Yolande draws closer to her. When she speaks, her voice is a whisper, almost tender. “Perhaps we were both foolish to expect any other conclusion than this. You have been permitted to do so much. You were the exception to every rule. But how could you overturn a game that is as old as time itself? I think now you were always meant to fail.”

“If you tell me to leave Chinon,” Joan says, “I will. I will begin again.”

Yolande and Marie glance at each other. They hesitate. “The King will not let you leave,” Marie says quietly. Another pause. “He means to make an example of you.”

“Then I am his prisoner. I thought we understood each other. We were…” It is hard for her to say the words. “We were friends.”

A dry laugh escapes Yolande’s throat. Even her daughter chuckles.

“The King has no friends,” Yolande says. “Just people, like La Trémoille, who will lend him vast sums of money when he needs to borrow. Just people, like le Maçon, who will give up their own horse when a city is under attack, to save His Majesty’s life and curry favor. Just people, like you, to raise sieges for him, to win battles, until the day you stop winning. And when you have nothing more to give, you return to nothing. But…” She pauses. She looks sad. “I suppose it is not only the King. It is everyone. When you are doing well, you are like a fresh flower, and all the butterflies want to rest on your petals. And when you are wilting, you are plucked and thrown away. No one wants to touch you. They think you are bad luck and pretend they have never known you. Human nature, Joan. It is the way people are. France may be the most Christian kingdom, but people are the same everywhere.”

“My next battle may still be a victory.” Joan looks from one woman’s face to the other. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Then you must hope God is on your side,” Yolande replies. “Because no one else is. Officially.”

The meeting has come to an end. They leave, but not before they slip money to her, coins in pouches of silk, because, well, livres are always useful, though if asked they will deny that the money came from them.

Joan returns to her bed and sleeps late. Morning comes. In the field, a small crowd has formed to marvel at the sight of a target. On it, twelve arrows make a single point in the center of the circle of straw.

Some call it a miracle. Others: witch’s tricks.

November 1429—a message arrives from the King. Joan is to go to La Charité, a town well fortified, and retake it by siege.