Where the boy leaves off, the story is picked up by another servant’s report. By two o’clock, His Majesty had convened a meeting of some thirty or forty soldiers and asked them for ideas about what could be improved. These men shared with the Dauphin their grievances: they are never paid on time; the food is bad, the meat rancid and vegetables scarce; they are expected to march on empty stomachs; there is no organization, and they do not always respect those in charge because their superiors are cruel, incompetent, or both. Three clerks accompanied the Dauphin to take detailed notes on the conditions of equipment, everything from the halberds and cannonballs to the sturdiness of the carts carrying them, and the Dauphin himself checked all the barrels and the wheels, crouching low to the ground when the moment called for an inspection. His royal hand picked up a crossbolt and he said to the masses trailing him, as he felt the sharpened tip, “This will soon find an Englishman’s heart,” and the crowds cheered in his wake.

But something is wrong with this report. The Dauphin has been in his rooms all day. His personal servants, who have also heard the story and are rarely absent from his side, laugh behind their hands. His Majesty? Walking among his own army? Are you mad or still drunk from yesterday’s wine?

From one ear to another, a story flies so that identities become confused. Woman becomes man, a peasant body becomes a prince. It is an amusing story, a joke. Some misunderstandings are so ridiculous, so inconceivable, they become funny, le Maçon explains to Joan when she returns with her clerks, their arms full of notes. He chuckles as she brushes dust off the front of her yellow doublet. But she sees he is also uneasy. If such a story manages to reach the ears of the Dauphin, which he doesn’t doubt it will, will His Majesty laugh, too? Perhaps he should be there to mitigate any damage? Le Maçon leaves Joan’s side. He suddenly looks worried.

Though it hasn’t been a year since she left home, her past already feels a lifetime ago. In this enchanted place, lords and their servants nod to her. The more reverent sweep off their hats. Noblewomen and their ladies-in-waiting step quickly to catch a glimpse, towering hennins wobbling on their plucked and hairless foreheads. She has no titles. She is technically still no one. Yet they are too shy to look her in the face. They believe she is something more than human.