Time: August 1–6, 1429 Location: The Road from Reims to Arras
The rutted dirt road near the village of Corbeny did not care for the dignity of the Church. It possessed a crude, democratic malice, eagerly swallowing the iron-shod wheels of the heaviest wagon in the French diplomatic train.
With a sickening crack and a groan of straining timber, the massive carriage—which housed the Archbishop of Reims's personal supply of Bordeaux wine and a portable altar made of gilded oak—tilted precariously to the right. One of the reliquary chests slipped from the wagon bed and burst open in the mud. A silver arm of Saint Martin rolled into the ruts. Three priests screamed as if the saint himself had been murdered. The four draft horses whinnied in panic, their hooves churning the summer mud into a thick, foul-smelling paste.
Guy XIV de Laval, a young nobleman serving as a diplomatic scribe, watched the disaster from the saddle of his palfrey. He calmly opened his leather-bound journal, dipped his quill into a portable inkhorn, and noted the delay. It was their second day out of Reims, and they had barely covered thirty miles.
"By the blood of Saint Denis!" cursed Lieutenant Gilles, the young officer commanding the military escort.
Gilles was a hardened soldier of the First Ordinance Company. He should have been on the grand muster fields of Reims, learning the King's new, glorious geometry of war. Instead, because of a twist of administrative fate, he had been detached to babysit a caravan of peacocks.
"Dismount!" Gilles roared at his fifty elite men-at-arms, his voice cracking with sheer indignity. "Put your shoulders to the axle! Heave!"
Fifty of France's finest shock cavalrymen, wearing polished steel cuirasses and pristine blue surcoats, slid off their warhorses into the ankle-deep muck. Swearing under their breath, they waded into the mud, pressing their armored shoulders against the groaning wood of the wagon.
Up ahead, the curtains of the lead carriage parted. Regnault de Chartres, the Chancellor of France and Archbishop of Reims, peered out. He did not look panicked. He merely looked mildly inconvenienced.
"Gently, Lieutenant Gilles!" the Archbishop called out, waving a perfumed handkerchief to ward off the smell of horse sweat and mud. "The king's diplomatic seals are in that wagon! And the 1420 vintage is notoriously fragile! If the heat does not ruin it, your violent shoving will!"
Gilles's jaw muscles twitched so violently Guy thought the man's teeth might shatter. "Heave!" the Lieutenant barked again. With a sucking sound, the heavy wagon was finally wrested from the mud, splattering gray sludge across the once-gleaming armor of the royal escort.
Guy de Laval allowed himself a small, private smile. While King Charles was forging a machine of iron and blood back in Reims, the peace faction was conducting a very different sort of campaign. It was an invasion of luxury, a slow, crawling migration of velvet, silver, and ego.
Yet, as the days passed and the sprawling embassy lumbered northward, Guy began to realize that Archbishop Regnault was many things—vain, greedy, and arrogant—but he was not a fool.
The realization struck Guy during their second night, in the high, fortified mountain city of Laon.
Laon sat atop a massive limestone outcrop, dominating the plains of Picardy like a stone crown. It was a secure royalist stronghold, and the local clergy had prepared a feast worthy of a conquering pope. There were roasted swans dressed in their own feathers, rivers of spiced wine, and endless courses of venison.
But while the knights of the escort drank themselves into a stupor to forget the mud of Corbeny, the Archbishop was hard at work.
Guy stood quietly in the shadows of the bishop's hall, his quill scratching across parchment, as Regnault held a private audience with the local abbots. Regnault did not talk of theology, nor did he boast of the King's recent coronation. He talked entirely of arithmetic.
"The harvest has been bountiful, My Lord Abbot," Regnault said smoothly, sipping his wine. "Yet, the royal treasury notes that the tithes from the Abbey of Saint-Vincent have been... delayed. For three years."
The local abbot sweated profusely. "Your Grace, the war—the English raiders—"
"The English have not crossed the Aisne River in two years," Regnault interrupted, his smile perfectly warm, his eyes perfectly dead. "I am a reasonable man. The King is a reasonable man. You will deliver three thousand livres to my quartermaster before sunrise, and I shall wipe the slate clean. If not, I hear the new Provost Marshal, Magnus the Scot, is looking for properties to confiscate to fund the artillery train."
The abbot went pale and hastily agreed.
