She had always thought, My gifts come from myself. They were beaten into me. That is all. For if it was God who gave me this strength and these gifts, then it is the same God who is also helping the English to win and the Burgundians to gain more and more towns. It is the same God who let Catherine die.

And she would rather put the blame on men, not on spirits of air. So, call her simple, but she believes this war has nothing to do with God. It’s about money. It’s about land. These men who came to France, whether kings or common soldiers, they chose to become thieves and murderers. They are the work of their own hand. And I—I am no different. I, too, am the work of my own hand.

And yet…the fact that she is here, standing before a queen. How did this happen? How is this possible?

Yolande says, “I do not profess to be a holy woman, but I have had a vision of what you will become. I picture…” She raises her arms. “A banner of white painted with gold fleurs-de-lis. Possibly angels. Saint Michael or the image of our Lord. Perhaps both. We shall see if there is enough room. I picture a famous sword. And a suit of white armor, polished to a shine. You will become a holy warrior.”

There is a pause where Joan makes a face. She nearly shakes her head, except this wouldn’t be appropriate before her host. It feels excessive, she wants to say. A waste of money.

“I have a sword already,” she says instead. “And the Duke of Lorraine gave me a horse.”

“Ah, I thought you would be quicker than this!” Her host makes a sound: a small grunt of impatience. “You are still a woman, as I am a woman. Do you think the captains of France will rally behind a peasant, a mere girl? Your abilities, your talents and gifts, are not enough. You have no status, no titles. You are not even the daughter of a free man.