Time: July 21, 1429 Location: The Summit of Saint-Thierry (Flavy's Camp)
The ascent from La Hire's camp was a journey from chaos into silence. As the elevation climbed, the smell of roast pork faded, replaced by the crisp, biting wind of the summit.
At the top, the camp of Guillaume de Flavy stood like a geometric drawing pressed into the earth. The tents were perfectly aligned. The picket lines for the horses were straight. No one was shouting. The only sound was leather creaking and the wind worrying the ropes.
Charles VII rode toward the gate, followed by Magnus and Lucas.
"Halt."
Two sentries lowered their vouges, crossing them instantly in front of the King's horse. They wore clean tabards and polished sallets. Their eyes were fixed forward, not on the King's crown.
"Identify. And Password."
In wartime even kings traveled with watchwords—because assassins wore tabards too.
Magnus the Scot bristled, his hand going to his sword. "Open your eyes, fool! It is the King! Do you demand a password from your Sovereign?"
The sentry did not flinch. "Without the word, not even a Saint passes. Standing orders of Captain Flavy."
Magnus opened his mouth to roar, but Charles raised a hand, stopping him. A faint smile touched the King's lips.
"Do not fault a man for doing his duty, Magnus," Charles said softly.
He looked at the guard.
"Go and tell Captain Flavy that Charles of Valois waits at his gate."
Moments later, the sound of running footsteps—rhythmic, disciplined—approached.
Guillaume de Flavy appeared. He was not a giant like La Hire, nor a courtier like Alençon. He was a man of medium build, encased in plain, unpolished grey steel. He moved like a measure taken twice—no wasted step.
He stopped three paces from the King, brought his feet set, and bowed—a sharp, military angle.
"Sire. Forgive the delay. The perimeter is sealed."
"Rise, Guillaume," Charles said.
He looked around the bleak, wind-swept plateau. There was no shade. The wind whipped at their cloaks. Water would have to be hauled up from the valley in buckets.
"Your men are eating wind and drinking dust up here," Charles observed. "Why this rock? The valley floor is green and comfortable."
Flavy stood at attention.
"Comfort is for the vanguard, Sire. You appointed me Royal Rear Guard Commander."
He turned and pointed down the slope.
From this height, the whole world was visible. The chaotic sprawl of La Hire's mercenaries; the creeping line of Jacques Cœur's wagons; the roads leading back to France.
"This is the hawk's nest," Flavy said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I see the enemy's approach. I see the merchant's pace. And..."
He glanced at La Hire's camp.
"...I see our own deserters. To contain, to process, to guard the rear. I see everyone, but no one easily sees me."
Charles nodded slowly. It was exactly what he needed.
Lucas le Breton leaned forward in his saddle, studying the captain's severe face.
"Such rigid discipline," Lucas remarked, his tone carrying a hint of calculated ambiguity. "I hear the Chancellor, Regnault de Chartres, speaks highly of you. They say... you share blood."
The rumor hung in the air like mist. In France, blood could buy grain—or start a war.
Flavy lifted his chin. He looked Lucas in the eye, then turned his gaze to the King.
"Blood is a circumstance I did not choose, Master Lucas," Flavy said coldly. "But the path I walk is mine."
He placed a hand on his plain sword hilt.
"I am the Chancellor's brother, it is true. But first, I am the King's subject. A knight. And your Rear Guard Commander."
Charles's smile widened slightly.
"A good answer."
"Since you are my Rear Guard Commander," Charles continued, his voice shifting to a tone of command, "I have been thinking. This independent command of yours... it is irregular."
He watched Flavy closely.
"I intend to fold your unit into the Duke of Alençon's 2nd Compagnie d'ordonnance. You will no longer be an independent captain. You will be a squadron leader under Alençon. Do you accept this order?"
It was a demotion. A stripping of autonomy. Magnus watched Flavy's hand, waiting for the twitch of pride.
There was none.
"Sire," Flavy said, his voice steady. "I watched you break the siege of Orléans when others despaired. I saw you crowned in Reims. You are the King who will make France great again."
He bowed his head.
"If your order is to guard a stable, the Rear Guard obeys. We belong to the 2nd Company."
"Excellent," Charles said. The test was passed.
"Now," Charles said, dropping the pretense. "Since you are now a squadron of the Royal Army, your current three hundred riders are too light for the work I have for you."
"I am not stripping you, Guillaume. I am burdening you."
Charles pointed down at the chaotic camp of La Hire.
"I have just 'requisitioned' eight hundred Gascon horsemen from La Hire."
Charles held up a hand to clarify the numbers.
"Three hundred of them will ride as couriers," Charles said. "Magnus will take their reins for the station network—messages, escorts, the roads that keep us alive."
He held Flavy's gaze.
"But their names stay on your roll. One pay. One ledger. One set of mouths accounted for."
"The remaining five hundred are the Gascon Light Horse—the road screen."
"Those you will train. You will fuse them to your own three hundred riders."
"Eight hundred on your books. Five hundred under your hand. No loose wolves in my rear."
"Can you do this?"
Flavy's eyes lit up. Not with greed, but with the professional challenge of organizing chaos.
"I will break them, Sire. And then I will remold them. They will not fail you."
"Good," Charles said.
"Inventory the needs for these eight hundred men—your original unit plus the Gascons. Equipment, fodder, pay. Submit the requisition to Duke Alençon."
Charles turned to Lucas.
"Lucas, speak to the Chancellor. Tell him his brother is doing the King's work. Ask the Church to... smooth the supply for this specific unit. After all," Charles winked, "family should support family."
Lucas smirked, and wrote it down in his ledger with a single phrase: Chancellor's Tithe.
"Magnus," Charles commanded. "Tomorrow at dawn, ride with Captain Flavy to La Hire's camp. Inspect the five hundred Gascon Light Horse. Ensure La Hire gives us fighters, not cripples. And hand them over to Flavy's discipline."
"It will be done, Sire," Magnus said.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and red.
Charles dismissed them. "Prepare your men. We march soon."
He did not turn his horse back toward the comfort of the Archbishop's Palace. Instead, he looked toward the outskirts of Reims, where a thick column of black, unnatural smoke rose against the twilight.
It was the temporary foundry.
The place of sulfur, noise, and mathematics.
" You go with only a shadow, Sire?" Magnus asked.
"For this—yes. One shadow is enough," Charles said, pulling his cloak tight."I go to meet a man who cares for neither blood nor prayer."
He spurred his horse toward the smoke.
Toward Jean Bureau.