The Crown of the Hundred Years' War

Chapter 31 The Girl from Orleans

Corpses lay strewn throughout St. Lupp's Castle as French troops searched every corner for Englishmen. In a command post converted from the ruins of the church, dozens of British soldiers donned ill-fitting priestly robes, hoping to use them as shields from the swords. The French merely laughed, dragging out this group of trembling cowards, beating them mercilessly, and binding them into several strings. La Hire personally oversaw the erection of the gallows, preparing to hang them one by one.

"General Lahail, they are prisoners. Stop the killing, just send them back to the city and lock them up."

It was Joan of Arc who spoke. She had entered at some point and stood beside the gallows, looking up at the prisoners who had already been bound with ropes.

La Hire was somewhat displeased upon hearing this, but seeing the soldiers lower the ropes and bow to Joan of Arc, he could only snort and wave his hand, ordering the prisoners to be taken away.

Joan of Arc stood amidst the ruins, looking around. The bodies of the French soldiers had been carefully collected, but the corpses of the English soldiers lay piled up in the square in front of the bell tower, right at the foot of the statue of Jesus. Most of them had been stripped naked, and some were young servants. She recalled the fighting that morning, and saw the shattered stained-glass windows—the Virgin Mary's robes torn to shreds, only half of the saint's face remaining—and tears streamed down her face uncontrollably.

She turned to Alençon and said, "We should collect the bodies of the Englishmen and rebuild this church."

Alenson hesitated for a moment: "Young lady, rebuilding the church is the right thing to do. But the English corpses, just leave them outside to rot—isn't that what they did to us?"

Joan of Arc wiped away her tears and shook her head: "We are the lambs of God, and we cannot make other believers restless like wild beasts."

She stood on the pile of rubble, bent down and picked up the body of what looked like a boy, her voice trembling slightly: "Come and lend a hand. Bury the British soldiers in the open space behind the church—we should pray for them too."

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Dinois had no time to concern himself with what was happening inside the Château de Saint-Loup. In fact, after seeing the large banner rush in from the tower, he went straight to the square, summoned the city's generals for a meeting, and sent out a cavalry unit to monitor the movements to the west. As expected, the British did not intend to send large-scale reinforcements until nightfall—only a few dozen riders circled the defensive line before retreating.

The British were at their last gasp. Dunois was finally convinced of his suspicions of the past six months. From the moment he learned of Salbersley's death in November, he had been waiting for the British to make a mistake. Now, the opportunity had arrived. He didn't care what the girl wanted to do, but he wanted to take advantage of the French army's morale recovery to wipe out all the fortresses in the northeast.

Early the next morning, the French army began to assemble and launch a surprise attack on the northern fortress. Five hundred cavalrymen patrolled near the western earthen ramparts, while two thousand fresh troops, in conjunction with artillery, spent three days breaching all the British earthen ramparts in the northeast, one after another. The siege of Orléans had effectively been torn apart.

Joan of Arc also made initial repairs to the St. Lupus Abbey during these few days and rushed back to the city to attend council meetings.

"Lord Dinoire, let's launch a full-scale attack!" La Hire waved his arms, his face flushed with excitement. "The British must be cowering in those dilapidated mounds to the west right now—this is the best chance to annihilate them!"

"No," Dinois said.

"It's not the right time yet," Joan of Arc also spoke up.

The two exchanged a glance. Seeing Joan of Arc take a half step back, Dinoire continued, "The reason the British aren't coming to our aid is to buy time and wait for reinforcements. The earthen ramparts to the west are no longer important. What's most urgent now is securing a reliable passage across the Loire River—our target must be a bridge or a ford."

La Hire was taken aback, thought for a moment, and frowned: "Sir, do you mean... to retake Fort Tuller on the south bank and repair the Orleans Bridge?"

Dinoir nodded.

Giles couldn't help but speak up: "Sir, if I may be so bold, although I wasn't in town when the bridge was demolished, given the extent of the damage to the Orleans Bridge, it's highly unlikely we could repair it under artillery fire."

Joan of Arc stepped forward, raising her head: "Therefore we must land on the south bank and take Thule Castle by land."

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Fort Tullar was the most fortified "main fortress" for the British on both the north and south banks. The British attacked cautiously, and although the defenders destroyed two towers during their retreat, the remaining fortress was still far more sturdy than the earthen ramparts on the north bank. After Salisbury's death, Suffolk, following his instructions, focused on reinforcing this fortress.

The two towers have now been restored and are equipped with heavy artillery used to block the riverbank, forcing French supply convoys to sail close to the north bank. The British also built an outer fort extending northward on the ruins of the Orléans Bridge—seemingly to get as close as possible to the southern city wall of Orléans. Due to the artillery defeat, it was only extended forty or fifty paces and connected to the main fort by a wooden bridge.

