The Hangover March
April 30, 1429 — 07:00 AM
The City Square
The morning sun hit Orléans like a hammer.
The streets were a mess of broken wine casks, sleeping soldiers, and the sour smell of victory and vomit. The garrison had feasted like starving wolves, and now they were suffering the consequences.
But not everyone was sleeping.
La Hire sat on his horse, his face pale, his eyes red from wine. He looked like a corpse that had been dragged out of a river, but his voice could still shatter glass.
"Line up, you bastards!" La Hire roared, cracking his whip against the cobblestones. "Vomit on your own time! March!"
Behind him, two thousand Gascon mercenaries—the wildest, dirtiest cutthroats in France—were stumbling into formation. Some were dry-heaving. Some were still drunk. But when the drummer hit the skin—Thump. Thump. Thump.—their feet moved in perfect unison.
From the windows of the noble houses, the aristocrats of Orléans watched with amusement. They laughed at the staggering soldiers, at the vomit on the boots.
"Look at them," a silk-clad merchant sneered from his balcony. "The King brought us a circus."
Suddenly, the drum rhythm changed. Rat-a-tat-tat!
La Hire raised his fist. "Pikes!"
Two thousand men stopped instantly. The sound of two thousand boots hitting the ground at once was like a thunderclap. In a single motion, a forest of pikes lowered, steel tips gleaming, forming an impenetrable wall.
The laughter on the balcony died instantly.
The merchant pulled his head back. He realized he wasn't looking at a circus. He was looking at a machine that ran on alcohol and violence.
High above the square, in a narrow window of Jacques Boucher's house, Napoleon watched the scene unfold.
From this height, the Gascons did not look like men. They looked like a single creature in blue and steel, lurching, retching—and then, at the touch of a drumbeat, snapping into order.
Rabble that marches on the beat, he thought, fingers resting lightly on the stone sill. Can be taught to march on command.
At the other end of the square, a different sound emerged. No shouting. No whips. Just the rhythmic clanking of steel.
Raoul de Gamaches rode into view.
Behind him marched the Compagnie d'Ordonnance. They were a stark contrast to La Hire's wolves. They wore clean, identical blue surcoats embroidered with the Gold Fleur-de-lis. Their armor was polished. Their formation was geometric.
Gamaches nodded to La Hire. The old mercenary nodded back.
It was a silent passing of the torch. The Old War met the New War in the morning light.
The Lion's Cage
The Cellars of Jacques Boucher's House
09:00 AM
The air was damp and cold. John Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, the terror of France, sat in the dark.
He was chained to the wall. His armor had been stripped, but his pride remained. When the door opened, he didn't flinch.
Napoleon walked in. Behind him followed a young man who seemed out of place in a dungeon.
He was slender, dressed in the austere black robe of a scholar, holding an inkpot and a roll of parchment. His fingers were stained with ink, not blood.
Lucas de Cousinot.
Napoleon watched the young scribe set up his portable writing desk on a wooden crate. He remembered Angers—the day he had forced the Queen Mother's council to open the books. While the other old courtiers had yawned or rolled their eyes when Napoleon demanded to audit the royal treasury line by line, this young man had stood in the corner, watching with breathless adoration.
Where others saw boring arithmetic, Lucas had seen the beauty of absolute control. He had looked at the King not as a miser, but as a maestro conducting a symphony of numbers.
That is why I brought you, Napoleon thought, watching Lucas dip his quill. Knights can conquer a castle. But only men like you can own it.
Napoleon glanced at his scribe. "Ready, Lucas?"
The young man nodded, his pen hovering over the ledger, sharp as any lance.
"Comfortable, My Lord?" Napoleon asked, turning his attention back to the prisoner.
"If you came to mock me, Frenchman, save your breath," Talbot spat. "Kill me or ransom me. I have no patience for games."
"Kill you?" Napoleon smiled thinly. "You are far too expensive to kill, John."
He gestured to Lucas.
The young secretary stepped forward, adjusting his spectacles. He didn't look at the legendary English general with fear; he looked at him with the detached efficiency of a tax collector inspecting a barrel of wine.
"Read the terms, Lucas," Napoleon ordered.
