The Gulf of Lyon in the northern Mediterranean was calm and bathed in gentle sunshine. This small bay in southern France, rich in fisheries and blessed with a warm, moist climate, was one of the regions renowned for producing fine wines.
The Rhône River flowed into the sea here, and the fertile land along its banks supported countless French people. Lining the coastline from east to west stood a series of large cities: Nice, Toulon, Marseille, Avignon, and Montpellier.
This prosperous land was divided between France and the County of Provence. The peasants were scattered across villages and estates, still working in a primitive way—rising with the sun, resting at dusk. They cultivated wheat and other staple crops while tending to some cash crops on the side.
The spring breeze of the Renaissance had yet to reach this place. French peasants tilled some of the richest land in Europe and lived off Mother Nature's blessings—just as they had done for generations.
However, these were hard times for the French peasantry.
The prolonged Hundred Years' War had devastated the entire northern part of the kingdom. Major commercial hubs like Flanders refused to finance the war and voluntarily came under Burgundian rule.
King Charles VII abolished the Estates-General and declared absolute authority. After signing a five-year truce with England, he eagerly launched a series of reforms.
These reforms primarily elevated the status of the urban bourgeoisie while suppressing the power of southern landowning nobility, bringing fiscal and tax authority under central control.
Naturally, the conservative nobles were unwilling to submit. They launched a rebellion in 1440 but were quickly suppressed.
Refusing to hand over their taxes and unable to defeat the king, what did they do?
They made the peasants suffer.
"What? You've already paid taxes? Sorry, that was to the king—you still owe me mine."
Unable to pay, peasants had no choice but to mortgage their land. Wealthy landlords seized the chance to raise grain prices and lower land prices, amassing vast estates. Landless and land-poor peasants multiplied, and some lower-ranking knights who lost their fiefs became drifters.
Vagrants spread across the land, and bandits followed in their wake.
Of course, nobles and clergy living in the cities hardly noticed.
At this time, Isaac's fleet was docked at a port under Montpellier for a brief resupply, while taking the chance to experience southern France's local customs.
France's north and south were still quite distinct. In the north, capitalism had begun to emerge, and a French national consciousness was taking shape. The south remained feudal, where people knew only their feudal lords, not the King of France.
Isaac left Captain Henry of the St. Nicholas in charge of the fleet and entered the city with Fidel and William.
The sailors were overjoyed after receiving their bonuses and disembarked in turns for rest.
At the city gate, Isaac was taken aback.
The plains outside Montpellier were crowded with makeshift shanties built by refugees. A few monks and nuns from nearby monasteries carried baskets, distributing food and medicine.
But supplies were woefully insufficient. Stronger refugees snatched food from the nuns, shoving it into their mouths and then eyeing the bread in others' hands greedily.
Children and women were pushed to the back of the line, receiving only a few crusts.
A baby wailed, unable to suckle from its mother. The mother was emaciated, her eyes dull.
A nearby nun wept, covering her face.
There were too many such scenes—beyond their help.
Since the kind Archbishop of Montpellier had declared he would aid the refugees, the entire region had flooded in.
This had continued for months. Relief funds were limited, yet refugees kept coming.
Genoese and Venetian merchants took advantage of the situation, relocating some refugees under the guise of "recruitment."
In truth, most would spend their lives rowing in dark ship holds or die working in Austrian mines.
Such was the life of ordinary people during medieval European wars.
Later historians would highlight Charles VII's recapture of Paris and his centralization of power, while naturally discarding the suffering of the people into the dustbin.
Well, Isaac thought, that was none of his business.
He shook his head and continued toward the city gates with his companions.
The guards grumbled loudly about the Archbishop's "selfishness."
"You hear? The city's food reserves are running low. We're now eating overpriced grain shipped in by Genoese merchants."
"Of course I know! Yesterday, I almost hurled cow dung at one of those greedy Genoese pigs!"
"Damn refugees. Isn't the war over? Why haven't they gone home?"
…
Isaac showed them the decree issued by the Pope. The guards saluted and let him pass.
"Sir, you'd best leave soon. Things are getting messy around here…" a guard warned kindly.
Isaac nodded and entered the city.
Montpellier was under the Archbishop's rule and managed by the city council.
It was a deeply religious city, surrounded by monasteries and filled with robed clergy.
Since Charles VII issued the Pragmatic Sanction of Bourges in 1438, the French Church had effectively broken from Rome.
The country was divided into archdioceses that pledged loyalty to the king, no longer paying taxes to Rome and gaining the right to elect their own clergy.
Montpellier was one of them.
