The Crown of the Hundred Years' War

Chapter 46 Holy City

A caravan slowly made its way towards Reims along the dusty road. A small iris flag, uncommon in the Champagne region, hung on one of the carriages.

The leader was a middle-aged merchant, dressed in an elegant dark gray wool robe, riding a mule with a steady gait. He removed his wide-brimmed hat, looked up at the tightly closed gates of Lance, glanced around, and, finding no guards, frowned slightly.

Just then, a guard poked his head out from the gatehouse, his voice gruff: "Who goes there? If you're not part of a grain transport team, get out of here!"

The middle-aged merchant looked up and replied loudly, "Sir, we are a caravan. We have brought salted fish and would like to purchase some lansmo cloth."

A commotion arose on the gate tower, and a man dressed as an officer poked his head out: "A caravan? Where would a caravan come from in this chaos? And that flag—you're probably spies! If you don't leave, we'll fire arrows!"

The caravan became somewhat nervous upon hearing this, and several men resembling guards stepped forward, seemingly wanting to protect their leader. The middle-aged merchant, however, gestured for them not to be alarmed and continued, "Sir, it is precisely because we are flying this frieze flag that we are safe—the French army will not bother a caravan carrying this flag. Also, we are carrying a large quantity of salted fish, which I'm sure your city is in dire need of!"

The commotion on the gate tower grew even louder. Soon, a whole row of crossbowmen set up their crossbows on the city wall, the dark arrow holes aimed at the caravan. The guards, terrified, raised their shields and stood in front of the middle-aged merchant, urging him to turn away immediately.

But the crossbowmen did not fire. Instead, the city gate slowly opened—the officer led a troop of infantry out.

"Salted fish? Let me see." The officer sized up the caravan. "Anyone trying to pull a trick? Kill them on sight!"

The middle-aged merchant pushed aside the guards and, with a fawning expression, led the officer to see the large barrels of salted fish on the carriage. The officer followed him, not caring that the infantry behind him were being blocked by the guards and not allowed to come over.

"Sir, look at this salted fish. We used twice the amount of salt, and it's three whole cartloads!" The middle-aged merchant leaned closer and lowered his voice. "But even the best fish is wasted if it can't be sold. I'm willing to donate a whole cartload to you, sir."

The officer paused, then smiled and patted the middle-aged businessman on the shoulder: "You seem to know what's good for you. Go into town!"

He ordered the infantry to move the cartload of salted fish. The guards reluctantly made way, getting shoved a few times.

The middle-aged merchant walked up to the officer and handed him a small money pouch. The officer weighed it in his hand and chuckled, "You're quite generous." He put the pouch back in his pocket and said in a low voice, "I have no interest in what you're here for. Once we're in the city, tell your armored guards to keep quiet! Don't go to any of the other inns in the city; go straight to the one opposite the church."

The middle-aged merchant nodded and led his caravan into the city.

The entire street was deserted; there were no pedestrians, no soldiers, not even refugees in sight. The market was empty, the stalls reduced to bare frames. Occasionally, one or two pedestrians would hurry by, and upon seeing them, they would immediately detour.

Following the officer's instructions, the caravan stopped in front of the city's most famous pilgrimage inn. This inn was renowned for its view of Reims Cathedral, and was usually bustling with pilgrims; its stone steps, worn smooth and gleaming by generations of footsteps. But now, only a lone waiter stood by the door, leaning listlessly against the frame. He saw the caravan arrive, paused for a moment before reacting, and then turned and ran inside to report.

The shop owner, a plump middle-aged man wearing a filthy apron, stood up from behind the counter. He glanced at the caravan at the entrance, then at the empty street, rubbed his hands together, and gave an awkward smile: "Sir, where...are you from?"

The middle-aged merchant entered the lobby, looked around, and indeed, the vast hall was completely empty. He turned and replied, "We're from Troyes. We wanted to buy some resveratrol, but why is the city under lockdown? Also, isn't this shop usually full of pilgrims? Why is there no one here today?"

The shopkeeper's smile froze for a moment. He looked around and lowered his voice, "Sir, how come you've come all the way from Troyes? Didn't they already surrender? The city is under lockdown because the royal army is about to attack!"

The middle-aged merchant raised an eyebrow: "I was in the city when Troyes surrendered, but the royal army didn't make any noise."

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow in surprise, but quickly regained his composure, picked up a rag, and began wiping the gleaming counter while trying to appear casual: "That's really lucky! But you know, His Majesty might let other places off the hook, but here in Corinth, there's a Salon, a notorious fake bishop, forced there by the Burgundians. When the French army enters the city, they'll definitely search for his cronies. The city's terrified about this; they'll probably have to seal it off!"

