The story spreads by whispered words into covered ears, by rumor, growing and growing. It reaches the Duke of Lorraine, who has, it turns out, a far better memory than his servant. Sir Robert would have preferred to keep the incident quiet, but stories like this travel fast. For the Duke, six years is not such a long time. He remembers Joan. When he sees her, it is as if in the whole of Vaucouleurs, he alone is unsurprised. “The greasy pole, of course,” he says languidly, having summoned her to him. His smile is one of secrets he keeps close. “So, it was not the holy woman’s medal that helped you that day.”

By this he means, It was God.

From the hem of her dress Joan has torn out his ring. She shows it to him. “Do you want it back?” she asks and means it. She explains, “I gave it to my sister, and she is dead. I have no use for it now.”

He takes the ring and then her hand in his own ducal palms. A seasoned soldier, he has been in the Crusades. His skin, however, is as smooth as new parchment. Whatever scars and calluses he once had are long faded. When his hands slip away, she looks down. The ring was not made for her, but it is a perfect fit.

Letters are written without her knowledge. A royal messenger from the court of Yolande of Aragon, the Dauphin’s mother-in-law, arrives in Vaucouleurs. No one tells Joan this; she finds out only because of the piquant sauces and bowls of sugared almonds specially prepared for his meals. She continues her work in the kitchens, though now when she goes to watch the sparring, the riding, and the shooting, the men look up at her like cows in the field at a new arrival. The archers lower their bows; the pages stare. The messenger has been in Vaucouleurs only two days before she is called up from the kitchens by Sir Robert. She thinks he is planning to make more trouble, but the royal messenger, a wiry, bouncing little man, says she is to go with a small group, comprising a knight, a squire, an archer, and himself, to Chinon. To the Dauphin. A king has many homes, and the castle at Chinon is one of them. It is a favored retreat of His Majesty’s and finely situated. Outside, a river view, the gently flowing Vienne, and on all sides, one is surrounded by the quiet splendors of the Loire Valley, the messenger informs her sweetly as if she has won a prize.