“Unofficially, though I admire your courage and your daring—would every man of the kingdom be so willing to meet his death—I must scold you, for you deserve to hear some harsh words. Look at you now!” She clicks her tongue. “I can see the blood on your bandage from here. You should have exercised a little more patience. Returned to Chinon and bided your time, until you returned to the King’s good graces. But you are young. You let your love of battle and your emotions win. A terrible mistake. Charles can make mistakes, and he has made several. Men can commit as many errors as they like—within reason. We, however, cannot afford a single misstep.”

Joan wants to spit out oaths, but she holds herself back. “That is not fair,” she says. “France has lost battles before now. Dunois was wounded at Rouvray and the Duke of Alençon captured at Verneuil. Yet they were never humiliated as I am humiliated. To this day, the Duke of Orléans remains a prisoner in a London tower, composing verses, while the English collect his ransom to fund their army. Yet the court only has kind words to say about His Grace. They pity him and patiently wait for his return. Then why is the court not also patient with me? I have done more in a few months than they have for nearly their whole lives, and I am only seventeen. I am young, and I have more battle scars than all of them, to say nothing of our King.”

Even in the dark, Yolande’s eyes flash. “You forget yourself, or you have really begun to believe the prophecies we circulated about you, Joan. You are a woman. You are poor. You come from nothing. When you were strong, these were not insurmountable obstacles. We dressed you in the mantle of holiness. We said you came of God.”

“And now?”

“Now the cloak that disguised you has fallen from your shoulders. The court sees you are, after all, only human. Which means only a woman. Purse and pockets empty. A peasant. You were useful. Now you are no longer of use. And you have no family to fall back on. You are not even the daughter of a common knight. You forget that at the height of your power, when you enjoyed only victories, people still called you a shepherdess. So, I fear you have failed from the beginning to understand. No one could protect you at court. Only your victories protected you. They were your truest allies, more than le Maçon or the captains of the army. More than any of us.”

“They are still my victories.” She stands a little taller. “And I can still fight. Do not be deceived by this blood. My leg will heal. I have fallen from great heights before and leapt back to my feet.”