The Bottleneck
May 9, 1429 — Morning
The West Gate of Orléans
The morning mist still clung to the Loire, turning the river into a ribbon of white silk. A modest convoy waited outside the walls—no more than twenty carts, each with the royal fleur-de-lis daubed hastily on its side. Mules stamped, drivers shouted, wheels creaked.
Napoleon stood under the shadow of the gatehouse, cloak drawn tight against the river wind. Beside him, Jacques Cœur swung up into his saddle with the practised ease of a man who preferred ledgers to lances, but knew how to ride when profit demanded it.
"So that is your grand royal convoy?" Napoleon asked, nodding at the wagons. "I've seen bakers' carts leave Chinon with more. I have four thousand mouths to feed, Jacques—soon twice that. Twenty wagons will barely bring enough powder for a morning's salute."
Jacques spread his hands, half-apology, half-theatre.
"Sire, we move what we can," he said. "The Loire is still a broken spine. Until we mend it, the body moves slowly."
Napoleon's eyes narrowed.
"Explain," he said. He had already understood most of it, but he liked to hear how clever men arranged their excuses.
Jacques pointed south-west, toward the invisible curve of the river.
"From Chinon to Blois, the river is ours," he said. "I can load heavy barges there, fat with grain and powder. The current is slow, the banks are friendly. That is our trunk."
He turned his hand eastward, toward Orléans.
"But from Blois to Orléans, the north bank is still poisoned with English teeth—Meung, Beaugency, little stone leeches clinging to the bridges."
"So," Jacques went on, "my barges must stop at Blois. We unload there. Then the goods go by cart along the safe south bank, on roads never meant for cannon. They creep their way to Orléans. Two days where one should suffice."
"A hub," Napoleon said. "Chinon to Blois by water, Blois to here by dust."
Jacques inclined his head. "It is the only way, Sire. Until someone pulls those English teeth from the river."
Napoleon watched the small convoy a moment longer.
"You complain of slow supply," he said mildly. "But what truly offends you, Jacques? That my guns wait an extra day—or that your silver takes an extra week to find your purse?"
Jacques gave a wounded look that didn't reach his eyes.
"In my accounts, Sire," he said, "those are the same line. The sooner the powder arrives, the sooner you win. The sooner you win, the sooner I can tax your enemies and lend to your friends."
He smiled, thin and bright.
"When I grow rich, your treasury overflows. I am not ashamed of that order."
Napoleon snorted once. He was about to answer when a horn sounded from the road.
They both turned.
The Reinforcements
A cloud of dust rose on the road from Châteaudun. Through the mist, a column of cavalry emerged.
Napoleon watched the banners take shape, the devices resolving out of the white haze.
"So," he murmured to Jacques, a cold smirk touching his lips. "Alençon has finally decided to sit at the table. He is betting on us... but he is only throwing a few chips. A cautious gambler."
They were magnificent.
Unlike the battered, rust-stained veterans of Orléans, these men looked like they had ridden straight out of a tournament. Their armor shone like polished silver. Their horses were fat and glossy, their caparisons unstained by mud or blood.
At the front, a banner snapped in the wind: blue with gold lilies, bordered in red charged with eight silver bezants.
"The Duke of Alençon," Napoleon added dryly. "Or rather, his wallet."
The column halted. The commander rode forward. He was Ambroise de Loré, a veteran captain of the old school—stiff, proud, and impeccably dressed in a black-and-white surcoat.
He dismounted and bowed, but his eyes swept over the ragtag Orléans garrison with a hint of aristocratic disdain.
"Your Majesty," Ambroise announced. "His Grace, the Duke of Alençon, sends his regards—and his sword. I bring you two hundred lances and three hundred archers. The finest in the duchy."
Napoleon nodded. He didn't smile. He looked at the fat horses.
Good, he thought. Fresh logistics.
"You are welcome, Messire Ambroise," Napoleon said. "Your horses look rested. I hope they are ready to sweat."
"We are ready to fight, Sire," Ambroise bristled slightly.
"Good. Enter the city. Quarter your men in the Saint-Euverte district," Napoleon pointed. "But keep your squires away from the Gascons. I don't want my mercenaries eating your horses before we march."
As Ambroise led his glittering column into the city, Dunois stepped out from the shadow of the gatehouse. He watched the new arrivals with the critical eye of a professional.
"They are pretty," Dunois grunted. "Let's see if they break when the iron hits them."
Dunois turned to Napoleon.
"Sire, we have the numbers now. Ambroise's heavy cavalry, my garrison, and La Hire's madmen."
He pointed west, towards the river where Jacques had been complaining about the blockage. Dunois' eyes narrowed.
"We knock out the teeth of the Loire. Meung and Beaugency. We take the bridges. We clear the water."
Napoleon looked at Dunois. He didn't speak. He just smiled.
"But," Dunois added, a wolfish grin spreading across his scarred face, "to crack those nuts quickly… I need to borrow something. Something of yours."
Napoleon let the silence hang for a heartbeat. Then he laughed, short and low, and clapped Jacques on the shoulder.
"You hear him, Jacques?" he said. "The Shield of France is about to broaden your golden road. Perhaps you should delay your voyage home. You may wish to see how your 'broken spine' mends."
Jacques seized the opening at once.
"If Monseigneur le Bâtard truly opens Meung and Beaugency," he said, turning to Dunois with a courtly bow that did not hide the hunger in his eyes, "then the Loire becomes a straight, clean vein again."
He lifted one gloved hand, fingers marking off numbers.
"At present, I smuggle perhaps a dozen barges along the safe stretches," he said. "Slow, heavy things, limping between your war and their stones. But if the river runs free…"
He smiled outright now.
"Then I unleash every hull I have 'resting' at Tours and Blois. The Community of Loire Boatmen has already signed my contracts—nearly every idle barge from here to Saumur. With the stream open, I can send fifty, perhaps sixty boats upstream."
"Triple the capacity?" Napoleon asked.
"At least," Jacques said. "If the water is kind—four times. Grain, powder, steel, men. A true Royal Fleet."
Napoleon looked at him sidelong.
"So," he said, "you have already written my cousin's victory into your ledgers."
Jacques put his hand to his heart in mock hurt.
"Not wager, Sire," he said. "Trust. From the first day I saw you in the Great Hall of the Palace of Poitiers, I knew you would not let the Loire stay chained."
Napoleon shook his head, half-amused, half-exasperated.
"Enough," he said. He turned his horse toward the city. "You will stay, Jacques. Watch Dunois tear down your obstacles. Then you may name your barges after him."
He looked back at Dunois.
"Come," Napoleon said. "Let us go and find the… 'thing' you wish to borrow. We are going to open the river," he added, glancing west, "and turn it into steel."
He did not say the word—whether he meant banners or cannons or a certain white standard that made men lose their courage. But as they rode back toward the gate, Jacques Cœur watched the King's profile and thought:
Whatever it is, it will turn to gold in the end.