The city's image was one of solemn piety, dominated by white buildings and cross symbols. Well-fed citizens walked the streets confidently, casting disdainful looks at outsiders.
The bright, clean city sharply contrasted with the squalor and darkness outside.
Isaac entered a bookstore and was pleased to find books bearing the purple double-headed eagle—his own printing.
The printing business was steadily growing.
"Sir, this is a new-style book, printed by machines in Rome! Elegant fonts, beautiful layout—rumor has it the Pope himself is a fan…"
The merchant babbled excitedly.
Isaac nodded along cheerfully, then put the book down and left.
The merchant stood in frustration, watching him go.
Later, Isaac ordered his companions to split up and gather useful information.
At noon, he visited the Archbishop of Montpellier.
The kind old man was clearly overwhelmed.
The city council was pressuring him to expel the refugees and stop distributing food.
But the Archbishop couldn't break his promise.
He issued public appeals to southern nobles to reclaim their people.
Few responded.
Now that the people belonged to the king, let him take them back.
The Archbishop had also sent word to the king—no reply.
While centralized and feudal powers clashed, it was always the common folk who suffered.
After a brief chat, the Archbishop agreed to buy and use Isaac's printed Bibles in the future.
It was clear the man was under great strain.
A truly compassionate elder, he wore a simple robe and lived in modest quarters.
"Child, I don't have time to entertain you now—you've seen the situation," he said, rubbing his forehead.
"Please give my regards to Emperor John VIII. I traveled to Constantinople in my youth—it was a beautiful city. May it never fall."
Isaac thanked him.
"Your Grace, in the name of God, I wish to help some of these poor people. Can you assist me?"
The Archbishop gave him a wary look.
"I know some Latin merchants collude with corrupt clergy to commit acts even the devil would curse. I cannot control them."
"But you're recognized by the Pope—and a Byzantine prince. I doubt you'd do such evil."
"If you truly want to help the refugees, go ahead. That is the work of saints."
Isaac pledged to find good homes for the people.
Leaving the church, he was moved.
Archbishop Pierre was a true man of God—one who stood in the storm for the people.
Back at the inn, William brought news.
He had discovered a group of disenfranchised knights gathering, hoping to seek fortune elsewhere.
This was becoming common.
Some would serve other countries, some would become mercenaries, and others were lured by the Ottoman Empire, which was actively recruiting.
Even Mehmed II's court was filled with Christian advisors.
Isaac decided to recruit these dispossessed knights.
As his plans moved forward, he needed to begin developing a land army.
And for that, he first needed officers.
Without officers, there was no training system—no battlefield command.
A horde of unled peasants was useless, easily routed.
This was why late Byzantium relied so heavily on mercenaries.
Most great nobles had defected to the Ottomans, and the remaining sycophants were worthless.
The next day, Isaac met the dispossessed knights with William.
There were fourteen in total, led by a blond-haired middle-aged man.
"I hear you want to hire us?" the man said bluntly, emphasizing the word "hire."
"I want your loyalty," Isaac replied.
The blond knight sneered.
"My last liege was Joan of Arc."
Isaac was stunned.
Eventually, Isaac signed a contract with the knight, whose name was Conti. The fourteen joined Isaac's personal guard, and he offered them pay.
Whether it was employment or allegiance—time would tell.
Isaac then led Conti to the refugee camp, selecting 100 strong men to join the guard. Their families were allowed to come too.
He also took 20 orphans around ten years old, to be trained as reserves under Conti's tutelage.
That evening, Isaac and Conti stood on deck as the fleet raised anchor.
Conti stared at the distant homeland.
"Leaving home soon. How do you feel?" Isaac asked.
The blond knight was silent for a moment.
Then he spoke slowly.
"I'm the son of a blacksmith. Life was tolerable—until the English destroyed everything."
"I swore revenge. The Maid reached out to me."
"We fought for Charles VII, and she crowned him. We stormed fortress after fortress."
"When victory neared, the nobles who once hesitated rushed in to seize land and titles."
"Joan was discarded. We were named low knights, given barren lands in the mountains."
"Then the king taxed us heavily—and I barely had any peasants."
"I sold my fief and left."
"When I left, I saw noble heirs sneering at me."
Conti turned to Isaac.
"That's when I realized…"
"Only when the country is in peril—only when foreign enemies invade—will the nobility treat you as one of their own."
"I no longer have a homeland."
"And neither do they."
He pointed toward the port, where the strong refugees and their families boarded happily, leaving their shacks behind.
Isaac said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he turned to Conti.
"Perhaps, one day—you'll find a new homeland on my lands."
Good. You've come around.
Follow me now.
At the very least—I won't let you down.