“So, I will give you a choice,” he says. “Stay at Chinon as my honored guest, where no harm will come to you. Live out your life in solitary comfort. Warm meals twice a day, a servant to look after your needs. Consider this my gift for the services you have rendered us in the past. But you will swear an oath before witnesses—La Trémoille, the Archbishop of Reims, le Maçon, a whole assembly of nobility—and the oath will be as follows: You will never ride into battle again, nor will you speak of any matter relating to the war. You will dismiss your squire and relinquish all of your weapons, including your sword. You will be barred from setting foot any place the knights or archers train. You will swear this oath, or…”

The servant passes the King a garment of red and gold; his hands shake it out.

She recognizes the cloak as his gift to her in Reims. “Or I will have you knighted. You shall have your own coat of arms. The design is already made—simple but, I think, effective. Gold fleurs-de-lis against a shield of blue, with a sword down the middle. It was my own idea.”

“And?” she says.

“You ride into battle.” He touches the place above his heart. “You do not return.”

A pause. She can hear the King breathe. He is patient. He will wait for her answer.

“I am fortunate,” she says.

A pause. The King looks carefully at her. “Fortunate?”

“Fortunate because I do not live as you do, always fearful. I think now you do not need Burgundy or England to haunt your dreams, to keep you awake at night. You do that all on your own. It isn’t only the outcome of battles that frightens you. It is everything. You are timid of every step, every thought and word. You live through each hour terrified and uncertain of who you are. But I don’t.” She faces him. “I know who I am. I am a soldier, a godmother to many sons and daughters in this kingdom. I am the protector of dreams. All those in France have only to say my name or think of me, and they will no longer be afraid. They will fear neither England nor Burgundy, for they will know their collective strength is greater than any king’s. If you do not believe me, you have only to go to Orléans, knock on any door, and ask. I have kneeled, not to receive a crown, but to receive the wishes of young girls and the last words of dying men. I am not afraid of anything, of anyone.”

She takes the cloak, and her arms sweep it over her shoulders. The sound is like the spreading of wings.

He sighs. Relief washes through him.

“Where will I go next?” she asks.

“Compiègne.”