He leaned closer and lowered his voice: "To tell you the truth, even some of the priests in the church have hidden their sacred relics in the military camp, afraid of being mistaken for His Majesty's men. Look at my inn, usually packed with customers, now it's deserted. Please, I won't take your money for the room, just tell me—when is His Majesty coming to Lance?"

The middle-aged merchant listened calmly, then shook his head upon hearing this: "That's military intelligence, how would I know? However, I left on the day His Majesty held the entry ceremony into the city, so I'll probably be gone for a few more days. I'd like to buy some Lansbrough, do you know any sellers?"

The shopkeeper nodded with a wry smile: "I do know you. But with all this chaos and war, you're only concerned with business? You're really carefree. Let me make some contact—selling things now might lead to encountering patrolling guards, and you could get arrested."

The middle-aged businessman was silent for a moment, then suddenly asked, "Is it still possible to go into the church for worship?"

The shopkeeper paused, looked him up and down, and said with a hint of confusion in his eyes, "You still want to go to church? Didn't you hear—at this time of year, priests are all rushing to the military camp! I think the church doors are locked tighter than the national treasury; nobody can get in. If you want to pray, just say a few words in your own room; there's no need to go to church."

The middle-aged merchant took a small cloth bag from his sleeve, gently placed it on the counter, and pushed it over. The shopkeeper instinctively reached out and pressed it down, opened it, and found it full of silver coins. He squeezed it, took out a coin, and bit it; his smile immediately became more genuine.

"Sir, please settle in, please settle in." The innkeeper quickly stuffed the cloth bag into a hidden pocket under his apron and lowered his voice. "About your wish to enter the church... I'll ask around for you. There are still a few people inside who served the old bishop and don't want to leave. I'll go talk to them; surely someone can make an exception. Please go upstairs and rest; I'll have someone bring your food up right away."

The middle-aged merchant nodded and gestured to his workers to unload the goods and move the luggage. Just as they settled in, the boss, as expected, entered through the back door with a priest in an old robe. The priest looked nervous, glancing around nervously, like a thief. The boss called upstairs, and the middle-aged merchant came down. The two exchanged a few words in hushed tones, and the middle-aged merchant nodded. The priest didn't say much, simply beckoning him out the back door.

As evening fell, the middle-aged businessman returned. He paused for a moment as soon as he entered the hotel.

The lobby was full of people.

They didn't seem like hotel guests—such a large number of merchants in elegant robes were more common in trading houses. Candles were lavishly lit in the hall, illuminating the entire space. A dozen pairs of eyes turned sharply towards the entrance. A guard of the middle-aged merchant approached and whispered, "Sir, these people arrived this afternoon, specifically requesting to see you, but they won't tell me anything."

The shopkeeper stood behind the counter and gave him a wink—meaning, "It's none of my business, they came on their own."

Seated at the front was an elderly man with gray hair, wearing a dark blue silk robe with a gold badge pinned to his collar—the emblem of the Holy City Merchant Guild. He stood up, bowed to the middle-aged merchant, and got straight to the point: "Greetings, friend from afar. I am the president of the Lance Merchant Guild. May I ask if you are from Troyes?"

The middle-aged businessman hesitated for a moment, but finally nodded.

The guild leader nodded at him, suppressing his excitement, and asked urgently, "I heard you were in the city when Troyes surrendered. What exactly happened? Did the army loot or kill anyone after entering the city? How did your caravan manage to leave? Can you tell us?"

The middle-aged businessman hesitated for a moment, then looked out the window—it was pitch black.

The abbot, sensing his hesitation, raised his right hand solemnly. "We have some influence in the city, and no patrol will pass through this inn tonight. If you're worried about word getting to the city's army, we can swear an oath now." He stepped aside, revealing a young man sitting behind him, about twenty years old, wearing a well-tailored dark priest's robe, his face somewhat pale, his fingers nervously twisting the hem of his garment. "This is Bishop Charon's nephew, a deacon. Like us, he simply wants to hear the truth about Troyes—he has no ill intentions."

The middle-aged merchant remained silent for a moment before finally stepping forward and sitting down opposite the group. He removed his hat and gestured to the guard—who immediately went to the door to stand guard.

He sighed: "You gentlemen are indeed sincere, but I am but a lowly person, so please understand that I am being very careful. The French army is very disciplined, and since entering the city, I have not heard of any looting. Shops and markets are operating as usual, and I have heard that His Majesty has even exempted all taxes except for salt tax. As for caravans like mine, as long as we are willing to pay a fee to buy a pass and register with the Royal Merchant Guild, we can freely enter and leave Troyes."

The president pressed further, "Which chamber of commerce is the Royal Chamber of Commerce? How much does a pass cost?"

The middle-aged merchant thought for a moment: "The Royal Merchant Guild seems to be His Majesty's own guild, led by Jacques, the moneylender from Blois. As for the price of the pass, it fluctuates, depending on the goods, the person's status, and who you ask for it from. Anyway, I got one from Jacques for fifteen gold coins, stamped with His Majesty's own seal."

