“What a simple view of war you have, child,” Yolande says. She clasps her hands. “It is not just ‘us’ and ‘them.’ You do not comprehend how war is governed by bloodlines, which reach back hundreds of years; how a marriage arranged over a single supper may spare five thousand lives. A single gift, a jeweled book or a prized gelding, may stay the hand of an enraged prince bent on vengeance over some petty grudge. You do not know, as I do, how sometimes the birth of a healthy prince is celebrated on one side of the sea, only to be grieved on the opposite shore. The scales are changing every moment, every hour.”

“I know who my friends are,” Joan says.

Yolande bends her head. She considers a moment before speaking. “Yes, you have your supporters at court. And these supporters—I include myself among them—will remain your friends and allies, but in one kind of weather only: when the climate is good, the sun shines with your victories, and the gentle breeze blows through the fields and valleys of France. We will remain your most loyal friends for as long as you continue to win.”

“And you shall win. You are the best at what you do,” the Dauphine says. Her tone is final. She has taken Radegonde back in her arms. “Next time you kill an Englishman, Joan, I want you to think of me. Think of my son, who will one day take his father’s place and wear his father’s crown. Think of my daughter, whom you have held in your arms.”

A pause. Not hesitation but to sanctify the moment. Then: “I will.”

Le Maçon takes her to a room she has never been to before. The chamber is large, with several desks and chairs such as scribes might sit at to copy out their manuscripts. At present, the desks and chairs are empty, all the quills and inkwells tucked away. Against the walls, she sees shelves built from a dark-colored wood. Each shelf, le Maçon informs her, contains nearly fifty books, so there are almost one hundred and fifty volumes in this room alone. He shows her how each book is chained in place, an iron ring fixed to the cover’s front edge. Because she can’t read, he tells her what some of the books are: French poems by Christine de Pizan, chronicles by the Roman historian Livy, including the Ab Urbe Condita Libri, and a personal Bible that once belonged to the Dauphin’s grandfather, a gift from His Holiness, the Pope.