The tip of his sword was a single, sharp point of failure in my meticulously calculated plan.
It wavered in the morning air, aimed directly at my chest. Baron de Clovis was a cornered animal, all logic burned away by pure, humiliated rage. Around us, thousands of soldiers stood frozen, a forest of bayonets waiting for a spark. The fate of my kingdom, my family, and my neck depended on what happened in the next ten seconds.
My ten loyal guards tensed, their hands gripping the hilts of their sheathed swords. De La Tour's horse shifted, ready to move. But I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of my head. Violence was the Baron's language. It was the language of the old world. I had to answer him in mine.
I ignored him.
It was the most profound insult I could offer. I didn't even look at his sword. I turned my head slightly, my eyes scanning the front rank of tense, grimy faces, and raised my voice. It wasn't the bellow of a king, but the clear, projecting tone of a manager addressing his employees.
"Paymaster! Bring forward the ledger!"
A nervous, ink-stained man in spectacles, clutching a massive book to his chest, was gently pushed forward by one of De La Tour's guards. He set up a small, rickety table between me and the army, his hands trembling as he opened the book.
The Baron's face went from purple to a shade I had never seen before. "What is the meaning of this charade?!" he shrieked.
I continued to ignore him, my gaze fixed on the soldiers. "First Regiment of Flanders!" I announced, my voice carrying over the field. My eyes found a big, bearded man with a suspicious look on his face. "Private Jean-Luc Picard! Seven weeks back pay, plus a royal bonus for services to the Crown… sixty-three livres!"
The man, Picard, flinched as if I'd struck him. His comrades stared at him.
"Come and collect your wages, soldier," I said, my voice hardening slightly. "They are long overdue."
It was a direct challenge. Not a challenge of swords, but of contracts. Was he loyal to the man who starved him, or the man who was here to pay him?
The Baron's mind snapped.
With a high, inarticulate scream of pure fury, he kicked his horse's flanks and charged. His sword was no longer aimed; it was a desperate, killing spike of steel hurtling directly at me.
I didn't move. I didn't flinch. I held my horse steady, my eyes locked on his, a cold, analytical calm washing over me. He was a bug in the system, a rogue data point, and he was about to be corrected.
Before his horse could cover half the distance, De La Tour's mount shot forward like an arrow. It wasn't a flashy interception. It was the brutal, efficient work of a professional. De La Tour's heavier saber met the Baron's delicate rapier not with a clang, but with a sickening grinding sound. He didn't just parry; he locked the Baron's blade, twisted his wrist with practiced force, and used the Baron's own charging momentum to rip the sword from his hand.
The beautiful, silver-hilted rapier, the symbol of his noble status, went spinning through the air. It landed with a wet smack in the mud between the two forces.
That single image did more damage than a cannonball. The Baron's honor, his authority, his very identity as a swordsman and a noble, lay useless and filthy in the dirt.
He reined his horse in, staring at his empty hand in disbelief. He was disarmed. He was defeated. And I hadn't even had to stand up.
The spell was broken.
The soldier I had called out, Private Picard, stared at the sword in the mud, then at the sputtering Baron, then at me. A slow, dawning realization spread across his face. He had been following a fool.
With a grunt, he unslung his musket and threw it to the ground. The heavy thud echoed across the silent field. He walked forward. He broke the ranks. His comrades watched him, their expressions a mixture of fear and awe.
He didn't even glance at the Baron. He walked right past him as if he were a piece of furniture, his heavy boots squelching in the mud. He stopped at the paymaster's table.
"Picard, Jean-Luc," he grunted.
The paymaster, his hands still shaking, found the name, made a tick, and pushed a small, heavy cloth bag across the table. Picard snatched it. He untied the top, tipped a silver coin into his palm, and bit it. Hard.
It was real.
He turned to face his regiment. He didn't say a word. He just held the bag of coins up high for all to see.
A single, ragged cheer went up from somewhere in the ranks. Then another. Then a low rumble began to spread through the army. It wasn't the roar of a mob. It was the sound of thousands of individual men all coming to the same, simple, economic conclusion.
Another soldier stepped forward, throwing down his musket. Then five more. Then a whole section. The rigid military formation, the tool of the Baron's power, dissolved into a messy, eager line.
A line for the bank. My bank.
Only then did I finally turn my attention to the humiliated Baron de Clovis. He sat on his horse, his face slack with shock, whispering about honor and treason to no one.
"Baron," I said, my voice as cold and flat as a slate of accounts. He flinched, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time.
"As an employee of the Crown," I continued, ticking off points on my fingers, "you have failed in your fiduciary duty. You have mismanaged company assets—namely, these men. You have conspired with a hostile entity against the interests of your employer. And you have attempted to violently disrupt a legitimate, scheduled transaction."
I let the words hang in the air. "Your employment," I said, my voice dropping, "is terminated. Effective immediately."
His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
I turned my horse to face the scarred, veteran sergeant who had challenged the Baron in his camp. He was near the front of the pay line. "Sergeant!" I called out. He stood up straight, his eyes locking on mine.
"You are in command now," I said. His eyes widened. "Your first duty is to escort this… former employee… back to his tent. See that he is secured. He will be tried by his peers for dereliction of duty and attempted theft of state funds."
I watched as the sergeant and a dozen of his newly paid men surrounded the Baron. They didn't look at him with military deference. They looked at him with the cold contempt of creditors coming to collect. They were no longer his soldiers. They were his jury. And his jailers.
I had won. The coup was over.
I dismounted, my legs feeling strangely weak, and sat on a munitions crate to oversee the rest of the payment. The process was orderly, efficient. The soldiers, one by one, came forward, received their wages, and gave me a look that was part awe, part simple, profound gratitude. I hadn't given them a speech. I had given them dinner.
As the last few regiments were being paid, I saw a rider coming hard from the direction of Paris. He wasn't a soldier. He rode with a desperate urgency that made the hair on my arms stand up.
It was one of Orléans's agents. He practically fell off his horse, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, and shoved a crumpled, dirty note into my hand.
I unfolded it. The writing was a frantic scrawl.
Rumors worked too well. City believes you are a prisoner. They call themselves the King's Militia. Storming armories. Seizing weapons. They are marching to save you.
I looked up from the note, a cold dread washing over me that was worse than anything I'd felt facing the Baron's sword.
The agent leaned in close, his voice a panicked, breathless whisper that only I could hear. "Your Majesty, it's not a rumor anymore. They've taken the Bastille."
He grabbed my arm, his eyes wild with terror. "They're not marching to save you. They're marching to burn down the old world. And they're doing it in your name."