“It is a ploy,” she said to Dunois, to La Hire. “Our enemy must think we are simpletons. They are playing for time because they know reinforcements are coming: an army led by the Englishman Fastolf. Surely that is as obvious to you as it is to me?”

The offer was rejected. Between the crenellations she saw heads peeping at her, but the sight of these heads, cowering and small, inspired no mercy. Now that you are on the defensive, she thought, now that I have driven you out of Orléans and you no longer have the upper hand, you are afraid. But your fear comes too late.

At Jargeau, the battle lasted four hours. But these are days when she knows that victory is hers for the taking, even before the first crossbolt is loosed.

She used to think every child who was beaten, who had not been coddled and loved, would grow up to be like her: as strong and unafraid, as tolerant of physical pain. She had thought it was the war and never knowing a single year’s peace that made her this way: quick with a retort, wary of others, hand curled into a fist and ready for a fight if an argument couldn’t be settled with words. But she was wrong. She is unique. Dunois says she has two fathers. The first is Jacques d’Arc. The second is God. If Jacques d’Arc has given her nothing, then God has given her everything. He shows His infinite love for you, Joan, through gifts that are of no human making.

He explains, seeing she is skeptical, “I know what I am talking about, for are there not some in the world who have only to look at a lute before they are able to pluck its strings and make music? And as for the poets, I have heard their best work comes to them in sleep and in dreaming, as though a voice speaks directly into their ear, or that whole verses will materialize out of thin air in a flash of understanding. It cannot be explained, so do not try. It is simply genius.”

Give her any weapon, and she will know how to use it. After an hour, she will make short work of the masters of the poleax, the mace, the crossbow, weapons she has never picked up before. Now she understands that even a grown man who has trained since he was a small boy cannot catch up to her. It isn’t really fair, but who ever said that life was fair? Different words are used to describe her condition. She is gifted, special, remarkable, a nonpareil fighter; Dunois says there will never be one like her again—at least not for another age. Joan is blessed.

“When did you learn to fight?” La Hire asked.

Hard to say.