She thinks, as her vision blurs, as she rests her head against the cannon’s hard surface, I have let you down, Catherine. I have not found the three men who hurt you. I have not done what I pledged. And you are dead, while the men I have sworn to kill are still alive.

John, Duke of Bedford, regent of England

Henry, sixth of his name, future King of England

Philip, Duke of Burgundy

I have done nothing I set out to do.

The cold makes her head spin. She is aware of her breathing growing shallow, of darkness falling like a heavy blanket over her. Her heart slows.

In her arms, the cannon becomes soft like supple flesh, and her nose fills with the scent of herbs and wildflowers. She is dreaming. When she opens her eyes, it is not the walls of La Charité she sees but her sister’s slender waist. And she is small again, ten years old. She is wearing her dress of red wool, and her hair is knotted and long, in need of washing.

“Pitying yourself, Joan?” her sister says.

“Yes.”

“It is not like you to waste time. Did you ever heed our father when he hounded you? Did you let him break your spirit, though he tried? The next morning, you were still running around the village. You were still yourself. So, what has changed? You are the same person. Win or lose. You are a soldier, and I have been watching you all this time. I have loved you from afar.”

Catherine bends. Strands of her sister’s hair cover her head.

A kiss. A touch of warmth, which spreads from Joan’s face to her hands. She feels the pinprick of blood circulating in her limbs, tickling her flesh so it comes alive. In her ears, she hears her heart beating strong and steady. She hears a voice, which seems to rise from deep within her: “Now go, Joan.”

She sleeps, though the storm buffets her body. And she sleeps deeply, as if she were lying in a feather bed swathed in sheets of silk. In the morning, her arms are still wrapped around the cannon. But she stands without difficulty. She finds she is only hungry and a little unsteady on her feet. Strength ripples through her. When she touches her thigh, there is no pain, no more bleeding; the wound has closed. She makes the decision to retreat. She will not sacrifice any more of her men.

“We return to Chinon,” she tells Jean, and he gapes at the sight of her. Has she spent the whole night outside?