The fortifications outside the castle had been under construction since Salisbury's lifetime. Three earthen ramparts rose from the ruins of southern Orleans, protecting Fort Tullar. Thanks to the generous "donations" of the Orleans citizens, the outer walls of these ramparts were made of brick and stone, and even included numerous firing ports. The moat in front was dug twenty feet deep throughout the winter, diverting river water to form a moat. Between the ramparts and the main castle, a network of moats and stone-walled gun turrets stretched out. Even the riverbanks were lined with stakes to prevent naval attacks. This fortifications were a sight to behold, even for Suffolk himself. He sent Sir William Glassdale with eight hundred elite troops—a third of his forces—to block any French attempt to advance north.

However, none of them expected that the French army would actually come from the north bank.

Before sunrise, the French fleet began setting sail from the north bank, heading towards the south. The British soldiers on watch in their turrets spotted them first, their alarm bells shattering the morning tranquility. The British cannons, already calibrated, fired shells into the crossing fleet, sending water columns and splinters flying. The turrets south of Orléans also began returning fire, and the entire Loire River was filled with acrid smoke.

Instead of landing at a distance, the French fleet rushed straight to the south bank at top speed. Several oddly shaped small boats lurched precariously, looking as if they were about to crash into wooden stakes. English longbowmen scrambled onto the city walls and began firing at the French troops who had gotten too close. The first French soldiers to arrive were even wearing armor—unafraid of falling into the river and drowning—and grabbed planks prepared on the boats to use as cover. The commander of the earthen ramparts was about to turn his cannons around when he discovered that the strange boats hadn't run aground but were instead heading straight for the moat.

The lead ship plunged headlong into the moat, wedged between the two banks, and then moved forward a little further. The ships behind followed suit and crashed into it, but the sailors swung their ships sideways, holding them firmly in place. The archers on the wall peeked out, ready to unleash a few heavy arrows on these reckless men, only to discover that a ladder was hidden in the cabin—already leaning against the outer wall.

The French armored soldiers, who had already landed, dropped the planks and began their charge. Before the longbowmen could fire more than a few arrows, several men had already crossed the moat using the boats as stepping stones, and climbed the outer walls with ladders. The commander of the earthen ramparts then realized what the French were up to. He closed his armor, grabbed a torch, and led his personal guard up the walls, intending to burn those damned boats.

Only a few French armored soldiers had made it up the rampage, and seeing the overwhelming force of the Royal Guard, they began to falter. Just then, cheers erupted behind them—white fleur-de-lis flags unfurled in the wind, hurtling towards the city walls. The armored soldiers glanced back, then charged forward with shouts, desperately blocking the English soldiers who were trying to burn the ladders. The cheers behind them grew louder, and more French soldiers climbed up the ship's ladders.

The commander of the earthen rampart glanced at the Iris flag, then at the ever-growing number of French armored soldiers, sighed, and led his personal guard to cover the longbowmen's retreat from the outer wall. By the time the Iris flag reached the rampart, the entire outer wall was already under French control.

The British had no intention of surrendering. Several gun emplacements within the earthen ramparts began to concentrate fire on the outer walls, and the garrison in the fortress also rushed to provide support. Guided by the large banner, crossbowmen scaled the outer walls and erected planks to suppress the longbowmen; armored soldiers split into small groups and engaged the British in hand-to-hand combat in the trenches.

Every trench, turret, and even every step forward the French took came at a heavy cost. Wounded soldiers were carried off the front lines in droves. By the end of the morning, the French had barely cleared the remaining enemy from the earthen ramparts and hadn't even made a dent in Fort Tuller. Dunois sent two heavy cannons in an attempt to suppress Tuller, but the defenders in the castle held the high ground and had a clear view of the entire battlefield. They fired alternately, thwarting all the French attempts to set up their artillery.

La Hire began directing the scaling of the fortress. However, the moat in front of the fortress was fifteen feet deep, and the movable bridge was stuck outside the earthen ramparts and couldn't be brought in. Seeing the men hesitate, Joan of Arc left the banner at the rear and personally led her squad towards the moat. They carried a long ladder, running through a hail of arrows, sliding down the ramp into the moat. Seeing this, the French soldiers also rushed into the moat, setting up their ladders.

"Follow me!" She led the way up the long ladder.

The English had already noticed her. Just as she leaned halfway out of the trench, a crossbow bolt flew from behind the battlements, striking her left shoulder—the arrowhead bypassed the shoulder guard and embedded itself deeply in the seam between her shoulder and neck. Joan of Arc's hand slipped, the ladder wobbled, and she was caught by Maze behind her. She staggered back, kneeling on one knee, her face deathly pale.

