This day, Joan is outfitted as if for battle. She has other suits of armor—in total, four—but she is wearing her finest, the white-plated suit crafted by the Dauphin’s personal armorer. None among her household has slept even an hour; her pages have wrung out their arms and hands polishing, but their efforts are far from wasted. On the blue-and-gold dais of the altar, her body glows. She wears, too, a new present from the Dauphin, one his household carried in secret from Chinon. A gift to be given only on the occasion of his coronation, it is a cloak of gold-and-crimson brocade. This morning, his own hands had swept the garment across her shoulders.

Among the nobility, she occupies the most honored space. Only the Archbishop stands beside her—and this because he is vital to the ceremony. No craning of the neck for her; no jostling of elbows and murmurs of “Pardon” for a good view. From here, she can see every detail, follow every step of the procession, and she watches the Dauphin approach. Except for the occasional shuffling of feet and clearing of throats, the cathedral is silent. All eyes are on the future king, dressed in a plain white shift. He seems to be counting his steps. There is, she perceives, a kind of doddering rhythm to his walk. When he reaches the foot of the altar, he lowers himself slowly and spreads his arms. He prostrates his body, until the Archbishop bends to raise him to his knees.

The Dauphin appears to be sweating; his skin shines with small, wet beads, glittering like crushed diamonds. A slight tremor has entered his hands, though his expression gives nothing away. It is as solid as the very stonework of the cathedral.

The sacred oil touches different parts of the royal body: head, hollow breast, bony shoulders, jutting elbows, thin wrists. A prayer is uttered.

During this sacred moment, she, too, closes her eyes. She thinks, This cathedral began as a rudimentary construction, a simple building, square and plain. But look at it today, and you would never consider it was anything but what it is now. This happened not in a day but over hundreds of years. A long line of archbishops added to the structure. A new façade here, some gilding there, certain parts demolished and other spaces opened. As with any worthwhile enterprise, there were setbacks: fires, which reduced most of the cathedral to rubble, and a disagreement between the officials and the people of Reims, which halted work, until the Pope himself was forced to intervene so that building could begin again.