“Do you know the story of Childeric and his wife, Basina?” La Trémoille asks, ignoring her. “Childeric was the King of the Franks, father of the great Clovis. On his wedding night with Basina, they were awoken three times by sounds coming from outside the palace. Each time, Childeric told Basina what he saw. The first time—what a sight to behold! He reported only great creatures, beasts of strength: a lion and a unicorn. The second time, he heard howls. He crept to the window and saw a pack of wolves. The third and last time, he witnessed a scene that frightened him: wild dogs gnashing their teeth and salivating at the gate. Basina understood what her husband’s visions meant. ‘It is the degeneration of our dynasty,’ she said. ‘Each king will be weaker than the last until we are no more, and a fresh dynasty will begin anew.’ These days, I often find myself thinking of this story, and I wonder. Where are we now? Are we past even the wild dogs? So, is it not time we brought in a lion? Well, Joan?”

She considers what he has said before replying with a story of her own: “There was a miller in Domrémy who cheated nearly every villager of what they were owed in flour. He had an ill look and a smooth tongue like yours. When he talked, he would utter such sweet nonsense that people would return home happy even if they went away with only half of what they were due. He was a fat man, this miller. Well fed. But I saw through him. When I brought him sacks of grain, I watched his every move. No trick he pulled went beyond my notice, and he would turn pale as soon as I showed my face. I think you should be careful, my lord. I think if you sing the wrong song into a lion’s ear, there is every possibility you may lose something important to you.” An arm, a head. Your life.

La Trémoille’s face tightens. He doesn’t answer.

“I am ready to leave,” she says, looking toward the door, “whether your boy comes or not.”

“In some ways, it is a pity that your talents should count for so little. If only you were a cousin of the Dauphin, even the bastard son of a duke, there might be some hope. But for all your fancy dress, you are not one of us. You are a peasant. And you are a woman, which counts against you most of all.”

He turns back to the cushion, and his fingers scoop up the two gold coins he had laid out. He drops them into the purse, refastens it, and throws the pouch at her feet.