Chapter 45

It was already too late in the day to begin a siege. The French had originally planned to set up camp, rest for the night, and begin the battle the following day.

They had been caught off guard. Without even opening the gates, the English forces stationed in the outskirts had launched a series of scattered surprise attacks.

The fighting erupted suddenly within a confined area rather than across a broad battlefield. Shouts tore through the air, followed by volleys of arrows slicing overhead. The vanguard, where Jeanne d’Arc was positioned, was thrown into chaos in an instant.

“In the name of Saint George, kill the witch’s followers!”

Horses reared wildly, and burning torches fell to the ground, kicking up clouds of dust. The startled French soldiers panicked and scattered. Their frightened groans were swallowed by the harsh battle cries.

It was a poor start. The battle had begun with the enemy firmly holding the initiative.

Jeanne yanked hard on the reins and wheeled her horse around. She did not hesitate for even a moment. She rode directly across the path of the retreating soldiers and blocked their escape. The abrupt maneuver sent her iron horseshoes scraping across the ground and spraying dirt into the air.

“Everyone, stay calm! There aren’t many of them. Hold the line with me!”

The Saintess raised her banner high as she shouted. The soldiers who found themselves standing before her held their breath.

“R-Regroup the line!”

The soldiers, who moments earlier had looked like a disorganized mob, began returning to their positions. They were still shaken, but they had recovered their will to fight. Their belief in honor also gave them the courage to raise their weapons once more.

“Knight! I’ll lead the charge. Sound the assembly!”

Bwoooom.

The lead horseman blew his horn. The newly equipped cavalry quickly gathered around Jeanne d’Arc.

“Cavalry, ready! Battle formation!”

Once the French held their formation, the English began showing signs of retreat. They had been outnumbered from the beginning and had intended only to inflict some damage before immediately withdrawing. They had already had more than enough fun.

“For God and France!”

“Follow the Saintess!”

Clop, clop-clop!

Hooves thundered against the earth. At first, the tremor was faint, but soon the ground shook as though something were pounding against the heart itself. Dozens of warhorses pounded across the ground, each settling into its own rhythm, occasionally snorting out heavy breaths.

“Everyone, prepare to fire!”

“The witch! The witch is coming!”

Their charge was every bit as sudden and swift as the English surprise attack had been. The English commander had never expected the French to restore their formation so quickly.

“Bring down their horses with a rain of arrows! Turn those Armagnac bastards into pincushions and knock them from their saddles!”

The longbowmen hurriedly nocked their arrows.

The English longbowmen, the pride of their army, spat out arrows like machine guns. A rain of arrows tore through the sky.

“We’ve got them…! With this many arrows, at least half of them should be knocked from their horses!”

A deadly rain darkened the sky.

The knights thought to themselves.

…The Saint’s blessing will protect us.

We have the Saintess of the battlefield and the Saint of the forge with us. That’s twice the blessing.

The rain of arrows failed to penetrate their armor. It could not even leave a scratch. The arrows glanced off and skittered away like rainwater sliding across stone.

It was an unbelievable sight. Those enormous warhorses were charging through a rain of arrows completely unharmed. This was not how the French cavalry they had mocked as mud rats were supposed to fight.

“They hit them… so why aren’t they going down?!”

A cry of despair rang out.

The cavalrymen tightened their grips on their lances.

“Pick up the pace!”

“Shields up! Brace for impact!”

Jeanne d’Arc’s vision shook violently. Her mount seemed caught up in the excitement as well, the earth and sky blurring together. The enemy ahead drew closer by the second. Harsh curses were exchanged along with hostile glares.

In that desperate moment, amid all the chaos, Maxime’s face came to mind.

It had not even been a full day since they had parted, yet she already missed him enough for her heart to ache.

Maxime believed in me. I have to repay that faith.

She proudly raised her banner high.

The cavalry charging alongside her were swept up in the Saintess’s fervor, and for a moment, their fear vanished completely.

Then they collided.

Metal crashed violently against metal, throwing off sparks. Speed became weight, and that weight drove through the wall of men before them.

The charge was less a collision than an explosion.

The metallic crash of horse armor and plate armor striking the enemy spread into a deep roar.

At the point of impact, the English soldiers were overwhelmed by the sheer difference in mass. They were killed instantly, before they even had time to feel fear.

Once a charge had run its course, cavalry became vulnerable. Jeanne led the knights back in an orderly withdrawal.

“Rally to me!”

“Ah…”

The English army could not stop the cavalry from disengaging. The French were quick, but more importantly, the English had lost their nerve.

They looked like living creatures made entirely of steel.

Their smooth plate armor gleamed even in the dim light, while their horses were completely covered in iron armor.

“Those… those aren’t human…”

The spears and shields meant to stop them had broken, and the quivers were empty.

The English now faced an unfamiliar kind of fear.

These were nothing like the mounted knights they had fought countless times before.

“Move back…!”

“You fools! If the line breaks—”

“We’re out of arrows anyway! What’s the point of holding here?! Get back to the fortress! Run for the fortress!”

“…Retreat. Staying alive comes first.”

The English had never intended to fight a full-scale battle in the first place. Their plan had been to inflict casualties with a surprise attack before the siege began, then exploit their numerical advantage in the fighting that followed.

But that plan had fallen apart.

At first, it had seemed as though they would gain an overwhelming advantage. But the French responded far more quickly than expected, and the English instead found themselves being driven back.

