Chapter 40

The Dauphin’s call for troops from across the realm had not yet been completed. So far, a thousand soldiers and the necessary supplies had gathered.

Even adding those thousand reinforcements to the existing force of three thousand would not be enough to defeat the English, who had fortified their positions.

“Let’s head to Orléans. Waiting for the rest of the troops would just be a waste of time.”

Reinforcements would continue to gather. Having them depart separately was simply a more efficient way to handle the mobilization.

What worries me is the quality of the troops. Once an army reaches a certain size, the quality of its skilled personnel matters more than sheer numbers. What we need most urgently are noncommissioned officers who can serve as the backbone between the soldiers and their commanders in the field.

The French army had no concept of noncommissioned officers. Its military structure was poorly organized, and there was little understanding of combined operations in which different branches worked together to carry out coordinated attacks.

It was a gamble. All he could do was pray that the six commanders from Domrémy would train the soldiers well enough to fill those gaps.

They had received instruction from Maxime on military organization.

Some people might say there was no need to worry about any of that and that they could simply blast away with cannons and push forward. That was the nonsense of someone who knew nothing about war.

It’ll take time before we can mass-produce decent cannons. And even once we do, infantry will still be important.

The French army had yet to fight a proper field battle. The objective of this campaign was the march to Reims. To take the city, a field battle would be unavoidable.

Unlike fortifications fixed in place, cannons were far less effective in battles fought in open fields.

Large guns were slow to move, and the crude gunpowder of the time meant they were slow to fire even after being ignited. Even when they managed to fire, it was common for the enemy to move away during the delay, leaving the shot wasted. Their area of effect was also narrow, meaning that the resources devoted to their firepower were inefficiently spent.

If I want to break that limitation, I’ll need to make a type of canister shot that hasn’t even been conceptualized yet.

Instead of firing a single projectile, the cannon would be loaded with small pieces of metal and iron balls. Once those balls scattered in every direction, any living creature within the surrounding area would be torn apart like paper.

…Let’s put that on hold. It would be difficult to make, and there’s no telling how people of this era would react to it.

The fifteenth century was an age in which chivalry was dying.

But if it was dying, that meant it was still alive.

There was no telling how those who pursued honor would react when confronted with the limits and frailty of human life.

I should focus on making something immediately useful first. New weapons are good, but improving the army’s own capabilities is just as important. Considering Jeanne’s abilities, reorganizing the cavalry should be effective too. It’s about maximizing our strengths.

Maxime organized his thoughts along several different lines.

***

It was time to leave Tours.

As usual, Jeanne d’Arc rode out on her warhorse for the departure ceremony.

“Long live La Pucelle! Long live the Maid of Orléans!”

“Look at her eyes! She looks like a fearless soldier, but they’re as clear and pure as an angel’s!”

Jeanne moved as though she and her warhorse were one. There was something otherworldly and utterly unique about her presence. The sight of her deeply moved the crowd.

The soldiers were moved as well. With the Saintess among them, the people cheered wildly. Ordinary people who had lived unremarkable lives felt a religious thrill run through them. Their loyalty to the Maid grew stronger.

Maxime had no confidence that he could display the same overwhelming charisma as Jeanne d’Arc. So he accepted reality and climbed into a carriage instead.

There was already a guest waiting inside.

“How did you know which carriage I was going to take?”

“Grrr… grrr… zzz.”

Walter was sleeping comfortably inside the carriage without a care in the world. Maxime stroked the back of his neck and settled into his seat.

“Saint, we’re ready to depart.”

“Yes. I’m counting on you again for this journey.”

The departure ceremony was more than a simple send-off. Clergymen blessed the army and sprinkled holy water over the soldiers. It was both a religious rite and a public display. Those in power used it to emphasize that this was a righteous war being waged according to God’s will.

Jeanne d’Arc attended every Mass. The banner she carried had now become a symbol in its own right.

“Blessed Saintess…”

Maxime deliberately tuned out the cheers of the crowd. It was not that he disliked their praise. He was wary of becoming intoxicated by it.

There was always an element of illusion in the public’s admiration. Praise was born from expectation. The moment those expectations went unmet, all that admiration could turn into blame and condemnation.

There are plenty of people who’ll turn on us after a single defeat. They worship us as saints now, but if we can’t keep giving them the sweet taste of victory, they’ll cast us aside.

The cheers were ultimately a conditional reward earned through victory. He could not afford to become intoxicated by them and lose sight of reality. The war was only beginning, and there were still plenty of problems to solve.

I should tune up my tool set. Normally, the carriage would shake too much to work properly, but we’re moving slowly enough right now.

Maxime refused to let even the time spent traveling by carriage go to waste.

When Walter finally blinked himself awake, Maxime gave him a marrow bone, opened his tool bag, and laid out all his equipment. With the crunch of Walter chewing on the bone in the background, he began his maintenance work.

Many of the tools had been worn down by friction. He reshaped the worn heads, and when the damage was too severe, he dismantled them entirely and fitted them with new ones.

“…I didn’t expect you to work even inside a carriage. I have seen many diligent craftsmen, but never one as tireless as you, Maxime.”

The priest riding in the same carriage spoke up. He had silently watched Maxime work for a full two hours.

“It’s nothing remarkable. I’m only doing it because I have some spare time.”

“Spare time…?”

Maxime had once worked for four days without stopping. Doing a little maintenance in a carriage barely even counted as work to him.

“…I pray that your peace remains undisturbed, but before we departed, I saw you forging a sword at the smithy. That is not what most of us would call taking it easy.”

“Oh, right. The sword. …Thank you! You just reminded me of something I’d forgotten to finish.”

