At her shoulder, she hears a throat clear. One of the women motions her to raise her arms. They must strap on her breastplate. Soon every part of her will be encased in steel.

The other woman holds up a gauntlet, and Joan slides her hand into the glove. She watches her hand of flesh disappear, her palm become stiff leather and metal.

A suit of armor costing one hundred livres tournois has been crafted to her precise dimensions. A banner has been painted, which one among her company will hold. On the banner: A white field gilded with lilies and two angels. An image of the King of Heaven presiding over the world.

Scholars, too, have been hired to locate prophecies in ancient manuscripts. One prophecy is this: that France will be brought low by a whore and saved by a virgin. The whore is thought to be Isabeau, the Dauphin’s mother; the virgin is Joan. They have found something they can use from the wizard Merlin: “a virgin who ascends the backs of archers.” Another, from the Venerable Bede, describes only “a maid carrying banners.” Like most successful prophecies, they are vague. They can be taken to mean both everything and nothing.

Joan’s retinue comprises these members: two pages, both seven years old, named Louis and Raymond; a squire, Jean d’Aulon; a chaplain to hear her confessions; and three servants to wait on her—though, as they soon discover, they are rarely required to do anything, for she is used to looking after herself. So, they idle. They call her the best mistress they ever had.

When Joan arrived in Orléans, she saw Yolande had done her work. The people believed she was a holy woman appointed by God. They thought her presence alone would save them.

She quickly realized: There was no army called Joan’s army to report to her, and she had no title. Her status was as amorphous as Merlin’s prophecy. Her pages, her squire, every person assigned to her—she wonders, Did they draw lots?—shrugged and scratched their heads when she asked them what she should do. She was given a room in the city treasurer’s house, where she would be waited upon by the women. The other captains of France were also staying here, but no one cared what she did with her time. Joan could stay in her room and sleep. If the mood struck her, she could pray. She was commander of nothing, but no one commanded her, either.

The chefs de guerre, the leaders of France’s army, thought she was a bad joke. Jean de Dunois, the illegitimate brother of the Duke of Orléans, refused to look at her. When she came into the room, he faced the other way. La Hire, the famous brigand turned captain, did look at her and a ball of phlegm rose in his throat; his spit landed not far from her feet.