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Back Joan
Chapters (43)
  1. Cover
  2. Epigraph
  3. CAST OF CHARACTERS
  4. Map
  5. Part One
  6. I
  7. II
  8. III
  9. IV
  10. V
  11. VI
  12. VII
  13. Part Two
  14. I
  15. II
  16. III
  17. IV
  18. V
  19. VI
  20. VII
  21. VIII
  22. IX
  23. X
  24. Part Three
  25. I
  26. II
  27. III
  28. IV
  29. V
  30. Part Four
  31. I
  32. II
  33. III
  34. IV
  35. V
  36. VI
  37. EPILOGUE
  38. afterword
  39. Dedication
  40. acknowledgments
  41. By Katherine J. Chen
  42. about the author
  43. What’s next onyour reading list?

The river is so bright it looks like it has been set ablaze, rippling with fire. The sun hits the Dauphin just so. He stands half in light, half in shadow, one shoulder lit up in gold, the other in darkness. In his veins flows the blood of the old kings, of Charlemagne and Saint Louis, of his grandfather Charles the Wise. She thinks of Yolande’s words, how we are all waiting to see when and how this lineage will show itself, waiting with bated breath for him to pass from the anteroom of princedom into the chamber of the anointed kings of France, to take his kingship in hand as one takes the orb and the scepter on the throne. What kind of king will he become? A great king, a good king, or a horrible king, for he must decide, and soon.

She pauses, hesitating. She is no courtier. How does one convince any man, much less a prince, to act against his nature, to act at all? But she must speak.

“I, too, am afraid,” she begins, and though she keeps her face forward, she sees the Dauphin glance at her. “I am fearful of many things. When I was young, I was afraid of my father and of pain. I was afraid I would always remain in the same village, that I would only ever see one piece of sky and land forever. And I am still afraid. I am afraid that what happened to my sister may one day happen to me. I am afraid that if I am strong, I will become the same brute as Jacques d’Arc. I am afraid of disappointing those who have put their trust in me: le Maçon, the Duke of Lorraine, your good mother. I am afraid of dying.” She looks down. She does not say, I am afraid that if my strength comes from God, He may take it away, that I will lose my strength as I did the day the English attacked Domrémy and I fell ill. This frightens me most of all. For I do not know how my arrow always finds its mark, only that the bow, the sword, the spear feel right in my hand. I do not know why a horse will grow calm as soon as I approach, when just seconds ago it had bolted its rider. I do not know how I can break a grown man’s wrist with one hand merely by gripping it. Or how I can find my way in darkness without seeing where it is I step. I can’t explain any of these things.