"Clause One," Lucas's voice was crisp, devoid of emotion. "John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, acknowledges a debt of twenty thousand écus to the Crown of France. Specifically, as startup capital for the Compagnie d'Ordonnance."
"Clause Two," Lucas continued, not looking up. "As collateral, the Earl pledges his honor and his estates in Normandy."
"Clause Three," Lucas finished, finally looking Talbot in the eye. "Should the ransom not be paid in full, General Raoul de Gamaches is empowered to take satisfaction from the debtor's own person… limb by limb."
Talbot looked at the paper, then at the King. "You want me to pay for the army that defeated me?"
"I want you to pay for the army that will defeat your King," Napoleon corrected. "Sign it."
Talbot laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "And if I sign? Do I walk free?"
"Sign," Napoleon whispered.
Talbot picked up the quill. He scrawled his name aggressively. Then he looked up, a glint of hope in his eyes.
"I have signed. Now, let me go. I will take your message to Suffolk."
Napoleon leaned in close. The candlelight cast long shadows on his face.
"A fool on the other side of the field is no gift, Lord Talbot. A fool wastes my time. A worthy enemy sharpens my men."
"Then release me!"
"No," Napoleon said softly. "Not today."
Talbot stiffened. "You have my signature! You have my parole!"
"I have your money," Napoleon said, turning to leave.
Lucas blew on the wet ink, rolled up the parchment, and tucked it into his robe with a satisfied nod. It was the nod of a man who had just balanced a difficult ledger.
"Dead lions pay no ransoms," Napoleon said over his shoulder. "But caged lions... they are an asset. You stay here, John."
"Why?" Talbot hissed, rattling his chains.
"Because today, I am going to break the Augustins Monastery," Napoleon said. "And I want you to listen to it happen. I want you to sit in the dark and hear the sound of the future, knowing you can do nothing to stop it."
The heavy oak door slammed shut. The lock clicked. Talbot was left alone in the silence.
The Spectator's Seat
The Map Room
10:00 AM
The mood in the council chamber was volatile.
"This is cowardice!" Dunois slammed his hand on the table. "We have the numbers! We have the morale! The knights of Orléans are ready to storm the breach! You ask us to sit and watch?"
"It is not cowardice, Cousin," Napoleon said calmly from his chair. "It is mathematics."
"It is an insult to God!" Jeanne d'Arc stepped forward. Her face was troubled. "The Voices say we must act. We must show our faith by the strength of our arms. To hide behind machines... is this what the King does?"
The room went silent. The conflict was naked now. The Chivalry and the Faith against the Engineer.
Napoleon stood up. He walked over to Dunois.
He picked up a heavy, velvet-wrapped object from the table. He unwrapped it to reveal a golden Marshal's Baton, heavy as a small scepter.
"Jean," Napoleon said softly. "You are the Shield of France. You held this city when I was asleep. I am not asking you to hide. I am asking you to command."
He pressed the baton into Dunois's hand.
"Someone must coordinate the infantry, the supplies, the reserves. If we all charge like madmen, who steers the ship?"
Dunois looked at the baton. The weight of it felt like responsibility, not glory. He nodded slowly.
Then Napoleon turned to Jeanne.
"And you, Maiden," Napoleon's voice became stern. "If God gave us iron and fire, shall we insult Him by not using them?"
Jeanne paused. She looked at the King, then at the map.
"God helps those who help themselves," Napoleon said. "We will use the cannon to open the door. You will use the sword to cleanse the house. Is that not fair?"
Jeanne took a breath. "If... if the door is opened. Then we will enter."
"Good," Napoleon turned to Jean Bureau, who was wiping his glasses nervously.
"Bureau," Napoleon said. "When the wind turns, the knights are the audience. You are the actor. Do not disappoint me."
Around the table, the fault line in the room was almost visible.
An old viscount from Berry sat very straight, his jaw clenched so hard the veins stood out in his neck. His eyes never left the map, but his hand had crept to the hilt of his sword, as if to reassure himself that steel and horseflesh still meant something in this new arithmetic of war.
Two seats down, a young knight with an unscarred chin leaned forward, eyes bright. The thought of sitting a horse on a safe ridge, watching stone walls fall to thunder, tempted him in a way he did not yet dare to name.
