Each man is sated and patting his stomach, and she wants to tell them a story. When she was no older than her pages and living off her uncle’s stories of war, she had told her brother Jacquemin she would prefer to be a soldier, to march with an army, rather than live on the land. It was just idle chatter, but Jacquemin reported to her father what she’d said. Her father thought by soldier, she meant camp follower and prostitute. He said to Jacquemin and her brothers, “Drown this one if she ever disgraces us.”

She wants to ask them, though she stops herself, What do you, any of you, know about earning your place in the world? You have had everything given to you. You were born into what you are today: a prince, a lord, a captain. With these titles, you thought the rest would come easily, so no wonder we are losing the war. Victory in battle doesn’t take into consideration pedigree. When royal blood is spilled, it is the same as any foot soldier’s. I know now there will always be this divide between us. Even if I fight beside you, I will never be the same as you.

“And now, Joan, you look as if you want to kill us,” La Hire says. He scratches his chin.

“Tomorrow,” she says, “there is work to be done.”

The faces around the table appear baffled. Why bring up work when we are about to enjoy sweets? When we have just savored a walk through the garden and His Majesty has shown us his skills at bowls? But she is impatient to leave and return to her rooms.

In her company, talk is restrained. She can see it on the faces of La Hire, Dunois, even the Dauphin. They want to discuss—what else?—women, the gossip at court, which always means who is sleeping with whom, but they can’t, not in front of her. So, she excuses herself. Back in her rooms, she ignores the table of offerings. There is a long list of nobility to pray for: So-and-so has gout; another lord believes he is dying from heartbreak. She shakes off her doublet, her shirt of silk, and puts on a clean tunic of white linen. She can sleep in anything. In the days when they traveled to Orléans from Blois, she slept on the ground in armor. When she rose, her limbs clanged with the sound of steel.

A servant emerges like a shadow detaching itself from the wall and creeps up to her with a message. The note is from Yolande. She is about to call for Jean, since she cannot read, but when she opens it, there are no words. Trust Yolande to think of everything.