“If the English came tomorrow and took Chinon,” she continues, “they would not raze it to the ground. It would be too precious for them to destroy. They would live in it, as others have also lived in it. And a different tongue would fill the halls, the harsh language of the English, though much else would stay the same. The musicians would play their instruments for the noblemen. Performers would pass through and entertain at feasts. There would still be fine ladies working at their embroidery, knights to woo them, and banquets every evening: plates of swan and salmon and venison. And servants to swill out the privies, to scatter fresh rushes on the floor. New stable boys to watch the horses. New huntsmen to organize the hunt.

“But Your Majesty knows it would not be the same. In your heart, you know it would be different. What would happen to our songs? Our ballads? The Song of Roland would become the song of the defeated.” She pauses. “What would happen to the oublie, Your Majesty’s first gift to me? Would the English know how to capture the taste of heaven in a wafer? Would they care for what has taken years, decades, even centuries to perfect?”

“You forget your place,” he says. “You who are no one dare to read me a lesson as if I were a child called to stand before his tutor.”

“I would dare much more,” Joan says, and she does not add, for my revenge, my hatred of my enemies, those who have hurt me in a way I can never forgive.

The Dauphin shuts his eyes. He inhales and holds his breath; he seems to be counting in his head.

She sees the moment slipping away from her. In her ears, she hears the words of Yolande. Her heart quickens. She must try again.

“Remember the night you flew from Paris,” she says. It is as though a voice is whispering into her ear, dictating her speech. She does not have to think; the words flow from her mouth like water. “In a single night, how many were cut down? The Burgundians had seized everything. Yet you escaped. Your Majesty lived. Remember the day the floor of the bishop’s palace gave way under your feet. Out of all the courtiers and servants who accompanied you, you were one of a few who survived, your body unmarred. And now…”

She feels as if she is talking to La Rousse in Neufchâteau. Look at me, I am two girls. Your Majesty, look at me: I am an instrument of God.