Chapter 33

The French plan succeeded in an unexpected way.

“I’m not even sure whether we should be happy about this…”

Encouraged by their recent victory, the French soldiers swiftly marched out. After carrying out their planned maneuver, they arrived at the fortress of Saint-Jean-le-Blanc, only to find it already deserted.

They had gone to all that trouble preparing for the attack, yet all that remained of the small fortress on the Orléans embankment were signs that it had been demolished. It was hard to tell whether this even counted as a military gain.

“Sir, there’s no need to overthink it. Now all we have to do is take the fortresses connected to the center of the southern defenses, and the supply route linking us to the Armagnacs will be open. We’ll truly liberate Orléans!”

The movements of both armies were growing increasingly ominous. At this rate, a fierce battle was clearly inevitable.

“After conducting several reconnaissance missions, we’ve confirmed that all of their existing forces have been concentrated in the sector connecting the Boulevard, the Tourelles, and Les Augustins.”

The Tourelles stood at the southern end of the Loire, a fortress on the river connected to the city of Orléans.

It consisted of twin towers connected by a central gate, with no fewer than three drawbridges that could be raised to allow large ships to pass. The Tourelles was the only bridge connecting the northern and southern banks.

Their objective was now clear. They had to take the Tourelles.

As the commanders reached a consensus, Gilles de Rais stood off to one side, picking a piece of meat from between his teeth with a dagger as he muttered sullenly.

“You say they’ve concentrated their forces, but doesn’t Les Augustins look a little vulnerable for something that far away? Seems like if we hit it hard enough, it might just give way on its own…”

The knights rebuked him for talking nonsense.

The next day,

“…It really does look like we could take it in no time.”

Once they saw it for themselves, Les Augustins looked every bit as tempting a target as Gilles de Rais had claimed.

The plan to concentrate on the Tourelles was hastily abandoned.

“…Even the Saintess says we should attack Les Augustins first?”

The proposal to attack Les Augustins, a fortified monastery, before the Tourelles was approved.

“The Saintess leads us! Advance!”

The army marched out.

Geographically vulnerable, Les Augustins fell before the day was over.

“Now victory really is within our grasp!”

Up until then, everything had gone perfectly.

…Misfortune always struck without warning.

“We got the witch!”

Jeanne d’Arc was struck by a stray arrow while leading the assault on the fortress.

“Sh-She was hit by an arrow and collapsed…”

The vicious arrowhead, designed to kill, had buried itself squarely between her neck and shoulder. It was sheer bad luck. For an arrow to find the tiny gap in her armor was practically a miracle in itself.

The arrow caused severe bleeding and pain.

Rumors began to spread that the Saintess was dead.

“The witch who incited them in God’s name has finally received divine punishment!”

The English had lost a fortress, but they celebrated nonetheless, raising their cups to the supposed death of the witch.

The French, on the other hand, saw their morale plummet despite their victory. It felt as though God had abandoned them for a second time.

***

Jeanne d’Arc was transported back to Orléans.

Maxime dropped what he was doing and rushed to Jeanne, who was surrounded by the medical staff.

“What happened?!”

“The Saintess… was struck by an arrow.”

The soldier delivering the news had trembling lips. His anxiety alone made it clear how serious her condition was.

Maxime examined Jeanne. Her face was pale, and sweat was pouring off her like a flood.

But what truly made him lose his patience was not her condition. It was what was happening around her.

A medic was about to wrap her wound with a filthy rag stained with someone else’s blood. He was trying to stop the bleeding without any concept of infection.

“You son of a—”

Maxime urgently shoved the medic aside before the cloth could touch the wound.

Then he shouted at everyone hovering around out of concern while doing nothing to actually help.

“I’ll treat the Saintess! I need to speak with God, so stop distracting me and everyone get out!”

Even Gilles de Rais flinched at Maxime’s outburst and backed away. Only then did the commotion around them finally die down.

“Brother…”

“You’re going to be all right now. Stay still and lie down, even if it hurts.

Agathe, wash your hands and come back. Then take off Jeanne’s clothes from the waist up.”

