He stares at her. His voice is tempered, courteous even. “I know my own appetite, and I would not be content with anything less than your life, your head, your sword arm. And also, I want to see my rival le Maçon go down, banished forever from court, or worse. I want things to be as they were before he picked you, like a lost puppy, out of whatever hole he found you in.”

“Then take my life. If you can.”

Behind them, there is a knock at the door, the turn of a key in a lock. “You have tried once already and failed,” she says. “I could smell your man from across the room. But let him make another attempt, and even if I should spare his life, he will have to live without his hands.”

“Ah, that…that was a mistake.” He frowns, and the expression seems genuine. “Stupid and, in truth, unnecessary. For I have since discovered, in the course of this journey to Reims, that I do not have to lift even my little finger in order to destroy you. If you were a fraud, it would take more effort. I would have to find some way to expose you, as we exposed those who came before you: the holy maid, the monk, the little boy. But you are no fraud. I confess I had not expected this. Here, come and listen. Come.”

He leads her to the window, now dark. “Do you see those lights? Those people in the streets?” he asks. “I had a servant inquire what they were doing. Do you hear them, Joan?”

“They are…singing,” she says.

“Yes, good, Joan. Good. My servant said each man, woman, and child holds a small candle cupped in their hands. Like this.” He imitates the gesture. “They are singing the ‘Te Deum.’ And when he asked a stranger why, was it in honor of the Dauphin who will be crowned tomorrow morning, the woman said no. Why should it be for him? What has he done to deserve our voices? It is for her, who will end this war and all its misery. They hoped that if you heard their singing, it would bring you out of your rooms and they could see you again.”

Her eyes close, and she listens. “It is the sound of love. But how could I expect you to understand?”

La Trémoille brushes past her on his way out. “We will agree it is a sound.”

At supper, the Dauphin is quiet. He does not pick at the roasted capon on his plate but fingers a thread unraveling from his sleeve.

La Hire, breaking the silence, holds up a well-polished chicken leg. “One forgets that a man, too, is made of bones. Has your blade ever plunged into a body and gotten stuck? It takes more effort to pull it out again than it did to finish him in the first place.”