Commander Baudricourt didn't trust Jeanne—he was a commander, after all; his thoughts naturally ran deeper.
Right now, France was losing battle after battle, morale in ruins.
What they needed wasn't another soldier—it was someone who could rekindle faith, someone who could make people believe again.
A commoner couldn't inspire that kind of hope.
Thinking back to that madwoman's strange words from two months earlier, an idea took shape in his mind.
Perhaps… they could borrow those vague, divine-sounding claims to create a symbol—a figure who embodied purity and divine will.
The woman's words hadn't been all that convincing, but her presence had been neat, devout, and untainted—perfect for the role of a prophetess.
A leader… yes. A Holy Maiden, even.
And if things went wrong later, if they still lost the war, they could simply shift the blame to her. Blame the "false Holy Maiden" for misleading them.
Commander Baudricourt found the plan flawless.
About half an hour later, the two soldiers returned, leading Jeanne before him.
"My lord, may I ask why you've summoned me?"
Jeanne's voice was calm; she didn't show any suspicion, though she clearly didn't understand why she was there.
Baudricourt studied her carefully.
"You said before that the Dauphin's army would suffer misfortune?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And what are your plans now?"
"If my lord permits, I wish to go to Chinon and speak to the Dauphin personally."
Baudricourt considered her for a moment.
"Do you believe in God?"
"The Lord dwells forever within our hearts."
He smiled faintly.
"I see. Then tomorrow, I'll send men to escort you there."
"My lord, if possible, I'd like to head to the frontlines immediately."
Her suicidal earnestness made Baudricourt's smile falter.
A madwoman indeed. Probably doesn't even understand death.
But inwardly, he decided it didn't matter. Once she reached the Dauphin, he could polish her image into something saintly.
"Prepare men's clothing for her," he ordered. "And you two—find trustworthy men to escort her safely to the Dauphin. No matter what happens, you are to protect and support her."
"Understood, my lord."
"Thank you, my lord."
Receiving the answer she wanted, Jeanne smiled in quiet relief.
Her heart finally felt a bit lighter. Now all that remained was convincing the Dauphin, Charles, and reaching the frontlines.
On her way here earlier, she'd seen the despair etched into the soldiers' faces—eyes empty, spirits crushed.
That was not the France she wanted to see.
She had to save them. There was no other choice.
If she failed, Britain would soon take Orléans, and then her hometown—and Laurent—would be swallowed by the war.
She couldn't let that happen.
But when she thought of Laurent again, Jeanne sighed softly, a hint of irritation slipping through.
She'd drawn special pictures, written letters—and that jerk still hadn't replied once.
She could be angry too, you know!
Hmph. Awful Laurent. When she came back victorious, she'd make him cook her a feast as punishment.
She wondered what he was doing right now. Was he thinking of her too?
He'd better be.
...
"Évigi, do you willingly accept my knighting, to become one of our knights? From this day forth, you shall pledge eternal loyalty and never abandon your duty."
In the wide-open square, thousands of eyes focused on the center, where Laurent knelt with one knee on the ground. Before him stood a man holding a sword with both hands.
Laurent bowed his head, playing his part in the ceremony.
Sir John Fastolf had needed only one battle to recognize Laurent's worth. Rather than gambling, this was mutual advantage.
Without hesitation, he had arranged for Laurent to receive an English identity. Since foreign nobles weren't easily accepted, Sir John even fabricated a fitting background and began reporting Laurent's deeds upward.
He wasn't foolish enough to claim those accomplishments for himself. A man like Laurent was not someone to cross—only a fool would try to take his credit.
If Laurent's potential kept growing, Sir John could rise alongside him.
And this intention, he'd shared openly with Laurent. Too much scheming only bred suspicion—better to be straightforward.
We'll use each other. No tricks, no betrayal. You give me benefits, I'll back you in return.
Laurent couldn't have agreed more.
Their understanding led directly to this day.
A faint, confident smile tugged at his lips as he raised his head.
"I willingly accept, Your Grace."
Those words, of course, were ones Sir John had taught him. Laurent had only recently learned how many formal titles and addresses existed between different ranks of nobility.
The man knighting him now was a duke—second only to princes and kings.
Laurent hadn't expected Sir John to pull such strings so soon. Quite the stroke of luck.
Rising to his feet, he accepted the sword, held it in one hand, and pressed the other over his heart as he recited solemnly:
"I shall be merciful to the weak."
"I shall bravely face the strong."
"I shall fight unreservedly against sinners."
"I shall battle for those unable to fight."
"I shall aid those who need my help."
"I shall harm no women or children."
"I shall support my knightly brethren".
"I shall remain loyal to my friends."
"I shall remain sincere in love."
Inwardly, he sneered.
What a load of crap. If not for Jeanne, I'd never come anywhere near your side.
The duke looked pleased with the ceremony.
"Excellent, Sir Évigi. From this day forward, you are officially a knight. Now go, and prove your valor on the battlefield!"
"As you command."
And so, on March 1, 1428, Évigi was knighted—thus beginning the first chapter of his legend.