Watching this, Guy understood. The Archbishop believed that the world was not moved by Charles's bronze cannons or Joan's divine visions. He believed the world was moved by the quiet exchange of ledgers, the leverage of debt, and the smooth application of blackmail. Regnault was funding his own lavish embassy by shaking down the countryside, masking his extortion behind the velvet robes of his office.
By the fourth day, the landscape began to change. They crossed past Saint-Quentin and entered the marches of Cambrai. The villages grew wealthier. The fields were untouched by the scorched-earth tactics that had ruined the south. But more importantly, the banners fluttering from the local watchtowers were no longer the blue and gold lilies of France.
They were the ragged, red, crossed branches of the Cross of Burgundy. They were in the territory of Duke Philip the Good.
The atmosphere in the French caravan tightened. Lieutenant Gilles ordered his men to ride with their lances resting on their thighs, their visors half-lowered. They were no longer guests; they were intruders in the lands of the enemy's greatest ally.
Shortly before noon, the road ahead was blocked.
A company of thirty horsemen sat waiting on the crest of a low hill. They did not charge, nor did they draw their swords. They simply waited.
As the French embassy approached, the contrast became agonizingly clear. Gilles's men, despite their best efforts, were dusty, mud-stained, and exhausted from dragging wagons. The riders on the hill, however, were immaculate. They wore heavy plate armor polished to a mirror shine, draped in rich black and gold surcoats. Their horses were massive destriers, completely uniform in size and color.
"Burgundian honor guard," Gilles spat, his hand drifting to the hilt of his broadsword. "They aren't here to welcome us. They're here to count our numbers and measure our steel."
"Hold your men, Lieutenant," Regnault commanded from his carriage.
The carriage rolled forward until it was face-to-face with the Burgundian captain. The man removed his plumed helmet, revealing a handsome, scarred face. He offered a courteous, if slightly rigid, bow from the saddle.
"Your Grace," the Burgundian captain said. "Duke Philip extends his greetings. We are here to escort you safely through his lands to Arras."
"How incredibly thoughtful of His Grace," Regnault replied, pushing open the velvet curtains. He beamed at the captain as if greeting a favorite nephew. "It is a long and dusty road, Captain. Your men must be parched."
To Gilles's sheer bewilderment, Regnault reached into his robes and tossed a heavy, velvet purse to the Burgundian officer. The captain caught it. The distinct, heavy clink of pure gold Francs à cheval echoed in the quiet air.
It was a small fortune. Gilles glared at the Archbishop, furious at the display of weakness. Why pay a toll to an escort they hadn't asked for?
But Guy de Laval, riding close to the carriage, watched the Archbishop's eyes.
The Burgundian captain weighed the purse in his hand. His rigid posture relaxed a fraction. A faint smile touched his lips. "The Duke's hospitality is freely given, Your Grace. But your generosity is... appreciated."
"Think nothing of it," Regnault said airily. He leaned slightly out of the carriage window, his voice dropping to a conversational, intimate register. "Tell me, Captain. It has been years since I visited Arras. I hear the summer climate can be quite stifling. I do hope it is not proving too oppressive for the... English constitution?"
Guy held his breath. It was a masterfully buried question. The official line was that Burgundy was considering a separate peace with France. If English envoys were already in Arras, it meant Philip was playing both sides.
The Burgundian captain looked at the gold in his hand, then looked up at the Archbishop. The transaction was understood.
"The summers in Arras are indeed warm, Your Grace," the captain replied, his voice equally smooth. "In fact, I believe Cardinal Beaufort and the envoys of the Duke of Bedford find the heat quite... taxing. They have been resting in the city for two days now."
"Ah," Regnault smiled, leaning back into his cushions. "How unfortunate for them. Thank you, Captain. Lead the way."
As the carriage rolled forward, Guy quickly jotted the intelligence down in his ciphered notebook. Regnault hadn't thrown gold away out of vanity; he had bought the diplomatic layout of Arras before even setting foot in the city. He now knew he was walking into a bidding war, not a surrender.
On the sixth day, the embassy halted three miles outside the walls of Arras.
The August heat was brutal, a shimmering, suffocating blanket over the fields. Yet, Archbishop Regnault issued an order that made Lieutenant Gilles want to commit treason.
"Unpack the chests," Regnault decreed. "Every knight will wear his parade armor. Every horse will be barded in silk. I want the banners unfurled and the silver reliquaries carried at the front."
