Oh, is that all? She glares at him and shoves a hand into her pocket. She sees no need to lie. But when she opens her fist, blisters already jumping beneath her skin, it isn’t nails in her palm: It’s something she has never seen before. A piece of tin on a loop of black string. A holy medal.

Sir Robert eyes the object with suspicion. “Where is this from?” he asks.

“From the hand of the holy woman who passed through here,” she answers. Her tone is casual. You would think she spoke to fine ladies and lords every day. “Colette of Corbie.”

The medal is snatched away and brought to the litter’s window for examination. Behind the curtain, a hand emerges, and a slender finger curls at her to approach.

The corner of the window stirs. A head appears and hovers in the square like a living portrait, an angular face atop a collared neck mantled in dark silks.

The Duke of Lorraine leans forward; his eyes glow golden-brown. They flick over her with the readiness of an eagle observing a fidgeting rabbit in a field. He looks from her to the medal, and she sees him make the connection. A pole impossible to climb. An item given by a woman who many already say will be venerated as a saint after her death. And he, the Duke, not a young man anymore, who would like to live a little longer. Also, if the tin piece does not prolong his life, then it may still help with his joints, which at night give him such pain.

From his hand, a ring emerges, as if conjured from thin air. “This for your medal?” he offers her. The ring has a small stone the color of fire.

In a deal, one must be quick to decide. Joan nods. All that is missing is a shake of the hand, soft ducal flesh against rough peasant skin. She watches the ring pass from the palm of the Duke to Sir Robert to her own. There is nothing more to say, yet she thinks she sees the Duke smile, the eagle eyes shimmer as the curtain falls back into place over the window. She knows why. He believes he has come out of their trade with the more valuable article: a holy object purchased at bargain price. And maybe he has, though she wouldn’t agree. Then the litter is carried away at an easy pace, the two horses snorting, and Sir Robert trailing behind it. He turns, seems about to stick his tongue out, except wouldn’t this be beneath his dignity? So, he refrains.

But it isn’t beneath her dignity. Her tongue wags at him. She makes the most grotesque face she can conjure, an expression worthy, she hopes, of a gargoyle.

He narrows his eyes. He flicks his face forward and stomps away.