Yolande’s second son, René, also sends a gift. It arrives in a plain leather case, lifted by two of his liveried servants. One of them informs her it would do their lord great honor if she opened the case herself, for they are meant to inform their master of her reaction. So, she lifts the cover and peers inside, remembering to gasp as she pulls away the satin sleeve. It is a smaller model, they explain, of the famous Reliquary Shrine, once bought by Elizabeth of Poland, a queen. The box is fashioned like a miniature cathedral. Open it and you are greeted with the centerpiece, the altar where the Virgin sits in a dress of gold, holding the Christ child. The wings of the box are covered in panels, and each panel, painted to imitate stained glass, is unique.

She has received relics in jeweled boxes. Here, courtesy of the Count of Vendôme, a piece of the True Cross reported to have belonged to Saint Louis himself. And a clip of hair from Bridget of Sweden, less unlikely than the previous, Jean points out, as that saintly woman died only about sixty years ago, compared to Saint Louis’s one hundred and sixty. Joan opens a miniature case worked in silver. A hard object, discolored and yellow, with a sharp edge, falls into her hand.

Raymond picks up the corresponding letter. “That is a claw from the lion Saint Jerome tamed when he healed the beast’s paw.”

She drops the claw back into its case. “I have never seen a lion,” she says.

“If you want one, we could probably write His Majesty and ask,” Jean suggests.

The Count of Clermont has sent her a brooch of a swan with a gilded beak; the swan was carved from ivory, each snowy pinion etched as if with the tip of a fine needle. The brooch, he writes, belonged to his mother. His only request: that she do him the honor of fastening it to her cloak the next time she rides into battle for France.

These are Joan’s favorite gifts: a pair of blue lambskin gloves from the Archbishop of Embrun; a blanket woven by the hands of the prioress of Poissy; a pair of destriers, both ink black, from the Duke of Alençon. Dunois has gifted her a dagger with a curved blade, which he bought from a knight who had been in the Crusades. The hilt is carved with large roses in full flower; the guard of the hilt is a wriggling green snake.

La Hire, always practical, kicks off his own boots and passes them to her during his next visit. “We are about the same size,” he says kindly. “And you will find more use for boots than holy relics.”