Chapter 32

There was still plenty to do even after the battle was over.

The first order the commander gave was to thoroughly demolish the fortress of St. Loup.

“Break down every wall so the English can never use this place as a fortress again. Clear out the traps in the ground too.”

Reversing the fortress’s defenses to face the opposite direction would be a hassle. And once the additional troops required to garrison it were taken into account, destroying it outright made more strategic sense than forcing it into service as their own fortress.

They also gathered up the supplies the retreating enemy had left behind and assembled the prisoners captured in the battle in one place.

Two hundred English soldiers had been killed and fifty taken prisoner. Thanks to the disparity in both troop quality and command, their own losses amounted to only around a dozen or so men.

“Commander, should we take the prisoners back to Orléans?”

“What’s the point of keeping them? Just kill them all.”

After losing his argument with Maxime, Dunois had sunk into a foul mood, and it had made him ruthless.

“No. We should keep all of them alive and exchange them for our captured soldiers.”

“…You again?”

“I agree with the Saintess. Too many of our men have been taken prisoner in this war. We can exchange them for our own soldiers and cut off a source of income for the enemy at the same time.”

England did, in fact, make a great deal of money from ransoms.

Prisoners of war were not people. They were living “commodities”.

The usual options were to demand ransom for them, execute them, or sell them into slavery. It would not be until the sixteenth century that laws requiring prisoners to be provided with food emerged. For now, humanitarian treatment amounted, at best, to little more than a “recommendation”.

“…Fine, whatever. You bastards can just do whatever the hell you want.”

He fumed for a moment, then pulled himself together and issued orders to the soldiers.

“Search the surrounding area. If you see anything even slightly suspicious, report it immediately. Don’t hesitate.”

Dunois might have been a coward, but he knew what had to be done as a commander. His cautious nature was not entirely a weakness. When it came to maintaining vigilance on the front lines, at least, he was first-rate.

The scouts spread out. Once they had completed their search, they returned to the temporary command tent to make their reports.

“The area around the water is clear. There are no signs that any boats passed through.”

“We cleared out all the spike traps. There are no enemy stragglers.”

“I found a small convent.”

“…A convent? Are there still clergy there?”

A sixty-man detachment set out to investigate more thoroughly. Maxime felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding and joined them.

The convent was quite close by. There was a small hamlet nearby as well, but its residents had long since fled, leaving every house empty.

There were two priests and six deacons at the convent. They wiped the sweat from their brows.

“We heard you were victorious. Thanks to you, we can finally breathe a little easier.”

“We had no idea any clergy were still here! What a miracle to find you!”

“The English were kind enough to leave us alone.”

Maxime approached the group of clergymen.

“Your clothes are filthy. The river is nearby, but I suppose you haven’t had time to wash them.”

“Huh? Ah… Well, given the circumstances, it’s been difficult to move around… Huh?”

Maxime tugged at the priest’s robe.

“There are bloodstains too.”

“Th-That… just sort of happened…”

Maxime backed away. He quietly whispered to one of the soldiers guarding him.

“…Check inside the convent.”

A moment later, a short scream rang out. The soldier returned with his weapon drawn.

“Fuck! Those bastards aren’t clergy!”

The men who had been putting on such dignified airs smashed through the windows and fled.

But the French troops had already surrounded the area, and not a single one escaped. Three were killed while trying to flee, and the remaining five were taken prisoner again.

Inside a storeroom, the soldier found five naked corpses that had not been dead for long.

“…They were from the St. Loup garrison. Apparently, they ran away when it looked like they were going to lose, then came here because they figured they’d get caught if they kept running barefoot. According to them, they planned to pose as clergy until they had a chance to escape.”

Good thing I stopped Jeanne from coming along to pray.

Even if she had grown accustomed to death, Maxime still did not want her to see something like this.

***

A low sigh escaped Coat Blanche’s lips.

“Walter, you crazy bastard…”

“……”

The soldiers had gathered in little groups to watch Walter as though a festival were underway.

It was an utterly ridiculous sight.

“I heard that dog belonged to Count Jean de Dunois’s late wife. She absolutely adored it.”

“And it can’t do a damn thing against the Saint’s dog.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

The highborn female had mated with a mongrel of unknown pedigree. She flinched every time another cheer erupted around them, but Walter couldn’t have cared less.

The French soldiers spared no praise for Walter’s virility.

“That’s right! A real male knows how to do it out in the open!”

“Don’t worry, Saint! We’ll keep it a secret from the Commander!”

“Kahaha! Look at those hips go!”

Maxime ignored the soldiers. Climbing onto a precarious wall just to watch animals mate did not strike him as the behavior of sane men, no matter how he looked at it.

“Good grief. Let’s head back.”

“Tch, looks kind of fun…”

Maxime forcibly dragged away his younger brother before he could be corrupted into a Frenchman.

“Wait!”

On the way back, a knight stepped in front of Maxime.

“Th-This may be presumptuous of me, but please make me a weapon that suits me!”

“Ah! Me too!”

Starting with the knight, the spectators began flocking around Maxime as though possessed.

“…Why is everyone acting like this? I reforge weapons for you all the time.”

“I heard that weapons personally crafted by the Saint are bestowed with an extraordinary blessing!”

It was all because Gilles de Rais had shown off his weapon to everyone he met. Normally, it would have remained nothing more than the eccentric antics of a madman, but after the weapon produced such astonishing results in actual battle, the superstition became impossible to dismiss.

I have to get one!

