The Golden Target
May 11, 1429 — 01:20 PMThe Open Field
Lord Scales was drunk on the prospect of riches.
He had outrun his own line of supply. He had left the safety of the stakes far behind. Around him, his men were tackling French squires in the mud, ripping necklaces from their throats before they even surrendered.
"Leave the small fish!" Scales roared, pointing his sword forward. "Forward! To the King's banner!"
Through the gray curtain of rain, he saw it.
While the rest of the French vanguard was scattering like frightened birds, one formation remained solid. It was a square of infantry, bristling with pikes, standing like a rock in a river of retreating men.
Above them flew the white banner of the Maid.
"There!" Scales shouted. "The Witch! Talbot said whoever brings her head gets an Earldom!"
The greed in the English ranks shifted focus. They ignored the fleeing knights. They turned like a pack of wolves towards the white banner.
Inside the square, Poton de Xaintrailles, the lieutenant of the Gascon mercenaries, wiped rain and sweat from his eyes.
"Hold the line!" Xaintrailles screamed. "Don't let them touch her!"
The Gascon mercenaries were tough—wolf-hunters from the south—but they were alone. The English wave crashed into their shield wall with the force of a landslide. Crunch.
Men screamed. Pikes snapped. The square began to buckle.
The Arrow
May 11, 1429 — 01:25 PMThe Center of the Square
Joan of Arc sat on her black horse in the center of the storm.
She wasn't looking at the English swords. She was looking at the fleeing French soldiers running past her square.
"Turn back!" she cried, her voice cracking. "God is watching! Turn back!"
But panic is deaf. They kept running.
Fifty yards away, an English longbowman named Tom saw the white armor. He didn't care about theology. He cared about the bounty.
He stepped on a dead Frenchman to get a better angle. He drew his bow. The rain had slackened the string, but at this range, it didn't matter.
He aimed not at the chest, but at the head, where the helmet visor was open.
Thwack.
The arrow flew through the rain.
It didn't kill her. It grazed the side of her helmet, shattered against the steel, and sliced a deep gash across her right ear and cheek before burying itself in her shoulder pauldron.
The impact was violent. Joan was thrown backward off her horse.
She hit the mud with a heavy, metallic thud. The white banner fell from her hand and landed in the dirt.
For a second, the battlefield froze.
"She is down!" Scales screamed in triumph. "The Witch is dead! God is with us!"
A roar of ecstasy went up from the English ranks. The French soldiers in the square gasped. The "talisman" was broken. The invincibility was a lie.
The Gascon line wavered. "She's dead... it's over..."
The Golden Lilies
May 11, 1429 — 01:23 PMThe Rear Hill
Napoleon sat on his horse, watching through a spyglass. He saw the white banner fall.
A collective gasp went up from the officers around him. "She is dead!"
Napoleon lowered the glass. His face was unreadable, but his voice was like ice cracking.
"Gamaches."
Raoul de Gamaches, commander of the Compagnie d'Ordonnance, stepped forward.
"Sire?"
"Go," Napoleon pointed his baton at the crumbling square. "If she dies, the spirit of this army dies with her. Cut a path. Be her wall."
Gamaches grinned beneath his visor. "For the King!"
Five hundred heavy cavalry—the "Blue Lobsters"—thundered down the hill. They were a blue steel wedge, their banners emblazoned with the Golden Lilies of France, smashing into the English flank just as the Gascon square was about to break.
The Icon
May 11, 1429 — 01:26 PMThe Mud (Jean Fouquet's Perspective)
A few yards away from the fallen Saint, a young, insignificant soldier named Jean Fouquet was cowering behind a shield.
He was not a great warrior. He was an observer. In the future, he would become the greatest painter of France, the man who would paint the King. But today, he was witnessing a painting coming to life.
He saw the Blue Knights of the Royal Guard arrive, smashing the English back with maces and warhammers, forming a protective ring of steel around the fallen girl.
He saw Joan on her knees. Blood was pouring down her face, blinding one eye, streaking across her pale cheek like red war paint.
A royal guard tried to shield her, to pull her back to safety.
"Stay down!" the guard yelled.
But Fouquet saw her push the guard away. She grabbed the pole of her fallen standard.
She forced herself up. First to her knees. Then to her feet.
She looked at the terrified French soldiers. She looked at the English.
Then, she did something that burned into Fouquet's soul forever.
She raised her right fist into the air.
The blood streamed down her face. The Golden Lilies of the King's Guard framed her like a halo of blue steel. She punched the sky, defiant, unbreakable.
"FIGHT!" she screamed.
It wasn't a prayer. It was a command.
"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"
Fouquet stared, mesmerized. The gray sky, the red blood, the white armor, the blue banners. It was terror and beauty perfectly combined. This is not a girl, he thought. This is France.
The Turn
May 11, 1429 — 01:28 PMThe French Vanguard
"She lives..."
Ambroise de Loré saw the banner rise. But more importantly, he saw the Blue Banners of the King fighting desperately around her.
"The Ordinance Company!" Ambroise shouted. "The King has not abandoned us! He sent his own Guard into the mud!"
The shame of running away while a girl and the King's own guard fought to the death was too much to bear.
"For the Saint! For the King!" Ambroise roared, turning his horse around. "Wolves of France! Will you let them die alone?"
"NO!"
The rout stopped. The retreating wave hit a wall of shame and turned back into a wave of rage. The French army turned on the disorganized English mob with the fury of madmen.
The Final Miscalculation
May 11, 1429 — 01:30 PMThe English Line
Talbot watched the blue wedge of the Royal Guard slam into the melee.
He didn't see a trap. He saw desperation.
"Look," Talbot said to Fastolf, a savage grin spreading across his face. "He has committed the Ordinance Company. Those are his best men. His personal guard."
Fastolf squinted through the rain. "He is throwing his last reserves into the mud to save the Witch."
Talbot drew his sword. The caution of the morning was gone. The sight of the enemy's "last card" being played convinced him that the game was won.
"He has nothing left, John. He really miscalculated the French fear of stakes and rain."
Talbot turned to the remaining English reserves—the heavy infantry, the rest of the archers, the knights who had stayed behind the stakes.
"Empty the camp! Everyone! Archers, drop your bows! Knights, mount up!"
"ALL IN!" Talbot screamed. "Finish them! Crush the Guard! Capture the King!"