But now she and the Dauphin are alone. Joan’s vision lingers on a carpet, a swirl of indigo and vermilion dye, placed beneath the Dauphin’s chair. In her blurred periphery, a figure detaches itself from the chair and rises. A swift, careless turn of the wrist indicates that she may stand. He has summoned her only hours after their initial meeting in the chapel. A good sign, according to le Maçon.

Her gaze shifts from plush carpet to royal person, wrapped, in spite of the heat, in heavy velvet robes dyed a deep blood-red, the collars and sleeves trimmed with black fur. He has changed his clothes since receiving Communion in the chapel. Self-consciously, he shuffles away from the tapestry, as if to say, What happened there has nothing to do with me. I cannot account for all of mankind’s troubles, only the troubles in its most Christian kingdom, and this, too, gives me such grief. He moves to the pair of dancing angels, rests his hand across both of their heads, as if that is what they were made for: to be petted, to bear the weight of a prince’s smooth and unscarred palm.

Le Maçon has warned her: Don’t stare. The Dauphin doesn’t like to feel that he is being watched, as who, unless he were a very vain individual, would? And His Majesty is sensitive about his looks, his appearance and his wardrobe, ever since circumstances forced him to make his home in Chinon. Yes, Chinon is a beautiful place. You may ask yourself, What else could a monarch possibly ask for? But you would be wrong. The Loire Valley boasts some of the finest lands in France. Its soil is rich; its vineyards are full. Heaven only knows the fresh air here surpasses any day that of Paris’s stinking sewage and waste, both human and animal. But isn’t even the absence of sewage a reminder that Chinon isn’t Paris? This castle, grand though it is, isn’t the Louvre. It isn’t the Château de Fontainebleau, located some thirty miles south of the capital, another favorite of kings, though now out of His Majesty’s reach.