He had tossed the longsword he had rushed to make into the baggage compartment and completely forgotten about it.

As soon as he finished maintaining his tools, Maxime hurried to the baggage compartment. He pulled out the unfinished blade and placed it on his folding workbench.

“I even brought the leather with me, and I completely forgot. Thank you again. I would’ve been in trouble if you hadn’t reminded me, Father.”

“…..”

With his freshly maintained tools in hand, Maxime began working on the longsword. Even aboard the swaying carriage, he never once became motion sick, nor did his concentration waver.

The priest, having come face-to-face with true madness, found himself deeply unsettled. He had never realized that the disciplined image of a craftsman could look so bizarre.

“You truly do possess something that goes beyond the ordinary…”

In the end, Father Tommaso gave up trying to stop Maxime. He had joined him in the carriage hoping they might have a conversation, but judging by the situation, that opportunity might never come.

I suppose I’ll just contemplate the breath of the Lord.

Partly to escape from reality, he pulled out a volume of canon law written in Latin. An avid scholar, he was well versed in Latin, Greek, French, theology, diplomatic documents, and various bodies of law.

Maxime worked, Walter happily occupied himself, and the priest immersed himself in his reading. And so the time passed.

“Saint, we’ll be stopping here for a short rest!”

***

As soon as they made camp, Jeanne d’Arc went looking for Maxime. Although she had ridden ahead of him, finding him was not difficult. Anticipating this, she had memorized the appearance of every carriage beforehand. All she had to do was locate Maxime’s carriage among the halted column.

Maxime was still working.

I shouldn’t bother him. I’ll just watch quietly for a while before I go…

The priest sharing Maxime’s carriage brought him something to eat. Jeanne envied him for being able to stay by Maxime’s side and look after him. If the priest had not been another man, she might have felt a little… jealous.

I wish we could have marched together…

Maxime had not joined Jeanne d’Arc’s group. A trace of disappointment crossed her eyes. She knew he had his reasons, so she could not bring herself to say anything about it.

She gazed deeply at Maxime as he worked, as though trying to etch the sight of him into her memory, then quietly disappeared.

I’m finished.

Maxime carefully inspected the completed sword. It was a superb blade that balanced sharpness and durability. Sold to the right buyer, it could easily fetch enough money to buy a house.

“It is a magnificent sword. I can feel divine guidance in it. Did you make the sword of Sainte-Catherine the same way?”

“No. I found that sword and reforged it. This one I made from start to finish, beginning with smelting the ore.”

“I know little about this craft, but… it seems you have been blessed by the very metal itself. Did you acquire all your knowledge and skills on your own?”

“I figured some things out myself, but much of what I know came from watching and learning from someone remarkable.”

He had picked up many of his skills by trying new things and learning as he went, but much of his craftsmanship and convictions had come from watching and learning from someone else.

“Saint, who are you going to give the longsword to?”

One of the soldiers who had been watching him work asked with gleaming eyes. His gaze was fixed on the longsword. It was obvious at a glance that he wanted it.

“For now, I plan to use it myself.”

“Ah…”

The longsword did not have an owner yet. But he could hardly give a masterpiece like this to a soldier who had only just laid eyes on it.

Before the soldier could grow any more disappointed, Maxime sheathed the longsword.

He was about to load it into the carriage when he noticed that Walter was nowhere to be seen.

“Does anyone know where Walter went?”

“Walter? He went outside as soon as the carriage stopped.”

“Oh dear… I suppose we’ll have to find him before we leave.”

“I’ll help as well.”

Maxime took the priest and three soldiers with him and went around looking for Walter.

He knew the creature was a free spirit, but he had not expected him to wander off so thoughtlessly.

I thought he had better sense than that…

Feeling a little disappointed, Maxime called out for Walter. Then, in the distance, he spotted Walter’s silhouette.

“Woof! Woof!”

He heard barking. The backlight made it hard to see, but there was no mistaking Walter.

“Walter!”

Walter came bounding toward him with a suspiciously large golden lump clenched in his jaws. He covered the considerable distance in the blink of an eye, then spat out what he was carrying.

Ptooey.

Clink, clang.

“A lump of gold? …Walter, where did you steal this from? I didn’t know you were capable of thievery too.”

“Grrrr, woof woof!”

“…You stole it from bandits?”

Just then, a new voice rang out from atop the hill.

“Get that fucking dog!”

“That goddamn mutt…!!”

Three burly men with thick beards and ragged clothes that made them look like scorched scarecrows came charging toward us.

“Saint, judging by their weapons, they appear to be deserters…!”

Deserters were a familiar sight. During the Hundred Years’ War, it was common for soldiers who had gone unpaid after the fighting ended in a region to roam the countryside, pillaging villages.

English remnants, mercenaries, peasant rebels, deserters, and more. Armed bands made up of all sorts of people wandered the land, their numbers easily exceeding ten thousand. Relative to the population of France, they were practically a nationwide calamity.

As luck would have it, the hill was far from the main column. There were five of us and only three of them, but perhaps because they had lost their lump of gold, the bandits were beside themselves with rage and charged straight at us.

“Were you the ones who sent that fucking dog? Don’t you run! Stay right there! Take one step and I’ll rip out your guts and stretch them out until sundown!”

The bandit screamed, practically foaming at the mouth. He had the eyes of a man accustomed to killing.

“Saint, we can fight them, but for safety’s sake, should we fall back to where our men are?”

Maxime turned to look at the soldier. It was the same soldier who had shown interest in the finished longsword. Even now, he kept stealing glances at the sword Maxime was holding.

Their eyes met. On impulse, Maxime whispered,

“Do you desire power?”