Her squire has exaggerated, as is bound to happen with the telling of any tale—but not by much. What he has left out: After the battle, she sought out La Hire and Dunois. She fell exhausted into their arms, and they held her, supporting her weight. They embraced her as they would a man—not gently or with consideration of where she had been hurt. They squeezed her shoulders and compressed her spine until her bones cracked. And she left on them the imprint of her arrow wound, like a bloody handprint, which they touched as if she had just given them a holy medal.

Jean stood apart, holding her torn banner. He was patient. He waited until his betters released her from their grip, and then he came up to her like a supplicant. He whispered in her ear: “You alone are the savior of this city, and there is no man who has seen what you have done here today who would not also be willing to follow you to the ends of the earth, to death.”

What her squire could not know: she believes she died. As she lay on the ground, arrow jutting out of her neck, there was a moment when all had grown dark and the world became still. Her breathing, already ragged, ceased. But her soul did not leave her body. It neither ascended to heaven nor descended to some other place. There was no burst of light. Death was a deep, senseless sleep. And when she woke, it felt like sitting up from a long rest, though only a short time had passed, no more than a quarter of an hour. But she was refreshed. She wanted to move, to finish what she had set out to do. She wanted to win.

Before anyone can take notice, Joan returns upstairs. Outside the window of her room: the bells of the city are ringing. Jubilation. Her pages bring her supper to eat in bed, a steaming plate of beef liver, and they watch as she finishes her food. With watery eyes, trying not to cry but still crying, they watch her dip fresh-baked bread in the sauce and eat portions large enough for two men. The women who dressed her for Saint Loup come in to kiss her hands, to talk. She breathes and breathes easily.

Early the next morning, she gazes at the lines of English across a wide field. From Les Tourelles, the enemy retreated, yet they haven’t left. Instead they are eager for a final rally, a final fight.