Patay was the battle of Joan’s dreams. An open field under a blue dome of sky. The ground firm enough for riding, covered with plush grass and wildflowers. And the air so still no breeze could threaten an arrow’s flight path. It was in Patay the fleeing English were joined by Fastolf’s long-awaited army. Together, they were several thousand strong, and most of the men Fastolf had brought were skilled archers equipped with longbows. Hundreds of these archers settled in the woods. Under cover of the trees they hid while waiting for the French to come upon them. It could easily have been another Agincourt, a second Verneuil, but something went wrong. The archers frightened a stag, and this stag leapt among the men until all was in tumult; shouts went up, and the army became disordered and gave away their position.

From the vanguard, Joan saw the stag leap out unharmed. But when she looked again, it was gone.

Within the first half hour, the English were scattered. It was less a battle than a massacre, the cumulative vengeance of past losses still fresh in French memory. As she rode, she no longer felt the weight of her armor. She no longer felt her limbs, her heartbeat, the rise and fall of her chest. She was transfigured. She had become a spirit and her horse a winged creature. The glint of her sword reflected the light, a golden sunbeam clutched in her metal fist.

Dunois said later that it was more usual for battles to be like Jargeau or Saint Loup in Orléans. Hours of push and shove. Hard on the body. Rarely, if ever, did you get a fight like this one. If all battles were like Patay, then every man would sign up to be a soldier. We wouldn’t even need to recruit. The early estimate: two thousand English dead. This is what happens when a battle turns into a rout.

“I want you to understand so you are prepared,” she tells her pages after Patay. “War is an unpredictable business.” At Jargeau, a large soldier knocked her off the scaling ladder by throwing a rock over the wall. The rock broke against her helmet; she saw stars, lost her balance, and fell. The impact was so great that when she hit the ground, clouds of dust billowed up around her. She heard the deafening cheers of the English, which didn’t last long. By the time the dust had settled, she was already back on her feet and climbing up the ladder again, though her legs wobbled like pudding beneath her.

Perhaps it is luck. Perhaps it is just the liveliness of youth coupled with good armor. Or perhaps it is God’s grace.