The Phantom Army
May 11, 1429 — 01:35 PM
The English Rear
Sir John Fastolf was preparing to lead his 3,000 fresh troops into the mud to crush the French Royal Guard.
Suddenly, the woods behind him erupted.
It started with the birds. Thousands of crows and sparrows took flight from the treetops, screeching in panic, a black cloud rising against the gray sky.
Then came the sound.
Trumpets. Dozens of them. They blew the high, piercing notes of the French Royal Charge.
Then, through the mist and the trees, Fastolf saw them.
Banners. Blue banners. Gold banners. Red banners. They were moving rapidly through the gaps in the trees.
"Rear guard!" Fastolf shouted, wheeling his horse around.
But before he could even organize a line, a real hammer blow struck him from the west flank.
Dunois arrived.
He led only 800 men—the Orleans Garrison. But these were not ordinary soldiers. They were men who had eaten rats during the siege. They didn't march; they threw themselves at the English flank with a terrifying, silent hatred.
"Mort aux Goddons!"
Fastolf watched as his flank crumbled.
His mind didn't calculate. It screamed.
Front. Flank. Rear.
Fastolf felt it before he finished the thought.
A net.
"We are surrounded," Fastolf whispered.
(Narrator's Voice)
Years later, history would mock Sir John Fastolf. They would say he ran from shadows.
But in that moment, Fastolf made the only decision a rational commander could make. With the Royal Guard hammering his front and the fanatics of Orleans tearing at his ribs, staying meant annihilation. He chose to save the army, even if it cost him his honor.
"Retreat!" Fastolf roared, his face pale. "To Paris! Save the relief force!"
He kicked his horse and galloped east, leading 3,000 confused men away from the battlefield, leaving Talbot to his fate.
The Second Lesson
May 11, 1429 — 02:00 PM
The Mud Pit
The English center collapsed. It was a slaughter.
Talbot was the last to fall. He wasn't defeated by a knight's lance. He was swarmed by three common infantrymen who slammed their heavy shields into him, pinning him into the muck like a trapped bear.
"Get off me!" Talbot roared, struggling against the weight. His helmet was gone, his face caked in red mud. "Where is the King? I demand a duel!"
The soldiers parted. A black horse stepped forward.
Napoleon looked down at the English commander. He was dry, calm, and terrifyingly clean compared to the filth of the battle.
"Talbot," Napoleon said. "We meet again."
"Cowards!" Talbot spat a mouthful of bloody mud. "First you ambush me in a church! Now this? You tricked us! You used dark magic to surround us! There is no honor in this!"
Napoleon didn't answer. He just looked toward the woods.
La Hire rode out.
He wasn't leading an army. Behind him rode fifty stable boys and pages. They weren't giggling. They were soaked to the bone, their faces red and puffed from blowing trumpets until their lungs burned, clutching bundles of wet flags.
They looked pathetic. Small. Exhausted.
"Sire," La Hire reported, his voice gravelly. "The 'Army of the Woods' reports victory. Fastolf is gone."
Talbot froze.
He looked at the shivering boys. He looked at the wet flags.
"No..." Talbot whispered. The realization hit him harder than any mace. "Just... noise?"
"Just noise, My Lord," La Hire said.
Talbot slumped in the mud. The strength left his body. He hadn't been beaten by a superior force. He had been beaten by children and cloth.
Napoleon leaned down from his saddle.
"You call it a trick, Talbot. I call it war."
"You... you devil," Talbot gasped.
"Relax, My Lord," Napoleon smiled, but his eyes were sharp. "I will not kill you. You are too valuable."
He signaled to Patrick Ogilvy, commander of the Scots Guard.
"Clean him up. I will ransom you again, Talbot. And you will pay. And then, you will come back and fight me a third time. And I will beat you again. Until you learn."
Ogilvy dragged the stunned, broken Earl away.
The New God
May 11, 1429 — 02:30 PM
The Red Field
The battle was over. The silence was heavy.
Napoleon rode to the center of the field, where the Royal Ordinance Company and the Gascons were gathering.
Joan of Arc stood there, leaning on her banner. Her face was half-covered in dried blood, her armor dented.
Napoleon dismounted. He walked to her and bowed his head slightly.
"France thanks you, Maid," Napoleon said loudly. "The Saint has protected us."
Joan looked at the King. She felt the throbbing pain in her ear.
Protected? she thought. God didn't stop the arrow. God didn't send the Blue Cavalry. God didn't scare Fastolf away.
She looked at Napoleon's back as he turned to address the troops.
He did.
A terrifying thought took root in her pious heart: Perhaps the miracle is not the voice in my head. Perhaps the miracle is him.
Napoleon turned to face the army. He looked at Ambroise de Loré and the veterans of Agincourt, who stood among the dead, looking at their hands in disbelief.
"Ambroise," Napoleon said. "Look at them."
He pointed to the red mud.
"For fourteen years, you told yourselves the English were monsters. You said they were unbeatable. But look! They bleed. They run. They die."
"They told you Agincourt was God's punishment. I tell you it was just rain and stupidity!"
"Today, we used the rain! Today, we used the mud!"
He drew his sword and pointed it at the sky.
"God chooses the winners."
Napoleon paused. He lowered his sword slowly, looking out at the five thousand men who had survived the ghost.
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
The answer came from the field. It started as a low rumble, then exploded into a roar that shook the earth.
"NOËL!"
Ambroise fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face.
"NOËL! VIVE LE ROI!"
The cry was taken up by every throat—noble and peasant, Scot and Gascon. It rolled over the plains of Patay, chasing the fleeing English all the way to Paris.
"NOËL! NOËL! NOËL!"
Napoleon sheathed his sword. The sound of the steel clicking home was final.
He looked North.
The road was open.