“Consider what people will think when they hear this: A woman on a battlefield. A woman fighting in an army. A woman sent to free a city from siege. It is laughable, no? And there are many at court laughing already. At you, at me, at poor le Maçon, despite all the arguments he has made in your favor. They laugh, too, at the Dauphin for even meeting with you. But I will tell you something I have learned in my forty-eight years. Either a woman must be raised high, higher than the heads of men, or she will be crushed beneath their feet. So, we must raise you high. We must raise you to the height of the heavens themselves. We must dress you in the very mantle of God. Do you understand, Joan? Or must I summon le Maçon to explain?”

If you don’t know what to say, just bow, so Joan bows.

“There is only one small thing left,” Yolande says, smiling. She is satisfied. “Now you must convince His Majesty, my fine son, to give you permission to go and raise the siege at Orléans. I will take care of the rest.”

Oh, is that all? Joan thinks.

Turning from her, Yolande removes the garment she had been sewing from her chair. She shakes it out. It is a man’s doublet worked in dark purple velvet.

“Try it,” Yolande says. “Go on.”

Joan slides her arms into the satin-lined sleeves. The fabric is so smooth, it seems to ripple across her arms. Yolande brushes down the front. She helps Joan fasten the buttons, as a mother would for a child, and takes a step back for a better look.

“It is a little tight,” she says, frowning, the first crease of that perfect forehead. “Alas, Louis, my eldest, does not have such shoulders. So much the worse for him. This was his, but we shall have the size adjusted. I will send the doublet to you as soon as it is finished. I thought you would be in want of new clothes, and see again, I was right. Look at that filthy tunic! Oh!” Yolande waves her hand in front of her nose.

Then, looking up, she smiles. “I am sorry to say it. We could put you in the finest gown in Christendom, and it wouldn’t do anything for you. But this…this suits you. So, you see, one must wear the clothes for which one is built. And soon you must put on the mantle of God.”

At the door, the messenger pops in his head. He is here to escort her out.