“O-Okay!”

There was no time to explain anything to anyone.

Maxime fetched the cleanest water available in Orléans. He filled a pot with it, took some cloth that had been drying in the sun, and boiled it thoroughly.

He wrung one of the boiled cloths so hard it felt as though the tendons in his hands might snap. He set that one aside, then immediately spread out the rest to dry in the sun.

“I… got everything off.”

“Hold her down so she can’t move.”

The arrow was lodged in the fleshy area between her left shoulder and neck. Judging by the angle, it was dangerously close to the cervical vertebrae, making him worry that her spine might have been damaged.

Fortunately, the medical staff had not recklessly pulled out the arrow.

Leaving it in place, Maxime pressed the still-damp cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding, taking care not to disturb the arrow.

He also bound Jeanne’s left arm in place. If she moved during treatment, the wound could tear open further.

With continued pressure, the bleeding finally stopped.

“…Good. Take care of her while I go get something.”

He needed to prepare to remove the arrow.

Maxime fetched the smallest carving knife he used for his work and held it over a flame. He kept heating it relentlessly.

He also gathered all the cloth that had been dried in the sun.

“Joan, this is going to hurt badly. Drink this and try to endure it as best you can.”

“Okaaay…”

He brought out opium, the finest painkiller available in the Middle Ages. He mixed the opium with honey and had her drink it.

Then he applied an anesthetic to the wound. It would temporarily dull the sensation in her skin.

After waiting for it to take effect, he picked up the sterilized carving knife.

“I’m starting. Agathe, be ready to stop the bleeding as soon as I remove the arrow.”

“Okay.”

Speed was critical when removing a foreign object lodged in the body. He couldn’t simply yank it out by force. Doing so would cause the barbs on either side of the arrowhead to tear through the flesh, resulting in an even larger wound and more bleeding.

I need to determine the exact shape of the arrowhead before I remove it.

His medical knowledge amounted to little more than bits and pieces he had picked up here and there, but when it came to working with his hands, he was more confident than anyone.

Disinfection and controlling the bleeding are the key.

He had already given her a painkiller, but just to be safe, he pinned her body down with his own. Then he positioned the sterilized knife along the path the arrow had entered.

He immediately began the incision.

“?!!”

She struggled slightly. Fortunately, her resistance was weaker than he had feared.

He couldn’t afford to stop his hand, not even for a moment. He carefully traced the space occupied by the arrow, concentrating intensely so he could keep the incision as small as possible.

He reached the end.

He exposed the arrowhead.

The incision was complete.

Gripping the shaft with forceps, he gently drew the arrow from her body. Even the slightest twist could aggravate the wound.

He tossed the arrow that had tormented her onto the floor.

Clatter.

“It’s out. Stop the bleeding, now!”

“O-Okay!”

Blood flowed from both the wound and the incision. They pressed clean cloth firmly against it to stop the bleeding.

If the injury had been elsewhere, he might have used a tourniquet as well, but the shoulder was difficult to compress with one. They had no choice but to apply pressure by hand.

After a long struggle, the bleeding finally stopped.

Maxime flushed the wound left by the arrow with lukewarm boiled water. Then he poured diluted vinegar over it to disinfect it.

“U-Ugh…”

He steeled himself, refusing to let her anguished groans shake his resolve.

Once the disinfection was finished, he brought over the surgical needle and thread used by the medical staff. He had sterilized those separately as well. To keep the incision from reopening, he stitched the wound closed, bringing its two edges together.

The procedure was complete.

Blood began seeping from the wound again. He applied pressure over and over until the bleeding stopped. Afterward, he lightly disinfected the sutured area.

He had done everything he could.

“Thank you for holding on.”

Jeanne d’Arc fell asleep.

Agathe stayed by her side and looked after her.

Now, all they could do was wait for her body to recover on its own.

***

“I am perfectly well. An injury like this cannot stop me. Let us march forth for the final battle to save Orléans!”

Only two hours after the arrow had been removed, she had recovered to an astonishing degree.

“A miracle… It’s a miracle!”

