They giggle. This is another joke between them that shouldn’t be a joke: France is losing the war, and badly; therefore, it stands to reason that any subject of France is more likely to be thrashed and pummeled than a Burgundian or an Englishman. And Joan is no exception. Is it any wonder? Just look at the English King. She has heard Henry is a tall man, over six feet in height, and cruel. On his cheek is a scar from an arrow wound he suffered as a youth. The arrowhead had to be extracted with a special tool. Look at Philip, Duke of Burgundy, cold with rage. And then look at the French King. Our King who is mad, who takes all measures, including the careful placement of iron bars in his clothes, to prevent himself from breaking because he thinks he is made of glass.

Her uncle kicks a clod of earth. “Things could be worse, Joan.”

Really?

To prove his point, he tells a story from the recent past, a mere three years ago. Henry, King of England, set siege to the great city of Rouen, capital of Normandy. “What is the point of telling a story if one already knows the ending?” she interrupts. She is impatient. Everyone knows Rouen fell. Ah, her uncle says, but not before holding out for five whole months, nearly six. And when food grew scarce, the people ate the likes of your precious dog, Salaud. They ate horses and cats, too, until there were no more animals to be found, until even a rat was a rare and much-coveted delicacy. The city’s leaders, to conserve resources and because they believed that help was on its way, issued a summons: all those who drained the city’s resources, that is, the elderly, beggars, be they young or old, the ill, must leave their homes and seek shelter in another place, away from the city. They thought Henry would let them leave. What threat did these people—the sick, the frail, many, mere children—pose for someone as powerful as him? But Henry did not let them go, and they were caught in the ditch that lay between the gates of Rouen and the field where his troops had set up their camp. These prisoners could not reenter the city, and they could not move past Henry’s army without risking death. Imagine living in a ditch: waking in it, pissing in it, sleeping each night in the same strip of earth that will become your grave. And to show he was not entirely without mercy, that he could still take pity on his enemy, on Christmas Day, the English King doled out bread to each of them, but not one survived the ordeal. They still starved.

There are no happy stories, just stories that make you feel grateful you weren’t born somewhere else, somewhere like Rouen.