"Miss is injured!" Metz rushed over and helped her lie down. He gently removed the shoulder guard, tore off a strip of cloth to secure the crossbow bolt, and prevented it from shaking.

As he bandaged her, he gestured to Lahail, who had just entered the trench. Lahail rushed over and glanced at her: "Find a doctor before pulling it out. Carry her back, and don't shake her." He looked around and said helplessly to his adjutant, "Sound the bugle and call it a day. We'll hold the earthen ramparts, and bring in more heavy artillery tomorrow."

The adjutant received the order and began organizing the retreat. Joan of Arc, having recovered by this time, grabbed Metz: "Why are they sounding the retreat bugle?"

Metz grasped her hand: "General LaHail said he'll come again tomorrow. Don't think about these things now; the most important thing is to find a doctor!"

Upon hearing this, Joan of Arc sat up and roared at La Hire, "General, we cannot retreat! This is not part of our plan!"

LaHail ran over, lowering his voice, his tone laced with suppressed anger: "Forget about any plan! Look at those soldiers! You're the commander-in-chief, you're wounded, how can they have the courage to continue fighting?"

Joan of Arc turned to look at the French soldiers watching her from the trench. Some were praying for her, others wore expressions of exhaustion and fear—the fervor of their earlier attack was gone. She shook her head and said to Metz, "Bring me my banner."

Metz was puzzled, but under Joan of Arc's watchful gaze, he finally turned and climbed out of the trench. Watching Metz leave, Joan of Arc glanced down at the arrow. The shaft was still trembling slightly; each movement brought excruciating pain, like a knife piercing the bone. She took a deep breath, gripped the shaft, and yanked it out. Blood gushed out, splattering onto the trench's mud. She snatched a strip of cloth from a stunned infantryman beside her, pressed it tightly against the wound, wrapped it several times around her left shoulder, and put her shoulder armor back on.

Metz had just retrieved the large banner. He leaped into the trench, only to find it deathly silent—everyone was staring at Joan of Arc, who was covered in blood.

Joan of Arc took a few deep breaths, wiped away a few tears that had fallen from her eyes due to the pain, and turned around.

"Give it to me!" Joan of Arc snatched the white banner from Metz's hands and held it high above her head. Clutching the fluttering flag, she climbed back up the trench and began to wave it with all her might. The fluttering flag unfurled amidst the smoke, its snow-white surface dazzling in the setting sun. French soldiers looked up and saw the flag flying before the enemy lines, and heard Joan of Arc roaring as she advanced beneath it.

The exhausted soldiers seemed to be suddenly propelled by some force, roaring as they surged up the long ladder. Crossbowmen pressed down on the edge of the trench, firing at the British soldiers on the wall until they couldn't raise their heads. La Hire shook his head and ordered the rear to find sandbags to fill in a section of the trench, allowing more French soldiers to follow the large banner.

Sir Glasdale had to go to the city walls to oversee the battle.

While the main battle raged, Dinoire commanded the defenders in Orléans to finally rebuild the planks on the remaining piers of the Orléans Bridge. He immediately sounded the horn—a small boat, which had been quietly pushed under the drawbridge at some unknown time, was loaded with flammable materials and oil. Upon hearing the horn, the sailors on board lit the firewood on the boat and jumped into the river.

Flames licked at the planks of the suspension bridge, quickly engulfing the entire structure. The wooden beams crackled and popped in the flames, and the iron chains glowed red-hot before snapping.

Sir Glasdale, with his personal guard, struggled through the thick smoke in an attempt to direct the firefighting efforts.

The plank beneath their feet collapsed.

The bridge broke, and he, along with a dozen or so guards, plunged into the Loire River. Their armor dragged them down like lead, leaving only a few bubbles on the surface before all was still.

The south gate of Orleans burst open after being closed for seven months. The garrison roared as they charged across the makeshift wooden bridge toward the south bank.

At 8 p.m., the French troops from the north and south met inside the fort. In the end, more than one hundred British soldiers surrendered, and the fleur-de-lis flag was raised on the walls of Fort Tuller.

Joan of Arc did not plant the flag on the city wall herself—she was carried into the castle because she was exhausted. But wherever she went, everyone bowed their heads in respect.

As Joan of Arc prepared to cross the bridge at Orléans to return, she encountered Dinoire, who had just come from the city. This was also the first time in seven months that Orléans' illegitimate son had stepped outside the city walls.

He gazed at Joan of Arc's pale face, then at the white flag fluttering gently in the night breeze, and bowed deeply to her.

"Your arrival truly saved Orleans."

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Orléans Bastard: I see a cloud of worry on your faces. Are you disheartened by your recent setbacks? Do not despair, reinforcements have arrived. I have brought you a holy maiden, divinely ordained to lift this wretched siege and drive the English out of French territory.

—Henry VI, by William Shakespeare