A few more feet, and something swats the side of her head. She turns and looks straight into a pair of dark, angry eyes very close together. A wing buffets her face, and she inhales the scent of feathers. The goose must also be in the service of the Duke, because it doesn’t make things any easier. It lunges, so she has to dodge its snakelike neck and press herself even closer to the pole. She bats the head away long enough to release her hold on each nail. Slowly, taking her time, she inserts first the one and then the other into her pocket. She reaches up and unhooks the basket from the top of the pole, as below, there is a roar from the crowd like an explosion. They are cheering.

Sliding down is easy, her free arm hugging her reward. The grease that made her climb nearly impossible facilitates her fall, though she still needs to be careful. She doesn’t want to crash and break her legs.

The instant her feet touch the ground, her body crumples, and her elbow is jerked sideways. Someone is gripping her arm and dragging her. She has no strength to resist, only enough to hold tight to the basket with the goose and the coins she hopes are under the goose, though she is ready to ward off any thieves with her fists.

She looks down. A fine pair of boots! She stomps on them, kicking like a horse being dragged to slaughter.

“Stop that!” a voice bellows into her ear. She can’t believe she was ever called a little lordling by that farmer in Domrémy. She doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to this fool.

“Let me go!” she screams back.

She doesn’t know where he is taking her, but they’ve reached their destination. He swings her toward what appears to be a large litter, a square vessel draped in swaths of brocaded cloth and hitched to two great horses.

Sir Robert goes up to the single window. The corner of a dark purple curtain is briefly lifted by the litter’s occupant; a white finger protrudes, and for a moment, it looks like the idiot might kiss its finely manicured tip, though he doesn’t. The shadow of a face murmurs instructions, then points at her.

Her escort returns to where she is standing, with her goose and her dog.

She speaks first. A single bark, worthy of Salaud: “Well?”

Sir Robert flinches. He looks as if he would like to slap a hand over her mouth and gag her.

“His Grace the Duke of Lorraine would like to know how you climbed the pole,” he says irritably.