He looks down. A gift? His Majesty enjoys surprises. But it is something he has forgotten about in the happy weeks since Patay. In his palm is the enameled figurine of his father. Only there is a small difference. Someone has made for the late king a miniature crown of gold painted with brightly colored jewels; the detail is so fine it must have been done with a brush of a single hair.

The Dauphin looks from Joan to the kneeling nobility, his courtiers and friends, who since her victory at Patay have all at one point or another applied for an audience with her. They have sent her gifts of wine, platters of swan and salmon, treasured spices. They have removed rings from their own fingers, taken pouches of gold from their chests and presented them to her as offerings. They have heard her speak, and they call themselves her followers.

It is said the war began with a scene not so different from this one. In the English court, Edward, third of his name, was conflicted about the decision to fight for the French crown. He was a man easily angered but also rational. He knew the cost of starting a war, both in lives and money. And he knew France’s strength, its long history of greatness on the battlefield. None could match its cavalry, the force and crush of its mounted attacks. But at his own table a heckler and troublemaker named Robert d’Artois served him a plate of heron meat, a bird symbolizing cowardice, and this gesture so mortified him that he agreed to go to war. The year was 1337, ninety-two years ago, and it is the same war we are fighting today.

But here are no hecklers. Joan says, “We entreat Your Majesty to listen to those who love you. It is time for the rightful king of France to receive his crown.”

He scans the lines of the assembly and watches as the Dauphine approaches with Louis, a round-faced boy rubbing his jutting nose with a pink fist. A nursemaid carries Radegonde, who is not looking at her father but staring at Joan. They stand only a small distance away.

From behind, Yolande raises her voice: “I am not kneeling, Charles. I haven’t brought a cushion with me, and my feet are already sore from waiting so long for you.”

Joan thinks of the day they spent in the garden. In the shade, she saw the Dauphin’s face change, passing between shadow and sunlight as the wind stirred the leaves. And it is changing now, first pale, then pink with embarrassment. But slowly the color drains from his face. His eyes settle on Joan, and she doesn’t look away. They are of the same height. The corner of His Majesty’s mouth twitches.