The charge of steel instead began to grind down the English forces.

The moment all their calculations fell apart, English tactics were reduced to a single objective.

Get out alive.

“Don’t close the gates! There are still men out here!”

“Leave the wounded behind!”

The French had begun the first engagement at a disadvantage, caught by a surprise attack. But amid the chaos, they restored their lines, and beneath the Saintess’s banner, they completely turned the tide of battle.

***

Tommaso Parentucelli stepped out of the wagon and looked toward the front, where the battle had taken place.

…How cruel.

For a clergyman who had spent his entire life devoted to study and faith, the battlefield was a brutal reality he wished he could deny.

Pools of crimson blood stained the mud. The cries echoing across the chaotic field sounded to him like the faithless words of heathens.

The priest silently repeated a prayer to himself. His body was already trembling.

If God permits war, then what is man meant to forbid?

Even beneath the name of God, men continued to shed blood. Official doctrine strictly forbade killing, yet despite what was preached, there seemed to be exceptions everywhere.

War was like a flame that would never be extinguished.

England and France were both nations of believers who worshiped the same God.

If faith cannot save people, then what can?

The priest could find no answer that satisfied him.

The battle ended.

“The Saintess and the Saint are with us!”

It had been an overwhelming French victory. Most of the enemy had been killed, and the survivors had completely withdrawn.

Father Tommaso approached a French soldier lying bloodied on the ground after being struck by a volley of arrows.

“…My son, is there anything you wish to confess before Almighty God?”

Unable to speak, the soldier barely managed a nod.

The priest asked him a brief question.

“Do you believe in God the Father Almighty and in His only Son, Jesus Christ?”

– Nod.

“I bless you. May your sins be forgiven…”

The priest took out the holy oil. He anointed his finger and gently applied the oil to the fallen soldier’s eyes, ears, mouth, hands, and finally his feet, praying in Latin as he did so.

“May the body of our Lord Jesus Christ lead your soul to eternal life…”

The priest understood the sanctity of life.

Hearing his prayer, the soldier quietly closed his eyes.

There was no time for the priest to rest. Many more soldiers needed his help. He administered Viaticum to the dying and performed funeral rites for those who had already passed away.

“I want to help you.”

“…Thank you.”

Even while leading the soldiers, Jeanne d’Arc made sure to accommodate the priest whenever she could.

Despite the hardship, the priest remained steadfast.

Cardinal Niccolò Albergati must have devoted himself like this as well.

In truth, the papal diplomat had never wanted his disciple to find himself in such danger. He had heard that Maxime Blanche was known as the “Saint of the Forge” and naturally assumed there would be no reason for him to venture onto the battlefield. He had sent his disciple in his stead so that Tommaso could investigate the potential saint and gain experience in the wider world.

He certainly had not intended for his disciple to wander from battlefield to battlefield, living like a laborer engaged in backbreaking work.

Tommaso Parentucelli was not a man who could turn away from responsibility. Once he had taken his vows as a priest, he adhered to them unwaveringly.

The presence of a priest who could bring comfort to the dying offered at least some solace to the terrified soldiers.

Come to think of it, Lord Maxime said he would rather have a quiet, peaceful place with no cheers at all than be surrounded by people praising him… I think I finally understand what he meant.

In his heart, the priest acknowledged Maxime.

At the same time, he sincerely wanted to understand the part of Maxime that seemed hidden somewhere deep within him.

***

Maxime stretched and spoke.

“That takes care of everything.”

“But aren’t we throwing away too much gunpowder? It honestly feels like such a waste…”

“Anything below our standards has too high a failure rate, so it’s better to discard it. Taking it onto the battlefield would only invite accidents. It’s worse than useless.”

“I know, but won’t we run short?”

“We can make more to replace what we’re missing.”

He intended to increase the explosive power of the gunpowder. With low-purity ingredients, mixing batches as needed produced inconsistent firepower. Reorganizing the storeroom had been part of the preparation for that as well.

“I knew what I was getting into, but there’s way too much to learn. At this rate, my soul’s going to leave my body before I ever catch up to you.”

Coat grumbled. It was his own way of enduring the strain.

“I know better than anyone how hard you’re working. Thanks for putting in all this effort to help a brother who keeps making more work for you.”

“…Ugh. You think saying something like that is going to make me feel better?”

Coat replied with the corners of his mouth curling upward.

It was early morning.

Maxime skipped his first meal and stared in the direction Jeanne d’Arc had gone with the soldiers.

I hope she doesn’t get hurt like last time.

Even if she recovered quickly, seeing her wounded was still painful. Perhaps wanting to protect so many things was a kind of greed in itself.

Enough.

He pushed the anxiety aside, but his thoughts naturally drifted toward another question.

…Where do those special weapons that occasionally appear come from?

Everything Maxime crafted always performed exactly as he expected. Whether it was the Thunder Falcon firing arrows or a wagon racing across an open field, what he designed became reality with little deviation from the original plans.

The plate armor he had recently made was no exception. Its strength, balance, and durability all reflected exactly how much effort he had put into it.

The Knight Buster and the longsword… and though I haven’t been able to examine it properly, there’s something unusual about Sainte-Catherine as well.

What caused those extremely rare exceptions to occur?

He spent an entire hour thinking about it.

The conclusion was simple.

I have no idea.

Neither mathematics nor intuition could give him an answer.

And Maxime did not obsess over things he could not understand.

I’ll just focus on what I can do.