The Bait
May 10, 1429 — 04:00 AM
Outside the Walls of Meung-sur-Loire
The night was not silent. It was being murdered by noise.
On the western approach to the bridge, La Hire was putting on a performance. His Gascon mercenaries were banging swords against shields, lighting dozens of torches, and screaming insults that would make a sailor blush.
"Come out, English dogs!" La Hire bellowed, his voice carrying over the river. "Or do we have to come in and piss on your tea?"
On the right flank, Raoul de Gamaches was more disciplined but equally visible. His Royal Ordinance Company stood in neat rows under the light of bonfires, their blue banners clearly illuminated. They carried scaling ladders, making no attempt to hide them.
From the ramparts of the bridge fortress, Lord Scales, the English commander, looked down at the spectacle.
"Fools," Scales sneered. He adjusted his heavy cloak against the damp river air. "They are drunk on their luck at Orléans. They think they can storm a bridge in the dark?"
He turned to his lieutenant.
"They want a fight? Give it to them. Move every longbowman to the bridge and the river wall. Pack them tight. When those French idiots charge the gate, I want the air to be solid with arrows."
Five hundred yards away, hidden in the blackness of a willow grove, Napoleon watched the English archers swarming onto the bridge like ants protecting a hive.
Beside him, Ambroise de Loré shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The old knight wiped sweat from his brow, despite the chill.
"Sire, this is madness," Ambroise whispered urgently. "You are serving Gamaches and La Hire on a platter."
As he spoke, a crossbow bolt whistled from the ramparts. It took a French torchbearer in the throat. The man crumpled silently, dragged back into the shadows by his comrades.
Ambroise flinched. "They are dying, Sire."
"They are not acting, Messire," Patrick Ogilvie, the Scottish captain, said grimly from the shadows. "They are gambling with their lives so we can keep ours."
Joan of Arc, sitting on her horse nearby, gripped her banner tightly. She looked at the mass of English soldiers crowding the parapets.
"They are so many," she murmured. "They do not know the reaper is in the water."
Napoleon snapped his pocket watch shut. Click.
"You worry about arrows, Ambroise," Napoleon said softly. "But arrows require arms to draw them."
He looked at the lightening sky in the east.
"And dead men don't pull bowstrings."
The Iron Broom
May 10, 1429 — 05:15 AM (Dawn)
Beneath the Bridge of Meung
The river mist was their shroud.
Twelve low, black shapes drifted with the current. There were no oars splashing, no sails flapping. Just the silent, inexorable pull of the Loire.
On the lead boat, a converted sand punt, Gaspard Bureau crouched behind the bronze shield of the Frelon. He looked up.
They were directly under the bridge.
Through the gaps in the wooden planks above, he could see the boots of the English archers. He could hear their laughter as they jeered at La Hire's men on the shore. They were packed shoulder to shoulder, leaning over the railings, waiting for the order to loose.
They had no idea that death was looking up their skirts.
Gaspard grinned. He gripped the "monkey tail" handle of the swivel gun and tilted the muzzle upward.
"Wake them up," Gaspard whispered.
He touched the linstock to the vent.
CRACK-HISS.
It wasn't a singular bang. It was a ripple of fire as twelve Frelons fired in a ragged volley.
The sound was hideous—a sharp, tearing noise that shattered the morning calm.
On the bridge, the laughter stopped.
The grapeshot—thousands of lead balls and jagged iron scraps—erupted from the water like a reverse hailstorm.
The wooden planks of the bridge offered no protection. The lead tore through the wood, through leather boots, through flesh and bone.
From the shore, Ambroise de Loré gasped.
He saw the English line simply... disintegrate.
It wasn't a battle. It was a harvest. The bridge was the field, and the Frelons were the scythe.
Men didn't fall; they were shredded. A pink mist sprayed into the air, catching the first light of dawn. The screams were instantaneous and terrible.
"Reload!" Gaspard roared from the water.
His gunners yanked out the smoking breech mugs. They didn't need to sponge the barrels. They slammed in fresh, pre-loaded chambers, locked the wedges, and fired again.
CRACK-HISS.
The second volley swept the survivors who were trying to crawl away.
Lord Scales, standing on the bridge tower, stared in horror. A stray lead ball had shattered his pauldron, spinning him around. He looked at his elite corps—the terror of France—reduced to piles of meat in seconds.
He didn't draw his sword. He didn't rally his men.
While his archers screamed on the bridge, Lord Scales scrambled down the rear spiral staircase, mounted his horse, and fled north out the back gate, leaving his fortress and his honor behind.
On the riverbank, Ambroise de Loré sat frozen on his horse.
He felt sick. He had seen war. He had seen men hacked by swords and pierced by lances. But this... this was industrial.