The Variable of Wind
The Map Room
04:00 PM
The candles in Jacques Boucher's counting room leaned west, their flames dragged thin by a stubborn North Wind.
Jean Bureau spread a crude chart of the Loire valley across the table. In the margins, he had scratched a forest of tiny charcoal arrows.
"North wind today," he said, tapping the arrows with ink-stained fingers. "It drives the smoke back into our teeth. If we fire from this ridge, the guns will blind themselves. The crews won't see the fall of shot."
Napoleon traced a line along the river with one gloved fingertip, from Orléans to the Augustins and the bridgehead beyond.
"And tomorrow?" he asked.
Bureau shifted his weight. His mail jingled faintly; he always seemed slightly uncomfortable wearing armor, like a clerk in a knight's costume.
"This time of year, Sire… the wind turns often," he said. "From north to west. Sometimes southwest. Within a day or two, it should veer. If it does, it will carry the smoke away from the ridge. With a west wind, we have a clean line on the western buttress of the monastery gate."
"Within a day or two," Napoleon repeated.
He wasn't looking at the chart anymore. Through the narrow mullioned window, he could see the spire of Saint-Pierre-le-Puellier stabbing at a sky the color of lead.
"How certain?" he asked.
Bureau chewed his lip, then answered with the caution of a man more afraid of powder than of God.
"Certain enough to wager my eyebrows, Sire," he said. "Not certain enough to wager your Grand Battery."
A corner of Napoleon's mouth moved.
"Keep your eyebrows," he said. "I will wager something else."
The Church Steps
The bells of Orléans had not rung like this in months.
They tolled and tolled, heavy bronze voices calling the city to its knees. The square before the great church filled until there was no space left—merchants still smelling of their stalls, soldiers with dried blood on their boots, women with hollow cheeks and hollow eyes.
At the front, Jeanne knelt on the stone steps, helmet off, hair damp with mist. Her white banner lay across her lap, the silk limp in the north wind.
Napoleon came to stand beside her.
"Sire," Jeanne said quietly, without looking up. "The wind is against us. We cannot strike while it blows from the north."
"Not yet," Napoleon agreed.
She turned her head, searching his face.
"But it will turn," she said. There was no doubt in her voice. Only fatigue, and something like pleading. "The Voices say the Lord will grant us a sign. If we ask."
Behind her, thousands of people fell silent. The only sound was the mutter of the bells and the restless murmur of the wind in the banners.
Napoleon did not tell her about charcoal arrows and seasonal patterns. He would not argue with the only thing holding this city's soul together.
"If the Lord wishes Orléans to live," he said, pitching his voice so it carried to the back of the square, "He will turn the wind. Until then, we will do our part."
He stepped forward, so that the crowd could see both him and the kneeling Maid.
"Pray," he commanded. "Pray for France. Pray for a wind from the west."
A ripple passed through the crowd, like grain bowing before a gust. Men removed their caps. Women clutched rosaries worn smooth by six months of fear. Children tried to mimic their parents, crossing themselves with clumsy little hands.
Jeanne lowered her head again. Her lips moved, whispering Latin fragments half-remembered from village Masses. Ave Maria… ora pro nobis… ora pro Francia…
Napoleon watched the sea of bent backs.
One day, he thought. Two at most. If the wind turns, they will call it a miracle. If it does not, we find another way.
He folded his hands—not in prayer, but to hide the way his fingers tapped out an invisible rhythm on his gloves, counting hours.
The Turning
By late afternoon, the bells of Orléans had not grown tired.
It began so gently that no one noticed.
On the Burgundy Gate, the old blue banner of France shivered. For weeks it had hung like a dead thing, plastered against the stone by the north wind. Now its edge lifted, then fell, then lifted again.
A boy on the wall, too young for a helmet, squinted at it.
"Look," he said, voice cracking. "The flag."
Below, in the market square, a woman straightened from her knees, rubbing at her cramped legs. A draft brushed her face from the west, carrying with it the faint, tarry tang of the river.
The flags twitched again.
This time, they did not fall back.
Slowly—reluctantly, it seemed—the long blue standard turned, a single golden lily catching the light as it swung to face the English forts.
"The wind!" the boy squealed. "It's turning!"
His shout ricocheted along the wall.
"The wind!"
"Saint Mary, look at the wind!"
