In reality, the journey is over three hundred miles and dangerous, so she is given a man’s outfit: a gray tunic and breeches, a black doublet, and a hat to shade her face. She cuts her hair to her ears, so that from a distance, she may be mistaken for a youth who has grown his hair long. The Duke gifts her a dark horse, a strong mare from his stables, to ride under cover of night. The well-dressed idiot Sir Robert, mouth turned down, offers her his second-best sword, though she still carries in her pocket her uncle’s knife.

It is the first time she has held a real sword. He watches her, petulant, as she admires it. These last few weeks have been unforgettable for him, and not in a good way. He has insisted on testing and retesting her. “Give her a different bow. Restring it. Let me check that arrow and make sure it is sound.” The result never varies. But, Sir Robert barks, desperate, can she ride? By this time he is sweating; dark patches appear across his surcoat and under his arms. It turns out she can.

Their last meeting: his sword is in her grip. She has grunted her thanks as though he were a stable boy tasked with saddling her horse. He is subdued but not so subdued that he doesn’t mutter beneath his breath.

“What?” she says.

“Nothing,” he replies quickly. His voice is small. He has prodded the first guard’s broken wrist to check her handiwork. The man howled with pain, and Sir Robert doesn’t want to push his luck, not with Joan. Every time her arrow found its mark, it felt personal, and he would look in bewilderment at the sky, as if the heavens were mocking him. One morning he heard angels chuckling and thought, I have finally gone mad; but it was his own men trying not to laugh at his expressions of despair. She isn’t a knight from a tale, and things like this aren’t supposed to happen. They are, in fact, unheard of.

“Good luck,” he says to Joan. “You’ll need it.”

Before she leaves, she will find the boy who was whipped, crouching in a wet and dripping alley. In her men’s clothes and with her hair cut short, he doesn’t recognize her, not at first. She has to remind him how they know each other. Kitchens. Beef numbles with lamprey sauce. A sweet pear. He looks closer and makes certain she is the same person before folding his hand into hers. She takes him to the kitchens and, when he is shy and tries to hide behind her, nudges him before the cook.

“He does not look much,” the cook says uncertainly.

“He has a fine taste in sauces,” Joan replies. “And likes fresh pears. So, he appreciates good food.”