.
"There were no tracks in those woods. No campfires. No horse dung."
"You ran from noise."
Fastolf collapsed back onto his heels. The color drained from his face. The realization hit him like a physical blow. The shame was worse than the fear.
"I... I abandoned them," Fastolf whispered. "For... noise?"
Bedford straightened up. He didn't execute him. He needed every sword he had left.
"Stand up, Sir John. You brought back 3,000 men. That is the only reason you are still breathing. Go and fortify the walls."
As the broken knight stumbled out, Bedford looked at the other nobles.
"The French have learned a new trick. They don't just kill our bodies anymore." Bedford tapped his own temple. "They are attacking our minds."
The Infection
May 19, 1429 — Night
Paris City Walls
Bedford walked along the ramparts of Paris. The city below was uneasy. Rumors travel faster than horses.
He saw a group of English archers huddled near a watchtower. They weren't keeping watch. They were passing something around, illuminated by a flickering lantern.
"Gambling?" Bedford thought. "Or mutiny?"
He approached them silently.
"Look at the Latin," one soldier whispered, his voice shaking. "It says she cannot be conquered."
"My cousin was at Patay. He said the arrow went through her neck and she laughed."
"She is not human. We are fighting a demon."
"Give it to me."
The soldiers jumped. They dropped to their knees as the Regent stepped into the light.
Bedford picked up the object. It was a piece of paper. A crude woodcut print, smuggled into the city by French sympathizers.
It was Jean Fouquet's drawing. The raised fist. The halo of violence. And the word carved at the bottom: INVICTUS.
Bedford stared at it.
Napoleon (Charles) saw a weapon. Bedford saw a plague.
He looked at his soldiers. He didn't see loyalty in their eyes anymore. He saw fear. Deep, superstitious fear.
"This is not a woman," Bedford said quietly, tearing the paper in half. "This is a poison."
He threw the pieces over the wall, into the dark moat below.
"The French King thinks he can paint a God," Bedford whispered to the wind. "Then we must show the world that paint burns."
The Theological Assassin
May 20, 1429
Bedford's Study
The room was filled with the smell of beeswax and parchment.
Pierre Cauchon, the Bishop of Beauvais, sat across from the Regent. He was a man of the Church, but his ambition was purely secular.
"My generals want to send assassins," Bedford said, pouring wine. "They want to poison her, or shoot her from a distance. What do you think, Bishop?"
Cauchon swirled his wine, a thin smile playing on his lips.
"Foolishness, My Lord. If you kill her body, you seal her legend. That drawing..." Cauchon pointed to a confiscated copy of INVICTUS on the desk. "...if she dies in battle, that drawing becomes an icon. She becomes a martyr. Her blood will water the seeds of a thousand rebellions."
"We cannot fight a ghost," Bedford agreed.
"Exactly," Cauchon leaned forward. "This 'King' Charles is playing a dangerous game. He claims God is on his side. He is bypassing the Church."
"So?"
"So, we do not attack the girl. We attack the claim."
Cauchon's eyes gleamed with intellectual cruelty.
"Cannons cannot silence a miracle, My Lord. Only the Church can."
"If she is a Saint, we are sinners," Bedford mused. "But if she is a Witch..."
"Then her victories are not from God," Cauchon finished the sentence. "They are from the Devil. And those who follow her are not patriots; they are heretics."
Bedford nodded slowly. The logic was cold, precise, and perfect. It was the only way to restore order.
The Verdict
May 20, 1429 — Late Night
The Strategy Room
Bedford stood alone before the map of France. He picked up a quill.
He had to make a decision that would stain his soul, but save his country.
Charles thinks he is clever, Bedford thought. He thinks he can use a peasant girl to steal the Crown. He thinks the end justifies the means.
He is right. And I will show him what the 'end' really looks like.
He wrote a letter to the Duke of Burgundy and his field commanders.
"To all commanders of the Alliance:
Do not seek to kill the woman known as the Maid in battle.
Death is too easy. Death is what she wants.
Capture her. Ambush her. Buy her.
I will pay a King's ransom for her. Not to hold her for exchange. But to hold her for the Truth."
He signed it with a heavy stroke. Bedford.
The Mirror
Finale
Bedford walked to the window. He looked South, towards the Loire, towards the enemy who was no longer just a lazy Valois prince, but a terrifying rival.
Cauchon stood by the door, gathering his robes.
"I will prepare the tribunal, My Lord," Cauchon said. "We will need lawyers, scholars... we will build a cage of words that she cannot escape."
"Pierre," Bedford said, not turning around.
"Yes, My Lord?"
Bedford watched the candle flame reflected in the dark glass.
"Do not make her a saint."
He blew out the candle. The room plunged into darkness.
"Make her a lesson."