As they neared the walls, they spied a band of soldiers scouting its gates, a force so small it fled at their approach. The knight-de la Trйmoпlle-who had captured their scout was the last to retreat, turning twice to glare at Joan before galloping away.
Nearer the cheering town, they found the scout herself. She was lying in a shallow stream with just her head and shoulders on the bank. Blood ran from her mouth.
Shooting a murderous look at Marcel, Joan dismounted.
"Someone else can give her Last Rites," Hermeland said, and then regretted it. It would take but a few minutes. What was the difference?
"She's breathing," Joan said indignantly.
And she was, he saw. The Maid bent, murmuring prayers, the sun glinting off her silver hair as she dipped a hand in the stream and rinsed blood off the scout's pale face. It roused the girl-she coughed, spraying red droplets over her own wet chin.
"Have her carried to town," Joan ordered. She lifted the injured girl, straining to raise the slack body and water-sodden clothes as well as her own armor-weighted limbs. Two young men-at-arms and one of the fighting women rushed to relieve her of the burden.
There was a receding bustle, and then they were under way again.
It was a warm, sleepy day. The sky was dotted with small clouds, and a firm wind cooled the lancers, ensuring a steady and comfortable march. Despite the tussles with his horse, Hermeland scanned the edges of the army for a blond head. Dulice must not come near the fighting again. She could have been killed or captured yesterday, up on that hill in plain sight with her pen and ink bottle.
The thought brought a rush of confused feelings: pain, desire, fear for her safety and a wistful longing. He shoved it all aside. The girl would never leave Joan, and that meant she would remain unmarried and chaste. Unless they won, there was no point in wondering if the artist might take a once-monk to wed.
No point either if they lost, but he would not think of that.
At length they reached a floodplain run through on one side by a shallow river that must have been the Arroux. Larks nested in the grass by the water.
On the other side of this plain was the massive, glittering army of Charles VII.
Hermeland felt a small flutter in his belly, a feeling like hunger that was really just shock. No word from the other scouts, he thought numbly. They must all be dead or captured.
The two forces halted well out of bow range, weighing each other. The Jehanniste army seemed tiny and tired in comparison to the company arrayed across the field. Hermeland thought of the battle the day before, the Listener numbers overwhelming its foe easily, even when the camp had been unprepared for a fight.
Finally the silence grew too long. Clearing his throat, he spoke: "The king has more knights and better weapons."
Marcel laughed. "What a great and unnecessary understatement."
"Here's another, then-we have God," Joan said, staring at the king. Her voice was threadbare.
Here was the real army he had wanted to fight for so long. What arrogance! For the first time Hermeland appreciated Joan's tactics-how she had kept them on the move as she trained the men, why she had always chosen the smaller battles, the most defensible towns. There might have been five thousand men out there across the valley, well drilled, well fed, and fresh.
"Should we advance," he asked, "or let them charge?"
"I always advance," Joan said. "But…"
A movement to their left brought his head around. Dulice Aulon was edging toward a low rock, no doubt thinking to crouch behind it and record the carnage.
Joan's gaze followed his. "Dulice," she called.
The girl startled. Then she headed toward them as if she'd meant to come that way all along.
"Get to the rear, woman," Hermeland growled.
She ignored him. "Joan, please. I must see what is going on."
"We will tell you everything later."
"That's no good!" Blond brows drew into a fierce scowl. "They're already saying there has been a miracle here. I can't draw rumors-I must see!"
"What miracle?" Joan raised her visor. "Marcel?"
He puffed up indignantly. "Am I to be accused of fraud every time God is kind to us?"
"It's not true, Dulice," Hermeland said. "We've been riding together all morning. I'm sure I'd have noticed the hand of God if it came down and pointed our way. Please, go before you're trampled."
Dulice's bright eyes sought out Joan's, unrelenting. Her back was stiff with determination. "They're saying our scout was dead and you raised her."
"They could charge any second," Hermeland interrupted. "Dulice is unarmed and on foot. Our own soldiers will run over her if battle's joined."
"Your brothers are in the camp, spreading tales," the artist protested. "This is what you want me to prevent!"
"Joan," Hermeland said. "Please. She'll be killed."
Joan sighed. "Marcel, bear Dulice to the rear. Order my brothers turned out of the company…"
"No," protested Dulice.
"The fight is upon us, Joan. Surely I'm needed-"
"Yes, Marcel-needed at the rear." Her voice was iron. "And please tell everyone the scout was alive."
Sulking, Marcel drew Dulice up onto the horse, seating her in front of him. She had to flap her arms, birdlike, to balance her drawing board and papers without losing them to the wind. Hermeland sighed, and the knot in his belly untied itself. She would be safe with Marcel. And now…
"Will you advance?" he asked the Maid again.
"Yes." With a brisk move, Joan plucked her banner from the standard bearer. "And you will charge too, Hermeland… if this falls. Not before."
He knew what she would do. "You think Charles won't kill you now? That sick old man left you to the Church once already! It would be a miracle if you made it back."
Her voice was furious. "Everything I do is a miracle, haven't you heard? I'll speak to the king one more time. No attack unless this falls, do you hear?"
"And if they take it from you?"
"Destroy them," she said carelessly.
Banner held high on its ash shaft, Joan urged her white horse forward at a walk.
A whisper ran through the army. Hermeland heard its echo, a surprised rise and fall of voices, from across the valley. Then larksong was all he could hear. The Maid rode well beyond his protection: twenty feet, fifty, a hundred. Soon she was across the field, and even the birds fell silent.
Hermeland realized he was praying.
Marcel had not ridden a step. He wasn't ignoring orders-he was simply stuck, staring at Joan with the frozen expression of a man who expects to see disaster. So did they all, all except Dulice. She was twisted awkwardly on his horse, writing board pressed into her stomach, thumb mashing a page to its surface while she scratched with her pen as if possessed.
When Joan was twenty feet from the enemy army she dismounted. Banner raised, she slapped her horse's rump. The animal loped straight to Hermeland, eyes reproachful. She is all alone now, it seemed to say. Beyond rescue.
"Perhaps we could steal forward a little," Marcel murmured.
Dulice paused in her drawing just long enough to crane around, giving him a look that would sour milk. "There's no saving her now if he strikes."
"And no saving him if he harms her," Hermeland said.
His voice challenged Marcel to laugh, to point out the odds were against them. Instead he heard his own words spreading like fire, warming the gathered men as Dulice's eyes met his with a jolt.
The gusty air around them seemed to thicken. If the battle came, Joan's men would make it an expensive one. Marcel had become a knight, Dulice an artist, he a general. The Listeners had been transubstantiated through God's grace from a band of cross-bearing bandits into a true army. Now, perhaps, their day had come.