The Withdrawal
May 11, 1429 — 12:30 PM
The French Vanguard
The rain did not stop. It fell in heavy, vertical sheets, turning the world into a gray smear.
Jean Bureau splashed through the mud, his face pale and slick with water. He ran up to the King, shielding a leather satchel under his cloak.
"Sire!" Jean reported, his voice tight with professional anxiety. "The humidity is too high. The match cords are damp, and the saltpeter is beginning to clump. It is difficult to ignite."
He looked back at his beloved Twelve Apostles, sitting exposed in the downpour.
"I request permission to withdraw the artillery to the rear, Sire," Jean pleaded. "If we leave them here, the barrels will rust, and the powder will be wasted. We cannot fire them today without risking a burst barrel."
Napoleon sat on a small camp stool, water dripping from the brim of his hat. He looked at his Master of Artillery. He saw a technician who loved his machines more than glory. Perfect.
"Granted," Napoleon said loudly, ensuring the nearby soldiers could hear. "Save the guns, Jean. Pull them back. We will not waste the Kingdom's gold on a wet field."
Jean nodded gratefully and ran back, shouting orders. "Limber up! Cover the vents! Move them back!"
The sight of the mighty cannons—the symbol of French victory—being dragged away through the mud sent a shockwave through the ranks.
A soaking wet squire brought Napoleon's horse closer, his eyes wide with fear. "Sire, the artillery is leaving. The rearguard is preparing to fall back. Should we go?"
Napoleon didn't move. He sat perfectly still in the rain, watching his army begin to waver. To the squire, the King looked like a man paralyzed by the shock of defeat.
"No," Napoleon said softly, his voice lost in the thunder. "The view is better from here."
Napoleon turned to Ambroise de Loré. The old knight was staring at the English stakes, his face pale. He was fighting the Ghost of Agincourt, and he was barely winning.
"The guns are gone, Ambroise," Napoleon said calmly. "It is up to the steel now. Charge."
Ambroise swallowed hard. He was terrified. Every instinct screamed at him that this was suicide. But he was a commander.
He lowered his visor to hide his fear.
"Standard bearer!" Ambroise's voice shook, then steadied. "Advance! For the King!"
The Collapse
May 11, 1429 — 12:45 PM
The Mud Field
The French vanguard moved forward, but it was a movement born of discipline, not hope. The mud sucked at their boots and hooves. Schluck. Schluck.
Then, disaster struck.
A young squire's horse slipped in the deep clay, throwing the rider. As he scrambled to get up, covered in mud, he looked back and saw the cannons disappearing into the mist.
"They are leaving us!" a voice screamed from the infantry lines—it was a terrified militiaman whose nerve had finally snapped. "The guns are gone! It's Agincourt again! Run!"
Fear is a contagion. It jumped from man to man faster than plague.
The levy infantry began to back away. Then, one man dropped his pike. Then ten. Then a hundred.
Ambroise saw the line crumbling.
"No!" Ambroise bellowed, spurring his horse into the mob. He wasn't acting. He was desperate.
"Stand fast!" He struck a fleeing soldier with the flat of his sword. "Turn back, you cowards! The English are right there! Fight!"
But he couldn't stop it. The Ghost was too strong.
Knights struggled to turn their horses in the mud, colliding with their own infantry. Banners fell and were trampled into the mire.
To the watching eyes across the field, this was the rawest, ugliest truth of war: an army losing its will to fight.
The Golden Proof
May 11, 1429 — 01:00 PM
The English Line
Sir John Fastolf stood behind the wall of stakes, rain dripping from his nose. He watched the chaos unfold three hundred yards away.
He saw the cannons being dragged away in defeat. He saw the French commander frantically trying—and failing—to stop his own men from running.
"They are breaking," Fastolf whispered, crossing himself. "The rain has saved us. It is the will of God."
Beside him, Talbot narrowed his eyes. He remembered the church. He remembered the humiliation. He hesitated.
"Where is Gamaches?" Talbot muttered. "I don't see the Scots. I don't trust it."
"Trust your eyes, Talbot!" Lord Scales interrupted, stepping forward.
Scales pointed his sword at a fallen French banner—silk, gold-threaded, worth a hundred crowns—being trampled into the muck by fleeing French horses.
"Look at that," Scales murmured, his eyes locking onto the gold. "That is not a trick."
He turned to Talbot, his voice dropping to a reasoned, intense whisper.
"No King throws away his artillery and tramples his own gold just to fool us," Scales reasoned. "If this is a trap, it is the most expensive lie I have ever seen."
Scales looked up at the gray sky.
"God did not send this rain for nothing, Talbot. It is a sign. The French are stuck in the mud, just like our fathers told us."
Scales turned to his own division—men who were equally hungry for loot and redemption.
"We must pursue," Scales said firmly. "Before they reach the woods."
"Hold," Talbot warned, his voice low. "Let them run. We stay behind the stakes. If Gamaches is out there..."
"You stay!" Scales spat. "You are old and slow, Talbot. I will not let my ransom money escape again!"
Scales didn't wait for permission. He roared to his men.
"Clear the way! Pull up the stakes! Charge!"
Talbot and Fastolf watched in stunned silence as Scales's men began to frantically kick down the very fortifications they had spent the morning building. They uprooted the sharp wooden poles to create a gap.
"Fools," Fastolf hissed.
"Let him go," Talbot said coldly. He crossed his arms, watching Scales lead a thousand men out of the safety of the line. "If it is a trap, Scales will spring it. If it is real... then we follow."
Into the Gray
May 11, 1429 — 01:10 PM
The Open Field
The dam broke.
Lord Scales and his men poured through the gap in the stakes, screaming for blood and gold. They left the safety of the trees. They rushed into the open, muddy plain, chasing the routing French army.
The rain fell harder, turning the world into a monochromatic blur.
From the English lines, Talbot could no longer see individual men. He could only see shapes moving in the mist.
He heard the roar of the English charge: "St. George! St. George!"
He heard the terrified screams of the French: "Sauve qui peut! (Save yourselves!)"
He saw French banners falling into the mud, one by one, swallowed by the gray tide of the English advance.
The gap between the hunter and the prey was closing. The English swords were raised. The French backs were exposed.
It looked like the end.
The rain washed over everything, blurring the line between the earth and the sky, hiding whatever lay beyond the veil of the storm.