“What is France?” le Maçon asks. He stands in the great cathedral of Reims. He spreads his arms, permitting himself a rare moment of indulgence, and Joan, too, breathes in the scent of stone. She closes her eyes, wants to take a nap. In this vast space, they are alone. “It is a fertile land, its vine blessed, its wine sweet.”

This is the seat of the Most Christian King. Therefore, its people are the best people, its knights the most gallant, its poets the most inspired.

And our language is the best language, for it turns the cogs of the civilized world. A merchant may be Dutch, Portuguese, or Italian, but he will always conduct his business in French. When the Venetian explorer Marco Polo shared the accounts of his travels with his friend Rustichello da Pisa, it was in French that he spoke of the grandeur of China and its capital, Peking, of the magnificence of the court of Kublai Khan. Our language is the language of song, of the chansons de geste. Our greatest troubadour, Arnault Daniel, no less a master of his craft than Dante.

How could life be the same without the entremet, a dish made up of no particular set of ingredients. It can take any form; its purpose is simply to dazzle and to please. Only we possess the ingenuity to re-dress a cooked peacock in its former strutting splendor, to carve Grecian maids and nymphs bearing urns from roasted capons, to build a miniature palace out of the carcasses of game, each tower and courtyard sprinkled with a snowfall of saffron.

France is its famous warriors: Roland, Charles Martel, Bertrand du Guesclin. You. On this nineteen-day journey, how many towns opened their gates and surrendered as soon as the people heard your name? They knew any show of resistance would be fruitless. In your hands, only victory is possible.

And France is its rulers. The kingdom is not an island unto itself, like the sad, miserable home of our ancient enemy, its weather so poor that its people must sail to other shores for better climes. France is made up of fiefs, some of which have grown accustomed to independence and self-rule. But the best kings are able to tame these proud lords, and in our history, we have had no shortage of great leaders of men.

Le Maçon stops. The Dauphin has just entered the cathedral, followed closely by the Archbishop of Reims and La Trémoille. Joan looks up, to the vaulted ceilings. One can’t start a brawl in this place. And as this is the Archbishop’s see, she supposes she can’t kick him back out.

“Watch your step, Majesty,” La Trémoille says, offering his hand. “There is a stair just here, easy to miss.”