"Your Grace, it is boiling!" Gilles protested, wiping sweat from his brow. "If we march three miles in full parade plate, half the men will collapse from heatstroke!"
"If you collapse, Lieutenant, do it with a straight back," Regnault snapped, his amiable mask finally slipping to reveal the ruthless courtier beneath. "We are entering the richest city north of the Alps. Duke Philip buys and sells kings. If we ride in looking like mud-spattered mercenaries, he will treat us like beggars. We must look like the masters of France."
Regnault himself set the example. He retreated into his stifling carriage and donned a massive, floor-length crimson robe of heavy velvet, lined with ermine, and placed a jeweled mitre upon his head. By the time he stepped out, he was pale and pouring sweat, but he looked like a walking treasury.
The French embassy crested the final ridge. Below them lay Arras.
It was a sprawling, magnificent beast of a city, bristling with church spires, massive stone bastions, and a forest of trading masts along the river. English wool, Flemish cloth, Baltic grain—wealth flowed through Arras like blood through a heart. But it was the sight outside the main gate that made the French column draw reign.
If Regnault had intended to shock the Burgundians with wealth, he had brought a candle to the sun.
Waiting for them on the plains outside the city gate was an encampment that defied military logic. There were no ranks of intimidating, grim-faced spearmen. Instead, a sprawling pavilion of gold-embroidered silk had been erected in the meadows. Long carpets of deep Persian red were rolled out over the grass, leading directly to the city gates.
Standing at the head of the carpets was a delegation of fifty Burgundian nobles. They wore no armor whatsoever. They were dressed in doublets of spun gold, silver brocade, and velvet so dark and rich it seemed to drink the sunlight.
In the center of the pavilion, absurdly, stood an ornate marble fountain, temporarily plumbed, flowing not with water, but with pale, chilled wine cooled by winter ice preserved in deep cellars at astronomical expense.
At the head of the reception stood an elderly man in a simple, but impossibly fine, black velvet gown. He held a silver cup. This was Nicolas Rolin, the Chancellor of Burgundy, the architect of Duke Philip's empire.
Regnault de Chartres descended from his carriage. He was sweating heavily under his crimson robes, his face flushed. Nicolas Rolin walked forward across the carpets, not a single drop of sweat on his cool, composed face.
The two greatest diplomats of their age met in the center of the red carpet. They did not bow. They opened their arms and embraced each other warmly, kissing each other on both cheeks like long-lost brothers.
"My dear Archbishop," Rolin said, his voice carrying clearly to the silent, sweltering French knights. "The Duke is overjoyed at your arrival. You must be exhausted. Come, drink, rest in the shade. We have prepared the finest manors in the city for your stay. We have so much catching up to do."
"Chancellor Rolin," Regnault smiled, his eyes glittering as he took the offered silver cup of chilled wine. "The joy is entirely mine. I look forward to a swift and fruitful dialogue."
"Oh, there is no rush, my friend," Rolin said, placing a gentle, guiding hand on the Archbishop's shoulder, steering him toward the opulent pavilion. "Peace is a delicate flower. It must be watered slowly. Take all the time you need. A week, a month... Arras is yours."
From his horse, Guy de Laval watched the two old foxes walk arm-in-arm into the shade of the silk tent. He looked at the flowing wine, the smiling Burgundian nobles, and the total absence of military threat.
A cold shiver ran down Guy's spine, cutting through the August heat.
Lieutenant Gilles had been wrong to fear an ambush of steel. The Burgundians were infinitely more dangerous than that. They were not going to fight the French embassy; they were going to drown them in hospitality. They were going to trap Regnault in a labyrinth of banquets, polite stalling, and endless protocol.
Take all the time you need, Rolin had said.
Guy opened his notebook, his quill trembling slightly. He finally understood the game. Duke Philip did not want peace. He wanted exactly what King Charles had predicted: thirty days of wasted time. While the Archbishop drank chilled wine and argued over the phrasing of treaties, the Duke of Bedford was frantically reinforcing the walls of Paris.
It was a beautiful, flawless trap.
But as Guy looked back to the south, toward the dusty road they had just traveled, a grim, comforting thought settled in his mind.
The Burgundians thought they were stalling an arrogant Archbishop. They did not know that somewhere down that road, moving with the terrifying, rhythmic precision of a ticking clock, a new king was marching.
Velvet bought time.
Steel spent it.