“It was a stag that warned us of where the English hid in the woods,” he continues. “A majestic creature often linked with Christ. Why not a fox? Or a boar? I believe God sent this stag for you, Joan. I see now He will not suffer you to fail. If He deigns to love the kingdom of France, then we are blessed with His love through you alone.”

Jargeau. Meung. Beaugency. Patay. When news of victory arrives, the Dauphin begins…decorating. At Chinon, he sets aside rooms for Joan. Overruling the suggestions of his courtiers, La Trémoille among them, he collects three of the castle’s finest tapestries. He ignores the protests of these same courtiers, who are afraid he will hurt himself, and lifts a statuette of an angel, placing it in a corner of what in a few days will become Joan’s bedroom. He says, holding up his hands, as if to frame the moment eternally, The light will hit her wings just so as the sun comes up, and from this angle Joan will see the statue each morning upon waking. Can’t you picture it? I can. He laughs. The art of assembling a pleasant room numbers one of his many talents, and if Joan’s arena is the battlefield, then his is here.

He hires an army of painters, masters and their smocked apprentices, to decorate the walls. Under his direction, they sketch rolling hills, a sun with a smiling face, forests bountiful with skipping deer, castles fit to occupy giants, for the ladies and lords on their mounts are nearly as tall as the towers. He looks over their shoulders as the apprentices mix their paints; they dab a shade of green on the wall and look into his face for a sign of approval, but he shakes his head. No, no, the green must be darker, much darker. Where is the light coming from? See, the sun is here! Therefore, the shadows must be going this way! Finally, he takes a brush from one of the masters—he is full of surprises, this king—and applies a dot of azure blue to one of the castle’s flags. He steps back to appraise his work. La Trémoille grumbles. He mutters, “This is a complete waste of time. Is there a war going on or not?” But le Maçon applauds. The old courtier calls out, “What talent! Your Majesty is a natural artist.”

The Dauphin directs where chairs should be put, and when cushions are brought in by a servant, he pokes one, selected at random, with a finger to test how plush it is. “I think not,” he says, his expression grave, and sends the boy away to find better cushions, even if they already belong to someone else.