“You are not a delicate flower. This I grant you.” The Dauphin’s eyes travel slowly over the length of her body, head to foot. He seems tempted to test her sturdiness by poking her in the arm, but there is no servant ready with a basin of rose water and a towel to wash peasant dirt and sweat from his hands.

“And you are tall, taller even than most men. It is clear you enjoy good health. I have heard it is sometimes the way with those who work the land, who are lowborn,” he says easily. “But even a strong woman is not equal to a man. This is well known since the days of antiquity. Strength is not a natural attribute of womanhood. It is not in her body’s composition. This trait is and has always been the provenance of men.”

She is silent. She is tempted to say, Not with me. And to add, And not with you either, it would seem.

The Dauphin’s hands disappear into his too-large sleeves. His expression is questioning, but at least he is not laughing at her. “Are you suggesting you have received training?”

“I have sparred with the knight and squire I traveled with. When I worked in the kitchens at Vaucouleurs, I watched the soldiers train.” She doesn’t add, I broke a man’s wrist with one hand. I took out three strong men with a skillet.

He shakes his head. “That seems hardly enough. A knight begins his training when he is a boy.”

“And before I made this journey, I sparred nearly every day with my father. He was famous in Domrémy for his fists and hated me worse than he hated the English and the Burgundians. I do not exaggerate when I say this: that if every soldier in your army was the equivalent of my father, a Jacques d’Arc, in height, weight, and temper, this war would have ended in your father’s time and we would be living in an age of peace. He would have sent the late King of England running like a serving boy whipped for dropping the soup ladle.”

She sees that the Dauphin cannot help himself. He smiles at the image.

But he tips a beringed finger at her, as if he has caught her out. “So, you were an unruly child then, if your father beat you.”

She hesitates. “I do not think you have to be an unruly child to be hated by your parents.”

The Dauphin looks down. The smile on his face vanishes. It is another entry from the book of misery that rings true for him. He nods.

“Before I was born, my father made a bet. He said I would be his third son and he lost the wager, along with a good sum of money. Ever since, he hasn’t known what to do with me.”

“And your mother?”