The president nodded in satisfaction. A few people around him whispered amongst themselves, their expressions visibly relaxing.

Another person leaned over and asked, "So... did Troyes settle scores with those who worked for the British? I mean, those who were close to the Burgundians?"

The middle-aged merchant shook his head: "At least not yet. His Majesty even let the Burgundian army leave. It is said that His Majesty's policy is to let bygones be bygones. I did see several Burgundian trading companies moving overnight, and no one stopped them."

The crowd relaxed a little.

The young man who had been silent all along—Sharon's nephew—suddenly spoke, his voice trembling slightly: "Then... will Charlie kill my uncle? Have you heard?"

The middle-aged businessman glanced at him and said calmly, "I don't know. I only know that Archbishop Chartres of Lance is in the army. That's all."

The young man's face turned ashen, as if all the color had been drained from him. A councilor beside him patted him on the shoulder and whispered, "Bishop Chartres is a kind and benevolent man, and he has no grudge against your uncle. Precisely because he's in the army, your uncle is more likely to be alright. Don't scare yourself."

The young man nodded, but his hands were still trembling.

The innkeeper looked up at the window—the moon had already climbed above the treetops. He gave the chairman a gentle nudge. The chairman understood, stood up, and bowed to the middle-aged businessman: "Thank you for telling us the truth. It's getting late, we won't disturb you any longer."

He handed over a money pouch. The middle-aged merchant tucked it into his pocket, and the guild master breathed a sigh of relief. One by one, the crowd departed, and the hall returned to silence. The middle-aged merchant sat at the table, picked up the hot wine the boss had brought him, slowly sipped it, and then turned and went upstairs.

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The next morning, the middle-aged businessman was awakened by a series of urgent knocks before he even got out of bed. He threw on his coat, opened the door, and saw the innkeeper standing there, followed by the same people he had seen the day before, but the guild leader was nowhere to be seen. They were all pale and covered in sweat, clearly having just arrived.

The innkeeper spoke first, his voice trembling: "Sir, something terrible has happened! The Burgundians have fled! All the soldiers in the city have run away, not a single one is left!"

The middle-aged businessman's brow furrowed sharply: "Ran away? When did that happen?"

A man stepped forward, his voice urgent: "Early this morning, Charlon sent his nephew with a message saying the army was retreating to Paris. They only left us a verbal message—they've held out long enough to do right by the Duke of Burgundy. They even said reinforcements would arrive within six weeks, and told the people in the city to figure out how to hold on!" He swallowed hard, his face turning pale. "Six weeks! They've run away themselves! What are we supposed to do to hold on for six weeks?"

The guild leader squeezed up from behind, panting heavily: "Sir, do you know where His Majesty Charles is right now? We need to hand over the city gate keys before the army arrives, to prevent them from attacking the city. You know—if they attack, we'll all go bankrupt!"

The middle-aged merchant hesitated for a moment: "Before I set off, I heard that His Majesty was going to Cyprus, ten miles away. But I can't be sure if he has arrived yet."

The chairman nodded, turned and walked out, his steps as quick as if he had become twenty years younger. Several councilors followed behind him, jogging along, their robes fluttering, and they disappeared around the street corner in the blink of an eye.

The middle-aged businessman stood at the door, watching their departing figures, then turned back into the lobby and called to his staff to prepare for departure.

When it came time to pay, the clerk initially refused to accept the money, but the man still counted out a few silver coins from his purse and slapped them on the counter. The clerk, exasperated, collected the money while glancing around. His gaze fell on the middle-aged merchant's hand, and he suddenly paused, startled.

"Sir, your gloves..." The waiter stared at the little finger of the black glove—there was a ring there, exquisitely crafted, gleaming dimly in the candlelight.

The middle-aged businessman withdrew his hand, remaining calm: "What's wrong?"

The waiter shook his head, laughing it off: "It's nothing, it's nothing."

The middle-aged businessman didn't reply, but just smiled faintly, turned around and walked out of the hotel.

The caravan left Lance and slowly headed south along the main road. About two miles outside the city gate, the middle-aged merchant dismounted, looked around to make sure no one was following, and waved behind him.

The guards broke away from the caravan on fast horses, raising a cloud of dust, and galloped off to the east.

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Reims is the religious center of France.

Paris was indeed great, and Tours was indeed magnificent, but Clovis's baptism by Archbishop Saint Rémy in Reims was not only a personal conversion, but also marked the turning of the entire Frankish nation from paganism to orthodox Christianity.

Becoming the Bishop of Reims is the lifelong pursuit of any Gallic priest.

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Jean-Jean-Jouvenard De Joursen's "Collected Works - Coronation Address of the Bishop of Reims"