She thinks, The priests don’t teach you to pray, at least not like this. It is always kneeling, back bent, head bowed, hands pressed in supplication, a stifled voice aware of its own lowness. They don’t instruct you to stand, feet apart, arms raised, human eye meeting the eye of heaven. They don’t tell you to bargain with your God, like you are trying to whittle down the price of a piece of mackerel with a fishmonger, to command the angels as if they were kitchen boys, and to treat the saints like servants who have forgotten to empty their masters’ chamber pots.

But she looks straight into the eye of her God. She spreads her arms and bares her new heart of stone.

Give me strength, she prays, and not just the strength to endure but more, the strength of ten, fifty, a hundred men. Give me such gifts as the heroes of old were given: the gifts of slaughter and of victory. Give me a courage that is wild and uninhibited, one that will make men’s teeth rattle. Make my flesh, my heart, and my soul invulnerable to all pain.

She tells her God, Let me have my revenge on those who have hurt the one I loved most in the world. These are the people responsible. These are my enemies, who are France’s enemies, for if the war were not here, if it had taken place somewhere else, in another kingdom and country, then none of this would have happened. Not to me. These are their names. Remember them.

John, Duke of Bedford, regent of England

Henry, sixth of his name, future King of England

Philip, Duke of Burgundy

She hesitates only a moment before adding the Dauphin. It was your weakness, she thinks, your inaction, and your fear that brought us to this point, that kept the door wide open so these wolves could enter my village.

She repeats the names, as if God were a slow pupil in need of reminding and the angels scrambling for styluses and wax tablets to jot them down. She tastes the names in her mouth, each word a bitter seed: John, Duke of Bedford, regent of England. Henry, sixth of his name, future King of England. Philip, Duke of Burgundy.

And who can forget: the three men who hurt Catherine, who drove her to despair. Men who look like wolves. Men who do not speak French. Men with scars on their arms. God, direct my path to these men; guide me with Your divine hand. Before their souls go down to hell, let my face be the last they see on this earth. Let their deaths be full of pain. Let them repent, though they will receive no mercy.

His Majesty the Dauphin, Charles, seventh of his name. King of France. You don’t know my name. You don’t even know I exist, but I am coming for you.