Not so with Joan. With her, it is news of the war that France is slowly but surely losing, even with the help of their faithful ally, the Scots. It is reports of sieges, of the market price of a cat when the citizenry is starving; it is accounts of recent battles, of bands of mercenaries burning whole strips of France, setting fire to everything—homes, churches, people, livestock—that they cannot take with them or sell for a cutthroat price. He tells her how a hanged man always pisses himself. “Always?” she asks. “Always,” he replies, nodding, and he explains it must be a natural reflex, or perhaps just fear of death that causes a man to disgrace himself when his feet are kicking the air. Also, one who is burned at the stake will curl his hands into fists, as if he is trying to fight the flames. “How do you know that?” She is skeptical, full of questions; she thought those who were burned were tied, their arms and hands bound to a pole. But he shrugs. He says, “I have seen it. I have seen, in the course of my travels, such things I wish I could unsee. I thought, The older I get, the more I will forget. But that is not so. In fact, it is the opposite. You remember certain things more vividly.”

She thinks, There must be something wrong with me, and not because I usually look as if I have just escaped from a battle with the English, some part of me swollen or cut open that brings to mind the war, the wounded, and the dying. Perhaps I am a child born under an evil star or a comet. Perhaps there is something inside me that is unlucky or ill-fated, which makes my father hate me, my mother pray for me, the priest shake his head, and my uncle tell me accounts of plague and famine after he bids me good morning.