When survival was at stake, soldiers would cling to all manner of superstitions. One after another, men declared that they would gladly spend six months’ wages to buy one.

Their fervor made Maxime uncomfortable.

“Everyone, calm down. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Damn, I knew it wouldn’t be that easy…”

“…If you distinguish yourselves in battle, or otherwise prove yourselves worthy, I’ll make time to craft one for you.”

“R-Really?”

“Thank you, Saint! I’ll work hard!”

Having left them with that possibility, Maxime slipped away.

***

We arrived at the artillery unit’s storehouse.

“Welcome, Blessed One.”

The superintendent of the royal artillery greeted us.

“A pleasure to meet you. I’d like to sit down and have a proper discussion, but for now, I’d like to inspect the storehouses first.”

“Think nothing of it. It is good to see such enthusiasm.”

We headed to the storehouses where the cannons and ammunition were kept. Because of the risk of explosion, the gunpowder magazine stood in the most remote and isolated part of the compound.

Black powder was expensive and dangerous. Administratively, it was the property of the King, not something any ordinary soldier was permitted to handle.

I had pressured Dunois into granting me limited authority over it, but exercising full control would require the King’s direct permission.

“This cannon is a fine piece that has survived intact since the early days of the fighting at Orléans. It holds its own even against the cannons the English have brought in recently.”

It was a small cannon, little more than a cylinder mounted on wheels. Its small size meant limited firepower, but it looked relatively sturdy and easy to maintain.

The design is so simple I wouldn’t even need plans for it.

It was a muzzle-loading cannon with a single opening. Gunpowder and a projectile were loaded through the same muzzle before firing.

After every shot, the gunpowder residue left deep inside the barrel had to be cleared out. If it wasn’t, the heat remaining in the barrel could ignite the next charge without warning while the soldiers were loading the powder and shot. As a result, the interval between shots was brutally long.

Everything about it is primitive. There isn’t even a mechanism for controlling recoil. Every time the blast knocks it backward, the soldiers must have to push it back into position by hand.

The most shocking part was the ammunition.

“These are the stone shot we use in the cannons. The overall quality has improved since the craftsmen joined us. We’re quite grateful for that.”

“…They’re all stone?”

“Pardon? Is there another kind of cannonball?”

“No.”

The cannonballs were carved from solid stone. Because stone could only withstand so much stress, some of them would occasionally shatter in midair on their own.

The ammunition supply depended on stonemasons carving each projectile individually. The closer they could shape each one to a perfect sphere, the greater its accuracy and destructive power.

Making new iron shot under the current circumstances would be difficult. It would take too long, too… And it’s not as though the stone shot we already have are completely useless.

I considered several possibilities before nodding.

“I’ve seen enough. Let’s go to the powder magazine.”

“Ah, you’ll need to be careful this time.

If you have anything made of metal on you, you’ll have to leave it behind. And do be wary. Mischievous fairies have been known to play tricks and blow up powder magazines from time to time.”

He began listing safety precautions based on his limited knowledge. Some of what he said was wrong, but I resisted the urge to correct him.

***

Destroying a fortress in a single battle filled the citizens of Orléans with the exhilaration of an overwhelming victory.

“We’ll fight alongside the Saintess too!”

“We can do this. Let’s drive out those foul-smelling raiders!”

The citizens formed a militia and gathered at the city gates. The commanders leading the army were bewildered by their enthusiasm.

“I support allowing the citizens to join us. There are some concerns, but we cannot ignore those who have risen up to fight.”

The Saintess voiced her support for the militia. The commanders agreed to let them join.

“Our next objective is to cut off and capture the fortress of Saint-Jean-le-Blanc. First, let’s land on the island across the river and build a pontoon bridge.”

“We’ll take Saint-Antoine Island and the bastide with a joint assault alongside the militia.”

“We’ll need a lot of boats to make a proper landing.”

Apart from the operation, we also drafted a letter to send to the English.

“Maxime, I’m counting on you again.”

“Leave it to me.”

The letter proposed an exchange of English and French prisoners. It also contained a message from Jeanne d’Arc and was delivered into the English camp by arrow.

A reply came back that same day.

“What does it say?”

“It’s just… a rejection.”

The English had sent back a lengthy reply filled with sexual insults directed at Jeanne. The negotiations fell through.

***

English headquarters.

“Glasdale, how’s your eye? Are you sure you don’t need to withdraw to the rear?”

The one-eyed garrison commander replied.

“It’s no trouble at all. As I told you, what I want is complete revenge.”

“Reinforcements from England may be delayed. There’s a chance you could be cut off from us. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“We have a strong, dependable garrison holding firm. The French gained a temporary advantage through a cunning surprise attack, but in a head-on battle, the advantage is overwhelmingly ours. Their failure to overcome the devastating firepower of our longbowmen throughout the last war is proof enough.”

“…That’s the confidence I like to hear. I trust you. I’ll leave the Tourelles fortress in your hands, as always.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Their military superiority, proven time and again, would not change. The garrison commander recalled what he knew about witches.

A witch’s spell cannot last forever, either.

He had also seen through the French plan.

They were targeting Saint-Jean-le-Blanc, but he had already destroyed its outer defenses and withdrawn the garrison.

He had concentrated all his forces in the central Boulevard-Tourelles-Augustins complex. His plan was to abandon the exposed outer defenses and force the French into a head-on battle where they would not dare attempt another surprise attack.

That witch and her followers… I’ll kill every last one of them.

He had not forgotten the cowardly attack that had cost him his eye. He would make them pay for the humiliation of being sent sprawling to the ground in front of his men.