He looked back at his own knights, sitting tall in their shining plate armor, their lances upright. Suddenly, they looked ancient. They looked like dinosaurs waiting for the ice.
"Jesus have mercy," Ambroise whispered.
He looked at the river, red with blood. Then he looked at Napoleon. The King's face was unreadable, illuminated by the flashes of the guns.
A cold, dark envy began to rise in Ambroise's chest, displacing the horror.
If my knights could kill like that... he thought. We wouldn't need courage. We would be gods.
"Teach me," Ambroise said, his voice trembling. "Sire... teach me how to wield that broom."
Napoleon didn't look at him. He watched the last English banner fall from the bridge.
"It is not magic, Ambroise," Napoleon said. "It is geometry."
The Artery
May 10, 1429 — 10:00 AM
Overlooking Beaugency
The news traveled faster than the army.
By the time Napoleon's vanguard reached Beaugency, the river was already delivering its message. Hundreds of English corpses from Meung floated past the city walls, bumping against the piers like rotten logs.
The garrison commander, Matthew Gough, stood on the battlements. He was a hard man, a veteran of Agincourt, but his face was pale.
"Hold the walls!" Gough shouted, though his voice lacked conviction.
Then the ground shook.
On the ridge overlooking the town, Dunois had deployed the Twelve Apostles.
"Knock," Napoleon ordered.
Three of the heavy bronze field guns fired in unison.
The stone curtain wall of Beaugency didn't just crack; it crumbled. The heavy iron balls, heated in the Gaspard furnaces, smashed through the masonry as if it were dry cheese.
Between the floating dead in the river and the collapsing walls on land, the English will broke.
"Run!" someone screamed. "The Devil is coming!"
Matthew Gough tried to draw his sword to stop the rout, but his own lieutenants grabbed his bridle.
"It's over, Sir! Look at the river! We run to Patay or we die here!"
Within the hour, the road to the north was choked with fleeing English soldiers. The river was clear.
Napoleon stood on the riverbank. He turned to Jacques Cœur.
"The blockage is gone, Jacques," Napoleon said. "Tell your tailor to sew bigger pockets. Tomorrow, your gold can flow."
Jacques Cœur smiled, smooth as silk. He reached into his doublet and pulled out a silk handkerchief.
"Why wait for tomorrow, Sire?" Jacques said. "Time is interest."
He waved the handkerchief.
On the far south bank, hidden until now by the willows, a signal fire flared—green and bright.
Instantly, a deep, rhythmic chant rose from the reeds. Two thousand haulers, paid in advance, stood up and leaned into their harnesses.
The sound was low and vibrating, rolling across the water like a prayer.
Heave... Ho... Heave... Ho...
To Ambroise's ears, it sounded less like a work song and more like a litany. A new kind of procession for a new god, where the holy relics were barrels of gunpowder and sacks of grain.
The river bent under the weight. Sixty massive barges began to move upstream against the current. It was a moving city. A River of Steel.
Jacques watched the Frelon guns on the mosquito boats, which were now drifting lazily near the captured bridge. He did a quick calculation in his head. Cost of two guns vs. Potential loss from river bandits. Return on Investment: Infinite.
"A small request, Sire," Jacques said softly, stepping closer to the King.
"The English are gone, yes. But the river is still plagued by Écorcheurs and bandits. Every grain on those ships belongs to the Crown. It is... national treasure."
He gestured to the mosquito boats.
"To protect your investment... perhaps those stinging boats could remain? Under my... supervision?"
Napoleon stopped. He looked at his Treasurer. He wanted to be angry at the audacity—the man was trying to privatize the Royal Navy five minutes after the battle.
But he couldn't help but admire the hustle.
"You want my guns to guard your profits, Jacques?"
"I want to guard the Royal Treasury, Sire," Jacques corrected, bowing low. "Bandits do not pay taxes. I do."
Napoleon huffed a laugh.
"Two," Napoleon said. "I give you two guns. And five gunners. Go bother Jean Bureau for them."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"But Jacques?"
"Sire?"
"If one sack of grain goes missing... I'm melting those two guns down. And I'll use your gold teeth for the casting."
Jacques didn't flinch. He touched his cheek as if checking his teeth.
"You are too generous, Sire. The Treasury thanks you."
Napoleon shook his head and walked away. The artery was open. The heart of the army was pumping blood and iron.
Dunois rode up, his armor splattered with mud but his eyes shining.
"The belly is full, Sire," Dunois reported. "The barges are unloading. We have powder for a month."
Napoleon swung into his saddle. He pointed his sword north, where the dust of the fleeing English army was still visible on the horizon.
"Then let us not waste the daylight," Napoleon said. "The English are gathering at Patay for a family reunion."
"Let's go ruin the party."