When she thinks of these questions now, these are her answers: Because I’ve been beaten most of my life and beatings are not among those things in the world that improve with time; because I don’t want what happened to Catherine to ever happen to me; because the chances of getting killed these days is high, and if I die, I want to say I didn’t die with my back to the enemy, running; because I would like to think it is possible to be strong without also being cruel.

After her feat in the church garden, the priest showed her the book of saints again. He explained that there is the strength of one’s body and the strength of one’s faith, and of the two, only the latter is unbreakable. But Joan looked at the picture of Saint Catherine. She saw the severed head in a neat pool of blood, eyes still open. And she thought, Faith didn’t save her life, and I would rather have the strength that keeps me alive to see a new morning.

The following night, three of the guard’s friends come to pay her a visit. They think, because the hour is late, they will catch her asleep. Soon they cannot get out of the kitchens fast enough; they clutch their heads, scalps and cheeks popping fresh skillet-shaped welts. They run, seeing stars.

These men are too shamefaced to admit what happened to them. When asked, they grumble. “Walked into a door.” “Was drunk and fell out of a chair.” “Got into a scrap at the inn, just your typical brawl.”

But walls have eyes, and a servant reports what he saw to the captain of the garrison, Sir Robert de Baudricourt. “It was a girl,” he says. “She works in the kitchens. I saw her catch the guard’s hand and crumple it as one would crumple a fresh flower. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but it happened! I swear it!”

Joan is summoned from the kitchens. She remembers Sir Robert well, but Sir Robert doesn’t remember her. She thinks the years have neither changed nor improved him, not at all. He is still very fit, very handsome, and as enamored with himself as on the day of the fair when he tried—and failed—to climb the greasy pole. He is even wearing, she sees, boots of a quality not dissimilar to the ones she stomped on when she was a child of ten. This makes her smile.

For a moment, Sir Robert forgets himself. His eyes widen briefly before narrowing. It is clear he thought she would be someone he could easily frighten with his own imposing stature. What threat does a girl of sixteen pose, after all? But as he looks her up and down, then up again, he seems less sure.

“Have I seen you before somewhere?” he asks, studying her face.

She shrugs. “I work in the kitchens.”