People stumbled to their feet, clinging to one another. Some laughed, a high, hysterical sound. Others began to sob openly.
On the church steps, Jeanne's banner stirred in her hands. The white silk lifted, then bellied out, snapping once like a sail catching a new course.
Jeanne's head jerked up. The air that struck her face was different—colder, cleaner, coming straight from the west.
"Mon Dieu," she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. "You heard us."
She rose in one smooth motion, mounting her horse as if pulled by the same invisible hand that had taken the wind. The banner rose with her, streaming now toward the English line.
To the people on the square, it was a sign written across the sky. Their roar rolled up the walls and out across the river.
The Gun Line
Same Moment
On the ridge above the Augustins, Jean Bureau watched the same flags through his spyglass.
He ignored the roar of the city. His attention was on the thin, steady thread of smoke rising from a test fuse in front of the nearest cannon.
A moment ago, the smoke had curled backward, clawing at the gunners' faces.
Now it climbed cleanly, then bent away—drawn toward the English positions.
"West by a quarter," Bureau muttered. "Good enough."
He lowered the glass.
Beside him, Napoleon snapped his own telescope shut with a soft click.
"God has a sense of timing," he said dryly.
He turned his head, voice hardening.
"Grand Battery," he called. "Prepare to fire."
Around him, crews sprang into motion. Powder monkeys ran. Iron jaws of elevating screws turned, lifting bronze muzzles by precise degrees. The Twelve Apostles rolled forward until their iron rims bit into the packed earth.
On the distant walls of Orléans, the bells still tolled. In the square, people screamed and prayed and wept, convinced heaven itself had leaned down and blown on their banners.
On the ridge, iron and oak and geometry answered.
Napoleon watched the English monastery squatting over the river, its gate flanked by ancient stone like the jaws of an old beast.
Wind from the west, he thought. Angle, distance, powder. Let them call it a miracle. I will call it an opportunity.
The Art of Ruin
May 1, 1429 — Dawn
Opposite Les Augustins
The sun rose over a silent battlefield.
On the left flank, La Hire's mercenaries began to beat their drums and shout insults, creating a wall of noise. The English defenders in Les Augustins rushed to the left wall, bracing for an infantry assault.
But the center was quiet.
Twelve massive cannons stood in a line. The Grand Battery. They were loaded. The gunners stood with lit matches, their eyes stinging from the West Wind.
Napoleon raised his hand.
"On my mark," he said. "Fire!"
BOOM.
It wasn't a scattered volley. It was a single, earth-shaking roar.
Twelve iron balls screamed across the river. They didn't hit the thick walls. They slammed into the main structural pillar of the monastery's gatehouse.
Inside Les Augustins, an English captain on the gatehouse stair heard the rising howl and did the only thing a man of his age understood.
"Shields! Shields up!" he bellowed.
The order was useless. The iron did not come for flesh. It came for stone.
The world above him exploded. The pillar behind his back kicked like a dying ox. Masonry turned to shrapnel. For one absurd instant he hung weightless in a cloud of dust and splinters—then the entire face of the monastery folded inward, burying his scream under thousands of tons of falling rock.
The Lion in the Dark
Talbot sat in the dark.
He heard the roar. It was louder than thunder. It vibrated through the stone floor and into his bones.
Then, he heard a sound he had never heard in war before. Not the clash of steel, not the scream of men.
It was the deep, groaning sound of stone breaking.
CRACK... RUMBLE...
Dust poured from the ceiling of his cell. The ground shook as something massive collapsed in the distance.
Talbot closed his eyes. He saw it in his mind. The walls he had built, the towers he had defended... falling like sand.
"So this is the future," the Lion of England whispered into the dark.
The Smoking Gate
The smoke cleared instantly, carried away by the miraculous West Wind.
The English archers in Les Augustins were gone. The tower was gone. The gate was gone.
The entire front facade of the monastery had sheared off, collapsing inward, burying the defenders under tons of timber and stone.
There was no battle. There was only a ruin.
Dunois lowered his baton. His hand was trembling.
"This is not war," the Bastard of Orléans whispered. "This is execution."
Napoleon lowered his telescope. He turned to Gamaches.
"The table is set," Napoleon said. "Go and serve dinner."