He grew quiet as he focused on dying. She looked away only a moment, but when her gaze returned to the boy’s face, she felt her heart contract. His eyes were dim. Her hand passed over his lids to close them. To herself, she counted: two thousand and one dead.

She doesn’t tell her pages how, seven years later, everything has changed and still nothing has changed. A small field is replaced with a bigger field. A boy is replaced with a man. Yet the ending of this story is identical. Sometimes with the conclusion of battles comes a clarity. One’s heart races, but color—the blue of a surcoat, the red of a trampled flag—becomes more vivid. One has, for the space of a few hours, a falcon’s eye, every sense pared to a sharp point. But when she left Patay, she felt a dullness, as if she had betrayed herself.

She didn’t tell anyone when she returned to the field to dig a single grave, to whittle from two pieces of wood a makeshift cross tied together with string to serve as a simple headstone. But La Hire saw her hands, sore and pink from digging. Tomorrow blisters would come up, and her palms would sting when she gripped the hilt of her sword. She knew her body well. You couldn’t live your whole life covered in hurt without understanding how the parts would eventually heal.

“You have a soft heart, little maid,” he told her. “Be careful of it.”

She wants to ask someone she trusts, her squire or Dunois, What do I look like when I am fighting? What do I look like after a battle is over? Angel or gargoyle? I want to know. When I am splattered with blood and the water that washes my face turns red in the bowl, does my appearance frighten you? Does it frighten Raymond and Louis? If so, perhaps I should wash myself before seeing them. And are we sure, completely certain, that my gifts come from God and not somewhere else?

She can understand how God would inspire poets and artists. She can picture angels breathing sweet music into the ears of the dozing troubadour. But does a talent for slaughter count as a heavenly gift, too?

She confides this to Dunois, who replies, “You were not at Agincourt or at Verneuil, where the opposite of Patay happened. You have only known victory in battle. But if you had been witness to our defeats, our many losses, you would understand how the field at Patay was blessed. The tide is turning, and finally it is in our favor.