February, 1429 – The Treasury Room, Chinon
Dust. Paper. Rot.
Napoleon sneezed. The Royal Treasury didn't smell of gold; it smelled of decay.
"Disaster," he muttered, flipping a page. "Total disaster."
He stared at the columns. Xs, Vs, Is. Roman numerals. Barbaric. No zero. No decimals.
How do you run an empire with letters?
He slammed the ledger shut. Dust rose in a choking cloud.
"Where is the Treasurer?"
A clerk trembled in the corner. "Gone. Fled with La Trémoille."
"Of course," Napoleon muttered. "Liquidity gone. Depreciation left."
He leaned back in the creaking chair. Crown heavy. Castle heavy. Scotsman angry.
Cash flow: zero.
He needed an investor. A big one.
"Send for her," he said.
The clerk blinked. "Her, Sire?"
"The Queen of Four Kingdoms. My mother-in-law. Yolande of Aragon."
The Queen's Perspective
She walked.
Velvet swished against stone. The corridors were long, cold, heavy. Her steps were measured—the pace of a woman who owned half the South.
Fifty years old. Sharp eyes. A black armor of fabric.
She had propped up Charles for years. Paid his debts. Hired his mercenaries. Shielded him from the world.
And he was still a weeping boy.
Money again, she thought bitterly. La Trémoille is gone. Now he cries to 'Mother'.
She prepared her lecture. Sharp words. Signed castles. Demands. Control.
She reached the heavy oak door. Pushed.
"Charles, I told you last month that my patience is..."
Stopped.
The words died in her throat.
He was not weeping. He was not hiding.
He sat at the table. Candlelight cut deep shadows across his face. Sharp. Pale. Focused.
He was scribbling. The quill scratched against the parchment like a knife sharpening on stone.
He looked up. Briefly. Held up a hand.
"Sit, Yolande."
No 'Mother'. No 'Your Grace'. Just 'Yolande'.
The tone was flat. Cold. Absolute.
Yolande stood frozen. Her hand tightened on the doorframe. Knuckles white.
The air in the room felt heavy. Charged. Static.
This is not Charles, the thought struck her like a physical blow. This is... something else.
"Sit," he said again.
Legs obeyed. Brain lagged.
She sat.
Napoleon finished his calculation. Two violent underlines. He looked up.
His eyes were cold. Clear. Terrifyingly sane.
"I have audited the books," Napoleon said. "La Trémoille has been skimming 30% off the top of the salt tax. Another 20% is lost to sheer incompetence. The Kingdom is technically bankrupt."
"I know," Yolande said, her heart beating an unfamiliar, quick rhythm. "That is why you called me. You need a loan."
"No." A thin smile appeared. Hungry. A shark's smile. "I don't want a loan. Loans imply begging. I want a merger."
"A merger?"
"A partnership," Napoleon said, pushing a parchment toward her. "I am dissolving the old administration. The parasites are gone. I am building a new machine. A war machine."
Yolande looked down. Columns of strange, curved symbols—Arabic numerals. Soldiers reduced to math.
"I need 200,000 livres," Napoleon said flatly.
Yolande laughed. It was a reflex. A sharp inhale. "200,000? Charles, you are dreaming. You cannot win."
"Look at me."
He didn't shout. He leaned forward. The candlelight caught his eyes. Hawk eyes. Predator eyes.
"200,000 livres," he whispered.
He tapped the table. Tap. Tap.
"That buys fifty batteries of 12-pounder cannons. It turns Orléans from a tomb into a fortress. It buys enough gunpowder to make the English regret the day they learned to swim."
He stood up and walked around the table. He looked frail, yet his shadow seemed to swallow the room.
"The English are overextended. Their supply lines are too long. Their commanders are arrogant. They are fighting a 15th-century war."
He stopped beside her chair.
"I am going to fight a modern war."
Yolande looked up at him. She saw the calculation. She saw the ruthless intelligence.
He is not asking for help, she realized. He is offering me a seat at the table before he overturns it.
"You invest in me," Napoleon said. "You empty your personal treasury. You pawn your jewelry. You give me everything."
"And in return?" Her voice trembled.
Napoleon leaned down. His voice was a caress of steel.
"I will give you a return on investment that no banker in Florence could dream of."
"I will not just give you back your money. I will give you an Empire. I will give you a France where the Valois word is law, from the Channel to the Mediterranean."
He held out his hand. Pale. Thin.
Rumors whispered that this hand had just threatened a man with an axe.
She was a gambler. She had spent her life betting on weak horses.
For the first time, she was looking at a stallion. Wild. Dangerous.
It might trample her. Or it might win the race.
Yolande stood up. She did not take his hand.
She reached for her neck.
Clack.
The heavy gold necklace—an heirloom of Aragon, heavy with rubies—came loose.
She dropped it onto the ledger.
Thud.
The sound echoed in the silence.
"That is worth 5,000 livres," Yolande breathed. "It's a start."
Napoleon smiled. He picked up the gold, weighing it like a grenade.
"It's a start."
He pocketed the gold and turned back to his papers, his mind already moving.
"Now," he said casually. "Tell me about this girl from Lorraine. The one the clergy wants to burn."
Yolande blinked. The adrenaline was still crashing through her veins. "The Maid? Joan? She is a peasant. A mystic. She claims she hears voices. She is a liability."
Napoleon stopped writing.
A girl who believes she is chosen by God. A girl who can make starving men march into arrow fire.
Not a liability.
Free propaganda.
"Bring her to me," Napoleon said softly.
"She is waiting in the courtyard," Yolande said.
Napoleon dipped his quill into the ink.
"Marketing," he muttered. "We have the funding. Now we need the mascot."