“I will stop fighting when the English leave France. And when Burgundy kneels to the King.”

La Hire grins. “Oh, but I don’t think you will. There will always be battles: battles for land, for power, for the glory of God. The soul knows its own destiny. You were born for this, little maid. I hear that is what everyone is calling you now. Pucelle. A maiden. Purest of the pure.”

Joan sticks out her tongue, gags.

He moves to the window of her room; below, a crowd has gathered. He cracks open the shutters. A shout goes up. He closes the shutters; the cheers stop. He opens them again. More shouts, more deafening cheers. He closes the shutters. The noise stops, replaced with groans of disappointment.

Joan’s mouth twists before the room shakes with their laughter.

The people of Orléans have invited her into their homes to pray with them, meet their children, and share the little food they have in their cupboards. They give her their babies to hold and to bless with a kiss. She is named godmother to any child newborn, and any girl newborn is named after her. She hears that a boy whose arm she had bound in a strip of cloth from her banner has been going around the city telling people how he was raised from the dead by her hand. She does not dispute the rumor, only explains to those who are interested in hearing her side of the story that perhaps he was not as near death as he thinks.

Solitude and silence are rare. In the streets, “Te Deum Laudamus” is sung all hours of the day, and these same crowds follow her whenever she goes out. At her approach, men slip off their caps. Women bow their heads and bob to her, as if she were a great lady. She never ignores them but bows back, which sends the people into raptures.

It is possible La Hire is right, that once you lift a sword, it is hard to put down again. She recalls the arrow that struck her neck. She thinks, When I returned to battle I had forgotten her, my sister. In my mind was only what still needed to be done. In my mind was only the thought, the desire to win. And when next morning, the English lines broke with not a single drop of blood shed, she hadn’t thought of Catherine, either. It wasn’t vengeance that was on her mind but la gloire she basked in. Glory.

In the cathedral at Tours, the Dauphin is waiting. On either side of him are courtiers, some faces familiar and smiling, others hard as stone. To his right: le Maçon and Yolande’s messenger. To his left: the Archbishop of Reims and La Trémoille, who look as if they would like to give Joan a big kick down the steps.