“An arrow buried that deep should have killed her for certain… She truly must be a Saintess blessed by God!”

When the Saintess returned in perfectly good health after such a short time, the citizens erupted in astonished cheers. Even by the standards of the modern age, with all its scientific advances, her powers of recovery bordered on miraculous.

“I’ll set out again tomorrow.”

At her declaration that she would return so soon, Agathe screamed that her sister had gone insane. …Come to think of it, that was strangely similar to the way Coat treated Maxime.

“Thank you for treating me. Even through the pain, I could feel how hard you were working for me… I’ll remember what you did today for the rest of my life.”

“Are you sure you’re all right to go straight back into battle?”

“Yes. I’ve attended Mass, and I feel completely fine. There are soldiers waiting for me, too.”

“Your color has returned to normal, but… if anything feels even slightly wrong, stop. Remember how precious your life is.”

“……”

“And if anything happens, I’ll do whatever I can. So don’t worry.”

He continued fretting over her condition.

…My heart feels so hot.

Earlier, the pain had left her too overwhelmed to think about anything else.

But seeing Maxime gaze at her so tenderly, his face filled with concern, was almost too much for her.

His warmth touched her so deeply that she could barely steady her breathing. At the same time, part of her wanted to demand whether he realized how cruelly he was provoking a girl who was already hopelessly in love with him.

Something about it… was becoming impossible to endure.

She couldn’t bear this fluttering feeling any longer.

She placed both hands on his cheeks and stared intently into his face.

“…Jeanne?”

Maxime was taken aback.

She didn’t answer when he called her name. Her eyes were unfocused. She simply stood there in a daze, holding his face between her hands.

After a moment, her eyes finally came back into focus.

“…Huh?”

“Are you dizzy because you’ve only just recovered?”

“Th-There was a… a bug, hehe… I-It’s gone now. Yeah, I’m going to bed…”

Jeanne vanished from Maxime’s sight with a speed that rivaled Walter’s.

······After hurriedly making her escape, Jeanne examined the hand that had just touched Maxime.

“…….”

After hesitating… she kept staring at her hand until she could no longer resist and brought it to her nose.

Sniff, sniff…

There was no particular scent. Her brother hardly had any body odor, so that was only natural.

But the fact that there was nothing to smell was no reason to stop smelling it.

His warmth is still there…

Making that strange excuse to no one in particular, she kept her hand pressed over her nose until she fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

***

Jeanne woke early the next morning, said her morning prayers, and roused the soldiers.

The townspeople were thrilled about the coming battle. They spared no effort in providing food.

“We could easily fight the battle after everyone has had enough rest. I heard you were injured too, so why is there any need to march out in such a hurry?!”

Count Dunois protested, but the commanders, already captivated by the Saint, sided with Jeanne.

“Not a single one of you is on my side…”

Looking as though he had aged ten years, he reluctantly approved the attack on the Tourelles.

All that remained was an all-out battle. The French, who had previously divided their forces, now assembled nearly all of them, leaving behind only the bare minimum needed for defense.

The combined English and Burgundian forces numbered roughly 5,000.

Of those, nearly 1,000 had gathered at the Tourelles after the commander of the garrison aggressively ordered his troops to fall back there.

By contrast, even after scraping together every available soldier, including the militia, the French had only 3,000 men.

In a siege, the defenders have the advantage. Military experts argue that for an assault to succeed, the attackers need at least three times as many troops as the defenders.

And that is only the bare minimum. Generally, the attackers need more than seven times the defenders’ numbers before the two sides are on anything close to equal footing.

The reason is simple. The attacking side expends a considerable amount of manpower simply transporting and supplying war matériel over long distances.

The defenders, meanwhile, already have their troops stationed inside the fortress, enjoy an advantage in range, and have food stockpiled.

The feeble cannons of the era cannot even bring down the walls. Sieges inevitably become drawn-out affairs, while the attackers are gradually crushed beneath the mounting cost of war.

“We’ve brought two field guns personally modified by the Saint.”

“······After making such a big show of it, you brought only two? Are you kidding me? What happened to the other field guns?”

“He says we won’t need any others.”