Her body may be in the cathedral, but her soul is floating elsewhere: on a field. On one side, thick woodland. She places archers there, hidden behind trees, tucked away in shadow. But the rest of the land is open. She sees lines and lines of cannonry, and an English army moving fast in the distance toward them. Timing is everything. You have to understand how far cannon-shot will travel. You have to account for fumbling hands, powder that is spilled and wasted, for a man’s uneven breathing as he inserts a slow match into the hole of a hand culverin. How to cure men of shaky breath and shaky fingers? There is only one way. Practice.

On the way to Reims, she had spoken with artillerymen, who told her, There is an art to knowing how much gunpowder to pack in—too much can be disastrous—and to studying the land. Walls, fields, or a hill makes a difference, and the placement of artillery is vital. Her answer: “I think we can do better than men charging across a field and being slaughtered by arrows.” She wonders why it has taken so long to change tactics. If you are singed once by fire, you know to avoid the flames. So, why has the lesson not been learned since Agincourt? She tells these men, “I believe the future of the army lies with you.”

And there should be a better way to cast these cannons, so they don’t explode and end up killing our own, which is still a common enough occurrence, both tragic and embarrassing. As a sauce can be made more piquant, gunpowder, too, can be improved, so let us adjust the amounts of saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur until we find what works best. She is asking herself, Where is there a plain? Some arid land of no use to anyone where we can conduct trials, test newly cast cannons, and train artillerymen.

But before she can find out, she has to visit her father. She had sent a servant to check at the inn. She thought he might have left, but after the coronation he had remained. “Eating and drinking like a lord” was the report she received.

Le Maçon nudges her again. “Joan!” he hisses. “You are muttering to yourself!”

The King has finished. Now he sits back on the throne and bestows the royal touch upon his own forehead, as La Trémoille brings him a cup of spiced wine and a napkin. She watches him drain the cup, sigh, dab his lips. Healing is hard work.

“There were not many today,” le Maçon whispers; he has to stand on his toes to reach her ear. “After a coronation, there are usually hundreds. And subjects from other places, like Italy, who come as if on pilgrimage.”

“Perhaps the war has prevented them from coming,” she says.